CHAPTER XXI.
Freda fancied that the long-drawn breath which escaped her as she recognised the man must attract his attention. But he was too intent upon the enjoyment of the strong spirit, which he kept pouring from a huge stone bottle into a cracked tumbler, to have eyes or ears for the little eavesdropper in the corner. A horrible idea flashed into her mind as she crouched again in her hiding-place: Was this grinning creature, with the hideous face of an ape, the father she had waited to know so long? A shiver of horror ran through her as she remembered how this would tally with the facts she knew: with the dread in which her father was held, with her belief that he was in hiding about the house, and with the airs of proprietorship which this man was assuming.
Even as these unwelcome thoughts pressed into her mind, the man got up, and confirming her fears by his tone of authority, stamped upon the floor and called down the opening in a loud voice:
“Hallo! Anybody there yet? Kelk! Harrison!”
There was no answer, and he walked up and down, swearing to himself impatiently. Presently a muffled sound came from below, and he called out again.
“Aye, aye, sir,” said a hoarse voice.
“Is that you, Braim?” asked the man above.
“Aye, sir.”
“Anybody else with you?”
“Theer be fower on us, sir.”
“All right. Close up, and I’ll be down with you in a minute.”
There were sounds now in the cellar below of several men moving about and talking in low tones. Then the man above moved back a step or two from the opening in the floor; and Freda, whose curiosity had grown stronger than her caution, peeped out far enough to see him take from a shelf a small revolver, which he secreted about his person. Then he lowered the rope-ladder, let himself down into the cellar by it, and immediately threw it up again so deftly that it landed safely on the floor he had left. Freda heard a chorus of demands for “soomat to warm them,” and by the sounds which followed she could soon tell that drinking had begun. Being now able to lift her head without fear, she could make out a good deal of their talk, although the strong dialect in which all but the leader spoke often puzzled her. As the talk went on and the drink went round, the men seemed to get more and more excited; but just as they had done at the “Barley Mow,” they lowered their voices as they grew warm in discussion, until Freda, whose interest and curiosity had become deeply excited, crept softly out of her hiding-place, and crawling to the opening in the floor, listened with her head only just out of the men’s sight.
They were talking about some person against whom they had a grudge, using oaths and threats which, although strange and new to Freda, shocked her by their coarseness. At last her curiosity to see them grew so great that she was impelled to glance down stealthily at the group below. The men were seated at a rough deal table, over which they leaned and sprawled, with their heads close together, in eager converse. It was some moments before she got a view of any of the faces; at last, however, two of them raised their heads a little, and she instantly recognised one as a little wrinkled, oldish-looking man, who wore rings in his ears and walked with the cat-like tread of one accustomed to go barefoot, whom she had seen at the “Barley Mow.”
“Ah tell ye,” he was now saying, “it’s’ t’ same now as were at t’ ‘Barley Mow’ on t’ neght when train was snawed oop. Barnaby Ugthorpe fund him aht, and tawd me abaht it hissen.”
Freda forgot to draw back; her breath came with difficulty: this man against whom they were using such hideous threats must be her friend, John Thurley. From this moment, every word they uttered assumed for her a terrible significance.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt your information is right enough,” said the leader, who used fewer words than the rest, “the question is whether he hasn’t found out too much for it to be any good interfering with him. You see, he’s been about the neighbourhood some time now, keeping very quiet, and he may have picked up and sent off to London enough information to do for all the lot of us; in that case a bullet or two through his hide would only increase the unpleasantness of our position.”
“Aye, aye, Captain, but Ah’ve kep’ a eye upon him, to see what he were up to. A pal of mine done that business for me, an’ as fur as we mak’ aht, he hasn’t done mooch correspondering, an’ nothing suspicious-loike. Ah’ve a pal in t’ poast-office, as Ah have moast pleaces, an’ ye can tak’ my word for’t.”
“An’ now we’ve fahnd him aht spying at us from t’ scaur, as we did yesterneght, Ah seay it’s high toime as a stop wur put to his goings on, an’ it’s not loike ye, Capt’n, to seay neay to that.”
“I don’t say nay to that,” said the little withered man, with an ugly grin on his face. “You know me better. But no good ever comes of using violent means until you’ve tried all others. I’ll be on the scaur myself to-night and watch.”
Freda stared down at the group, fascinated with horror. There was a brutal callousness of look and tone in these men which made her feel as if she were watching a cageful of wild beasts. Every line of their weather-beaten faces, dimly as she saw them by the light of two flaring tallow candles, seemed to her to be eloquent of the risks and dangers of a hardening and brutalising life. And the face which looked the most repulsive of all was that of the leader. Was he her father? The girl prayed that it might not be true. Although his speech was so much more correct than that of the rest as to mark him as belonging to a higher class, his voice was coarse and thick, and his manner furtive and restless. Even the faint twinkle of humour which was visible in the eyes of the wizened informer, James Braim, was absent from those of his chief. Those few words, in which he said that he would watch on the scaur that night, filled Freda with more anxiety for John Thurley’s safety than all the coarse threats and menacing gestures of the other three men.
“Goin’ to unload to-night, Capt’n?” asked one man.
The leader nodded.
“Must. Here’s three nights we’ve wasted hanging about, on account of the scare about this spy, whoever he is. So to-night you’ll get to work, and I’ll keep the lookout, and if anybody’s fool enough to be loafing about where he’s not wanted when he ought to be in bed, why, he can’t in fairness complain if he gets—sent home.”
