THE SWEETNESS OF LIFE
Von Salzinger was in a bad mood. He was feeling the effects of close
personal contact with the authority which he had been bred to
acknowledge, to obey. In the abstract he admitted the right of it. In
practice he had little enough complaint. But in personal contact with
the administrators of it the tyranny became maddening. For once in his
life he realized how far short of a free-acting, free-thinking being he
really was, in spite of the considerable rank of Captain-General to
which he had risen.
He possessed all the dominating personality of his race, all the
hectoring brutality of his fellow-Prussians. He had no difficulty in
submitting to a system which he found pleasure in enforcing upon those
who acknowledged his authority, but to endure the personal meting out
of such discipline by Von Berger was maddeningly irritating. He felt
that his association with the all-powerful intimate of the Emperor was
nearing the breaking-point, and when that point was reached he knew
that whatever breaking took place he was bound to be the chief sufferer.
His irritation lasted all day. He had received a number of definite
instructions, as though he were some insignificant underling. Von
Berger had dictated his requirements. And Von Salzinger was galled,
galled and furious. Nor was it until Von Berger had taken his departure
that he felt he could again breathe freely.
Then had come a letter by hand. It was a letter for Vita, who remained
in his charge. But though he read the letter, carefully steaming it
open and re-sealing it so that detection was well-nigh impossible, and
its contents proved satisfactory, still his temper underwent little
betterment.
The day wore on filled with the many duties which Von Berger had
demanded of him, and which he almost automatically fulfilled. He saw
many callers. He held many consultations. He delivered many
instructions in that harsh autocratic manner which he resented in Von
Berger. But it was not until after he had dined amply in the evening,
and his gastronomic senses had been indulged with an amplitude of good
wine and savory fare, that he began to forget the glacial frigidity of
the man who had power to reduce his own dominating personality to the
level of an anaemic lackey.
After dinner he moved out onto the terrace which fronted the
dining-room. It was a splendid night with a bright full moon. It was
chilly but refreshing, and Von Salzinger, whatever else his habits
might be, loved the fresh air. He paced the broad walk under the moon,
and every now and then his eyes were turned upon a distant portion of
the upper part of the mansion, where shone the lights of Vita's
apartments. At last he seemed to have decided some momentous matter,
and returned within the house and flung aside the heavy overcoat he was
enveloped in.
The heaviness of his military figure was carefully toned under the
perfect lines of his evening clothes. But the rigidity of his square
shoulders and back would not be denied. Then, too, the shape of his
head. He was Prussian, so Prussian, and every inch a soldier of the
Hohenzollern dynasty.
He made his way down the long corridors which led towards a distant
wing of the house, and passed on up-stairs.
Vita's days had become poignant with bitterness and self-reviling. But
the despair in her grey eyes had lessened, and all the youthful beauty
had returned to her cheeks. Her abject dread had given place to a
condition of dreary hope which left her haunted only by the hideous
memory of the price she had yet to pay.
Her mood was one of self-abasement and self-loathing. She told herself
that she was purchasing life, or the chance of it, with all that was
best in her. Sacrifice? She had told herself that she was sacrificing
her love for her father's life. It was so. She knew she would sacrifice
anything to safeguard that. But as time passed, and her dejected mood
gained ascendancy, she began to question her purpose with a deplorable
cynicism that, in reality, was no part of her nature.
She reminded herself of the cowardice she knew to be hers. How much of
the sacrifice she asked was for her father, and how much for herself?
Then came the self-castigation. She was afraid to die. She knew she was
afraid. And, in utter self-contempt, she told herself she was flinging
away the honest love of a man, of which she could never be worthy, as
the price of her life. Yes, there was no denying the truth. She valued
life--her miserable life--at a price greater than anything else. Her
love? It was a poor thing. It was beneath contempt. She could sell
herself to this brutal Prussian that she might live on to see the sun
rise for a few more seasons, a few more miserable years of conscious
existence.
Such were her feelings as she sat before the cheerful blaze of the fire
in her apartment. The evening had closed in, her evening meal had been
brought her, and finally cleared away. She had no desire for
occupation. There was only thought left her--painful, hideous thought.
Everything had gone awry. All plans seemed to have miscarried. She, and
her father, and her lover had been out-man[oe]uvred by the Prussian
machine, and now, now there only remained a sordid struggle for life
itself.
But she was roused, as once before she had been roused, from the depths
of her misery by the coming of the man whom she now knew her whole
future life was bound to. She heard the door open and close. She did
not turn from the contemplation of her fire. Why need she? It was one
of her jailers. If it were the women she did not desire to see them. If
it were Von Berger she would allow him no sight of her misery. If it
were Von Salzinger----
"Vita!"
