CHAPTER II

  A STRANGE MEETING

  The peace of the night knocked vainly at the heart of the man as hemoved along over the grass-grown cart track, which skirted those fieldsabutting on the pathway marking the broken line of the lofty Yorkshirecliffs.

  The warmth of the July air left him utterly forgetful of the lightevening clothes in which he was clad, just as the grass-grown trackfailed to remind him that the shoes he wore had never been intended forcountry rambles. The soft sea breeze fanned his cheeks, and the bracingair added vigor of body if it left his mental feelings whollyuninspired.

  For the time, at least, Ruxton Farlow was living within himself. Hismental digestion was devouring hungrily of that force which had come tomake his contemporaries realize that here was a man of that unusualcalibre which must ultimately make him a leader of men in whatever walkof life he chose for that strenuous journey.

  The full moon, shedding a ghostly glory on every hand, yielded him thenecessary guidance for his footsteps. It served his purpose, but itsbeauty for once left him unimpressed. The diamond-studded sky suggestedno jewel-bedecked cloak of mysterious night as at other times it waswont to appeal. All romance was dead for the time, as though theshutter of his mental camera had been closed with a slam for thedevelopment of the plates within which held those living, grim picturesof the life he felt himself surrounded by on every hand.

  He passed the last stile and faced the open sea. That smooth limitlessexpanse, sighing and restless, as it gently rocked its bosom like someaged crone nursing the infant she was too old to bear herself. He flunghimself full length upon a rustling bed of heather. His head wastowards the sea, and craning over the very edge of the dizzy cliff.There was no thought in his mind of the dangerous proximity. He hadknown these cliffs almost from his birth up. They were the friends ofhis whole life, and their possible latent treachery was unthinkable tohim. He propped his face between his two hands and sank his elbows deepinto the heather. Then, like some schoolboy, his feet were raisedbehind him, and crossed, while his eyes searched that mysterioushorizon lost in the shadows of a perfect night.

  It has been said that Ruxton Farlow was an idealist. But let there beno misapprehension about it. His idealism was practical and full ofsanity. He was no visionary. His mind was ever groping for the materialwelfare of his country. The moral welfare, he felt, should be in handsfar more capable in that direction than his life and learning had madehis. It had been his habit of life to feed his mind upon hard andincontrovertible facts which bore upon the goal of his ideals. Heaccepted nothing which was merely backed by academic logic. He demandedthe logic of practice. Theory was impossible to him, unless that theorywas demonstrated in practice. Thus it was he kept his mind alert forfacts--and again facts.

  The facts which concerned him at the moment were many, and he found inthem all, when arranged in due order, one stream like some rushingriver which raced on its tempestuous way to the wide sea of disasterbeyond.

  The starting-point of his facts was the truth that no moderncombination of force, however superlative its effort, could crush outof international existence the power of two peoples with aggregatepopulations of virile strength of some hundred and odd million souls.The war had proved that. And the only possible peace resulting from ithad added the conviction that, from a peace point of view, the war hadproved utterly useless and damaging. Besides the enormous expenditureof treasure and the vast sacrifices of human life, it had given theworld a nominal peace backed by an aggravation of international hatredand spleen a thousand times greater than had ever been known in historysince the days of bare-limbed savagery.

  What then was the outlook? The man stirred with that nervous suggestionof a disturbed mind. War--war! On every hand war--again. Once again allthe moral development of the human race towards those higher planes oflight, learning, and religious ideals was shadowed by the spectre whichduring the last three years had flung men back to the shadows of anancient savagery and barbarism.

  The savage mind of the Teuton had broken out into a fierceconflagration of barbarism. Again it would smoulder, like someslumbering volcano, only to break out again when the arrogance of theGerman heart told it that the time was ripe to avenge the indignity ofits earlier failure.

  Ruxton Farlow accepted this as his basis of fact, and followed theriver down its turbulent course towards that sea of disaster which healready saw looming ahead. It required no imagination. The course was astraight one, straight as the crow flies. For that passion of hatredwhich inspired the flood brooked no obstruction to its course. Itclamored for its goal and swept all side issues out of its path. GreatBritain lay in that sea beyond. Great Britain, who, in German eyes,owned the earth, and incidentally had snatched even those inadequatecolonies from her bosom, which, through long years of diplomatictrickery, she had contrived to acquire. The Prussian passion forconquest had been changed through the late war to the passionatenational hatred of the German people against Great Britain. This wasclear. So clear that the light which shone upon it was painful to hismental vision.

