CHAPTER III
THE MYSTERY
Ruxton Farlow's return home was even more preoccupied than had been hisgoing. An entirely new sensation was stirring within him. Before, histhoughts had been flowing along the troubled channel of affairs, all ofwhich bore solely upon the purpose of his life. Now their flow had beenfurther confused by the addition of an emotion, which, under ordinarycircumstances, might well have leavened the most gloomy forebodings.Instead, however, it was rather like an artist engaged on painting apicture of tragic significance who suddenly discovers that another handhas added some detail, which, while it is still a part of the subjectportrayed, yet renders the whole a masterpiece of incongruity.
The coming of a woman into the affairs of his life seemed to him asincongruous as it was pleasant, and, in the circumstances, justified.It was an element all unconsidered before. His association with womenuntil now had been the simple parrying of the feminine shafts levelledat him in the process of ordinary social intercourse in the position heoccupied in life. He was by no means a man who took no delight inwomen's society. On the contrary. But his purpose in life had alwaysbeen too big as yet to permit his dwelling upon those pleasures whichno real manhood can ever ignore.
Women were to him part of the most exalted side of a man's life. Hisideals in that direction were as wholly unworldly as his ideals werepractical in every other direction. From his earliest youth, due to thedeath of his mother at his birth, he had never experienced a woman'sinfluence upon his life, and thus he had been left to the riot ofimagination, which, in very truth, had been his safeguarding againstthe operation of the matrimonial market of social London in the midstof which he had found himself plunged.
Now, under conditions wholly robbed of every convention, he hadsuddenly been confronted by a wonderful creature, who, to his vividimagination, appealed as the most beautiful of all her beautiful sex.Furthermore the contact had been brought about through those veryideals and purposes to which he had devoted his life. And, moreover,the wonder of it all was that his purpose was apparently her purpose,and she had sought him because this was so. Herein lay theextraordinary incongruity of a sex attraction brought about by thethreatened tragedy overshadowing them all.
Vita Vladimir!
It was a name such as he might have discovered anywhere amongst theforeign colony in Soho. His attraction towards the woman afforded noglamor to the name. None at all. He told himself frankly it did not fither. Furthermore it left him unconvinced that it truly belonged to her.Yet she said she was a Pole. And somewhere in the back cells of memorythere was a sort of hazy recollection that "Vladimir" had someconnection with Polish history.
However, the question of her name left him cold. Only the vivid pictureof her personality remained in his mind. Her charm, her ardor, herbeauty, and that extraordinary suggestion of mystery, conveyed in hercostume, and the evasion of the details of her coming and going--thesethings had caught the imagination and the youth in him, and acted uponthem like champagne.
He strove to thrust aside these things and consider her only throughthe purpose on which she had sought him out. She knew, and had seen,the realities of the threat which he believed to be hanging over hiscountry. She could, and would, show him these things.
Suddenly on the impulse of a reasonable incredulity he asked himself ifhe were dreaming. The whole thing must be a mere phantasm, the outcomeof all the troubled thought which had occupied him for so long. But shehad told him he would hear from her again, and then that tinywhite-gloved hand. He felt its clasp now, as it had lain in his strongpalm. No, it was no dream. She was real--and she was very, verybeautiful.
By the time he reached the great colonnade which formed the entranceporch of his home the woman's personality had dominated all hisendeavor to regard the incident from any other point of view. The womanhad absorbed all that was in him, and a curious, deep, thrillingsensation of delight at the encounter had completely thrust into thebackground the purpose which had brought it about. All that which we inour consideration of the affairs of life are apt to despise, and evenleave out of our reckoning altogether, had asserted itself. It was thesex instinct, which no power of human mentality can resist.
Ruxton had no wish to meet his father again that night. He wantedsolitude. He wanted to think and dream, as all youth desires to thinkand dream, when the floodgates of sex are opened, and it finds itselfcaught in the first rush of its tide.
Glancing at his watch he discovered it to be close upon midnight. Butthe hour had no significance in his present mood. His father would haveretired, and the library would be empty, so he passed up the oakstairway with the determination to smoke a final cigar, and let histhoughts riot over the delectable banquet the evening had provided forthem.
But that particular pleasure was definitely denied him. When he enteredthe library the lights were still on, and he beheld his father's curlywhite head still bent over the table at which he was wont to attend tohis private correspondence.
The old man looked up as the other walked down the long book-lined roomtowards him. His deep-set eyes were smiling as they were ever ready tosmile upon the companion of his wifeless life.
"Finished your ramble?" he enquired pleasantly.
