FROM BENEATH THE WATERS
The appeal in Vita's voice, in her yearning, distressed eyes, when she demanded her lover's reassurance of her father's escape, was not without a powerful effect on the romantic chivalry which was so large a part of Ruxton's nature. It set every nerve in his body tingling to serve her. Then, too, the debt he owed to the Prince himself, in the name of his country, urged him.
That night he had bought later editions of the paper, seeking further news which might throw light upon the matter, and possibly yield an explanation of the Baltic incident which might relieve them of all anxiety. But none was forthcoming. The reports passed from the "stop press" to the news columns without added detail. Editorial speculation was added, but this afforded no clue to the unravelling of the mystery.
Then, at last, Ruxton took a decision. Its purpose was vague, but the impulse was irresistible. His whole thoughts focussed themselves upon Dorby and the work going on there. He had offered this foreigner the shelter of his home. He had impressed it upon him. It seemed to him that such being the case, should his anticipation prove correct, his place, at the moment, was unquestionably Dorby.
He communicated his feelings on the matter to Vita, who saw in his ideas the inspiration which he would never have admitted.
"If it should be that he has escaped those dreadful guns," she said, her hands clasped in an effort to steady herself, "Dorby is the place he will make for—the Old Mill Cove. Oh, my dear, my dear, can you not see what would happen if he arrived with no one there to caution him? He would make for Redwithy. He would come straight to me. And Von Salzinger would be ready for him. You will go? You will help him for my sake? Ah, thank you," as the man nodded his silent reassurance. "Meanwhile I will return home at once that I may be ready for every eventuality—and Von Salzinger. I will let you know any development."
So it came about that Ruxton found himself at Dorby Towers once more, in deep consultation with his father, who, with steady twinkling eyes, listened and advised with all the shrewd, calm wisdom of his clear commercial brain.
Nearly the whole of the next day was spent by Ruxton upon the cliffs, where, with powerful glasses, he searched the calm surface of the treacherous grey waters of the North Sea. His search remained unrewarded, but he was indefatigable. His watch was kept up with the aid of a confidential man of his father's to relieve him, and when evening came he decided that a night watch must follow the day. He had carefully calculated the time from the date and hour of the Baltic firing, and, in the light of the experience of his own journey to Borga, he calculated that if the Prince had actually escaped, and was making for Dorby, he would reach the coast some time during the next twelve hours.
From three o'clock in the afternoon until darkness set in he had rested, leaving his assistant on guard. Then he set out alone to keep his night vigil.
His way took him across the wild moorland in the direction of the black remains of the old mill, and, in setting out, he remembered that night which now seemed so far back in his memory, when, out of the darkness, he had heard those tones he had now come to love so well. This time, however, his dinner coat and thin shoes had been abandoned in favor of a heavy tweed ulster and thick shooting boots. For the autumn night was bitter with a light breeze from the northeast, and a great silvery moon, and the cold diamonds of a starlit sky, suggested that the speeding hours were likely to bring with them many degrees of frost before he could return to the warmth of his bed.
His direction gave him no trouble. Every foot of the moorland cliff was familiar to him with the instinct bred through childish years of association. Then there was the great, heavy moon yielding a light by which it would almost have been possible to read.
So he strode on towards his goal, the blackened skeleton, which marked the old dishonest times of battles fought out against authority. With the detachment of youth his thoughts had been left free to wander from the purpose of his journey. A deep concentration had completed every detail of the work that lay before him. And so the resiliency of his brain had caused a rebound to those wonderful thoughts which claimed his every human sensation.
He was thinking of Vita. His mental faculties had visualized once more the perfections which were hers, and those with which this love of his endowed her. His big heart was stirred to its very depths with the memory of her final, wistful appeal. He felt that if human effort could serve her, that effort, the whole of it that was in him, was at her service. He felt that all quite suddenly a great new power had been vouchsafed him, a power to do, to act, and to think—all for the woman who had inspired in him this wonderful, wonderful feeling of love.
Nothing, no task, no labor, however great, was too arduous for him to accomplish. More, it was a happiness, such as never in his life he had known, to be privileged with the task of contributing to her happiness.
In the mood of the moment he had no desire to look ahead. The concerns of the future belonged to the future. For him, in this matter, the present was all-sufficient. Next to him Vita loved her father. She had fearlessly undertaken work which might well have daunted any woman, to help him in his motives of humanity. Was there any more sublime motive for a woman's action? He thought not. And a wave of delighted appreciation swept over him. In the ghostly silvery light of that autumn night he thanked God that the love of such a woman had been vouchsafed him.
He reached the decayed surroundings of the old mill all too soon. But, with a readiness which found him stoically regretless, he probed once more the mysteries of the old mill. It was precisely as he had left it on his return from Borga, which seemed so long ago. He could detect no sign that any one had been near the place. He was glad. He felt its secret was still safe, and was yet a power to serve the woman he loved.