  What then was the resulting position of the country he loved? Thelessons of the war were many--so many. Yet preeminently outstanding wasone fact which smothered all others in its significance, and reducedthem all almost to nothingness. His father had dwelt upon the lack ofnational spirit when war broke out. That had been remedied. The countryhad changed during those three years of suffering and sacrifice. No,his father had missed the great lesson. Yet it was so simple--so simple.

  The man raised his head higher, and folded his arms under him as asupport. He gazed down at the calm summer moonlit sea. So calm, sopeaceful, so--seductive to the straining mind.

  He began to realize the yearning of the suicide for the peace beyondlife. How easy to solve all problems. How easy to rid oneself of theduties, the harassing, cruel duties imposed by the Creator of all life.The soft murmur of the breaking swell upon the beach below. One plungebeneath that shimmering surface and--nothing. In that instant thereflashed through his mind a memory of just such another sea. The perfectsummer sea. The great ship, one of the wonders of the age. A stealingtrail of foam across the glass-like surface. An explosion. Then fifteenhundred souls solve the problem of that--nothing! Ah, that was it. Thatwas the Danger. He knew. Every thinking human being knew that ifGermany had begun war with a fleet of some three or four hundredsubmarines, three weeks would have terminated the war so far as Britainwas concerned.

  He moved over on to his side, and his movement was a further expressionof nervous tension. He propped his head upon one hand with his eyesfixed on the vague horizon beyond which the Teutonic giant waspeacefully slumbering, and his thought was spoken aloud.

  "Is he slumbering?" he asked of the sea. "Is he? Will he ever sleepagain? No, I think not. Not at least while there is a chance that hisintelligence behind the machine can render an island home untenable."

  "Night claims from the overburdened soul the truth which daylight isdenied."

  Ruxton Farlow sat up with a jolt. His dark, searching eyes were turnedfrom the sea. They were turned in the direction whence the voice, whichhad answered him, had proceeded. In the brilliant moonlight he saw theoutline of a figure standing upon the footpath which ran parallel tothe coast-line. The figure was not quite distinct, but it was clearly awoman's, which corroborated the conviction he had received at the soundof the voice.

  "But for once she has betrayed her--trust," he said, and a feeling ofirritation swept over him that he had permitted himself to respond tothe challenge of this stranger, who was probably something in thenature of one of life's vagrants, wandering homeless over the desertedways of the countryside.

  Then he discovered to his further annoyance that his response hadbrought forth its logical result. The figure was moving towards him,and as it drew near he became aware of that delightful feminine rustlewhich no man ever yet found unseductive.

  The woman made no verbal reply until she was standing before him.Ruxton was still sitting on the heathe
r, but his eyes were wide withastonished admiration, and his clean-shaven lips were parted, whichadded to his whole expression of incredulous amazement.

  The woman standing before him was no vagrant, unless a vagrant couldpossess a queenly presence, and an attire which suggested the bestefforts of London or Paris. He stared, stared as might some schoolboybudding into manhood at the sight of a perfect womanhood. Then, in amoment, questions raced through his head. Who was she, and where--wheredid she come from? What freak of fortune had set her wandering thosecliffs alone--and at night?

  She was beautifully tall and crowned with a royal wealth of hair whichremained hatless. Its color was not certain in the moonlight, butRuxton felt that it must be red-gold. He could think of no other colorwhich could match such a presence. Her figure, sharply outlined in themoonlight, was superb. It suggested all he had ever seen in thoseardent dreams of youth. Her face possessed something of the reflectedglory of the moon lit by eyes whose color was hidden from him, butwhich shone like great dull jewels full of a living fire.

  All these things he realized in one swift comprehensive glance. But inanother moment his whole attention was absorbed by the rich voice, thetones of which were like the softest music of some foreign southernland.

  "It is scarcely fair to blame the night," she said, in smiling protest.

  All unprepared for the encounter Ruxton had nothing but a stupidmonosyllable to offer.

  "No," he said, and a sigh somehow escaped him.

  Then, in a moment, the blood was set swiftly pulsating through hisveins.

  "May I sit down?" the woman enquired. "I have had a long walk, and am alittle tired," she added in explanation.

