CHAPTER XXIV.
At the very first step she made on the rope ladder, Freda sustained a sudden shock which almost caused her to lose her grip of the ropes. With a wild, wailing cry, a great sea-gull flew out from a cleft in the rock a few feet from her, and almost touching her with its long grey-white wings, flew past her and circled in the air below, still keeping up its melancholy cry of alarm or warning, which was taken up by a host of its companions. Although she had heard the shrill sea-bird’s cry before, it had never sounded so lugubrious as now. The beating of the advancing tide on the rocks below made a mournful accompaniment to the bird’s wailing; and Freda, startled and alarmed, clung tremblingly to the ladder, not daring to descend a single step, as she felt the rush of air fanned by their long wings, and dreaded lest the great birds should attack her. At last, one by one, they circled lower and lower, until they reached the sea, and, folding their wings, settled in a flock upon the water: not till then did the girl venture to proceed on her journey.
This descent, though long, was much less difficult than her first trial of a rope-ladder in the secret-room of the Abbey; for the ladder was firmly fixed to a rock below into which two iron hooks had been driven. The greatest danger she had to contend with during the descent was the extreme cold, which benumbed her fingers, and made it scarcely possible for her to grasp the ropes, and to hold her crutch at the same time; the lantern she had extinguished and tied round her waist. At last her feet touched the solid rock: she drew a long breath of relief: she had reached the scaur. Turning slowly, she took a survey of the spot.
The cliff frowned at an immense height above her, rugged, and steep as a wall. She was standing on a narrow ledge formed of broken bits of rock which had, from time to time, been detached from the main cliff by force of water and rough weather. Only a few feet away the sea was breaking into little foaming cascades against the boulders. At sea, just out of the silver light cast by the moon, and some distance away from shore, she could dimly see a boat, which she guessed to be her father’s yacht. On the right hand, a jutting point of cliff shut out the view; on the left a bend in the cliff formed a tiny bay, beyond which a sort of rough pier of black rocks stretched out into the sea.
The bay was the point the smugglers would make for, she felt sure; it was in this direction, then, that she must go. She dared not light her lantern, but had to trust to the faint light of the moon. The way was infinitely more difficult than she had expected: to scramble, to crawl, sometimes to leap from rock to rock would have made the path a hard one for anybody; to a girl with a crutch it was absolutely dangerous. Panting, bruised, breathless, she at last scrambled over the last rough stone and found, to her relief, that in the tiny bay there was a stretch of smooth land, part clay, part sand, which had gathered in this inlet at the foot of the cliff, and on which a short, coarse grass grew. This seemed a paradise to Freda after her exertion: she sank down and rested her limbs, which were trembling with fatigue.
After a few moments, however, her sense of relief and rest was broken by a sensation of horror, which seemed to creep up her tired limbs and settle like a pall upon her. The utter silence, which not even a sea-gull now broke; the great wall of rock stretching round her, like a giant arm pointing its finger out to sea; the solitude, and the piercing cold all united to impress the girl with a dread of what she might be going to see and hear. With a little sobbing cry she shivered and shut out the scene by burying her face in her hands.
Suddenly a faint sound caused her to start up; it was the splash of oars in the water. There was a fringe of rock between the smooth land and the sea, under cover of which Freda ran, stumbling as she went, in the direction of the rough natural pier. From this she thought she would be able to get a clear view of all that went on by sea or by land. But on nearer approach this natural pier proved to be much more difficult of access than she had supposed; for it consisted of a huge rock, flattened on the top, rising so high out of the water that it would need a climb to get upon it. Still Freda resolved to try to overcome the difficulty. At this point she suddenly came in full view of the approaching boat, which was making straight for the beach. In another moment she had begun the climb. She had scarcely got her head above the level of the top of the rock, when she caught sight of a man crouching down on the smooth wave-worn surface, watching the approach of the boat with eagerness which betrayed itself in his very attitude. It was John Thurley.
Startled by the sight, Freda lost the footing she had obtained on the flaky, rotten side of the rock, and slipping back a few steps, found that she had all her work to do over again.
