CHAPTER XXIII
THE WRECK AT DORBY
A small group of people stood surveying the wreck of one of the greatconstruction docks in the Dorby yards. Prominent among them were SirAndrew Farlow and his son. They were standing beside a naval officer ofconsiderable rank. A number of naval uniforms stood out from the restof the civilians; but these were of lesser degree.
The sky was heavily overcast. A light, penetrating drizzle of rain wasfalling. Somehow these things seemed to add to the sense of destructionprevailing.
The corrugated iron roof--thousands of square feet of it--was lyingtumbled and torn upon a tangle of fallen steel girders. Great slabs offerro-concrete walls loomed grey amidst the chaos. Steel stanchions ofgreat height and strength, used to support the roofing, lay about, bentor broken, like so much lead piping. The mass of wreckage wasstupendous, and through it all, and beyond it, towards the water'sedge, the rigid steel ribs of twin vessels stood up defiantly, asthough indifferent to the fierce upheaval which had wrecked theircradles.
Ruxton pointed at the latter.
"They've wrecked everything but what they set out to wreck."
He had voiced a general thought. There was no answer to his comment.The naval commander displayed his feelings in the almost childlikeregret in his eyes. The wrecking of anything in the shape of sea craftsmote him to the heart. It was no question of values to him. The seaand all that belonged to it were the precious things of life to him.Sir Andrew frowned down upon the scene. His strong Yorkshire featureswere sternly set.
"It means two weeks' delay. That is all." Sir Andrew's words were theoutcome of his resolve.
"All of that," said the commander. "It's curious," he reflected. "Itsuggests inexperience or--great hurry. What of the offices?"
"You mean the drawing office?" Sir Andrew's lips set grimly as heglanced in Ruxton's direction.
"Burnt to a cinder and scattered to the four winds." Ruxton emitted asound like a laugh deprived of all mirth.
"The drawings?" The commander's eyes were gravely enquiring.
"Not a drawing or tracing saved. Not a single working plan. Complete.Oh, yes, complete. But----"
"But?" The concern had deepened in the officer's eyes.
Ruxton shrugged.
"We have duplicates and triplicates of everything, besides theoriginals. They must take us for babes or--imbeciles."
The officer was relieved. He even smiled.
"A good many do that. Well, they have told us their intentions prettyplainly. They'll get no second opportunity unless they've a staff ofmiracle workers. Shall you be present at the enquiry this afternoon,Sir Andrew?"
Sir Andrew signified assent. Then he asked:
"What about the inquest?"
"To-morrow morning," one of his own staff informed him.
"Four deaths. Seven injured." It was the officer again who spoke. "Twoof them my men. The others operatives. One of the injured is believedto be a foreigner. If he is fit to give evidence it may be interesting."
The talk ceased. There was nothing more to be said. The wrecking wascomplete. No further talk could serve them.
Presently Sir Andrew moved away. His resentment outweighed his regrets.Ruxton followed him. He displayed no emotion at the ruin which had beencaused. The loss of life he endeavored to thrust out of his mind. Norwas it difficult, for, in spite of the seriousness of the calamity, itwas incomparable with the calamity which had come near to breaking hisheart.
The officer remained where he was. His duty lay there in the work underhis guardianship. He knew well enough he was not likely to escape theofficial verdict of "slackness."
Ruxton followed his father into the waiting car. In a moment they werethreading their way through a labyrinth of unkempt buildings, all ofwhich concealed a teeming activity and laboring life. The lanes werenarrow, winding and unpaved. The car was forever crossing andrecrossing the metal track of a light railway amongst strings of trucksand snorting locomotives. On every hand came the din of movingmachinery. Then frequently they were held up by slow-moving horsevehicles.
The yards at Dorby were in full work. In spite of the wrecking, workwent on just the same. There was no general dislocation. The phenomenonwas typical of the hard-headed northern worker, and the sureness of thesteady control of the great enterprise. Every unit of that great armyof workers went through the daily routine with one eye upon thetime-sheet, and the other upon the privileges which his union bestowedupon him. For the rest, his personal concerns only began when the steamsiren sounded the completion of his day's work.
In the privacy of the offices, just within the gates of the yards,Ruxton and his father were at liberty to talk more freely. Yet for someminutes after their arrival their inclination kept them silent. Eachwas thinking on the lines which appealed most. Ruxton was not thinkingof Dorby at all.