  But she waited for no permission. And somehow Ruxton felt that herexpression of weariness was far below the mark. She appeared quiteexhausted.

  "You are more than a _little_ tired," he said, with urgent solicitude.

  Now that her face was nearer to his level he could see that she wasindeed very, very beautiful. Her eyes were large and almost oriental intheir shape. Her cheeks were as delicate as the petals of a lily. Thecontour of her whole face was a perfect oval with just sufficientlengthening to give it character.

  She did not deny him. But a smile lit her eyes.

  "This is delicious," she said, with a sigh of content, turning her facetowards the sea, and drinking in deep draughts of fresh, salt air.

  Ruxton endeavored to gather his faculties, which had been completelyscattered by the thrilling shock of the encounter. He felt himself tobe like a callow youth of seventeen rather than a man of overthirty-five, a man whose public life had made intercourse with women ofsociety a matter of every day.

  "You have had a long walk?" he enquired wonderingly. "But at night? Onthese cliffs? You are ten miles from Dorby, and there is no habitationbetween--except Dorby Towers. Beyond this there is a village or two,but no railway for miles." He had made up his mind that she did notbelong to this district. Her costume was still in his thoughts.

  "I did not come from Dorby. Nor from any of those villages. Still, Ihave had a long walk. I have been on my feet nearly three hours."

  As she offered no further explanation Ruxton urged her.

  "Will you not explain--more?"

  "Is it needed?"

  The woman faced round, and her Eastern eyes were smiling frankly intohis.

  Ruxton had no alternative. He desired none. The situation had suddenlygripped him. He was caught in its toils, and delighted that it was so.This woman's beauty, her frank unconventionality, were wholly charming.He asked nothing better than that she should satisfy her whim, and sitthere, beside him, talking--talking of what she pleased so long as helistened to the rich music in her voice, and could watch the play ofher beautiful, mobile features.

  "No," he said deliberately. "There is no need." Then he made acomprehensive gesture with one hand. "The night is beautiful, it is anight of romance and adventure. Let us forget there are such things asconventionality, and just--talk. Let us talk as this silver nightprompts. Let us try and forget that painful thought which daylightbrings us all. As you say, the night is the time of truth, whiledaylight demands the subterfuge which conceals it."

  But the woman did not respond to his invitation. A little pucker ofsudden distress marred her brows.

  "Conventionality. I had forgotten," she said. Then her manner becamesuddenly earnest. She leant slightly forward, and her shining eyeswarned Ruxton of the genuineness of their appeal. "Yes, I had trulyforgotten," she went on. "Will you--will you forget for the momentthere is the difference of sex between us? Will you forget that I am awoman who has wilfully thrust her presence upon a man, a stranger, andlaid herself open to a dreadful interpretation of her actions? Will yousimply regard me as some one who is striving to unravel those tangledskeins, which, just now, seem to be enveloping a helpless humanity,and, in her effort, has sought out the only man whom she feels can helpher--Mr. Ruxton Farlow, the man who will one day rise to be a greatruler in his country?"

  "You sought me out?" enquired Ruxton, ignoring the tribute so franklyspoken.

  "That is why I have been on my feet for three hours. Will you do as Ihave asked?"

  The charm of this beautiful creature was greater than the man knew. Thesituation, as she put it, was wholly impossible. Yet her fascinationwas such that he was impelled to hold out his hand.

  "For the time, at least, we are comrades in a common cause," he said,smiling. "My hand on it."

  The woman laid a white-gloved hand in his, and the thought in the man'smind was regret at the necessity for gloves.

  Ruxton stretched himself out on the heather again. This time he was onhis side, supporting his head upon his hand and facing her. The moonwas shining full down upon her uncovered hair, and illuminating theperfect features which held the man's gaze.

  "And now for the tangled skein," he said with attempted lightness,while his eyes lit whimsically.

  "Ruxton Farlow doesn't need a woman to point the dreadful tangle inwhich humanity is involved--just now. He knows more of the threads thanperhaps any man of his country. He was thinking of them when he was runto earth here upon this scented waste of Nature's riot. He was probablypulling apart the wretched threads himself, seeking hope in hisendeavor, hope for the future, hope for the future of this land we bothlove, and for its people. Doubtless he, as others, has found the tasksomething more than arduous, and no doubt he has searched the scenethat lies below him, yearning for that peace of mind which oblivion hasyielded in recent days to so many souls which have passed beneath theshining surface which encircles this iron-bound coast."