He paused significantly before the last two words, and a low murmur of appreciation and amusement went round the group. Then the talk was carried on in short whispers, and Freda was presently seized with the fancy that some of the questions and answers exchanged referred to her. For the men talked about some woman, and all the questions were directed to the repulsive-looking leader, who after some minutes rose, with a remark a little louder than the previous talk.
“She won’t interfere with any of us much longer, at any rate. We can’t afford to keep spies in the camp. Now, lads, it’s time for business. Get off to the yacht, and to business as fast as you can. I’ll be down on the scaur in less than half an hour.”
The men pushed back their seats without delay, Kelk alone venturing on a grumbling word of remonstrance. And then, still watching closely from above, Freda saw a very strange occurrence. The bare, ill-lighted cellar grew empty of all except the leader as if by magic, the men seeming to disappear into the bowels of the earth. As she looked, bending her head lower and lower with straining eyes to spy out the reason of this, Freda involuntarily drew a long breath of amazement. The solitary man left in the cellar looked up, as he was in the act of filling his own glass once more from the stone jar. The girl drew back with a cry, for a look of intense malignity passed over the man’s wrinkled face.
“Hallo!” he exclaimed very quietly, blinking up at her, “so it’s you, is it? Playing the spy as usual?”
He muttered an oath below his breath, and came close under the opening in the floor.
“Just throw down that rope,” he continued peremptorily.
“What rope?” asked Freda, trembling.
“Come, you know well enough. You haven’t got eyes in your head for nothing.” He paused, but Freda remained motionless. “Now then,” he added with a sudden access of anger and a stamp of his foot on the stone floor, “throw down the rope-ladder I came down by. Do you understand that?”
But Freda only attempted to get away. Excited by anger and drink, the man took from his belt a revolver, which he pointed up at her. This action, strangely enough, checked Freda’s impulse to retreat. She looked down at him straightforwardly and fearlessly, eye to eye.
“Do you think you can make me obey you by shooting me?” she asked simply.
“I think you are a d——d ungrateful little chit,” answered the man sullenly. But he lowered the weapon in his hand.
“Ungrateful!” faltered Freda, the great fear rising again in her heart. “Ungrateful!” she repeated. “Then you are—are you—my father?”
“Of course I am,” he answered sullenly. “Pretty filial instincts you seem to have!”
Freda was overwhelmed. For a few moments she sat transfixed, looking down on this newly-found parent with undisguised horror.
“Well, aren’t you going to obey me?” repeated he with rather less ferocity of tone.
“Yes,” whispered Freda hoarsely.
She drew back a step or two from the opening in the floor, and began to grope about with cold, clammy fingers for the rope-ladder. At last she found it and threw it down.
If she had not been so benumbed with amazement and grief at this discovery, she would have been frightened by the savage exclamation with which the man set his foot on the ladder. As it was, she heard nothing, saw nothing until she suddenly felt herself pulled up by the arm. Dragged to her feet against her will, paralysed with alarm, she turned to see the grinning, withered face held close to hers, full of spite and malignity.
“Now,” said he, “I’m going to give you a lesson for your disobedience.”
With a shudder and a low cry, Freda struggled with him, avoiding the meeting with his eyes.
“Don’t,” she whispered hoarsely. “Don’t. I wish to remember my obedience, my duty. I can’t if you treat me like a dog.”
He gave a short, rasping laugh.
“I sha’n’t do that,” he said. “I respect a dog.”
At the brutal words and tone, Freda, by a sudden movement, wrenched herself free for an instant, and looked him steadily in the face.
“Now,” she said, “I know that you have been deceiving me. You are not my father!”
“We’ll see about that. Come here.”
He seized her by the right wrist, giving it such a violent twist that she cried out with pain. “Now if you struggle any more or cry out, I’ll just give you a broken arm to match your broken leg.”
He gave her arm another wrench to prove that his threat was not an idle one, and the girl with difficulty suppressed a moan. Just as he gripped her arm more tightly to inflict further punishment for this insubordination, a change came quite suddenly over his face; he dropped her arm at once, and sliding over the floor as stealthily and rapidly as a cat, he ran down the rope-ladder, and disappeared from view just as his four subordinates had done.
Freda was bewildered, and not one whit relieved at his disappearance. It only seemed to augur some fresh misfortune. As she stood where he had left her, dazed, miserable, still nursing her arm for the pain, she heard another step behind her. Her endurance had been tried too much; she could not face a fresh enemy, as she believed the newcomer to be. Putting her hands before her face, she turned and stepped backwards, away from him, murmuring broken entreaties, interrupted by sobs. As she retreated, she felt that the intruder was pursuing her, and fled faster and faster.
“Stop, child, stop,” cried at last a voice she knew. At the same moment she felt that she had gone a step too far, and was falling through the opening in the floor. But even as she felt this, strong arms were thrown round her, and she found herself in a warm clasp of kindliness. Opening her eyes, she saw who her preserver was, saw too that his eyes were full of tenderness.
“Crispin! Crispin!” she cried.
But the next moment, with a wild shriek, she flung her arms round his neck in a passionate embrace.
“No, no, not Crispin, you are not really Crispin! You—are—my father!” she sobbed out with a burst of hysterical tears and laughter.