It was Von Salzinger. His manner was eager and urgent. It also had in
it that suggestion of fear of detection which she had witnessed before.
"It is the answer to your letter. I had it this morning, and would have
conveyed it you earlier, but I dared not risk it. Now Von Berger is
away, and, for the moment, we are safe. So--here it is. Read it quickly
and tell me of it. On it depends so much. The future. Our futures. Your
father's. Read it."
But Vita's mood permitted no sudden reaction at the thought of that
life and liberty for which she had bartered her soul. She took the
letter, and, before opening it, her eyes searched the square features
of the well-dined man before her. Her regard was sufficiently cold.
"Where has Von Berger gone?" she demanded.
"To Dorby."
In a moment the coldness had left Vita's eyes. She was caught again in
the hot tide of alarm.
"To Dorby? Have they discovered--my father?"
The hard eyes of the Prussian lowered before the woman's alarm. Then
his reply came, conveying a momentary confidence which Vita clung to.
"I can't be sure," he said. "But I don't think so. Still it is that
possibility which has brought me here now. That, and your letter. There
must be no delay if we are to get away. Von Berger has to go elsewhere
before he reaches Dorby. He will not reach there until Monday. He will
also leave there on Monday, and be back here on Tuesday morning. We
must be on the sea before Von Berger reaches Dorby. Now--your letter.
Read it."
His final order came sharply. There was no request in it.
Vita tore it open. The alarm was still in her eyes, although there had
been reassurance in Von Salzinger's words.
For some moments she read down the two pages of the letter. Then she
sighed in relief.
"It is all right," she said, passing the sheets across to her
companion. "Read it yourself. He will meet us at the cove on Sunday
evening. The submersible will be standing off to pick us up. And--the
whole thing remains a secret between us. He has merely told Mr. Farlow
that he is going."
If she were relieved there was no enthusiasm in her manner. Safety was
looming ahead, but the price was no less. The Prussian's eyes were
raised from the letter and a cold severity looked out of them and shone
down upon Vita's unsmiling features.
"It is well. But--you regret?" His gross lips pouted under their severe
compression.
"Regret?" Vita passed one delicate hand across her brow. It was a
movement which expressed something like unutterable weariness. It was
almost as if she were beyond caring for consequences. "It is more than
regret," she said, and the eyes gazing up into Von Salzinger's were as
hard as his own.
The man drew a whistling breath. He realized.
"I believe you hate me," he cried.
Vita shrugged.
"Hate? You are about to give me back my life."
"Yes." The man passed her back the letter. His monosyllable conveyed
nothing. It was the expression of one whose thoughts and feelings are
entirely preoccupied. A hot fury was surging through his veins. His
vanity was outraged. He wanted to pour out the tide of brutal invective
which so naturally rose to his lips. But he drove it back under the
powerful lash of almost superhuman restraint.
"But you do hate me," he said, with simple regret in his heavy voice.
"And I would do anything to change that hate. Why? Why is it? It was
not always so. You know the discipline under which we live. All I have
done I was compelled to do. Had I not obeyed I could not be here to
serve you now. Had I rebelled, and refused to carry out my duty, what
hope would there be for you now? None. Farlow could not save you. No
one could save you once you were in the clutches of this demon Von
Berger. It is only that I have performed my share in your persecution
that makes it possible to hold you out a hand of help. You are hard on
me--harder than you have any right to be. You would say you are buying
your life, I know. Well, do we not buy everything in life? And do we
not have to pay a price which always seems exorbitant? The price you
are paying; what is it? Wifehood. A future cared for and sheltered by a
strong man's hand. Behind you a memory, a memory of that which could
never have been fulfilled, because you would have been sacrificed to
the discipline of the country which claims you. Ach! it is
unreasonable. It is ungenerous. I would give my right hand for your
better regard."
But the man's appeal, his arguments, left Vita unmoved.
"Discussion is useless," she said firmly. "We have entered into an
agreement which you had power to force upon me. Believe me, I shall not
be ungrateful for my father's safety and my own life. But it is a
business agreement which makes no demand for the modification of any
regard. If my love is demanded, then you must invoke supernatural
powers to bring it about. For surely no earthly power could bring about
such a revulsion of my feelings. Let us keep to the business."
The hard eyes of the man had grown harder, but his lips smiled,
displaying the strong white teeth behind them sharply clenched.
"Yes. To the business. There is much. To-day I have arranged those
things which I could arrange. It is fortunate that your father has
appointed the one day which we must have chosen ourselves. It must be
Sunday night. Sunday night before Von Berger reaches Dorby. Vita, it is
a pleasant thought to me that I--I can defeat this man. Ever since he
came to England he has treated me like a conscript. I hate him."
