Part 55 (1/2)

”Promising to marry Von Salzinger? If I had been in your place I shouldn't have promised. I'd have married him right off if it were to save me from being murdered.” Then his laugh died out abruptly. ”Don't think of it, my beautiful Vita. Don't ever let the thought of it enter your dear, dear head again. If ever a poor defenceless woman went through an earthly h.e.l.l, you did. Sweetheart, it's my sole purpose in life now to endeavor to place you in an earthly heaven.”

He drew her to him in a pa.s.sionate embrace. And so their lips met and lingered.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

AFTER TWELVE MONTHS

The shock which electrified London was reminiscent of the shocks to which it was submitted in the early days of the war, when the ”Yellow”

press ran riot, and journalists dipped deeply into their reservoirs of superlatives to generate the current of sensation which should sell their papers.

It was a misty afternoon, with an almost intangible yet saturating drizzle; a setting admirably fitting an evening newspaper thrill.

Spirits were at a sufficiently low ebb for something of a screaming nature. Fleet Street did its best; a best at no time to be despised.

It came as the homeward rush began from the offices of the great metropolis. It stared out from street corners and the fronting of bookstalls. It looked up from the greasy pavements. It served to hide a portion of the rags which hung about the nether limbs of small street urchins. It came in strident, raucous tones upon the moisture-laden atmosphere. There was no escaping it. That which escaped the eyes thrust itself upon defenceless ear. And its urgent note created the necessary excitement in minds set upon the task of making the homeward journey with the least possible delay.

Then, at once, the careless eye was caught and held. ”Under Water: The World Defied,” cried one contents bill. ”The New Submersible Merchantman,” announced one of the more sedate journals. ”The Great Problem Solved,” cryptically suggested a buff-tinted sheet. ”From Downing Street to the Deeps,” smiled the more flippant pink announcement. And so on through the whole jargon of the press poster.

There was no escape from it. The word ”submersible” seemed to fill the whole of the wretched winter atmosphere. And, as was intended, it caught the London fancy, and deflected purpose into the channel it desired.

London was startled; and when London is startled by its press it is no n.i.g.g.ard. Therefore the rain of coppers which set in became perilously near a deluge. The small boys s.n.a.t.c.hed, and the old sinners with grey whiskers and weather-stained faces swept in their harvest. The bookstall attendants dealt out their papers in a steady, accurate stream, and, within an hour, the whole of London's democracy had formulated its definite opinion upon the new adventure, in the dogmatic manner of the British ratepayer.

Strange and mixed were many of the opinions which flew from lip to lip in the overcrowded homeward bound trains and 'buses. True, there were many who read the well-told story of the skilful journalist as they might read a sensational tale in a sixpenny magazine. They enjoyed it.

They devoured it hungrily. Then they pa.s.sed on to the sports page, and considered the doings of their favorites in the sporting world. But the suburban ratepayer, the householder whose responsibilities left him no alternative but to take himself seriously, was of a different calibre.

He possesses to the full the stolid, fault-finding mind of the British race. He is as full of prejudice as the egg is supposed to be full of meat. He is ready at all times to hurl blame and anathema at the heads of those who conspire to extract from his pocket the necessary funds to contrive that he shall live in security and comfort in his home. He is the victim of a splendid pessimism for all things except his summer holiday. His opinions come like a shot from a gun.

He read with incredulity until he arrived at the point where he felt righteously he could open afresh the rut of his ever-ready disapproval.

Then the full force of what he read percolated heavily through his fog of prejudiced incredulity, and virtuous indignation supervened.

”What was this absurd nonsense? Who ever heard of submersible merchantmen? What fresh folly of the Government was coming now? The Prime Minister on the trial trip. Why the devil didn't he stick to his job in Downing Street? The moment these fellows got their five thousand a year they didn't care a hang for the country. Playing about with these toys of some crazy inventor. It made one sick. Anyway, if the Government were concerned in the scheme, why was it kept secret? Why wasn't the taxpayer told of it? Who was making the money out of it?

Somebody. There was always graft in these secret things. There was too much of this hole-in-the-corner business--entirely too much. Altogether too much disregard for the liberty of the subject,” etc., etc.

But the Fleet Street chorus of ”epochs” and ”masterly moves” and ”strokes of statesmans.h.i.+p” found an abiding echo amongst the optimists.

They saw, with eyes wide open, that which they read. There was no grumble in them. Why should there be? That which they read told them clearly of success. It told them that never again would Britain's overseas commerce be placed in jeopardy from enemy attack in time of war; that is, if British enterprise would only rise to the opportunity afforded. That was simple enough. Of course the s.h.i.+p-owners would see their advantage. Germany--pah!

The men who personally felt aggrieved, however, were the professional politicians and the private Member. These men were seriously perturbed.

Here was real limelight, and they were not in it! Horrible thought!

Their course lay clearly before them. An attack upon inoffensive paper, by a pen, erroneously believed to be mightier than the sword, was their only hope of making up leeway. So those who had sufficient influence hurled broadcast the next morning, in their favorite daily papers, a wealth of ill-considered and valueless criticism and opinion of something which they were splendidly incompetent to judge.

And the cause of all the sensation? It was so small an incident, and yet so tremendous in its omen for the future. Just the story of a number of eminent men, Cabinet Ministers, naval and army men, and one or two great s.h.i.+p-builders, running a blockade of wars.h.i.+ps, and successfully s.h.i.+pping a cargo of pretended contraband of war from Dundee to Gravesend. The game had been played in deadly earnest. It was a test trip for a new type of submersible cargo and pa.s.senger vessel, pitting its powers against the concentrated might of a large squadron of the British Navy. It was a test of efficiency. The details were simple in the extreme. The laden vessel, carrying a thousand tons of merchandise and its burden of pa.s.sengers, was lying at Dundee. Outside, watching and waiting for its appearance on the high seas, lay a powerful squadron of the British Navy. The rules laid down were that the submersible should make its way to Gravesend, and the naval squadron, under war conditions, was to capture it, or place it in such a position as to be sinkable, by any means in its power, at any point upon its journey.

The result. With all the skill and power at its command the great surface squadron had proved its helplessness. The submersible had slipped out of port under cover of darkness, and from that moment, until its arrival at Gravesend, the seas had been scoured vainly for so much as a sight of it.

It was a tremendous thought. It was a splendid victory for the pacifist hope. The dead Polish inventor had been justified beyond all question.