THE VIKING’S TOWER
There in the middle of the afternoon the butler brought her a note. For
a moment before she read the superscription, a wild rush of something
which might have been joy yet could not be, sent a pale flush of color
into her cheek. But she glanced at the envelope carelessly, and when
the man had gone, quickly opened it.
It was from John Rizzio, signed with the familiar initials and begun
without either name or qualification:
You will think it strange, perhaps, that I should write to
you after the events of last night, because the modesty of a
woman is the last thing that forgives. My action is beyond
apology and I offer none for fear that it may be construed
into a hope--a selfish hope of an unimaginable forgiveness.
Hope has passed--that with the others, but something else
remains, something less selfish than hope and more vital than
self-interest and that is a whole-hearted wish that your honor
may be kept free from the taint of the dark and furtive things
with which it has come into contact.
I am not a man, as you know, to boast of disinterestedness.
I have lived a life in which my own affairs were always
paramount, my own aims always most important. I am telling
you this to warn you that my generosity to Hammersley is not
actuated by any love of a man who has spoiled my dearest
ambition, but by the continued esteem with which I still regard
yourself. I do not love him; and my own wish, my duty, my
own honor, my loyalty to England all acclaim that he should
be delivered at once to those in authority. And yet I have
refrained--for you, Doris. But I have learned that H---- is in
communication with G---- and that Crenshaw of Scotland Yard is
on the alert. I may not be able to save him.
This is an appeal to the one person who has the most influence
with him and I ask that you use whatever power over him you
possess to bring him to a sense of the impossibility of his
mad plans. If you still have doubt as to the character of the
work he has undertaken, I ask that you go to Ben-a-Chielt
tonight and listen secretly to convincing proof of what he is.
For tonight at one o’clock on the cliffs near the old Viking’s
Tower, he will meet a personal messenger from G----.
I appeal to you for England--but more than for England,
for--yourself.
Yours,
J. R.
Doris read the note through again and again, her thoughts blurring
unpleasantly, like a photograph out of focus. It seemed impossible that
she could do what he asked of her. Every instinct, wounded and sore
from her last encounter, revolted at the thought of meeting Cyril again
under the conditions presented. It was impossible that she should go.
Cyril would only laugh at her or, what would be worse, show her the
callousness and brutality that he had done this morning. Rizzio asked
her to do what she could. Why should she save him? What had he done to
merit such a sacrifice of pride on her part. The past? That was dead
and Cyril buried with it. England? She put her head forward into her
hands and pressed her fingers to her temples. England!
As the afternoon faded into night the conviction grew in Doris’s mind
that the situation made personal considerations unimportant. After
dinner she excused herself and, dressing warmly, toward twelve o’clock
went downstairs past the library door and out to the stables. She
found a sleepy groom and, giving him a liberal fee as the price of his
silence, had a side-saddle put on a good horse and made her way in the
direction of Ben-a-Chielt. She knew the road well, for she had traveled
it many times with Cyril and Betty during the previous summer when
all the world was gay and she and Cyril were lovers. She was a little
nervous at being alone on the moor in the darkness, but not frightened.
She gave herself greater hardihood by trying to remember that Cyril
and Rizzio were gentlemen, one of whom she had thought she could have
trusted with her life, the other a friend who wanted to be trusted with
it--and now protested he held her honor dearer than his own. Not her
enemies surely; and the thought of physical harm from either of them,
the only thing that could have deterred her from this midnight venture,
did not occur to her. But as she came to Saltham Rocks, the scene of
Cyril’s last night’s encounter, she pressed forward more rapidly with a
keen eye upon the gray blur of the road. She reached the cross-roads,
her breath coming a little more rapidly, pulled her horse down to a
walk and turned in upon Cyril’s property, going forward more slowly.
Until the present moment she had formulated no plan of action, nor had
counted upon the possibilities of discovery, so she rode cautiously,
making a long detour across the moor to avoid the lights of one of
the keepers’ houses which stood upon the road. She found that she
had to choose her way among the rocks and whins, but her horse was
sure-footed, and at a walk there was little danger of a cropper. She
kept the road in sight and by the fitful light of the stars, between
the rack of mist and clouds that were coming in from the sea, she made
her way in the general direction of the Lodge. On her right she had
glimpses of the sea beyond the cliffs and heard the pounding of the
surf upon the rocks and shingle. The Viking’s Tower was up among the
rocks near Beaufort Head, half a mile beyond the house. She had been
there with Cyril many times, and from the ruined wall had sat with
him and looked out over the North Sea, while he had told her in his
sportive vernacular the story of the tower and of the “Johnnies” who
had built it. It was difficult to identify that Cyril now with the man
of mystery lurking out here somewhere in the dark, his mind set on the
odious business of betraying his country.