Ruxton returned the smile and flung himself upon a long old settlebefore he replied.
"The ramble is finished," he said, preparing to light a cigar.
Their eyes met. The father knew there remained something as yetunspoken behind the reply. He waited. But Ruxton's decision was not yettaken.
"Finished your letters yet?" he enquired from behind a cloud of smoke.
The bright blue eyes surveying him twinkled.
"One more," his father said.
"Go ahead then."
Sir Andrew knew by the tone that ultimately the unspoken word was tocome. He glanced down at his papers with a sigh.
"I believe, after all, I shall have to break with some of myold-fashioned habits. It is an awful thing to contemplate at my time oflife. I think I must be getting old. The burden of privatecorrespondence begins to weigh. I have always held that a privatesecretary for such a purpose is waste of money, and the undesirableadmission of another into one's private life."
Ruxton stretched out his long legs. His bulk almost completely filledthe settle.
"It's hard work for Yorkshire to change its habit. A feature applyingpretty generally to the Briton. I only wonder a man of your vastfortune has clung to such habits so long. I, who possess but atwentieth of the fortune you possess, find I cannot do without one."
"But then you are a political man," his father smiled drily.
Ruxton nodded. "And in consequence I am saved much heartburning."
"Yes." Sir Andrew gathered up a sheaf of sealed envelopes and flungthem into his post basket. "Twenty-five letters. Answers to cranks.Answers to those philanthropists who love to do good with other folks'money. Answers to beggars, to would-be blackmailers, to publicinstitutions whose chief asset is a carefully compiled list of likelysubscribers, and then--those whom we have decided to encourage--theinventors. Here is our friend Charles Smith." He picked up the lastletter remaining to be dealt with. "What am I going to say to him?"
The old man scratched one shaggy eyebrow with the point of hispenholder--one of his signs of doubt and perplexity.
"This secrecy business adds importance to the reply," he added.
Ruxton held out his hand.
"Let's read it again," he said.
His father passed the letter across, and sat watching the concentratedbrows of his son, while the latter re-perused the contents.
The watching man was about to turn back to his desk when his eyesabruptly widened questioningly. Ruxton had suddenly sat bolt upright,and a quick flush of suppressed excitement spread over his strongexpressive features.
"Veevee, London!" he exclaimed. "A code address which is obviously aword made out of initial letters. V. V." Then he looked across at hisstartled parent. "I say, Dad, there's mystery here all right--my
steryeverywhere to-night. V. V. Those initials fit Vita Vladimir exactly."
"Precisely. Also Vivian Vansittart," smiled his father. "Or any otherhigh-sounding names beginning with V."
Ruxton passed the letter back with a laugh. Then he flung himself backon the settle.
"Wait until I have told you what happened to me to-night. Then write tothat man and give him a definite appointment at some time when you candevote several hours to him--if necessary."
Sir Andrew pushed his high-backed chair well away from the desk andhelped himself to a cigar.
"This is one more than I have any right to to-night, Rux," he said, ashe crossed his stout legs, "but go ahead."
Ruxton seemed in no hurry to begin his story. The truth was he feltreluctant to let any one share his secret. Furthermore he was doubtful,in the light of cold words, if that which he had to tell would carrythe conviction which possessed him. It seemed impossible; and then thepersonality of Vita. No. But he felt that the story must be told, ifonly in justification of his demand for Mr. Charles Smith.
"Look here, Dad," he began at last. "I know you regard me as a bit of adreamer, but on more than one occasion you have been pleased to say youconsider my judgment pretty sound. Perhaps it is. I don't know. Maybeto-night I have been unduly affected by feelings which don't usuallycarry me away; but, even so, I think I have retained sufficient of ourYorkshire phlegm to get a right estimate of things, and the thingswhich have happened to-night I am convinced are connected with the V.V. in that letter. I was on the cliffs, lying on the heather, lookingout to sea, when a woman came along who had been endeavoring to hunt meout for three hours. She was the most beautiful creature I have everseen. She does not belong to Dorby, or the neighborhood. She wasdressed to perfection, and was hatless, and her name was Vita Vladimir.I tell you these details because they are all significant, and I wantyou to understand that first."
"Go on," his father nodded.
"Go on?" Ruxton gave a short laugh. "It's easier to say than todo--adequately. Anyway this is the whole story."
Both men's cigars had been entirely consumed by the time Ruxton Farlowhad finished his long recital. He told his story of his meeting withVita Vladimir with all the simple force which was part of the Russiannature in him. And, in spite of his fears to the contrary, none of itsdramatic significance was lost in the telling.
