By-and-by Polly rushed off to the kitchen to impart the news of the impending holiday to Louisa, and was beyond measure gratified by the sensation she caused.
"Wonders will never cease, Miss Polly!" exclaimed Louisa impressively, after she had fully grasped the facts that the house in Princess Street was to be shut up and that she, too, was to go to the Mill House at Lynn. "Why, I'm so surprised and pleased that I can't find a word to say." This was a mistake on Louisa's part, however, for she found a great many words, and asked a great many questions about the Mill House, which of course the little girl could not answer, and finally she inquired the name of this friend of Miss Trent's who was not against lending her house in such a casual way.
"Cousin Becky didn't say, but I'll ask her," Polly replied; and, forthwith, she returned to the sitting-room to put the inquiry.
But Cousin Becky shook her head when questioned, and replied with a smile:
"I cannot tell you my friend's name, because—to be plain—she does not wish it told. It doesn't matter, does it? She is an eccentric person, who likes to do little kindnesses when it is possible, without being thanked."
"I see," Polly responded gravely. "Well, I shall call her our good fairy, for she must be another such person as the one who was so kind to poor Sarah Glubb. How nice it is to think there are so many good fairies still left in the world!"
"I am so glad Martin has decided to take his family away this summer," remarked Mrs. Marsh, at the breakfast table one morning, a few days after her brother had agreed to Cousin Becky's plan for a holiday. "I met Mary and the children in the town yesterday, and they were quite excited at the prospect of turning their backs on Beaworthy for a few weeks—poor things! I daresay I should feel the same if I had not had a change for years. Cousin Becky is to accompany them to Norfolk, I hear."
"It's through Miss Trent that they're going," Mr. Marsh replied. "A friend of hers has lent them a furnished house, it appears—the Mill House, at Lynn. Your brother asked me if I knew the place. I remember I chanced to visit it once from Cromer."
"Who can Cousin Becky's friend be, I wonder?" said Mrs. Marsh musingly, her face expressive of surprise and curiosity, for this was news to her. She had only had a few words with her sister-in-law on the previous day, and had heard no details in connection with the projected holiday.
"Ah, that's a secret," Edgar informed her. He was very inquisitive upon the point himself. "Roger says Cousin Becky hasn't told anyone—not even Uncle Martin. The lady the house belongs to doesn't wish her name to be known."
"How extraordinary!" exclaimed Mrs. Marsh, "And how very mysterious! A lady, you say?" She paused as her son assented, a pucker of thought between her brows. By-and-by she proceeded, turning to her husband, "John, have you considered at all where we shall go this summer? It is quite time we settled upon a place."
"I have not thought about it," Mr. Marsh admitted. "In fact, I do not want to leave home during August, this year."
"But Edgar must have a change of air in his holidays, he has not been looking well lately," Mrs. Marsh reminded him, "and the school re-assembles in the middle of September."
"Well, why not send him with his cousins?" suggested Mr. Marsh. "I think that would be a good plan. Then you and I could go to Scotland later in the autumn. How would you like that, eh?"
"Very well," Mrs. Marsh answered, after a minute's reflection. "And I should be quite contented to trust Edgar with his aunt and uncle, but perhaps it may not be convenient for them to take him. However, I can easily ascertain that."
"Oh, they will take him," Mr. Marsh said confidently. "I have no doubt about that. Make what arrangements you please, my dear. I see by Edgar's face the plan meets with his approval."
Accordingly, that afternoon Mrs. Marsh repaired to her brother's house in Princess Street, where she found her sister-in-law and Polly at home.
"I am come to ask a favour of you, Mary," she said, after greetings had been exchanged, and Mrs. Trent had told her that Cousin Becky was out, "and I have every hope that you will grant it."
"You may depend I will if I possibly can," was the earnest reply.
"I am sure of it. Well, John does not want to leave home at present, and of course we wish Edgar to have a change of air during his holidays, so we have been wondering if we can prevail upon you to take him with you to Lynn. I am sure he will be very little trouble." She paused and looked at Mrs. Trent inquiringly. "Of course we will pay you for his board and lodgings," she added. "We will agree to your terms."
"I was not thinking of that," Mrs. Trent answered, a slight flush rising to her pale cheeks. As a matter-of-fact it had flashed through her mind that the charge of her nephew would be a great responsibility, but she refrained from saying so. "You know, we shall be actually Cousin Becky's guests," she continued, "but for her we should not be going away at all, so I must consult her before I give you an answer. I do not know the exact size of the Mill House, whether there will be a room to spare for Edgar or not; but if there should be, and Cousin Becky is willing for him to make one of our party—"
"Well, talk the matter over with her and let me know," broke in Mrs. Marsh. She was a trifle vexed at the hesitancy in her sister-in-law's manner, for she had thought she would have immediately acceded to her request, and she had intended to have had the matter settled at once.
