THE WEEK-END
Prince von Hertzwohl gazed about him. His tall figure was bowed. He was
no longer clad in the working costume which had been his disguise for
so many days in Dorby. His lean face was shaded beneath a wide,
soft-brimmed hat which entirely concealed that wonderful forehead which
had so impressed Ruxton. But the shaven cheeks added years to his age.
Beneath his chin were displayed those fleshy cords which do not belong
to anything up to the middle life. He certainly looked older than ever
in the foreign-designed clothes which he was now wearing.
The cold breath of the moor swept by him, it penetrated the lightish
overcoat he was wearing. Once or twice he shivered as he gazed this way
and that, searching the already hazy sky-line for a sign of any
movement.
For some time he seemed in doubt. Then at last he drew in towards the
black shelter of the old mill, which stood out in the grey light,
keeping its ancient watch over the cove below. He glanced within its
shadowed interior. It was inhospitable. But it was as he had always
known it. Everything was undisturbed. He drew his coat about him and
buttoned it up. The air was so keen, and he had little relish for it.
Presently he sat down upon a fallen timber under the shelter of the
wall. He must wait. Nothing could be done until the arrival he was
expecting.
It was a desolate spot, and the influence of it was not unfelt. But the
solitude was not altogether unappreciated. If there were eyes watching
they failed to make their presence felt, and he was glad. He lit a
cigar and sought comfort in it from the bleak northern air. His
thoughtful eyes wandered in every direction his shelter permitted. To
the east, across the sea. To the south, over the rolling moor. To the
west, where the dying light of day was melting steadily before the grey
obscurity of coming night.
The minutes passed slowly, slowly, as they ever pass to the anxious
mind. But the dark of evening gathered with all the rapidity of early
winter.
The long journey was drawing to its close. Long since, the great North
Road had been left behind. Now the powerful car swept along, with its
monotonous purr, over the winding coast road, which split the
wide-spreading moorland, and headed on in the teeth of the bitter
northeasterly breeze.
The chill penetrated to the snug interior of the car. Vita was forced
to draw the heavy overcoat more closely about her. She shivered, but it
was not with the actual cold. Her thoughts were a-riot. They were full
of an intense and painful dread.
She had made the journey north in the company of the man whom she knew
she was now condemned to marry--condemned beyond reprieve. The only
gleam of light which had struggled through the darkness of her despair
was that he had spared her his company in the car. He had dismissed the
driver of the car at Bath, and taken upon himself that duty. Thus Vita
had been spared an added torture to the desperate feelings assailing
her.
She had no thought of revolt. She felt that destiny loomed before her
in overwhelming force. Escape had no place in her thought. She had
entered into a contract. A sordid contract, she felt. A contract which
had perhaps been forced upon her, but which had been accepted by her
through an invincible desire to be permitted to drag out the weary
years of life, rather than face bravely the harsh consequences and
penalties of truth and loyalty to the demands of honor. She admitted
the dreadful cowardice which had driven her, and a wave of loathing for
herself left her crushed under a burden of bitter contempt.
But during the journey, in communion with her own wretched thoughts,
she had searched the future as only vivid imagination permitted, and
the picture she had discovered was perhaps a thousandfold more dreadful
than her earlier anticipations. Panic had urged her in the first place.
But now the original panic which had driven her into her contract had
passed, leaving her only the skeleton, which, in the first place, had
been clothed in the brilliant flesh and raiment inspired by the
yearning for life. To think of the right she had given that square,
fleshy figure sitting before her beyond the glass partition of the car!
The right to control her destiny; to be always near her, to--caress
her. And all the while another image lay treasured in her heart,
another voice was always in her ears, another hand lay in hers, and
other lips---- It was beyond endurance--the thought. To think that way
lay madness. Her eyes grew haggard with dry tears. She was left beyond
ordinary emotion. She could only stir restlessly, with brain heated
almost to fever by the pressure of dreadful thought.
So the miles had been devoured by the senseless, softly droning wheels.
Merciless wheels they became. Nothing could stop them, nothing could
deter the progress towards that maelstrom of horror in the direction of
which she was gliding.
Then came the familiar breath of the Yorkshire moorlands. She
remembered it. She remembered every aspect of the scene about her. It
was not possible for it to be otherwise. She writhed under the lash of
memory. Was it not here she had first looked down upon the prone figure
and upward-glancing dark eyes of Ruxton Farlow? Was it not here she had
poured out to him the vaunting story of her desires to serve humanity?
Had she not witnessed the light of sympathy leap into his eyes
here--here, at the passionate profession she had made to him? And
now--oh, the pity of it!--the miserable, cowardly sequel to all her
protestations.