The Lodge was set inland from the sea in a valley between two ridges
which narrowed down to a fissure in the rocks that fell away to
Beaufort Cove, a small harbor almost land-locked where Cyril kept his
motor-boats and sloop. As the girl approached the Lodge, she turned
far to the left and made a wide circle among the hills, so that there
could be no chance of inquisitive eyes discovering the bold silhouette
of her horse against the sky. Slowly she climbed the lower ridges of
Ben-a-Chielt until she reached a level spot, high above the house,
garage, stables and hangar, where she stopped for a moment to rest her
winded horse.
Below her a wild panorama of land and wind-blown sky, the ragged
profile of black rocks etched deep into the sullen gray of the sea.
Seen from this height the contours were unfamiliar to her and the
purpose of her grim visit gave the grim vista a dramatic significance
that was almost theatrical. Long lines emerged from the dark blur
of sea and sky and roared in upon the rocks that guarded the harbor
upon which they were shivered into foam. Inside the rim of rocks the
placid cove calmly reflected the sky. She saw the motor-boats near the
landing, made out the specter lines of Cyril’s sloop, the _Windbird_,
and in the shadow of the cliffs saw another vessel, the lines of which
were unfamiliar. This craft was long and slender with a wireless mast
and two large smoke-stacks. No lights showed aboard of her, but there
were signs of activity, for while the girl looked a small boat was
lowered and was pulled for the landing; and suddenly the real meaning
of this dark vessel was borne to her. There was no mistaking the grim
profile of the thing that projected from the forward superstructure
and the curving decks which met the water in such slender lines. It
was a war-vessel, a destroyer, and the man who was putting out for
the shore was the German messenger who was to meet Cyril Hammersley
at Ben-a-Chielt. She trembled and clung to the pommel of her saddle.
The brief joyous moments that had come to her at intervals during the
evening as she thought of the inflections of Cyril’s voice, of the
weary look she had seen in his eyes, and hoped that even tonight he
might be able to justify himself in her own thoughts at least were
engulfed in the damning conviction of what she saw before her. John
Rizzio had told her the truth. How he had learned what was to happen,
she did not know or care, but the accuracy of his information was no
longer a matter to doubt.
She looked around her in the darkness toward the way by which she had
come, really frightened for the first time that evening as at the
palpable presence of sin. For a moment she hesitated in her intention
to go forward. She had seen enough to convince her. There was no need
of more. But the real object of her mission nerved her to her task.
She must go on at once if she wished to reach the Tower in time to
conceal herself. So she pressed her horse along the hill, and when she
had crossed the ridge rode down in a path parallel to the edge of the
cliffs, which brought her after a while into a line with Beaufort Head,
where she could see the dim mass of the ruin rising above the chaos of
rock that surrounded it.
When she reached a spot not too far distant, she dismounted in a
clump of bushes and fastening the bridle of her horse to the gnarled
limb of a stunted tree, crept forward on foot. The excitement of the
venture and its possible consequences now gave her renewed strength and
caution. Moving to the left, toward the northern side of the Tower,
she clambered over the rocks toward the sea. There should be plenty of
time to reach a place of concealment before the occupant of the boat
had time to climb the steep and tortuous path from the landing, and
peering from side to side, pausing from time to time to listen, she
reached the shadow of Table Rock, a huge slab of granite which had been
tossed by some convulsion of Nature upon the very summit of the Head.
The physical contours of the place made her approach an easy one, for
the cliffs were strewn with bowlders and it was easy to slip from one
to another without detection.
Assured that the spot that she had reached was as near the Tower as
she dared approach for the present, she wedged herself into a crevice
between two rocks, into which she might pass and go out by the other
side, and sank down upon her knees and waited. The moments passed
slowly. Where was John Rizzio? Would Cyril never come? She had a moment
of horror in the thought that the German messenger might come and
discover her before Cyril arrived. What would he do to her? Kill her,
of course. And in a panic of sinking nerves she thought of getting to
her feet and fleeing into the friendly darkness from which she had
come. She had even risen and her head was just below the level of the
top of her refuge when she heard footsteps close by and got the odor
of a cigarette. So she sank back, her hand at her heart to quiet its
throbbings.
