The Men Who Wrought Part 22

Von Salzinger listened to the cold words and eagerly awaited the reply of the man at the head of the table. But none was forthcoming, for he seemed to be lost in moody contemplation of the whole affair. Therefore the Captain-General seized his opportunity.

"That is how I see it, sir," he said eagerly. "I submit, with all deference, that I be nominally punished as though I had seriously offended. What is that punishment? Degradation? Degradation and retirement from the service of the Fatherland. It will satisfy Hertzwohl, and put him off his guard. He will have no suspicion, and I shall be free to work. If I am placed on the Secret Service and sent to--England, it should not be impossible to discover all we want to know and nullify the effects of the treachery. Those concerned can be silenced. We can be guided by developments. And----"

"The harm is done, man! You talk of nullifying. You talk like a fool.

There can be no undoing the harm done."

The hoa.r.s.e pa.s.sion of the man at the table was in every word he spoke.

The gleaming eyes were full of the burning fire of unrestrained ferocity.

But the cold tones of Von Berger once more dropped like ice upon a kindling fire.

"It will be the better course, sir," he said. "We do not yet know the full position. That must be perfectly established before we can estimate the damage."

But the other seemed absorbed in his own imagery of the matter.

"An Englishman! Gott!"

Von Berger turned abruptly to Von Salzinger.

"Leave us. I will call you when ready. Remain within call."

The authority was unmistakable. The Captain-General might have been the veriest conscript for the courtesy displayed. He left the great chamber with no outward sign, but with storm sweeping through his heart.

Beyond the door he reviewed the situation. His position was by no means enviable, but it was not without possibilities. He realized now that the hand of Fate had pointed through the whole affair. He knew that he had had no suspicion of Hertzwohl in Borga. A thought of treachery had never entered his head. Hertzwohl had piqued him. He had seriously offended him, as, long ago, this same man's daughter had offended his pride. He had intended merely to retaliate through his official capacity, and now through these trivial pettinesses a deadly plot had been revealed. He had answered the summons to Kuhlhafen intending to defend himself by casting suspicion upon Hertzwohl, and his defence had turned out to be the true estimate of the matter. Well----

But his reflections were cut short by the summons to return to the council-chamber. Von Berger held the iron-studded door for him to enter, and, as he pa.s.sed within, he closed and carefully secured it.

Then he came back to his place at the table, and his companion signed for him to proceed.

He faced the waiting officer.

"Captain-General von Salzinger, you are to be degraded from your rank and office. You will be relieved of command at Borga at once. You will then report to the Foreign Office, where you will receive sealed instructions. On receipt of these instructions you will proceed to London without delay. When you have completed the work allotted to you in England--satisfactorily--you will receive your reinstatement. That is all."

CHAPTER XIII

NEWS

The atmosphere of the little study, or library, or whatever it was called, in which Ruxton carried on the private work of his political calling, in the diminutive house in Smith Square, Westminster, was redolent with that delightful suggestion of the old world so dear to the collector's heart.

Its owner was a collector by instinct and training. He had been brought up to the study of old-world art, and had learned to appreciate the beauties of all those delicate and priceless specimens which are the handicraft of bygone genius. But he was no keeper of a museum. His little home in the purlieus of Westminster was a storehouse of beauty and charm. Every piece of furniture, every tapestry, every rug, every metal gem was full of significance and harmony with its setting. Not one detail of this home but had cost him hours of thought and consideration, and the result was all he asked, a perfectly harmonious whole, a creation of all that made for undemonstrative artistry in his nature.

Just now even the dying early autumn sun seemed graciously disposed towards it. It was peeping in through the old Georgian windows and searching out the mellow beauties of the study. Its softened tone seemed to somehow belong to the picture it discovered within. The delicate tracery of the deep, ruddy mahogany furnis.h.i.+ngs, the design of which must have given hours of delight to the artist soul of Chippendale; the softened tints of the ancient Persian rugs upon the crazily uneven flooring; the exquisite carving of the oaken panels and the delicate pictures of the hanging tapestries above them,--all these beauties seemed to belong to a time of softened light which comes with the ageing of the year.

