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.