Sir Andrew was standing squarely upon the skin rug, with his back tothe fire. More than ever he assumed the likeness to a pictorial JohnBull. Even the somewhat old-fashioned morning-coat he wore added to theresemblance. Ruxton had flung himself into a large easy-chair. The roomwas lofty and luxurious. Nor was its fashion extremely modern. Itsavored of mid-Victorian days, when luxury in the office of acommercial magnate was first brought to its perfection.
The rain had increased, and, beyond the lofty windows, it was nowsteadily teeming. Sir Andrew was the first to speak.
"I'm trying to fathom the significance of it," he said, a littlehelplessly.
Ruxton's dark eyes withdrew from the window.
"Don't," he said. Then he added: "It's not worth it."
His father's shrewd eyes regarded him speculatively.
"Not worth it? How?"
"Why, because you will discover it, and it will have been trouble fornothing."
"I don't understand."
"It is simple. There is only one meaning to it. Terror."
In spite of the old man's disturbance his eyes twinkled.
"They'll achieve precious little of that. If that's all----"
"Exactly, Dad. Purposeless destruction is a fetish of this people.Their psychology has an abnormal belief in terror. They judge everybodythe same. You have seen it in a hundred ways. Except for this they areanything but fools. But in this they are almost childlike. They knowthey cannot stop the work in these yards. They know if they destroy adozen sets of plans there will still be more forthcoming. They know allthis, and are childishly, impotently furious. Their first thought isrevenge, and then terrorizing. They think they can frighten us intoabandoning the work, perhaps. I don't know. There is one thing certain:speculation on the matter is waste of your valuable efforts. Sparlingis right; they have shown their hand. They will get no second chance onthe same lines. They have achieved two weeks' delay. That is all theyhave achieved--here."
"Here?"
"Yes. I haven't had an opportunity of telling you before." Ruxtonpaused. A storm had gathered in his deep eyes. His fair, even browswere drawn. His father noted a sudden fullness in the veins at histemples. Then, in the midst of the affairs of the moment, he rememberedhis son's hurried rush to town, and its purpose.
Quite suddenly Ruxton leapt to his feet. He towered over the staunchfigure of his father. His eyes had become hot and straining.
"Yes, what they have achieved here is futile. But what they have doneelsewhere is--damnable," he cried, with hardly repressed fury. "I feelas if I should go mad. I've thought and thought till I can no longerthink connectedly upon the matter. I am lost; utterly lost; gropinglike a blind man. She has gone. She's been spirited away, stolen; andGod alone knows what suffering and torture she may not even now beenduring. I told you revenge and terror are the motives of thesepeople. Their plans have fallen into our hands, and we are availingourselves of them. Remember, the secrets we possess are the mostprecious of all the German Government's plans. They cannot undo thatmischief, so they turn to revenge, for which they have an infinitecapacity. Who are they going to be revenged upon? Us? Yes, as far aspossible. Even our
own lives may be threatened. But more than all theyintend to hurt Von Hertzwohl and--all belonging to him. They mean tokill him, and possibly the others. But first they will use his daughterto get at him. Do you see? She will be tortured until she delivers himinto their hands, and then--God knows."
He flung out his arms in a gesture of despair.
His father's eyes deepened in their anxiety. But the set of his strongmouth became firmer.
"Tell me just what has happened." The demand spoken so quietly had theeffect desired.
Ruxton pulled himself together. His father watched the return ofcontrol with satisfaction.
He told the story of his journey to Wednesford calmly and quietly,without missing a detail. Sir Andrew listened closely, the seriousnessof his attitude deepening with every fresh detail which pointed thecertainty of foul play. At the conclusion of the story he was asgravely apprehensive as the other, and his sympathy for his boy'sheart-broken condition was from the depths of his devoted heart.
"I've got the best Scotland Yard can supply working for us, and eachman has been offered fabulous rewards if he can ascertain herwhereabouts. So far I have no news; no hope. Dad, I love Vita so thatthis thing has nearly set me crazy. I tell you I must find her. I mustsave her from these devils, or----"
"Have you seen Von Hertzwohl?"
Ruxton started. His drawn face and straining eyes underwent a completechange at the simple enquiry from his father.
