CHAPTER VI
THE OLD MILL COVE
He had known the mill all his life; at least he believed he had. He hadgazed upon that awesome black ruin, keeping watch and ward over thewicked little cove below it, like some sentinel on guard over adangerous criminal, with wide, childish eyes, and a mind full ofterrified speculation. He had known it later, when, with boyishbravado, he had flouted the horrific stories of a superstitiouscountryside, and explored its barren, ruined recesses. He had known itstill later, when, with manhood's eyes opening to a dim appreciation ofall those things which have gone before in the great effort of life, hehad seen in it a picturesque example of the endless struggle which hasgone on since the dawn of life.
So he thought he knew it all.
Now the limitations of his knowledge were forcing themselves upon him.Now he was realizing that there were secrets by the score in thoseevery-day things which a lifetime of contact may never reveal. Thestrangeness of it all set him marvelling. The limitations of humanunderstanding seemed extraordinarily narrow.
He gazed down into the gaping cavity beneath his feet, and, by the dimrays of a lighted lantern, counted the worn stone steps until thedarkness below swallowed up their outline.
Ruxton Farlow straightened himself up and glanced about him at the barestone walls, from the joints of which the cement had long since fallen.He looked up at the worm-eaten, oaken rafters which had stood the wearof centuries. The flooring which they supported had long since falleninto decay, and he only wondered how much longer those sturdy oakenbeams would continue to support the colossal weight of the millstonesnow resting from their grinding labors.
Through the rents which time and weather had wrought he saw the warmglow of daylight above, for all was ruin in the great old mill, ruinwithin and without. As it was with the walls of stone, and the greattower of woodwork above them, so it was with the outbuildings beyondthe doorway, within which he stood. The walls remained, heavilybuttressed by the hardy hands of a race of men who had understood sowell the necessity for fortifying their homes against alleventualities, but the timbers of the roofs had long since fallenvictims to the inclemencies of the seasons and the ruthless"North-easters" which, probably, since the time when the iron shores ofBritain first emerged from beneath the waters, had beaten theirrelentless wings against the barrier which held up their freedom.
Ruxton set his lantern on the ground and moved away to the widedoorway, which no longer possessed the remotest sign of the old woodendoors which had probably been at one time heavy enough to resist asiege. Here he drew a letter from his pocket and read it carefully overby the light of the sunset.
"Dear Mr. Farlow:
"I never knew your wonderful coast could be so interesting, evenabsorbing. I feel I owe you personal thanks for a delightful time,simply because you live--where you live. I have discovered a mostwonderful spot. I say discovered, but probably you have known it fromthe days when you were first able to toddle about by yourself. However,I must tell you of it. It is an old, old, ruined mill, regarded by thefolks on your coast as an evil place which is haunted by the spirits ofthe smugglers who once upon a time used it as the headquarters fortheir nefarious trade. But the incredible part of it is we unearthed asecret in it which has remained hidden for generations, possiblycenturies. Now listen carefully and I will tell you of this secret. Inthe middle of the stone chamber under the mill there is the entrance toa passage which communicates with that villainous cove over which theevil eye of the old mill forever gazes. Six inches beneath the surfaceof the debris on the floor there is a slate slab, and, on raising this,you will discover a stone staircase which goes down, down,--follow it,and you shall see what you shall see. I have since discovered that thisis the _only means of reaching the beach of the cove--unless youpossess wings_. But I began this note with the intention of onlytelling you how much I am looking forward to seeing you again onThursday evening at eight o'clock. I do hope you are taking fulladvantage of your vacation from parliamentary work, and are storing upplenty of good health upon your wonderful, wonderful moors.
"Yours very sincerely, "Vita Vladimir."
Ruxton refolded the letter and put it away. He understood it was thefinal summons to that great adventure which was to tell him of thethreat overshadowing his beloved country.
He had obeyed it readily, eagerly, and now that the reality of thewhole thing was developing he paused to consider the motives urging him.
He was going to witness things first hand. He was glad. Hisunderstanding of duty assured him that it was the only means by whichhe could hope to convince others, when the time came. But was this hissole motive? Was this the motive which had inspired that feeling ofexaltation when he first read the perfumed note, so carefully writtenlest it should fall into wrong hands? He knew it was not.