  Ruxton's eyes devoured the entrancing animation which accompanied thewords. An added amazement had leapt within him. She had fathomed hissecret feelings as his eyes had searched the surface of the shimmeringsummer sea. Her understanding was even more uncanny than had been hersudden apparition. Who was she? he kept reiterating to himself. Who?And where did she come from?

  "I felt all that," he found himself saying.

  "I know. I have felt it all, too. But your feeling had no inspirationin cowardice. It is the mind of the imaginative that sees anexaggeration in all that offends the sensibilities. It is the mind thatdistorts with painful fancy the threat which has not yet fallen. It isthe mind which is inspired by a heart strong with hope, which in itsturn owes its inspiration to a spirit possessed of a great power to do.Of such spirit are the leaders of men. Their mental agony is theirsalone, they suffer and do for those others who do not possess power todo for themselves."

  The woman's eyes were turned upon the distant horizon again. Their gazewas introspective, and she talked as she thought, regardless for thetime of the man beside her.

  But he was more mindful. No word of hers was lost upon him. He wasmarvelling at her depth of understanding, he was marvelling at hersimplicity of expression. And, through it all, he was noting andendeavoring to place that suggestion of foreign intonation in herperfect English accent. More and more was this splendid creaturebecoming an
enigma. More and more was he becoming absorbed in her, andmore surely was his promise of simple comradeship becoming animpossibility.

  "And the threat--which inspires these phantasms?" he said, as themusical tones ceased, and the murmur of the sea came up to them intheir eyrie.

  "It is a reality."

  Ruxton stirred. He sat up once more, and his gaze, for the moment, leftthe beautiful profile, and wandered towards the eastern horizon.

  "I know," he said simply.

  "I have seen," came the impressive rejoinder.

  Ruxton's eyes came back to the woman's face.

  "Will you tell me?"

  His request was made without a shadow of excitement. That was his waywhen confronted with a crisis. Now he understood why she had wornherself to weariness for three hours on her feet. But for all theinterest of the moment his mind was still questioning--Who?

  "The telling would be worthless. It would convey simply--words. Thereis better than telling."

  "But the world is at peace now," Ruxton suggested.

  "It was at peace before, when--the telling came from all ends of theworld."

  "And no one listened."

  "Those who could have helped refused to hear. And those who heard werepowerless."

  "So now you come----?"

  "To one who, eschewing all that his wealth and position could give himof life's leisure and delight, has dedicated his whole future to theland I--have learned to love."

  "And what would you have me do?" Ruxton was smiling, but behind hissmile was a brain searching and hungry.

  "Do? Ah, that is it." The woman turned swiftly. All her calm had beencaught up in a hot emotion. Her eyes were wide and shining as she leanttowards him and searched his fair face and dark eyes. "There is peaceas you said. But it is only words written upon paper with ink that ismanufactured, and by a pen also manufactured. The whole peace is onlymanufactured. There is no peace in the hearts of the leaders ofnations, only hate, which has inspired a passionate yearning forrevenge, a passion which has intensified a thousandfold all efforttowards the destruction of the hated. Need I tell you of the Teutonfeelings? Ruined, blasted as has been that great machine, both militaryand industrial, there is still the Teuton mind ready and yearning forsuch a revenge as will stagger all conscious life. Well may thesensitive imagination distort and magnify the threat that cannot yet begrasped. Well may the straining mind contemplate with ecstasy theoblivion gained by those poor creatures on the _Lusitania_. But forthose who would learn, and know, and see, there is a better, braverdeath to die than the bosom of the ocean can offer. I tell you there iswork for every true Briton, man and woman. Work that can offer littleelse than the reward of a conscience that, maybe, is rendered easy indeath. The men who would lead Britain must be men with eyes, and ears,and mind wide open. The time has gone by when England's politicians maysit down in luxurious offices and enjoy the liberal salaries thiscountry so generously dispenses. They must learn first hand of thedangers which threaten these impregnable shores. Impregnable? That hasbeen the fetish which has been the ruin of Britain's national spirit.But I tell you, as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow I can prove toyou that impregnability can never again be applied to these splendidshores. Remember, these are the days when victories and destruction arewrought by thought in peace time. The days of simple brute strengthhave died for all time. And that is why I have travelled far to seekRuxton Farlow."

