Nor was the realization without pity and regret. How could it be otherwise in the human heart which ever worships the actual display of might? It almost seemed as if the world had been suddenly given over to topsy-turveydom.
The facts, however, were irrefutable. As in the dim past the troublous surface of the seas had been conquered by the intrepid and skilful mariner, now at last the devious submarine channels had been turned into an almost equally secure highway of traffic by the inventor. The march of progress was continuing. It was invention triumphant. The world's sea-borne commerce was secured. It was held safe from enemy war-craft in the future. Therefore the doom of the proud battleship had been sounded.
Some day, perhaps, a new weapon would be achieved. Some day, perhaps, even the channels of the dark waters would be rendered insecure by the hand that had now made them safe. For the present, however, and probably for years to come, the sea-borne food supplies of Britain stood in no position of jeopardy.
It was well past midnight. The house in Smith Square quite suddenly displayed renewed signs of life. A closed motor had driven up, paused, and then passed on. Then appeared many lights behind the small-paned Georgian windows.
Ruxton Farlow had returned home with his wife after a strenuous and exciting day; and with them was their devoted Yorkshire father, burning with the sense of a great triumph for his beloved son, and his almost equally beloved daughter.
Their journey from Gravesend earlier in the evening had been broken that they might attend an informal dinner-party at Downing Street. It was a function entirely in honor of the masters of Dorby; and it had been arranged that Ruxton's colleagues in the country's Cabinet might tender their sincere congratulations and thanks for the work which he, and his father, and his wife had achieved privately in their country's cause.
It was over; and all three were relieved and thankful. But the note of triumph surging through their hearts was still dominant. Scarcely a word had passed between them in the brief run from Downing Street to Smith Square. Their hearts were as yet too full, and the memory of the words addressed to them by Sir Meeston and his colleagues was still too poignant to permit of normal conditions. Vita had leant back in the car, with her husband's arm linked through hers, and one of his powerful hands clasped in hers. She sat thus with thought teeming, and a heart thrilling with an unspeakable joy, and happiness, and triumph, all for the man at her side. Her own share in the events through which they had passed was entirely forgotten by her. This man at her side filled her whole focus. He was all in all to her, as she felt he was all in all to the cause in which they had worked.
It was perhaps the profoundest and proudest moment of her life. It was a moment of perfect happiness. All she had ever dreamed of was hers; and the hand of the man she worshipped was even now, warm and strong, clasped tightly in her own. Hers to keep; hers to lean on; hers never to yield so long as their lives should last.
In the house they passed up into the small drawing-room, and, for a few moments, they sat there before retiring. Slowly the spell of the day's events fell from them. It was finally Sir Andrew who released them from it.
He gazed across at Vita with twinkling eyes. His smile was full of kindly tenderness.