Vita watching him realized the truth. It pleased and satisfied her that
it was so. To her such animus between these men meant safety.
"Yes? Sunday night?"
Von Salzinger shrugged. He understood her manner.
"Listen," he said sharply. "On Saturday evening at 6:30 you must be
ready to get away. At that hour you must be ready, and I will provide
you with a long dark cloak for travelling. We shall go by car. We dare
not risk any other means. Car the whole way, and the journey must take
us precisely the twenty-four hours. Now this is it. When the moment
comes I will arrange that your attendants are engaged elsewhere, and
that the doors of the corridor are unfastened. You will slip out and
pass down the long passage till you come to the main staircase. This
you will descend, and reach the hall below. The entrance door will be
open. You will pass out and down the drive. Beyond the gates a car will
be standing--a cabriolet. The chauffeur will be at the wheel. Without a
word you will get in the car. He will at once drive off. I shall join
you at Bath, where we shall have a very late meal."
"How will you join me?"
Von Salzinger raised his brows.
"It is simple. I am in command here. My word is absolute. Within ten
minutes of your going it will be discovered. I arrange this. I shall be
in a fury, I shall terrify those with me. There will be three men.
Among them Johann Stryj. I shall curse the women, and then set about
running you down. Each man will be despatched in a car to certain
places, in directions you have not gone. I shall pursue you alone. So I
shall come up with you at Bath. Then you will continue the journey to
Dorby with me. I shall time it so we reach the--the cove, eh? at
half-past six on Sunday evening. We shall travel all night."
In spite of herself excitement was growing in Vita. The prospect of the
race for liberty was alluring and exciting.
"And we go straight for the Old Mill Cove?"
"It is so. This cove. Ha, it is a strange place and--secret. It is your
secret and your father's. You will have to guide me." His manner became
reflective. "We know so much of the coast, yet we missed this place. It
is strange. You know it and your father, but Von Berger--no. So it was
that your father escaped. It amuses me now. Still Von Berger does not
know. And so we shall escape. Now write your answer to that letter. I
will help. We must have no hitch, for unless we get away at that
moment--disaster will follow."
Vita had finally thrown off her uncompromising attitude of coldness.
She was alive with a thrilling excitement. The man's plans were so
simple and adequate. Her only fear was Von Berger's unexpected return.
She had moved to a table where writing materials lay and prepared to
write her letter.
"Von Berger will not change his plans?" she demanded eagerly.
"He will not change them. He has been summoned to meet---- He is on the
sea. He has gone to make his report. Now write."
The next few minutes were occupied in the writing of Vita's reply to
her father. It was practically dictated by Von Salzinger, as had been
her earlier letter. He left her no choice in what she must say, and, at
the conclusion of the writing, read it carefully over, and finally
folded it and sealed it himself. He looked on silently while she
addressed the envelope to Sir Andrew Farlow. Then he took possession of
it and placed it in an inner pocket.
With the completion of the letter his manner seemed to undergo a
change. The smoothness, even deferential atmosphere of the man merged
into one of sharp suspicion. His brows drew together, and a quick
sidelong glance flashed in the woman's direction, and a surly note
sounded in his next words.
"It is a fool that can trust a woman--a woman in love. How do I know
that your father will not betray me to this man, Ruxton Farlow? How do
I know that you will fulfil your promise? You, a woman hating me, and
in love with Farlow. I am mad, mad to risk it. You hate me--because I
would save you and your father. If Farlow knew there would be no mercy
for me. For you I am imperilling my life in every direction. Von
Berger, and all he stands for, shadows me from behind. Before me is a
man robbed of his love."
Vita had risen from the table. She had turned to the fire and stood
leaning against the great mantel.
"Your estimate of human character need not alarm you. Remember, wanton
treachery is almost as rare as the highest virtues. Men and women do
not betray unless they can see some gain ahead. My father needs safety
and security, not only for himself but for me. I, too, want these
things. Your conditions will be fulfilled to the letter because we need
your aid. Will that satisfy you? Is it commercial enough? You have set
the price, and I have agreed to it. Nor am I bankrupt. It is an
agreement between us, and the fact that it is not set out on paper, and
duly signed by witnesses, makes it surely the safer."
The man's hard eyes were fixed steadily upon the beautiful face.
"Your tongue is bitter," he said in a deep guttural tone.
"But no more bitter than my lot. Please go now. Human endurance has its
limits. If you force me to mine I shall fling all to the four winds of
heaven, and accept the fate marked out for me by the merciless tyrants
who prevail at Berlin."