His father read in the story all his son wanted him to read. But heread deeper even than that, and the depth of his reading was a trespassupon the ground which Ruxton fondly believed he had kept to himself.The shrewd Yorkshire mind probed deep to the vivid impression this VitaVladimir had made upon his only son, and as yet he was not sure that heshared the boy's enthusiasm. However, long years of understanding hadconvinced him of Ruxton's clarity of judgment in vital matters, and hisearnest recital of the woman's warning and promises carried theconviction that, in spite of the boy's attraction, his judgment in thismatter had remained unimpaired. He accepted the facts, but, to himself,deplored the means by which they had been conveyed.
"It is quite remarkable, boy, quite remarkable," was his only commentat the conclusion of the story. Then he held the man Smith's letter inhis hand and glanced at the postscript.
But Ruxton was not satisfied with such comment. He was anxious that hishard-headed father should see eye to eye with him.
"But what do you think of it?" he demanded, with suppressed feeling.
The great ship-owner took some moments formulating his reply.
"One's impression from your telling is the honesty of the woman," hesaid deliberately at last. "There are three possibilities in thematter. First that she is honest Second that she--belongs to ourenemies. Third that she is a--crank. But the second and third I thinkcan be dismissed. Why should our enemies make such an extraordinaryproposal to you, or to anybody, short of a man important enough to bedone away with? The suggestion of 'crank' is quite dispensable, in viewof the significance of the story as it bears on all the possibilitiesof the future we have discussed. Accepting her honesty, I should saythat the answer to this letter will be received by herfor--transmission. Well?"
"Then answer that letter in the affirmative, and see this CharlesSmith, Dad," cried Ruxton, rising and pacing the floor. "I am going toprobe this matter to the bottom." Then he came to a halt before thedesk, and gazed down into his father's serious eyes. "There is mysteryabroad, Dad. There is more than mystery. There is something tangible. Agreat and threatening danger which must be nullified. We don't knowwhat it is yet. We can only surmise, but surmise is futile. We must goand find out, as she said. We must learn these things first hand. Ishall go."
"That is what I felt you had--decided." The old man sighed. "I can'tdisguise my regret, my boy, but it is--in the light of your life'spurpose--your duty to go. I will do my part. I will see this--CharlesSmith."
The General Election had come and gone like a hurricane of emotionsweeping the country from one end to the other. Passionate opinion hadbeen stirred, it had been brought to a feverish surface and had beenhurled from lip to lip in that spirit of contention, than which no morebitter feeling can be roused in the affairs of modern life. For once,however, Britain was far less divided than usual. Even prejudice, thatblind, unreasoning, unthinking prejudice which usually characterizesthe voter, who claims for himself "good citizenship," had somehow beenshaken to its foundations. It was an almost awakened Britain whichmarched on the polls and registered its adhesion and support to the menwho, out of the muckhole of demagoguery, had risen superior even tothemselves and yielded to the real needs of the country.
And the voice of the new Britain had been heard like a clarion acrossthe Empire, so that, at the close of the polls, the world knew that, asRuxton Farlow had said, the British housewife had determined upon thatsweeping and garnishing so sadly needed, and that once and for all shehad decided to bolt and bar the back door through which for so long shehad been assailed by her enemies.
Ruxton Farlow was on his way to his little old Georgian house in SmithSquare, Westminster. He was returning from Downing Street, where he hadbeen summoned hastily and urgently by the new Prime Minister. He hadfound that electrical individual busily engaged in superintending theremoval of his effects, aided by his equally energetic secretary, fromone house in Downing Street to that Mecca of all political aspirations,"No. 10."
Ruxton had avoided the vehicles and packing-cases at the door and wasconducted to the great little man's library. And on his entry thesecretary had been promptly dismissed. The interview was brief. It wasso brief that Ruxton, who understood and preferred such methods, wasnot a little disconcerted. There had been a hearty hand-shake, a fewswiftly spoken compliments and a quick assurance, and once more the bigman found himself picking his way amongst the debris on the doorsteps.
But this time he had scarcely seen the obstructions he had to avoid. Hedodged them almost mechanically. His heart was beating high with aquiet exultation, for he had left the presence of the wonderful littleman, who seemed to live his whole life on the edge of his nervoussystem, with the assurance of a junior Cabinet rank in the new Ministry.