"No. I----"
"It seems to me if their object is to get at him it should not beimpossible that a clue---- Besides, I sent a letter on to him, whichcame under cover addressed to me. That was the first thing thismorning, just before you arrived. It was written in a woman's hand,and----"
"God! Why didn't you speak of it before?" The demand was almost rough.Such was the rush of blind hope that suddenly surged through theyounger man's heart.
The father's eyes twinkled.
"You had told me nothing. I knew nothing of the trouble."
"Of course. I'm sorry, Dad." Ruxton's whole attitude had undergone aswift change.
Now he was all eager hope, and strung to a pitch of desire for action.
"I will go to him at once."
"Now?" The old man shook his head. "You're too reckless, boy. Think itover carefully. Remember, Dorby is full of German agents. I shouldsuggest to-night. I should suggest you adopt the garb of a worker.Ruxton Farlow visiting a working man's abode. It would be too invitingto our--enemies."
"Dad, you're right--always right. Yes; to-night. You think it was aletter from her?"
Sir Andrew shook his head.
"I haven't an idea, boy," he said in his deliberate fashion. "How couldI be expected to? The letter came, and I sent it on by hand. Aperfectly trustworthy hand, under cover of a fresh address to Mr.Charles Smith. Now it's different. It seems it might be a--clue."
"Might? Of course it is. There is only one woman who would write tohim. But--why not have written to me?"
The same thought had simultaneously occurred to the father, and, as itcame, something of the lighter manner which had been steadily gatheringdied out of his shrewd eyes.
It was a little yellow brick cottage, part of a terrace of a dozen orso, in a cul-de-sac, guarded at its entrance by a beer-house on onehand, and, on the other, a general shop. The brickwork was black withyears of fog and soot, and the English climate. The front of itpossessed three windows and a doorway, with a step that at rareintervals was tinted with a sort of yellow ochre. The windows werecurtainless, and suggested years of uncleanliness in the inhabitants.
The interior was little better. The owners of the place liveddown-stairs. The two small rooms above were let to lodgers of theworking class. One of the latter was employed in one of the shipyards.The other the poor housewife was doubtful about. He remainedunemployed, and was a foreigner; but he paid his rent, and didn't seemto require her to do any cooking for him. Then he seemed fond of herdirty-faced children, of whom there seemed to be an endless string, whofrequently invaded his quarters, and submitted him to an interminablecatechism of childish enquiry.
Otherwise the tall, lean workman with the hollow cheeks and luminouseyes was left to prosecute his apparently fruitless search for workunquestioned. Mrs. Clark was far too busy with her brood of offspringto concern herself with his affairs, a small mercy vouchsafed him, andfor which he was duly thankful. Mr. Charles Smith by no means courtedthe intimacy of his neighbors, or his fellow-lodger; at the same time,he avoided exciting any suspicion.
He had received a letter that morning. He had read it at once. It waswritten in German, but the address upon the outer envelope was in abold English handwriting. After reading it he straightened up hismeagre room in a preoccupied fashion. His big, foreign-looking eyeswere more than usually reflective, and a curious pucker of thought haddrawn his shaggy brows together. Then, as was his rule, he passed outof the house, greeting the ragged fragments of humanity, who owed--andrarely yielded--obedience to Mrs. Clark, in his friendly fashion, andset out on what appeared to be his daily pursuit of employment. Hereturned at noon.
He read his letter again, and sat thinking about it until he wasdisturbed by one of the children. Then he again set forth. Nor did hereturn to his abode until darkness had closed in, and the army of smallchildren had been bestowed for the night in their various nooks andcorners of the lower premises.
He lit the cheap oil lamp on his table, seated himself in the unstableold basket-chair beside his uninviting bed, and settled himself for athird perusal of his letter.
It was a long letter, and it was signed "Vita." It was written in astriking feminine hand, which moulded the spidery German charactersinto something unusually strong and characteristic. He displayed a mildwonder that German characters supervened the signature. But the wonderpassed as he read, lost in the gravity of alarm which steadily grew inhis eyes as he turned each page.
He paused during this third reading at several of the paragraphs. Hereread them, as though he would penetrate the last fraction of theirsignificance. And at each pause, at each rereading, his disquiet grew.