The grey of evening filled the car, and somehow Vita was glad of it.
She felt she could hide her worthless self beneath it. The moorland
scene faded, and the great dark gorse banks merged into one blackening
world. Then, directly ahead, the aged landmark of the skeleton mill
rose sharply out of the dusk.
Her pulses quickened. The journey was at its end. Her father would be
there awaiting her, and she must face those wide, understanding eyes as
she told him the story of her cowardly yielding. She shrank further
into the corner. She knew the fearless spirit of the man, and she
dreaded his contempt. The secret of her contract with the man driving
the car was still her own, but, in a few minutes, it must be revealed
to one whose contempt would deal the final crushing blow.
She nerved herself as the car drew up. Then, with ashen lips and
frightened eyes, she became aware of a tall, lean figure standing out
against the sky-line.
She waited for no assistance. She flung the door wide, and, in a
moment, she was enfolded in her father's embrace.
But she dared not yield to the joy of reunion. She freed herself, and
began to talk. Not a moment must be lost in telling him her story, the
story of all the dread and horror she had lived through. She knew she
dared not risk delay, or her last vestige of courage would vanish into
thin air.
She poured out the story of the machinations, in the toils of which
they had been caught. She told him the story of the jeopardy in which
he stood; of the power which had been transferred from Berlin to bring
about his final destruction. She told him of the death sentence which
had been passed upon her by the terrible Von Berger, and how, in the
last moment of her despair, succor had been proffered in the last
quarter from which it could have reasonably been expected. And then
came the story of her pledge.
To the long story the old man listened with the closest attention. He
gave no sign, he offered no interruption. At its conclusion Vita
paused, breathlessly awaiting the verdict in the man's luminous eyes.
She watched them. She searched them, seeking that faint spark which
might hold out the smallest hope. She was living for that alone--now.
The Prince stood for a moment, his eyes gazing past her at the sides of
the travel-stained car. Then one long thin hand went up to his
forehead, and his soft hat was thrust back on his head. The hand
pressed down upon his brows and moved across them, as though brushing
aside some sense of weariness. His eyes shifted their gaze towards the
man standing near the car. They took in the square, burly figure from
the crown of its hat to the soles of its feet. Then they came back to
Vita, and the smile in them suggested a final sympathetic decision
overriding the natural antagonistic feelings towards the man whom he
looked upon as his enemy.
"Where is he--Von Salzinger?" he demanded.
Vita caught her breath. It was the crisis.
"Here, father. He drove the car."
The Prince's eyes again sought the man. Then he spoke, and the tone of
his voice eased the woman's tension.
"You have done me a service, Herr von Salzinger. A service I could
hardly have looked for. It is to be paid for, I understand, and the
price is high. However, the risks you have taken, the sacrifices you
have made are doubtless great, from your point of view. Therefore I can
only--thank you. Come. The vessel should be lying off by this time.
What will you do with the car?"
Von Salzinger stepped forward. The night was dark, and it was
impossible to observe the expression of his face.
"The car can remain. It is--not mine."
The Prince inclined his head.
"Then we will go down to the cove. Vita!"
At the gentle tone of his voice the woman moved at once to his side.
Whatever his innermost thoughts and feeling's, he had conveyed to her
troubled heart the assurance of his perfect love and sympathy.
A man stood in the steel doorway of the clumsy tower which supported a
pair of periscopes. The vessel was an early type of submarine. It was
crude in finish and severe in fashion. Its flush deck was narrow, and a
mere rail protected its sides.
His attention seemed divided between a group of men in oilskins engaged
in launching a motor pinnace, and the movements of a war-craft standing
off some distance astern.
Night was closing upon an oily sea, which lolled in listless fashion
beneath the starry sheen of a now almost windless evening. The
threatened "northeaster" which had been developing all the afternoon
had suddenly died out under the influence of a sharp frost. There was a
certain satisfaction in the luck of the weather. This man knew quite
well what he might have been called upon to face on the bitter
northeast coast of Britain.
The stone-grey eyes of the man were no less keen than the bitter air.
Nor were they less watchful than the peeping stars already beginning to
stud the sky. The rest of his face was lost in the folds of a woollen
scarf, which was in turn enveloped in the high collar of his overcoat.
There was the sound of footsteps behind him coming up the steel
companion, and in a moment he was joined by a man in oilskins. The
latter were carelessly adjusted about the neck, and from beneath them
peeped the details of a uniform which was foreign to the coast off
which the vessel was lying.
The newcomer joined in the survey of the war-craft's dim outline
against the horizon.