The journey through the bowels of the earth was one of simple accomplishment now. He even required no lantern. All that was necessary was the lighting of an occasional match to verify his positions.
At the cavern mouth he found that it was high tide. The rock-girt pit was darkly sombre, but the radiance of the moon was sufficient to outline the restless, lapping water's edge, which was all he needed. With some care he scrambled over the slippery boulders and finally made his way to a great projection which overhung the water some fifteen feet below, and took up his position upon its rugged, unyielding extremity. Here he sat in full view of the mouth of the great inlet, through which the waters were still churning. Beyond it, miles out to sea, he could observe every light or object silhouetted against the skyline. But he knew that if Prince von Hertzwohl were making for the Old Mill Cove he would not approach it till the tide was at a low ebb. That would not occur for some hours.
The tide had long since fallen. It had been ebbing for nearly three hours and a half. So still was the air, so oppressive the sense of silent crowding by the towering cliffs about him, that Ruxton's ears had become attuned to every change in the sound of the lapping waters below him. He had recognized the period of slack water. Then he had caught and read the change of sound with the first signs of the ebb. Then again he had recognized its increasing speed. And all the time eyes and ears were straining for sight or sound from beyond the mouth of the cove. He had seen lights pass: slow, distinct, as some trader or trawler passed upon its chilly way. But these had been far beyond the range at which he expected the signs of the submersible.
It was warmer down in the cove than upon the moorland, but the chill of the night air was penetrating, and he huddled his neck down in the high upturned collar of his coat and drew its skirts closer about his knees. It was a dreary vigil, but his determination never wavered.
A few minutes later he produced a cigar, prepared to obtain the trifling comfort which tobacco might afford him, but, in the act of striking a match he abruptly abandoned the attempt. He flung it away and raised his night glasses. Some sound had caught his straining ears. It came from well beyond the towering gateway. It seemed to him like the vague and indistinct throb of powerful engines. After a moment's search the glasses revealed some dark bulk on the bosom of the sea. In a moment he was on his feet searching, searching.
Minutes passed. To him it seemed the bulk remained stationary, but its very indefiniteness left him doubting. At last he lowered his glasses and gave himself up to listening. Then he prepared to light his cigar again. He could hear no sound of engines now. He—— A light had flashed out! Instantly a responsive thrill passed down through his sensitive nerves.
Now the rapidly passing moments each brought their developments. He could hear the voices of men plainly in the dead silence of the night. They must be near, dangerously near to the treacherous opening. He could see other lights, moving lights, like lanterns being borne along a deck by hand. Then he heard the clanking of cable chains. Finally a larger light, something in the nature of a small searchlight, detached itself from the others, and came directly towards the opening.
He turned away and lit his cigar. Then he scrambled down to the beach.
Ruxton had remained in obscurity watching the light as it passed through the opening. It came on swiftly against the racing tide. There was no hesitation or indecision. The light steered straight for the spit of rock forming a sort of natural quay, upon which he was standing under cover of a projecting boulder. There was no longer any doubt in his mind. He remembered that other time when he had embarked at the same spot.
The launch slowed down and crept towards the rocky tongue. The landing was brilliantly lit up by the searching headlight. Slower, slower, it finally glided into the landing-place and was held fast by two heavy figures now clearly outlined.
A third figure rose up amidships—a tall, familiar figure, clad in a long enveloping cloak. He spoke once. Then he stepped actively on to the landing. Ruxton emerged from the shadow.
"Welcome, Prince. It is I, Ruxton Farlow."
He had stepped forward with hand outheld.
At the first sound of his voice the men in the boat had become still. The Prince had swung round, and his right hand had been plunged deeply into the pocket of his great cloak. But a moment later it was withdrawn, and a deep-throated laugh expressed his relief.
"Ah, my friend," he cried. "I thought"—then he grasped the outstretched hand in warm cordiality,—"then I heard your name, and knew my alarms were groundless. You have come here to—meet me?"
"Yes. We guessed."
"Ah. Forgive me. I must give some orders."
He was about to turn away to the men in the boats, but Ruxton detained him.
"Before you give orders, I would suggest you send your vessel round to Dorby. Our dock-master is on the lookout for you. He is lying off the mouth of the river to pilot you in to a—safe—mooring. When you hail him, pass him one word: 'Towers.' My father is awaiting you at home. We have thought out a plan which may meet with your approval."
The tall figure moved a step nearer. Again his tenacious hand was thrust out.
"It is always the same—in Britain. I thank you."
He turned and gave orders in compliance with Ruxton's instructions. Then the two men stood side by side while they watched the launch slide back with the tide. Then, as it swung about, head on for the opening, they moved away up towards the cavern entrance in the cliff.
Throughout the passage of the cave, and the long climb up the rough-hewn staircase to the mill above, no unnecessary word was spoken. An occasional warning of trifling pitfalls ahead from Ruxton, on the lead, was the only sound beyond the clatter of feet upon the rough stone tread of the journey.