That letter had a grave effect upon him. So much so that he forgottime, he forgot that he had yet to go out and seek food at someham-and-beef shop, and that he was hungry. The final paragraph of theletter perhaps affected him most of all, and gave him an unease ofheart which none of the rest could have done. It was a paragraph whichopened up for his scrutiny the depths of a woman's soul in the firstgreat rush of a passionate love. He had read this with deep emotion,and a great sympathy. And as he read it he felt something of the wrongwhich, through him and his efforts, was being inflicted upon the womanwhom it was his paternal right to cherish and protect. Then, in thelast lines of this outpouring, he received the final blow which broughthim a realization. It was an example of the wonderful magnanimity andself-sacrifice of a woman's love. It was the renunciation of all herhopes and yearnings in the interests of the man upon whom she hadbestowed the wealth and treasure of her woman's heart.
He mechanically folded up the letter and returned it to an innerpocket. He rose with a sigh, and gazed about him uncertainly. Themeaning of his sordid surroundings passed him by. His thoughts were onso many other things which filled his active faculties, leaving no roomfor the consideration of his own comforts. He even forgot that he hadnot eaten since noon. He extracted a sheet of paper from a small lockedhand-grip, and set about writing a brief message--a message such as hehad been asked for. He enclosed it in an envelope and addressed it toRedwithy Farm in Buckinghamshire.
He had just completed his task when the stairs outside his door creakedunder a heavy footfall. The next moment there was a knock at his door.
Two minutes later Ruxton Farlow, clad in workman's clothes, occupiedthe protesting wicker-chair, while Prince von Hertzwohl contentedhimself with a seat upon the unyielding bed. The oil lamp shone dullyupon the table and threw into dim relief two faces, whose strength andsuggestion of mentality suited ill the quality of the clothes whichcovered
the bodies beneath them.
To Von Hertzwohl it was as though some miracle of a none too pleasantnature had been performed. In view of his letter from Vita, RuxtonFarlow was the last person he desired to see. On the other hand, he hadbeen waiting anxiously to hear from him, or see him on the subject ofthe happenings at the yards, of which the whole town of Dorby hadbecome aware.
Ruxton had his own purpose in view, but the Prince gave him noopportunity of developing it at the first excitement of the meeting.
"Tell me, Mr. Farlow. Tell me of it all," he cried, in his swift,impulsive way. "I have heard so much and know so little. I have livedthrough a fever since yesterday morning. I have listened to the wildeststories of conspiracies and plots. It is said, even, that your father'soffices have been destroyed; that he has been injured. But I knew thatwas not right. You will tell me it all."
Ruxton was reluctantly forced to abandon his own purpose for themoment. He even smiled in answer to the old man's wide, eager eyes.
"They have started on us," he said, with quiet confidence. "Oh, yes,they have started. The purpose was well intentioned, but of childishinception and indifferent execution. They have delayed work for perhapstwo weeks. They have become obsessed with the use of bombs, which was adisease during the war."
"But the explosions--they were terrific. I heard them here, in thisbed."
"The German race can do nothing without bluster, and they seem toregard bluster as achievement. They destroyed the slipways of two ofthe new submersibles, with little damage to the vessels themselves.They have destroyed an office, and the working-plans therein. We havemany others, and your originals are safely disposed. It is nothing. Itis scarcely worth discussing."
The old man shook his head--that wonderful head--which still fascinatedthe Englishman. The latter noted the added intellectuality of the facesince it had been clean shaven. It was a splendid face.
"No." There was an anxious light still lurking in the wide eyes of theinventor. "But it is the beginning. Only the beginning. Who knows whatmay happen next?"
Ruxton threw up his head. His eyes were full of a world of pain andsuffering. The change had been wrought by the man's last words.
"That is it," he cried. "It is not the destruction at the yards. It isthat which also they may do--which they have done. It is that which hasbrought me here now. I am nearly mad with anxiety and dread. I amthinking of your--daughter, sir. I can find no trace of her at herhouse, or elsewhere. She has gone, vanished, spirited away without aword to her--friends."
The Prince's face became a study in bewilderment. His luminous eyeslooked to have grown bigger than ever. He opened his lips to speak.Then he closed them. Then he fumbled in his pocket.
"Since when has she----?"
But he was not permitted to complete his question.
"Since the day of your arrival here, sir," Ruxton cried. "I wired her amessage, and it remained unanswered."
"Tell me of it." The puzzled expression remained, but there was moreconfidence in the Prince's manner. He was grasping his folded letter inhis hand. He had remembered its contents, and the promise it haddemanded.