But the first rush of his tumultuous feelings quickly subsided, as washis way, and he remembered that which was at once his duty and desire.So he turned into a post-office and despatched a code wire to hisfather in Yorkshire that he might be the first person in the world tolearn of his early triumph. Yes, he wanted his to be the firstcongratulations. He smiled to himself as he left the post-office. Theentire press had been devoting itself to forecasting the personnel ofthe new Cabinet, but not in one single instance had his name beenincluded in the lists.
It was with a sense bordering on perfect delight that he turned intothe calm backwater of Smith Square. And for once the dingy atmospheretook on a reflected glory from his feelings. The square church, withits four squat towers, handsome enough in its architecture but drab ofhue, might have been some structure of Gothic splendor. Even theimpoverished trees which surrounded it had something of the verdantsplendor of sp
ring in them on this late summer afternoon. The sparrowsand the pigeons failed even to bring home to him the greyness of lifein a London square. For the moment those mental anxieties which hadhaunted him ever since the Great War were powerless to depress hisoutlook. Life was very good--very good indeed.
He crossed the square and let himself into his house with a latch-key.He crossed the panelled hall and flung his hat and cane upon a tableand hurried up the stairway to his study. He had been interrupted inhis correspondence by the Prime Minister's summons, and now he wasanxious to be done with it, and be free to contemplate the newsituation in the light of those many purposes he had in view.
As he sat down at his desk the door in the oak panelling at the far endof the room was thrust open and his secretary appeared. In a fewmoments these two were absorbed in their work with a thoroughness whichwas characteristic of Ruxton. Thus for two hours and more the memory ofhis promotion was completely thrust into the background.
The butler had just brought him in a tray of afternoon tea, and the twomen took the opportunity to abandon their work for a few minutes'leisure.
Ruxton leant back in his chair and lit a cigar, while the secretary lita cigarette and poured out the tea.
"Our labors have borne fruit, Heathcote," said Ruxton, seizing themoment to impart his good news. "We are raised from the rank and file.Our future lies on the front benches."
"The Cabinet?"
"Yes, the Cabinet."
Nor could Ruxton quite control the delight surging through him.
"Now we begin to see the development of all those long-laid plans wehave so ceaselessly worked upon, Heathcote," he went on. "Now we aregetting nearer to the position which will enable us to bring aboutsomething of that security for this old country for which we both soardently long. Now--Heathcote--now!"
There was a passionate triumph underlying the idealist's words whichfound ample reflection in the dark eyes of the keen-faced secretary.
The Honorable Harold Heathcote, a younger son in an old English family,had been Ruxton's secretary from the beginning of his political career;he was a brilliant youngster who had determined upon a political careerfor himself, and had, with considerable shrewdness, pinned his faith tothe banner which, from the beginning of his career, Ruxton Farlow hadunfurled for himself. These two men were working for a common purpose.
"I knew it would come, Mr. Farlow," said Heathcote with cordialenthusiasm. "And there'll be more to follow, or I have no understandingof the times. I am glad. Very glad."
At that moment there was a knock at the door, and Heathcote rose toanswer it. When he returned he handed two telegrams to his chief.
"Telegrams," he said laconically, and returned to his seat and to histea.
Ruxton ran a paper knife through the envelopes. The first message wasfrom his father. It was brief, cordial, but urgent.
"Heartiest congratulations. Immensely delighted. Must see you at once.Inventor turned out most important as well as mysterious.--Farlow."
Ruxton read the message over two or three times. Then he deliberatelytore it up into small pieces and dropped it in the waste-paper basket.
He opened the second message with a preoccupied air. He wasthinking--thinking deeply. But in a moment all his preoccupationvanished as he glanced over its contents. He hungrily devoured thewords written on the tinted paper.
"Am delighted at your promotion. I anticipated it. My most heartfeltgood wishes. Do not let this success make you forget our meeting. DareI hope that you may find your way to 17, Streamside Mansions,Kensington?--Vita Vladimir."
It was some moments before Ruxton's eyes left that message. A world ofunsuspected emotion was stirring within him. He had not forgotten. Hewas never likely to forget. But in the midst of his emotion some freakof mind had caught and held the significance of this mysteriouscreature's congratulations. How--how had she learned of--his promotion,when no one but himself and the Prime Minister knew of it?
Suddenly he bestirred himself. He carefully refolded Vita's message,and placed it in his pocket. Then he turned to Heathcote.
"I shall have to go to Dorby to-night. My father wants me. It is ratherimportant. Fortunately things here will not require me just now. Butyou must notify me of anything important happening. Meanwhile giveorders to have my things got ready, and look me out a train. I must runout to send a wire."
"Can't I send it for you?"
"No-o. I think not, thanks."