There was much to be said between them, but each felt that the dank atmosphere of this cavern was scarcely the place in which to pause for confidences. This was a meeting between these two full of profound significance, even of threat, for both knew that a challenge had been thrown out at a power for vengeance, the extent of which neither could as yet accurately estimate.
The silence between them was maintained until the outline of the old mill had fallen away well behind them, and the intricacies of the footpaths amongst the black gorse patches permitted of their walking abreast. Then it was Ruxton who opened the subject between them.
"I bought a newspaper almost by chance. It contained news of some action by the German fleet—in the Baltic. It was vague. But somehow it made me uneasy. Then Vita seemed to read it aright."
"Vita?"
"Ah, forgive me," Ruxton smiled. "The Princess interpreted it. We became convinced that it was something to warrant alarm for—your safety."
The tall, lean figure pressed nearer to its English friend. Ruxton felt the clasp of a hand upon his upper arm.
"And so you came—to the cove?"
There was a deep note of appreciation in the man's voice.
"It was a friendly act," he added.
Ruxton shrugged.
"I promised you a welcome in England. It is nothing."
"No. It is nothing—to some people."
Ruxton dismissed the subject.
"They have discovered. Von Salzinger is in England."
"Yes, Vita has told me. But I knew it without the telling." Then the Prince laughed, and there was ironical inflection in his mirth. "Oh, yes. It was easy to watch—these things. I watched every move through the eyes of my few faithful friends. I saw how they kept me under surveillance, after—after they sent Von Salzinger to England. Then, when I began to feel that their interest in me was becoming threatening, when I received interrogations that were difficult to answer—easily—interrogations about the U-rays, then I said to myself that I must put to the test all those little plans I had prepared. I abandoned my works by sea."
"Then——"
"Oh, it was not all so simple. The story of it I will tell you some day. One thing I had not calculated upon was that my place was watched from the sea by our naval ships. They are shrewd, these people, but they are also blundering. These naval men!" His clasp on Ruxton's arm tightened. A certain scorn crept into the vibrating tones. "You know them? Your people know them. They laugh at them—your people, I mean—as I laughed. The German Navy forgets. They forget that I am the master of the submarine. They think they know it all—all that I have in here." He touched the high forehead under his soft felt hat with a lean forefinger. "But they do not. They see my boat come out. They challenge me—as they challenge me at Borga. It is the same again. I laugh and I keep on my course. I do not heave-to. Then they open their guns at me to sink me, but I only submerge. They follow on my line. I come up. They fire again, and so it goes on. They make a great commotion and waste many shells. Then comes night, and—I lose them." He shrugged. Then after a pause he went on. "Now I come to England and I join my daughter in her home. Later on maybe I shall forget these people that have owned my body and brain, and used them for so long to outrage humanity. I never go back. Never, never!"
"No."
Ruxton shrank from the news he must convey. The doubt in his monosyllable, however, did not pass the other by. The Pole's big eyes turned full upon his companion's face, and enquiry rang in his echo of the monosyllable.
"No?"
"You cannot go to your daughter's place. Von Salzinger has discovered it. It will be watched."
"Ah!"
"It is an added reason for my meeting you."
"It is an added complication. So, so."
"But not beyond—straightening out."
"No?"
"My father is awaiting you. There is Dorby."
They walked on in silence. The old man moved with surprising vigor. He was thinking rapidly. The new situation involved a readjustment of plans. He was seeking solution with a fertility of imagination which might have astonished the Englishman had he known.
Ruxton went on.
"Our works are under protection from our naval authority. They should be safe. My father thinks the shelter of our home should serve for the present."
Von Hertzwohl seemed to pass the offer by, dwelling only upon the safety of the works.
"That is good, the works protected," he said abruptly, his luminous eyes shining. "You are clever. You take no chance. And the work? It goes on? Good! Ah! I must see it all." He rubbed his hands. "There is no hitch? Nothing? The vessels grow—grow while you look. Ah, yes, I know you British. There will be no more submarine danger; no more massacre of women and children at sea. It gives me the greatest joy."
The old man's enthusiasm was beyond all thought of self. It was so simple, so intense. It was the enthusiasm of a child for his new toy, and Ruxton marvelled at the odd mixture which went to make up his strange character.
"The completion of the work is as inevitable as that your Government means to—hunt you down."
Ruxton thought to impress the Pole with the precariousness of his position. But the man brushed it aside.
"Ach!" he cried, with a gesture of recklessness. "Yes, they hunt me down. That is it. That is why I do not burden your father with my safeguard. It is good to think of. This generous man—your father. It is good that his son comes to—help me. I feel it all here." He pressed one hand over his heart. "But no. I know these people. I do not fear them. They hunt me down. They kill me. It is not so much. It is so small a thing I do not think of it. No. But they do not hunt me down," he went on, with a smile of quiet confidence. "I will go with you to Dorby. I will talk with your great father—and then—I go. It will be good to befool them—and I will befool them."
He laughed a fearless, heart-whole laugh which left the younger man marvelling.