The calm delight of it all resisted even the touch of a modern figure suddenly appearing in its midst. Ruxton's modern blue serge suit and soft felt hat might have been an anachronism, but it gave no serious offence. He entered the room and glanced swiftly and appreciatively upon his treasured friends. Then he laid his hat aside, took his seat at his desk and prepared to attend to some work he had on hand.

But, for once, inclination proved stronger than purpose. He sat back in the ample chair, such as an elderly ancestor might have revelled in, lit a cigar, and, for some idle minutes, all effort was abandoned in favor of the relaxed dreaming of a brain accustomed to high pressure.

It was the late afternoon of a long day spent in endless interviews in the world of the officialdom to which he belonged here in London. But his interviews had had little enough to do with the more commonplace affairs of State. His portfolio in the Cabinet, which left him responsible for the affairs of the Duchy of Lancaster, also left him with ample time to carry out those other plans which he believed were to have so great a significance in his country's future.

His day had been spent in completing the negotiations whereby, for a considerable period, certain portions of the great s.h.i.+p-building yards at Dorby were to be adopted and controlled by the Admiralty. It had not been easy to stir the machinery of departments, and only had it been made possible by invoking the efforts of the Prime Minister, Sir Meeston Harborough, and the Foreign Secretary, the Marquis of Lordburgh, with both of whom he had already established a confidential understanding. Admiral Sir Joseph Caistor was purely a naval man, a brilliant officer, but as yet intolerant of desecrating the traditions of his department by confusing it with civilian controlled establishments.

However, the last obstacle had been finally surmounted, and, with its pa.s.sing, he discovered the real depths of his anxiety. A strong conviction of impending action by the German Government had taken hold of him without his being fully aware of it. He had been oppressed by it. And now, at last, he experienced a deep sense of relief that the cloak of naval secrecy and protection was to be spread out over the new construction upon which he and his father had embarked.

He sat thus reviewing these things and smoking leisurely, in the manner of a satisfied man. He knew he ought to attend to his letters and then go on down to the House, which was now sitting. But he had no intention of doing so. There was no debate of importance going on, and he had no desire to listen to the silly twaddle of a number of men whose qualifications as legislators would have been insufficient to achieve for them squatting room on a council of Red Indians, and whose minds had no other conception of greatness than the limelight of a halfpenny press.

It was five weeks since his return from Borga. Five weeks of hard, rus.h.i.+ng work in which a confusion of affairs required to be sorted and carried through; in which plans had to be developed and set in train, and during which a growing and almost oppressing sense of responsibility had steadily taken possession of him. There had been no leisure. It had been work incessant, work, and again work. Now, at last, he felt that a breathing s.p.a.ce was almost permissible.

In his first moment of leisure he was determined to carry out a purpose upon which he had resolved, even amidst the turmoil of the affairs he had been engaged upon. For not once during all those weeks had the haunting memory of his beautiful visitor on the Yorks.h.i.+re cliffs been lost to him. He had heard no word from her, he had caught no glimpse of her since he had watched her finally ascend the companionway of the submersible to return to the sh.o.r.e. For the first time in his life he had been made aware that there could be a more imperative claim upon a man than his simple duty. For the first time in his life he found himself hearkening to the mandates of Nature in a yielding spirit. He could no longer resist the haunting charms of the wonderful creature who had so appealed to his manhood.

He sat revolving his purpose in his mind. And, so doing, he idly drew a copy of an evening paper towards him. He turned its pages in abstracted contemplation. Then, suddenly, a head-line caught and held his attention. It was the announcement of the completion of his negotiations with the naval department.