The footsteps passed her, returned and then went toward the Tower
and she bared her head and peered cautiously out. A tall figure in
a long coat and deer-stalker cap was standing watching the path to
the landing. She could not see his features, but she knew that it
was Cyril. For one moment she thought of running to him and throwing
herself at his feet and pleading with him while there was still time
to go away into the darkness--with her--anywhere before this stranger
should reach him. But her courage failed her and she sank back into
her corner. And when she straightened again her moment had passed, for
she heard other footsteps to her right of a man as he clambered up the
rocks. He passed quite near her, a burly man in a naval cap and coat,
out of breath from his exertions.
Cyril came forward to meet him, and she heard the short words of their
greeting.
“Herr Hammersley?”
“Ja.”
She peered out and saw the burly man straighten, his heels together,
and touch his fingers to the rim of his cap. Cyril bowed and asked a
question and the other replied in a sentence that contained the word
“_Hochheit_,” which was the only word she understood. She crept a
little closer so that she could hear more distinctly, hoping that her
slight knowledge of German might aid her. She watched Cyril to see if
he passed anything to the German officer. Instead of this the German
took a letter from an inside pocket and handed it to Cyril, and she
heard the words “_Hochheit_” again and “_Excellenz_”--a message it
seemed from some prince, or from some general or high official of the
German Government. Cyril appeared to offer apologies and broke the seal
of the envelope, bringing from the pocket of his overcoat an electric
torch, by the aid of which he read the letter. Doris could see his face
quite plainly in the reflected light from the page, and marked the deep
lines at his brows and the stern look at his mouth and chin. He went
over the document twice very carefully, and then as he turned to his
companion she heard his voice saying quite distinctly in German:
“You know the purport of this paper?”
“No, Herr Hammersley,” said the officer. “My orders are merely to
deliver this letter which was to receive your acceptance.”
Cyril paused for a long moment, tapping the document lightly with his
finger and then taking a pencil from his pocket bent over and upon
the nearest rock wrote something. Then he slipped the letter into its
envelope and handed it to the other, who put it into his pocket,
saluted again and with a hurried farewell turned down the path and was
gone.
That was all. The interview had not lasted more than five minutes,
but Doris knew by the look she had seen on Cyril’s face that danger
threatened. The letter had contained a command, a command from a German
officer of high rank to Cyril Hammersley--a spy receiving his orders
from the government he served. If he had gone back to the Lodge at
this moment she would have let him go past her without a word, for the
bitterness came back into her heart and engulfed all purpose. She sat
in her place of concealment, peering out at him, fascinated. He moved
nearer and then stood, his feet braced on the rocks, gazing down the
path by which his midnight visitor had disappeared. How long he stood
there motionless she could not know, but as the moments passed and he
did not move, she rose from her cranny, her trembling nerves seeking an
outlet in motion or speech. Why didn’t he move?
At last her overtaxed nerves could no longer endure and she came out
of the shadow and spoke his name. Still he made no motion, and she
realized that her lips had made no sound. But her foot touched a small
stone, which fell among the rocks, and she saw him wheel around and
face her quickly, something glittering in his hand, while his voice
rang sharply.
“Stand where you are!”
He took a few threatening steps toward her, his look studying her small
bulk.
“It’s I, Cyril,” she said faintly, “Doris.”
“You!” He glanced to right and left, putting the thing in his pocket
and faced her, incredulous. “What are you doing here, Doris?”
“I came to--to see you again----”
His eyes were still searching the darkness around them.
“Who told you to come here?”
“No one,” she lied. “I followed you.”
“Who saw you come? You heard?”
“Yes----” slowly. “O Cyril--I can’t let you go from me like this----”
She put her face to her hands and felt his arms enfold her. She
trembled, but in this weakness a new kind of strength came to her. “I
want you to come with me away--away from all this--for me--for England.
It’s my last appeal--you must not refuse it. I--I want you so, Cyril,
as it used to be.”
She felt his lips gently touch her brow and heard his whisper,
“God bless you!”
