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.