RESCUED
NEARER and nearer the sea approached the cliffs; on—on it came, until
at length a little rippling wave out-did its fellows and flowed in
almost to the children's feet. Polly uttered a shriek of terror, and
clutched her cousin by the arm.
"Oh, Edgar, we shall be drowned!" she wailed. "What can we do? Oh, what
can we do?"
"We must try to climb a short way up the cliff, Polly," he replied,
endeavouring to speak reassuringly and hide his own alarm. "Come, I'll
help you. I'm sure you can do it if you will only try."
"I can't, I can't! Oh, Edgar, you had better leave me; you'll be
drowned, too, if you stay here. Oh, I'm so frightened, but—but you
mustn't stay with me any longer. Go! Go!"
"I shall do no such thing," he declared stoutly. "But I do think you're
very silly and—and unkind not to try to climb a short distance. Would
you rather stay here and let us both be drowned?"
"No, no! But my foot hurts me so dreadfully if I rest on it."
"If you could manage to get as far as there," Edgar said persuasively,
indicating a ledge of rock not far above their heads, "we should be
safe for another half-hour; do try, Polly. See—" and he climbed a few
feet up the cliff, "give me your hand, and try to bear the pain."
There was a minute or two of great anxiety as Polly, driven to
desperation, clutched his hand, and, with many exclamations and groans,
scrambled after him and perched herself on the ledge, by his side, in
comparative safety.
"Oh, my foot!" she sobbed, as she leaned against the cliff and tenderly
felt her injured ankle. "Oh, I'm so giddy! I dare not look down."
"Well, don't," he replied. "I'm sorry your foot is hurting you so much,
but aren't you glad you're here?"
"Yes, of course I am. I—I don't want to be drowned. Oh, surely we shall
see a boat coming soon! What can Roger be doing to be so long?"
"It isn't long, really but it seems a great while."
There was silence after that for some time; still there was no sign of
the expected boat. Polly was crying hopelessly now, and Edgar felt very
inclined to do the same; but he manfully strove to retain his composure
and to hearten his companion. Venturing to peep downwards at length,
the little girl was horrified to note how high the water had risen—very
soon it would reach them again.
"Edgar, I can't climb any higher," she said tremulously, "I really
can't."
"No, Polly," he answered, and she caught the tone of despair in his
voice.
"I—I don't want you to stay with me any longer," she faltered. "I—I'd
rather you'd go. It would be dreadful for Aunt Janie and Uncle John if
you were drowned. It's no good your staying."
Edgar made no response, and he did not move. Escape was so easy for
him, but he had no intention of leaving his cousin to her fate, and all
that was noblest and best in his character arose to kill the selfish
desire for personal safety against which he had been fighting since
Roger had gone.
"Are you not going?" the little girl asked by-and-by. "No?" she said
wonderingly as he shook his head.
"You mean to say you will stay even when the sea comes up to the ledge?
Oh, you must not!"
"It's very brave of you to speak like that," he replied earnestly, "but
I'm not going to leave you. I'm not such a coward as you think. I mean
to wait with you till—till Roger comes with a boat to rescue us."
She made no answer in words, but the look she gave him was eloquent
of the deepest gratitude, not unmixed with admiration, for, at that
moment, he appeared a veritable hero in her sight. She crept close to
him and caught his hand in her chill, trembling fingers, and thus they
crouched together for a while longer, watching the white-winged sea
gulls passing to and fro, and ever and again turning their anxious eyes
in the direction from which help must come.
At last, when the tide was within a few inches of the ledge of rock, a
boat appeared in sight, and springing to his feet, Edgar pulled out his
handkerchief and waved it wildly.
"Take care!" cried Polly. "Don't fall! Oh, don't fall!"
"Is the boat corning for us, do you think?"
"Yes, yes," he answered excitedly. "I can see Roger in the bow,
and—yes—Uncle Martin, too! There are two fishermen rowing. Oh, Polly,
we're saved! Oh, how thankful I am!"
"Are you certain they see us?" the little girl asked, rubbing her eyes,
which were full of tears—tears of glad relief and joy now.
"Oh yes, yes! They're coming straight towards us as fast as ever they
can. It will be all right now, Polly."
Ten minutes later the children had been rescued from their hazardous
position and in little more than half an hour afterwards, the two
stalwart fishermen who plied the oars ran the boat high and dry upon
the beach at Lynn, where quite half the village had assembled, as well
as Mrs. Trent and Cousin Becky, all anxious to be assured of the young
folks' safety. Polly, on account of her injured foot, had to be carried
to the Mill House, and made the journey in her father's arms, whilst
her mother walked by her side, listening, with breathless interest,
to her account of all that had occurred. Cousin Becky followed with
the boys; and Roger explained to Edgar that he had had some difficulty
in getting a boat, and when he had at length succeeded in his quest
and had been on the point of starting, his father, who had meanwhile
returned from his drive, had come down to the beach and been just in
time to accompany him.
"Father was dreadfully frightened," Roger said, "and the fishermen were
awfully grave, for you know the tide will rise much higher yet. It
would have been all right if Polly had not hurt her foot, for she could
have climbed the cliff as well as I did, though, of course, she would
have made a fuss. It was very kind of you to stay with her, Edgar.