But she was quicker this time, her experience having stood her in good stead. In a very few moments she had won back the lost ground, and again glanced up at the crouching figure. She had scarcely done so when she saw, and yet hardly believed that she saw, a second figure crossing the smooth surface of the rock in the direction of the first, crossing stealthily, with the cat-like tread she knew so well.
It was the man who had said he would “be on the watch.”
She wanted to cry out, she tried to cry out, but only a hoarse rattle came forth from her parched throat. She knew what was going to happen, though she saw no weapon in the rascal’s hand; and the knowledge paralysed her. Before she could draw breath the blow had fallen: with a horrible cry John Thurley sprang up with a backward step, turned, staggered, and fell in a dark heap on the rock at his assailant’s feet.
Freda’s voice had come back now; but it was too late. She stifled back her cries, got up, by digging heels and clawing fingers, somehow, anyhow, on to the top of the rock, and skimming along the surface, lame as she was, like a bird, came up with the man who had threatened her that evening. He started, looking up at her with blood-shot, evil eyes, as she laid her hand upon his arm.
“Hands off, missus,” said he roughly, assuming more coarseness of accent than usual.
“No,” answered the girl fiercely, as she fastened her fingers with a firmer grip on his arm, “you have exceeded your orders to-night, and now you’ve got to obey mine. You have to help me carry that man you have hurt into the house, into the Abbey.”
The man was impressed, in spite of himself, by her manner.
“He’s dead,” he said impatiently. “Haven’t you had enough corpses about the place lately?”
“He is not dead; he is moving; and you will take him in, dead or alive. Do you forget I am your master’s daughter?”
“Perhaps I’m my master’s master,” said he shortly. Then, with a sudden access of fury, to which his potations of earlier in the evening evidently gave reckless intensity, he suddenly held up, with a threatening movement, the knife with which he had stabbed his victim. It was red with blood—a sickening sight. But Freda was too much excited and exasperated to show a sign of fear now.
“You dare not hurt me,” she cried, in her high, girlish voice, that echoed among the cliffs. “If this poor man dies you may escape; but if you kill me, my father will not let you live another day.”
She thought it was her words which suddenly caused him to drop from a defiant into a cringing attitude, and to hold himself quite limply and meekly under her grasp. But his shifting glances made her turn her head, and she saw that her father was standing behind, with his eyes fixed on the fallen man. Freda forgot her reticence, forgot his cautions. Rushing towards him with her left hand outstretched, she cried, with a break in her voice:
“Father! father!”
He did not rebuke her. Taking a step forward, he caught the girl in his arms, and looked tenderly down into her white face.
“What business have you here?” he said, but without harshness.
“I came to save John Thurley,” she answered, trembling. “But I was too late. Make this man take him home—father—to the Abbey.”
He shook his head, while the other man gave a short laugh.
“He’s done for, guv’nor,” said he curtly. “Sorry if I went too far, but it’s always dangerous work to put your nose into other people’s business.”
Freda was on her knees beside the fallen man.
“He’s alive,” she cried triumphantly. “Make haste, oh, make haste, and we shall be able to save him!”
“Him? Yes,” said her father gruffly and dubiously. “But how about ourselves? His safety is our danger, child; don’t you understand?”
“But, father, you wouldn’t have him murdered! Oh, if it is true you care for me—and you do, you do—tell that man to help you; and take him in! Do this for me, as you would have done it for my mother.”
Captain Mulgrave hesitated. Then he tried to speak in a peremptory and angry voice, but broke down. Turning at last sharply to the assailant, who had been watching him with hungry intentness, he made a gesture towards the wounded man.
“Here, Crispin, help me—to take him in. We must obey the ladies,” he said with a hoarse and almost tremulous attempt at levity.
The grin died out of the lean and withered face, and Freda caught upon it an expression of so much baulked malignity that she wondered whether succour at these unwilling hands would mean death to the succoured one. There was nothing for her to do but to watch, however, while her father, with a skilful hand, tore his own shirt into bandages, with which he stopped the flow of blood from the wounded man’s side. Then, giving the word to start, he and his unwilling assistant lifted the still unconscious man and began the difficult journey to the Abbey.