She clung to him desperately, to his caress, the one sure symbol of his
purity----
“I love you, Cyril,” she murmured, “I can’t help it. I’ve tried not to.
But you couldn’t kiss me like this, reverently, if you did not love me
well enough to forget everything else. Say you do, dear.”
“I love you,” he whispered again. “But you must not stay here. You
must----”
“Doesn’t it mean something to you that I came,” she went on breathlessly,
“that I could forget--what happened--that the love that was in my heart
for you was greater than my hatred of what you are? I came so that you
could know it by the difficulty, the danger that I ran. I don’t care
what others may think of me. The only thing that matters is to have you
again. You don’t know what it cost me to come. I am not the kind to be
held so lightly, Cyril. I have forgotten my pride, even my sense of what
is fitting for a girl to do, in the hope that you will listen to me.”
“Yes,” he murmured, “but not now, Doris. You must go back.”
“Not yet----” she protested.
“I--I have much to do----” he said.
“That messenger--O Cyril--you mustn’t. Come back with
me--tonight--now----”
“I can’t,” he muttered. “It--it is important for me to stay here----”
She loosened his arms and stood away from him, peering down into the
cove where clouds of black smoke were belching from the funnels of the
black vessel. The water of the cove was churning in its wake and its
prow was turning toward the harbor mouth.
Suddenly she saw Cyril start and peer around him in the darkness.
“Who sent you here?” she heard his voice in a strangled whisper at her
ear.
“No one,” she denied again, “I followed you.”
“That isn’t possible, Doris,” he said quickly. “I have reasons for
knowing. You were here before I came. Rizzio told you---- He knew what
was to happen--he was the only one who could have known.”
“Why?” Her curiosity sent all subterfuge flying. She could see his pale
face in the moonlight.
“Because it was Rizzio who sent this messenger to meet me.”
“Rizzio!” The mystery was deepening. “I can’t understand.”
He hesitated a long moment before replying, as though weighing
something in his mind.
“I’ll tell you this much,” he said at last. “You’ve a right to know.
Rizzio told you that he was an agent of the English Government. It’s
my word against his. You can believe me or not if you like. Rizzio is a
spy of Germany!”
“Impossible! John Rizzio----” she whispered aghast.
He laughed.
“The pot callin’ the kettle black--what? It’s the truth.”
“But Rizzio! What object would he have in betraying England? A man of
his position!”
“That’s the kind of men England’s enemies want,” put in Cyril dryly.
“But he has no need of money. Not money. Impossible!”
“No, not money. There are other things that John Rizzio values more
than money.”
“What?”
He caught her by the arm impressively to make his meaning clear. “You
don’t know the passion of collectors. They would sell their souls for
the things they want. The things that seem impossible are the things
they want the most.”
“But I don’t understand.”
“After the war Rizzio is to be permitted to ‘buy’ Rubens’s ‘Descent
from the Cross’ from the German Government.”
“Oh!” she gasped in horror. A new idea of the terrible possibilities of
duplicity was borne to her. But she couldn’t believe.
“How do you know this?” she asked.
He laughed.
“It’s one of the things I stopped in London to find out.”
“Then you----”
“I am a German spy.”
“I don’t believe you,” she cried proudly. There was a note of joy in
her voice, a momentary note which seemed to trail off into one of
terror. “Cyril!” she whispered. “Rizzio! He wrote me to come here.”
“I knew it.”
“But he said he----” she hesitated. “Why did he want me to come? There
must have been some other reasons besides wanting me to see--he’s here,
Cyril--somewhere----”
Hammersley started and turned, his hand in his pocket, and Doris
followed his look. Three men had risen from among the rocks toward the
Tower.
“Don’t move, Hammersley,” said Rizzio’s voice. “You’re in danger,
Doris.”
But the girl was clinging to Cyril’s arm. “No, no,” she was crying.
Several shots rang out as Cyril threw her aside, dashing forward. One
of the men seemed to stumble among the rocks and fall heavily. The
other came in toward Cyril, his arm raised, but another shot from
behind the rocks made him pause, twist half around, his hand to his
shoulder as Cyril caught him a blow which sent him reeling to the edge
of the cliff, over which he hung for a moment, peering downwards in
horror, and then disappeared from view.
“Well done, Stryker,” she heard Cyril cry. “The other--this way. Don’t
let him get off.”
And Stryker disappeared after Rizzio.