"She's not there by chance, Excellency," he said warningly, in the deep
guttural of the Teutonic language.
For some moments the other made no reply. His eyes were upon the men at
work. The boat was launched, and the engine was being started.
"No," he said at last. Then his eyes came sharply to the other's face.
"You have had to take big chances in your time. You've got to take a
greater chance now. This is not war."
"No, Excellency. This is peace." The man laughed deep-throatedly.
"That is why the warship does not matter. She will not break the peace,
and we are beyond the home-water limit. We are free to do as we please."
"And yet she is watching us. It interests me what she intends. These
British naval men are a different race from those ashore. They will do
as they think, in spite of--peace."
"Yes." There was a speculative look in the stone-grey eyes.
Finally he gave his whole attention to the men on the deck. He seemed
to have put all speculation aside.
"Von Hertzwohl's submersible will soon be along now. We shall see her
lights. She will carry lights. She must do so for the shore boat. You
have your orders."
"Yes, Excellency. When you have left in this boat the other will be
prepared. I shall take a party and board Hertzwohl's vessel, and make
myself master of it. Meanwhile, this vessel will lie off with lights
out, standing by in case of accidents to pick you up. If all goes well
you will return from shore and come aboard Von Hertzwohl's vessel.
Instantly she will submerge and lay a course for Heligoland Bight. It
is clear, and should be simple."
"It should be simple. Hertzwohl's vessel _must_ go back with us. She
has the U-rays lamp on her." The grey eyes were turned questioningly in
the direction where the war-vessel had been lying. The darkness had
become such that its outline was scarcely visible. Then he went on.
"This vessel will follow us to the Bight. Ha!" He thrust out a pointing
hand. "The lights. Red. Green. White." He turned again, and his eyes
were hard and stern in the light of the conning-tower. "Make no
mistakes. Your orders to--the letter."
"Yes, Excellency."
Both men moved off down the gently swaying deck towards the break in
the rail where the pinnace, with its complement of four men, was
waiting. The man with the stone-grey eyes leapt into the boat. The next
moment its crew had cast off, and its head had been swung round
shorewards in response to the race of its powerful motor.
Suddenly a great beam of light shot athwart the sky. It lowered slowly,
and, a moment later, it fell upon the submarine, on the deck of which a
number of men had replaced those which had just left. For a moment the
officer in charge of them looked up, and his eyes were caught in the
dazzle of the blinding light. Then the light was raised and swept away
landwards. It described a great arc and fell upon the shore. A moment
later it was withdrawn. Again it settled upon the submarine.
The officer waited for it to pass. A look of deep anxiety began to fill
his eyes. He was thinking of his orders, and of the man who had given
them. But the light remained focussed full upon his deck, and presently
it dawned upon him that the warship was steaming, steaming slowly and
almost noiselessly towards him. A feeling of impotence took hold of
him. He thought of his torpedo tubes, but the thought passed, thrust
aside with an impatient remembrance that it was peace and--not war. His
impotence grew. He could only stand there helpless and stupid.
The great vessel came on slowly, slowly. Soon its outline became clear,
even in the darkness. The silent threat became unnerving. The officer
ordered his men to desist from their work. The vessel drew abreast.
Then she hove-to. But the terrible glare of the searchlight remained
full upon the long, narrow deck upon which the officer stood.
His eyes sought for a sign. But the blinding light held him. He could
see nothing. Just a shadowy, sombre hull. The great guns were not
visible to him in the painful light.
There was no alternative. He turned to the conning-tower, and his men
were sent below. The next moment the engines were at work, and the
vessel submerged. Minutes later a swirl of water a quarter of a mile
distant, and a great bulk rose to the surface out of the watery depths.
The steel door of the conning-tower opened again, and the officer
looked out. The beam of light from the war-vessel was gliding over the
lolling surface of the water. It was moving towards him slowly, as
though searching carefully. Again his vessel was caught in its silvery
shaft. Again it held. Again the great vessel began to move towards him.
With a bitter oath the officer turned back into the conning-tower and
slammed to the heavy steel door.
Vita and her father were standing at the water's edge. A pace or two
behind them stood Von Salzinger. None of the three seemed inclined for
speech. Von Hertzwohl was gazing out at the narrow opening to the open
sea beyond. His thoughts were busy with the unexpected phenomenon he
beheld.
A searchlight was playing over the water, moving at intervals, then it
would become stationary. The vessel from which it emanated was a long
way out, yet its light hovered persistently, as though its whole
purpose was riveted upon the definite area which lay in full view from
where he stood.