His eyes were raised to the glistening sea away beyond the cove. He wasgazing straight out through the narrow opening of the cove where theprecipitous cliffs rose sheer out of the blue waters and marked theentrance which the country-folk sensationally loved to call "Hell'sGate." His mind was searching and probing the feelings which inspiredhim, and he knew that the beckoning hand of the woman was exercising agreater power than any sense of duty. He did not blind himself. He hadno desire to. Those dark Slavonic eyes of his were wide and bright, andthe half smile of them was full of an eager warmth. The idealist mindbehind them was widely open to its own imagery. He saw through thoseHell's Gates the perfect, palpitating figure which had poured out itsburden of soul to him on the edge of those very cliffs; and shewas--beckoning.
The youth of him had been engulfed in the soul of the woman. Nor, asyet, did he realize the extent of the power she was exercising. All heknew was that he had neither the power nor desire to resist thesummons, and herein lay the distinguishing mark of those whom Destinyclaims.
After a few moments he glanced at his watch. And at once the alertnessof the man was displayed. It was twenty minutes to eight, and shortlyafter eight it would be low tide. The appointment had been made withregard to that, and that while he approached from the land, she wouldcome by water. Therefore he must not delay.
Dismissing every other consideration he turned back to the mysteriousstairway he had unearthed and began its descent, aided by the light ofthe lantern he had discovered secreted upon the top step, ready for hisuse.
His progress was rapid and easy. The vaulted, declining passage beneaththe mill was high and wide, and constructed of masonry calculated towithstand the erosion of ages. It was moist and slimy, and the stepswere at times slippery, but these things were no deterrents.
The stairway, however, seemed endless in the dim lantern light, and bythe time he had completed the journey he had counted upwards of onehundred steps. At the bottom he paused and looked back up the way hehad come, but, in the blackness of the tunnel, his light revealedlittle more than the first few steps.
Without further pause he turned to ascertain the nature of the placeupon which the stairway had debouched. It was a wide and lofty cavernof Nature's fashioning, except that the walls and the naturalobstructions of the flooring had been rendered smooth and clear by thehand of man. It was easy to estimate the purposes of this subterraneanabode. There was less imagination in the legends of the old mill thanhe had supposed. If the books of his childish reading had anyfoundation in their local color this was certainly the den of someold-time smugglers.
He passed rapidly along the declining passage, and the end of it cameas he expected to find it. It was a cave which opened in the face ofthe cliff overlooking the cove, but so ingeniously hidden by Naturethat its presence could never have been even guessed at by any chancevisit from the sea.
He stood at the opening and gazed out upon the already twilit cove. Buthe could not see the sea from where he stood; only along the face ofthe cliff to his right, down which, zigzagging and winding, a sort ofrough-hewn stairway communicated with the beach below. In front of hima great projection of rock, as though riven from the main cliff at somefar-of
f time by the colossal forces of Nature, hid the entire entranceof the cavern. And so narrow was the space intervening that he couldtouch it with an outstretching of his arm. It was a remarkablehiding-place. Nor did he marvel that he had never heard of it before.But the rapidly deepening twilight of the cove warned him of theapproach of the hour of his appointment. So he blew out his lantern andbegan the descent to the beach nearly fifty feet below.
Within five minutes he was standing in the centre of a patch of goldensand with the still ebbing water of the cove lapping gently at his feet.
A curious change had come over him. All interest inspired by thejourney through the cavern was entirely gone. Even, for the time, hehad no longer any thought of the purpose for which he was there. Hismind was absorbed in the curious weird of the place, and the dreadfulfeeling of overwhelming might bearing in and down upon him.
The appalling grey barrenness, the height of the frowning rampartswhich surrounded him on all sides, except the narrow opening to thesea. The absolute inaccessibility of those frowning walls, and themelancholy scream of the thousands of gulls which haunted the place. Itwas tremendous. It was terrible. But added to all these things was adiscovery which he made almost upon the instant. With the instinct ofpersonal security his eyes sought the high-water mark upon the beach.There was none. It was high up on the cliff sides at no point less thatten feet above the highest point of the beach. Herein lay the terror ofthe cove which lived in the minds of the dwellers upon the moors. Herewas its real terror. A rising tide, and the secret of the smuggler'scavern undiscovered, and--death! He smiled as he thought of the namegiven to the entrance to the cove. Hell's Gate! It was surely----
"Ahoy!"