He read it eagerly, not with any desire to discover publicity for himself--rather the reverse. He looked to discover how far the pernicious habit of publicity might be damaging to the cause in which he was working. He sighed in relief as he came to the end of the paragraph. For once the press had exercised laudable restraint. There was nothing in it calculated to inspire curiosity or even comment. It simply stated that a department in the Dorby yards had been taken over by the Board of Admiralty to relieve the congestion in the Naval Construction yards.

He thrust the paper aside, drew a telegram pad towards him, and indited an address upon it.

"Veevee, London."

Then he paused and looked up as the door in the panelling of the room was thrust open and his secretary presented himself.

"It's the telephone, and a woman's voice speaking, Mr. Farlow," he said, with a whimsical smile. "I endeavored to get her name, but she refused it. I warned her that I could not call you without she stated her business, or gave her name. Finally she said I had better tell you that 'Veevee, London,' wished to speak to you urgently. I wrote the name down so there should be no----"

"You can put me through--at once."

The crisp response was not without significance to the younger man, and Harold Heathcote departed with the mental reservation that "even with Cabinet Ministers you never can tell."

A few moments later the telephone receiver on Ruxton Farlow's table purred its soft challenge, and he picked it up in hasty and delighted antic.i.p.ation. In a moment he recognized Vita Vladimir's voice. His dark eyes smiled at the sunlit window as he replied to her enquiry.

"Yes. It's Ruxton Farlow speaking. How-do-you-do? Most extraordinary coincidence. I was just writing out a telegram to you. I was wond---- Yes, it's ages. I've a lot to tell you about--things. Eh? You must see me to-night. Why, that's delightful. I am in great good luck. Not sure about the luck?" He laughed confidently. "I am. Eh?" His laugh had died out abruptly. "Bad news. That's---- Well, where shall I see you? Not at--all right. Could you manage dinner with me somewhere? Ah, anywhere you choose. What's that? The Oberon? The West Room? Will that be all right in view of the--bad news? Yes, I agree. It is sufficiently secluded. Shall we say at eight o'clock? You're sure it quite suits you? Splendid. Yes. Then good-bye--till eight o'clock."

Ruxton replaced the receiver, and, for a moment, sat staring out at the sunlit square. His eyes were half smiling still, but there was a puzzled, slight elevation of his level brows. He was thinking, speculating as to the nature of the bad news. But even bad news which again brought him into contact with the Princess Vita was robbed of more than half its significance.

Whatever Ruxton Farlow's impressions, drawn from his earlier encounters with Vita von Hertzwohl, they became totally eclipsed by the delight in her perfect beauty as it appeared to him when he kept his appointment for dinner that night.

Her tall figure, so beautifully rounded, so perfect in its delicate proportions, and so full of a delicious sinuous grace, was gowned to perfection. Her wonderful red-gold hair, tinged with its soft sheen of burnished copper, was a perfect setting for the delicate tracery of jewels which completed its exquisitely unconventional dressing. Her wonderful grey eyes shone eagerly up into his, lighting the essentially foreign complexion which was hers with a warm fire of virile mentality.

Such were the feelings she inspired that he wondered absurdly that he could ever have taken her for anything less than the princess he now knew her to be. So great was her effect upon him that it was not until her own low-spoken words, reminding him of the bad news of which she was the bearer, permitted the memory of the affairs he was engaged upon to return to their paramount place in his consideration.

They were seated at a small round table in a remote corner of the great West Room. The table next to them was unoccupied, but, for the rest, the room was fairly full, and amongst the diners were a considerable number of notables who preferred the quiet harmonious charm of tasteful surroundings and excellent cooking to the blatancy of the more advertised caravansaries.

It was not until the _peches-melba_ had been served, and the order for coffee had been given to the waiter, that the cloud was allowed to descend upon Ruxton's perfect enjoyment. They had talked of all he had seen upon his visit to Borga. They had talked of Vita's father, and the services he yearned to perform for humanity. Ruxton had described in detail their flight from the great a.r.s.enal and its Prussian commandant.

And all the time Vita had withheld her news, fearing for herself, as much as for her companion, the complete banishment of the delight of this moment of their meeting again.