Ruxton briefly told him of the search he had embarked on. He told ofthe services of Scotland Yard he had employed. And he told of thenegative result of all his efforts. Then he broke out in the passionatepain of the strong soul within him. He told this father the simplestory of his love. It was simple, and big, and strong. And the Prince,in the simplicity of his own soul, understood and approved.
"I know. I have understood it, guessed it--what you will. I know, andit gives me happiness." He sighed nevertheless. It seemed to Ruxton asthough his sigh were a denial. The grey head was inclined. His eyeswere bent upon the letter in his hand. He seemed to be consideringdeeply. Suddenly he raised a pair of troubled eyes to Ruxton's.
"But she is at home. She is at Redwithy. Our enemies have not laidhands upon her. She is not without her fears, but she is well, andunmolested in her home. I had this letter from her only this morning.It came through your father. It must have been written last night. Soshe was at Redwithy last night. See, here is the heading. It is herwriting. I would know it in a thousand. There is a mistake. It must bea mistake."
Ruxton had no answer for him. That which he saw and heard now wasincredible. He half reached out to take the letter, but he drew back.He was burning to read and examine that letter, but the Prince gave nosign of yielding it up; and he knew, in spite of all his anxiety, hehad no right to claim such a privilege.
Perhaps Von Hertzwohl understood something of that which was passing inthe younger man's mind. Perhaps the appeal to his sympathy was morethan he could resist. He opened the letter. Then he folded it afresh sothat the heading and the signature were alone visible. He held it out.
"Look. You know her writing. There it is--and her signature."
Ruxton leant forward eagerly. He examined the writing closely.Amazement grew in his eyes.
"Yes," he said, as he sat back in his chair. "It is hers--undoubtedly."
And he realized by the manner in which the father had displayed thesethings to him that it was his way of assuring him that he was not to bepermitted to know the contents of the letter.
In consequence, a silence fell between them. And each knew it was asilence of restraint. Ruxton was endeavoring to discover a possiblereason for the Prince's attitude, and he felt that his reticence mustbe attributable to Vita's wish. If it were her wish there must be somevital reason. What reason could there be unless----? Was she avoidinghim purposely? Was her absence from Redwithy her own doing? Was it thatnow, her work completed, she wished to----? A sweat broke out upon hisbroad forehead, and he stirred uneasily.
Then, in the midst of his trouble, the other spoke, and his wordshelped to corroborate all his worst apprehension. The old man's wordswere gently spoken. They were full of a deep and sincere regret. Butthey were equally full of an irrevocable decision.
"Mr. Farlow," he said, in his quaintly formal manner, "I must leavehere. I must leave England. There is danger--great danger in myremaining. Oh, not for me," he went on, in response to a question inthe other's eyes. "I do not care that for danger to my life." Heflicked his fingers in the air. "Danger? It is the breath of life. No,it is not that. I am thinking of my friends. I am thinking of theproject which is so dear to my heart--to my daughter's heart, as wellas mine. My presence here can only add jeopardy to others. I can serveno purpose. I have your promise that the work will go on to its finish.It is all I can ask. And in that my services are not needed. I shallleave for some part of America. That is all."
Ruxton's thoughtful eyes were searching. He was exercising greatrestraint.
"Will you be safer in any other part of the world?"
The other hesitated. The awkwardness of his excuses troubled him. Hefinally shrugged.
"It is not for myself. This place is alive with spies searching for me.I know it. I--far more than the shipyards--am the magnet that drawsthem here. It is not good for the work. It is not good for you--or yourfather. Who knows----?"
"How do you know they have traced you here?"
The Prince's thin cheeks flushed.
"I know it," he said, and the manner of his assertion warned Ruxtonthat it was useless to proceed further in the matter.
He knew beyond a doubt that some influence was at work, the secret ofwhich he was not to be admitted to. He knew beyond question that thatsecret had been communicated to her father in Vita's letter. He knewthat it was something vital and pressing which she desired kept fromhim. What was it? For him there was only one explanation. For someincomprehensible reason she meant to abandon him. But was itincomprehensible? Was it? She was a woman--a beautiful, beautifulwoman. There were other men, doubtless hundreds of men, who mightpossess greater attractions for her than he could ever hope to possess.And yet--no, he could not, would not believe it.