Vita, too, was gazing out to sea. But though the play of the lights
caught and held her attention, they had no power to sway the trend of
teeming thoughts which were passing through her brain. The things she
beheld meant nothing to her. They could mean nothing. These were her
last moments on the land she loved--the land which was the home of the
man who had changed her life from a troubled and anxious existence to a
dream of bliss such as she had believed impossible. She had sold
herself at the price of life. Life? She had gone back again to
existence a thousand times more dreadful than the worst nightmare could
have conjured. Yes, her father was safe, her beloved father. All their
plans would be the safer for their going. She would be free to witness,
in due regularity, the progress of future seasons. She had done her
duty, and her best. But oh, what a best!
There were moments as she stood there waiting when she could have flung
her arms out and screamed till the echoes of the cove rang again. There
were moments when she could have flung herself upon the angular figure
she knew and felt to be standing behind her, and impotently torn at his
hated flesh. He was her master, her future arbiter, the man to whose
caresses she must submit.
Quite suddenly her father raised one thin, pointing hand.
"The boat," he said. And Vita's thoughts were swept aside for the
moment, and her comprehending gaze became fixed upon a dim object
sweeping through the jaws of the cove. The darkness of the place made
it impossible to distinguish its outline. It was a shadow, a mere
shadow against the moving lights beyond.
Once it was past the jaws, however, the throb of its engine beat
against the rocky walls and echoed again. It was as though half-a-dozen
engines were thrashing the water. Now, too, a headlight shone out.
Suddenly Von Hertzwohl caught up the lighted lantern at his feet.
"Ach!" he cried. "The madmen! They are heading here--for this light.
One would think they had never made the spit before." He turned.
"Quick. The spit, or they will drive on the rocks."
He ran along the beach, followed by Vita and Von Salzinger. In a few
moments he was standing on the extremity of the rocky spit, waving his
lantern and calling instructions.
"Gott in Himmel!" he cried. "Slow, slow. You will break on sunken
rocks. Are you mad? This way. Ach! Slower, slower. So. Easy. Bring her
nose round. So. Easy. Now!"
The old man stooped, and, with Von Salzinger, assisted in fending off
the pinnace. Vita had taken up the lantern. She was holding it to make
the most of its feeble rays. Then of a sudden a sharp exclamation broke
from the Prince.
"Four!"
He had counted the men in the boat. Vita heard the exclamation without
gathering its significance. A man leapt out of the stern of the boat,
and another followed him. The light of the lantern fell full upon the
leader's face. A cry broke from the woman, an inarticulate cry. It
brought her father to his feet.
Then, swiftly and terribly, was enacted a scene unforgettable to those
who beheld it. The wide, fearless eyes of the princely Pole gazed with
loathing and hate into the stone-grey eyes of the man who had leapt
first from the boat. It was only for one paralyzed moment. Then a
harsh, furious voice ejaculated a name, and Vita's lantern clattered as
it fell upon the rocky spit, and went out as it rolled into the lapping
water.
"Von Berger!"
It was Von Hertzwohl's voice; and as he spoke he stepped back from the
hated proximity. Once, once only his wide eyes swept over the various
figures about him. Then, with a lightning movement, one long arm was
flung out. There was no word spoken. There was no mercy in either heart
of the antagonists. The penetrating crack of an automatic pistol alone
awoke the echoes. They were flung from rock to rock, and, blending with
them, came the sound of running feet.
But long before the echoes had reached their climax a second shot rang
out--a heavier shot; and as it split the air Von Hertzwohl fell. His
knees gave under him, and his tall figure toppled almost into the arms
of the man who had fired the shot with such deliberate, deadly effect.
To this sound was added swift movement. Vita, standing paralyzed with
terror, was seized from behind, and the heavy breath of Von Salzinger
fanned the back of her neck. She was supported bodily, and, in an
instant, the swaying boat caught her struggling body with brutal force,
and for her all sensation abruptly terminated. Then came Von Berger's
voice in sharp command, as the shouts of men aroused new echoes in the
black arena.
"Quick! Take him! Now cast off!"
The arms of men reached up and caught the inanimate body of Von
Hertzwohl. It was dropped urgently into the bottom of the boat. Then,
to the accompaniment of scrambling feet, the boat was vigorously
propelled backwards into the ebbing tide.
The headlight was extinguished, and the boat vanished like a ghost into
the blackness of the gaping cove.
A moment later the racing engine pulsated with a confusion of echoes,
and a group of men stood at the water's edge searching for the
direction in which the speeding craft was moving. It was hopeless.
Then came a voice--the authoritative voice of a leader.
"Don't fire. Not a shot. You can't be certain who you'll hit. They
won't get far."