The cry echoed about the grey walls in haunting fashion. Ruxton wasstartled out of his reverie. In a moment his repulsion at what hebeheld was forgotten. He remembered only his purpose, and his searchingeyes gazed out over the water.
"Ahoy!" he replied, when the last echo of the summons had died out.
He could see no boat. He could discover no human being. And--it was aman's voice that had hailed him.
For some moments a profound silence prevailed. Even the gulls ceasedtheir mournful cries at the intrusion of a human voice upon theirsolitude.
Ruxton searched in every direction. Was this another surprise of thisextraordinarily mysterious place? Was this----? Quite suddenly his gazebecame riveted upon a spit of low, weed-covered rock, stretching outinto the calm water like a breakwater. There was a sound of clamberingfeet, and as his acute hearing caught it, a sort of instinct thrust hishand into his coat pocket where an automatic pistol lay. Then helaughed at himself and withdrew his hand sharply. The figure of a manscrambled up on to the breakwater.
They stood eyeing each other for several thoughtful moments. Thenwithout attempting to draw nearer the stranger called to him.
"Mr. Farlow, sir. This way, if you please."
Without hesitation Ruxton crossed over to him and scrambled on to therocks.
"You are from----?" he demanded.
The question was put sharply, but without suspicion.
"The lady's waiting for you out there," replied the man simply. "Wehaven't much time, sir. You can't come in here on a rising tide, andyou can't get out of it either. It's hell's own place for small craft,or any craft for that matter on a rising tide." He threw an anxiousglance at the water.
Ruxton was gazing down at the little boat lying the other side of thenatural breakwater. It was a petrol launch of some kind, but small andlight as a cockle-shell. There was another man in the stern, and heobserved that both he and the man beside him were in some sort ofuniform.
"I didn't see you come in," he went on curiously.
"We've been lying here half an hour, sir. Our orders were to wait tilljust before the tide turned. We've got about half an hour, sir," theman added significantly.
"Where's the vessel?" enquired Ruxton.
"Just outside, sir."
"I didn't see her."
"She's lying submerged."
"And Miss Vladimir is--aboard?"
"The lady is, sir," replied the man, with a shadow of a smile in hisdeep-set blue eyes.
The stranger stood aside, a direct invitation to Ruxton to climb downinto the boat. But the latter made no move to do so.
Then the man pushed his peaked cap back from his forehead and displayeda shock of sandy grey hair which matched his closely trimmed whiskers.
"You'll excuse me, sir," he said, a trifle urgently, "but we've got toget out smart. Once the tide turns it races in here like an avalanche.We'll never make Hell's Gates if we aren't smart, and we don't want toget caught up in Hell itself."
The man's urgency had the desired effect. Ruxton stooped down andlowered himself into the bow of the boat.
"That's right, sir, it'll trim the boat," the man approved, as hedropped lightly in amidships. In a moment the clutch was let in and thelittle craft backed out of its narrow harbor.
It was a moment of crisis. Ruxton Farlow had practically committedhimself to the power of these strangers. Not quite though. For he hadtaken the bow seat, and his loaded automatic was in his pocket still.However, the position was not without considerable risk. He hadexpected to meet Vita. Instead he had been met by two men in uniform.They were both in middle life, and burly specimens of the seafaringprofession.
He had calculated the chances carefully before taking his finaldecision. Moreover he had closely appraised the men in charge of theboat. They were British. Of that he was certain. Nor were they menwithout education. On the whole he did not see that the balance layvery much in their favor if any treachery were contemplated.
"You are British," he said to the man in front of him, as the boatswung round head on to the gates of the cove and began to gather speed.
"Yes, sir. Served my time in the Navy--and had a billet elsewhere eversince."
"Since the war?"
"No, sir. Before the war."
"Where?"
The man faced round with a smile, while his comrade drove the littleboat at a headlong pace through the racing waters.
"Where a good many of our Navy's cast-offs go, sir. In Germany."