Don't you think so?" he asked of Cousin Becky.
"Very kind and very brave," she answered promptly. "I am sure every one
must think so."
Cousin Becky was right, for it was unanimously agreed that Edgar was
the hero of the occasion. His heart swelled with pleasure when his
uncle spoke of his pluck, and his aunt kissed him and thanked him
gratefully for his consideration for her little girl.
"I couldn't have climbed any higher," Polly declared with a shudder as,
later on, having had her ankle bathed and bandaged, she reclined upon
the sofa in the sitting-room and was waited upon by Roger, who brought
her her tea, "and Edgar wouldn't go even when I told him to and said
I'd rather he did. I'm afraid that wasn't quite true, because I was
so frightened at the thought of being alone, but I didn't want to be
selfish. Oh, Roger, do you remember that we didn't wish him to come to
Lynn? I'm sure I should have been drowned to-day if hadn't been for
him. He made me climb up to that ledge of rock, and if I hadn't—"
"Don't talk of it any more," Roger broke in. "It was awfully fine
of Edgar to behave as he did. I'm glad I forgave him for the way he
treated me about the Calais Noble," he added, "for he's made up for
everything now."
"I shall tell him what you say," Polly returned. And she kept her word,
thereby giving her cousin the keenest pleasure he had experienced for
many a day.
The sprain to the little girl's ankle did not prove a severe one;
but, much to her dismay—for she soon tired of playing the role of an
interesting invalid—it tied her to the sofa for several days, and she
begrudged the time thus wasted indoors. Therefore, when one evening
Cousin Becky made a suggestion that she and the young people should
remain at the Mill House until the middle of September, whilst Mr.
and Mrs. Trent and Louisa returned to Beaworthy at the date which had
previously been arranged, Polly's delight was boundless. "Jabez and
Sarah Triggs will look after our comforts," Cousin Becky said when Mrs.
Trent began to demur, "and if I want further help I can get it from the
village. It seems a pity to take the children home just at present."
"But will it not appear as though we are presuming on your friend's
good-nature?" began Mrs. Trent doubtfully; then, catching the humorous
expression in Cousin Becky's dark eyes, she paused and looked at her
inquiringly.
There was a brief silence, during which everyone gazed curiously at the
old lady, who had grown rosy red and seemed more than a little confused.
"I can answer for my friend," she said at length. "She will not think
you in the least presumptuous."
"She must be a dear old thing!" exclaimed Polly. "I should like to see
her and tell her what I think of her."
"So should I," agreed Roger.
"I am not certain we have not all seen her," Mr. Trent said in a
deliberate tone. "I am not certain that we do not know her very well."
Then, as Cousin Becky started and looked at him quickly, he continued:
"Isn't it time for the good fairy to reveal herself? Surely she might
show herself in her true colours now?"
"Oh, Martin, you have guessed?" cried the old lady.
"I have suspected you ever since we came to the Mill House," he replied
gravely. "I have heard you spoken of in the village as the owner of
this place, and Jabez always mentioned you as though you were his
employer. I have never asked any questions; and Sarah, being deaf, has
been unable to converse with any of us, or doubtless we should have
learnt the truth from her. You are the mistress of the Mill House,
Cousin Becky, and we are really your guests; we have no one to thank
but you."
"Yes," Cousin Becky acknowledged, "that is so. My secret has been a
harmless one, and I have enjoyed keeping it. No wonder you all look
puzzled!" She laughed as she met the bewildered glances of Mrs. Trent
and the young people. "Let me explain. You took it for granted I was
poor, and I did not undeceive you, for your sympathy was very sweet to
me, and I was very lonely and sad. One may be rich in pocket and very
poor in other ways. If you had known me to be well off, you would not
have invited me to visit you or offered me a share of your home, and I
should have been the loser then. You have known me hitherto as 'poor
Cousin Becky,' but you will not love me the less now, will you, because
you know I am not poor? You will let me keep the places in your hearts
which I believe I have won; and, because you have given to me, you will
not deny me the happiness of giving to you?"
"You are not poor," murmured Mrs. Trent in bewilderment, "and the Mill
House is yours, and we never guessed it—at least, it seems Martin did!
Oh, Cousin Becky, it appears incredible you could keep this secret to
yourself! How blind we must all have been!"
"Then it is you who are our good fairy," said Polly, putting her arms
around the old lady's neck and hugging her in a transport of affection
and delight. "Oh, how glad I am! How wonderful it all is, like a real
fairy tale, isn't it? Oh, boys, aren't you surprised? I am, and so
very, very pleased!" And she hugged her again.
"You'll let the children stay at the Mill House with me, won't you?"
Cousin Becky asked as soon as Polly would allow her to speak. Then, as
Mr. and Mrs. Trent both gave assent, she added, "I feel sure Janie will
let Edgar remain, too and when you see her, Mary, as you will be sure
to do on your return to Beaworthy, you can explain matters to her."
"Won't she be astonished to hear Cousin Becky's not poor, Edgar?"
whispered Roger to his cousin.
"Rather," was the emphatic answer, "but I am sure she will be very
glad."