The Men Who Wrought. Cullum Ridgwell
I have told you what happened to me to-night. Then write to that man and give him a definite appointment at some time when you can devote several hours to him—if necessary."
Sir Andrew pushed his high-backed chair well away from the desk and helped himself to a cigar.
"This is one more than I have any right to to-night, Rux," he said, as he crossed his stout legs, "but go ahead."
Ruxton seemed in no hurry to begin his story. The truth was he felt reluctant 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 carry the conviction which possessed him. It seemed impossible; and then the personality of Vita. No. But he felt that the story must be told, if only 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 a dreamer, but on more than one occasion you have been pleased to say you consider my judgment pretty sound. Perhaps it is. I don't know. Maybe to-night I have been unduly affected by feelings which don't usually carry me away; but, even so, I think I have retained sufficient of our Yorkshire phlegm to get a right estimate of things, and the things which 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, looking out to sea, when a woman came along who had been endeavoring to hunt me out for three hours. She was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. She does not belong to Dorby, or the neighborhood. She was dressed to perfection, and was hatless, and her name was Vita Vladimir. I tell you these details because they are all significant, and I want you to understand that first."
"Go on," his father nodded.
"Go on?" Ruxton gave a short laugh. "It's easier to say than to do—adequately. Anyway this is the whole story."
Both men's cigars had been entirely consumed by the time Ruxton Farlow had finished his long recital. He told his story of his meeting with Vita Vladimir with all the simple force which was part of the Russian nature in him. And, in spite of his fears to the contrary, none of its dramatic significance was lost in the telling.
His father read in the story all his son wanted him to read. But he read deeper even than that, and the depth of his reading was a trespass upon the ground which Ruxton fondly believed he had kept to himself. The shrewd Yorkshire mind probed deep to the vivid impression this Vita Vladimir had made upon his only son, and as yet he was not sure that he shared the boy's enthusiasm. However, long years of understanding had convinced him of Ruxton's clarity of judgment in vital matters, and his earnest recital of the woman's warning and promises carried the conviction that, in spite of the boy's attraction, his judgment in this matter 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 comment at the conclusion of the story. Then he held the man Smith's letter in his hand and glanced at the postscript.
But Ruxton was not satisfied with such comment. He was anxious that his hard-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," he said deliberately at last. "There are three possibilities in the matter. First that she is honest. Second that she—belongs to our enemies. Third that she is a—crank. But the second and third I think can be dismissed. Why should our enemies make such an extraordinary proposal to you, or to anybody, short of a man important enough to be done away with? The suggestion of 'crank' is quite dispensable, in view of the significance of the story as it bears on all the possibilities of the future we have discussed. Accepting her honesty, I should say that the answer to this letter will be received by her for—transmission. Well?"
"Then answer that letter in the affirmative, and see this Charles Smith, Dad," cried Ruxton, rising and pacing the floor. "I am going to probe this matter to the bottom." Then he came to a halt before the desk, and gazed down into his father's serious eyes. "There is mystery abroad, Dad. There is more than mystery. There is something tangible. A great and threatening danger which must be nullified. We don't know what it is yet. We can only surmise, but surmise is futile. We must go and find out, as she said. We must learn these things first hand. I shall go."
"That is what I felt you had—decided." The old man sighed. "I can't disguise my regret, my boy, but it is—in the light of your life's purpose—your duty to go. I will do my part. I will see this—Charles Smith."
The General Election had come and gone like a hurricane of emotion sweeping the country from one end to the other. Passionate opinion had been stirred, it had been brought to a feverish surface and had been hurled from lip to lip in that spirit of contention, than which no more bitter feeling can be roused in the affairs of modern life. For once, however, Britain was far less divided than usual. Even prejudice, that blind, unreasoning, unthinking prejudice which usually characterizes the voter, who claims for himself "good citizenship," had somehow been shaken to its foundations. It was an almost awakened Britain which marched on the polls and registered its adhesion and support to the men who, out of the muckhole of demagoguery, had risen superior even to themselves and yielded to the real needs of the country.
And the voice of the new Britain had been heard like a clarion across the Empire, so that, at the close of the polls, the world knew that, as Ruxton Farlow had said, the British housewife had determined upon that sweeping and garnishing so sadly needed, and that once and for all she had decided to bolt and bar the back door through which for so long she had been assailed by her enemies.
Ruxton Farlow was on his way to his little old Georgian house in Smith Square, Westminster. He was returning from Downing Street, where he had been summoned hastily and urgently by the new Prime Minister. He had found that electrical individual busily engaged in superintending the removal of his effects, aided by his equally energetic secretary, from one 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 was conducted to the great little man's library. And on his entry the secretary had been promptly dismissed. The interview was brief. It was so brief that Ruxton, who understood and preferred such methods, was not a little disconcerted. There had been a hearty hand-shake, a few swiftly spoken compliments and a quick assurance, and once more the big man found himself picking his way amongst the debris on the doorsteps.
But this time he had scarcely seen the obstructions he had to avoid. He dodged them almost mechanically. His heart was beating high with a quiet exultation, for he had left the presence of the wonderful little man, who seemed to live his whole life on the edge of his nervous system, with the assurance of a junior Cabinet rank in the new Ministry.
But the first rush of his tumultuous feelings quickly subsided, as was his 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 his father in Yorkshire that he might be the first person in the world to learn of his early triumph. Yes, he wanted his to be the first congratulations. He smiled to himself as he left the post-office. The entire press had been devoting itself to forecasting the personnel of the new Cabinet, but not in one single instance had his name been included in the lists.
It was with a sense bordering on perfect delight that he turned into the calm backwater of Smith Square. And for once the dingy atmosphere took on a reflected glory from his feelings. The square church, with its four squat towers, handsome enough in its architecture but drab of hue, might have been some structure of Gothic splendor. Even the impoverished trees which surrounded it had something of the verdant splendor of spring in them on this late summer afternoon. The sparrows and the pigeons failed even to bring home to him the greyness of life in a London square. For the moment those mental anxieties which had haunted him ever since the Great War were powerless to depress his outlook. 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 table and hurried up the stairway