  "You have sought me to tell me all this that I have thought for months.That I have felt. That in my heart I have known as surely as that nightfollows day. You have sought _me_," he added reflectively.

  The stranger leant still further towards him, and the man thrilled atthe contiguity. So close was she that her breath fanned his cheek, andhe found himself gazing into the eager, beautiful eyes.

  "And have I not done right? Have I not done right to come to you, whohave felt, and thought, and known these things for months--if I canshow you even more than in your worst moments you have ever dreamed of?"

  It was an intense moment. Its intensity for the man was well-nighoverpowering. Was this wonderful creature some brilliant siren luringhim to destruction for very wantonness, or in the interest of others?Was she just as she represented, just an ardent patriot, to whom chancehad revealed some damaging secret of his country's enemies, or was shemerely a woman endowed with superlative beauty exercising herattraction in those enemies' interests? These things flashed throughhis brain, even as those feelings of sex stirred his blood and made fordenial. For a moment the mental side of him rose dominant.

  "You are a foreigner," he challenged, in a voice he hardly recognizedas his own.

  "I am a Pole."

  The admission came promptly.

  "You speak English--perfectly," he persisted in the same voice.

  "I am--glad."

  "Where were you--during the war?"

  "In England."

  The questions and answers flew back and forth without a semblance ofhesitation.

  "Yes, yes." Then the man mused. "There were thousands of foreigners atlarge in England--then."

  "But not all were--spies."

  The man lowered his eyes. A flush stole up to his brow. It was a flushof shame.

  "I--I beg your pardon," he said. The mind had yielded to the man.

  "Why should you? Your country should be first in your thoughts. Youhave not hurt me."

  Ruxton passed one hand across his broad, fair forehead.

  "But you--a Pole. It seems----"

  "It seems that I must have some motive other than I have stated. Ihave." A bitter laugh accompanied the admission. Quite suddenly shethrew her arms wide in a dramatic gesture. "Look at me," she cried."You see a Pole, but before all things you see a woman. Give riot toyour heart, and leave your head for other things. Then you willunderstand my motives. I have lived through centuries of horror duringthat terrible war. A horror that even you, who know the horrorscommitted, will never be able to understand. The innocent women andchildren in Belgium and France, and my own country, on your own shores,on the high seas. O God," she buried her face in her hands. Then, in amoment, she looked up. "Think--think, if at some future time the Teutondemons overrun this beautiful land I love. The past, those horrors ofwhich I have spoken are nothing to that which will be committed here inEngland. Now do you understand? Now--will you let me show you what--Ican show you?"

  "I think I understand--now."

  "And you will grant my request?" The urgency was intense. But in amoment the woman went on in a changed tone. A soft smile accompaniedher next words. "But no. Don't answer now. It would not be fair toyourself. It would not be fair to your country. It would even deny allthat I believe of you. Keep your answer. You will give it to me--later.I will not let you forget. Now I must go."

  She rose to her feet, and Ruxton watched her with stirring feelings asshe occupied herself with that truly feminine process of smoothing outthe creases of the costume which had suffered by contact with theheather.

  At last she held out her white-gloved hand, and Ruxton sprang to hisfeet. He realized that she was about to vanish out of his life asswiftly and mysteriously as she had entered it.

  "You are going?" he said quickly.

  "Yes. But you will be reminded."

  The man held the gloved hand a shade longer than was necessary.

  "But on these cliffs? Alone?" Somehow her going had become impossibleto him.

  But the woman laughed easily.

  "It will be only a few moments on these cliffs. It is nothing. RememberI have been wandering about for three hours--alone."

  "But--Good-bye!"

  The man made his farewell regretfully. He had been about to ask herhow, with ten miles to Dorby, and a considerable distance to othervillages, she would only be on the cliffs a few moments. But he feltthat her coming and her going were her secret, and he had no right topry into it--yet.

  "Good-bye."

  The woman turned away, but was promptly arrested by a swift question.

>   "May I not know your name?"

  The stranger faced him once more, and her smile lit up her radiantfeatures till Ruxton felt that never in his life had he seen anythingto equal her beauty.

  "My name? Yes--why not? It is Vladimir. Vita Vladimir."

  Then, in a moment, the man stood gazing after her, as the brilliantmoonlight outlined the perfect symmetry of her receding figure.