"I hope you will have a pleasant holiday," she proceeded, "for I am sure you all need it. I was never in Norfolk myself."
"Cousin Becky says the Mill House is only about five minutes' walk from the sea," explained Polly. "Oh, I am certain we shall have a lovely time! Isn't it kind of Cousin Becky's friend to lend us the house!"
"Very," agreed Mrs. Marsh. "And you have not the least idea who she is, have you?"
"No," Mrs. Trent replied; "we only know she is an eccentric lady, who, when she does a kindness, dislikes being thanked for it. Cousin Becky has known her all her life."
"Mother, you have not told Aunt Janie about the coin," said Polly, abruptly changing the conversation.
"I was going to do so in due course, my dear." Turning to her sister-in-law, Mrs. Trent asked: "You remember that suit of clothes of Edgar's which you left here in a parcel with some other things, do you not?"
"When you gave me my purse, Aunt Janie," supplemented Polly.
"Yes," assented Mrs. Marsh. "The suit was faded but very little worn. I thought Roger might find it useful in the holidays."
"Indeed, he will find it very useful," Mrs. Trent agreed. "Well, this morning Cousin Becky was examining it to see if it wanted any mending, when she discovered something between the material and the lining near the hem of one of the legs of the trousers she ripped the hem and found an old coin, which Martin says he believes must be one from your husband's collection. He calls it a Calais Noble."
"A Calais Noble!" echoed Mrs. Marsh. "Are you sure? Why, that is the coin John lost, and which he has been so worried about. He thought that it had been stolen. How could it possibly have got where Cousin Becky found it?"
"There was a little rip in the pocket near the top," Polly was beginning to explain when her aunt interrupted her excitedly.
"Oh, dear, how sorry I am! Then he did take it, after all! I could not believe it possible when John suggested it. Oh, Mary, I am so terribly grieved that this should have happened."
"I don't understand," said Mrs. Trent, in utter bewilderment. "Who do you imagine took the coin?"
"Roger, of course!"
"Roger!" shrieked Polly, her eyes flashing anger and reproach at her aunt. "Do you mean to say you think Roger stole it? Oh, you cruel, wicked—"
"Hush, Polly," commanded her mother sternly. "Please explain your meaning," she said quickly to Mrs. Marsh. "I fail to see why, because this coin has been found in Edgar's suit of clothes, you should think Roger a thief."
"John feared he had taken it," Mrs. Marsh admitted. "He knew he had had the opportunity of doing so on an occasion when Edgar showed him the coins, and I believe Edgar told him that this particular coin was a valuable one. Give me the Calais Noble, Mary, and I will hush the matter up. I expect after Roger took it he—"
"Roger did not take it!" Polly broke in passionately, regarding her aunt with defiance. "I am certain he did not; besides, the Calais Noble was found in Edgar's clothes, not in Roger's."
"Roger has never worn that suit of clothes," declared Mrs. Trent, her face, which had been very troubled, suddenly clearing. "The coin was evidently put in the trousers pocket, and I think it is far more likely that Edgar can account for the coin having been where Cousin Becky found it than Roger, who never had the clothes in his possession."
There was a long silence, during which Mrs. Marsh's fine colour faded and her expression became anxious, almost frightened. It did not seem likely that Edgar should have taken the Calais Noble, and yet she saw the force of her sister-in-law's argument.
"Where is the coin?" she asked at length, in a faltering tone.
"Father has it," Polly answered. "He is going to return it to Uncle John; he will be sure to see him this afternoon at the office. Oh, Aunt Janie, say you don't think Roger took it!"
"I don't know what to say or think," sighed poor Mrs. Marsh. "Does Roger know where the coin was found?"
"Oh yes! He was so amazed when Cousin Becky told him and showed it to him. He said at once, 'Why that's Uncle John's Calais Noble!' Didn't he, mother?"
"Yes, he recognised it immediately," said Mrs. Trent.
Then she remembered how silent Roger had afterwards become, and she grew a little uneasy again. He had suggested taking the coin to school and giving it to Edgar to deliver to Mr. Marsh; but his father had negatived the idea, saying he would return it to his brother-in-law himself. Roger had appeared rather dissatisfied with that arrangement, she reflected; she wondered why. She longed for him to return from school so that she might question him upon the point. Of one thing she was certain, however, that her boy was not a thief. That there was a mystery in connection with the Calais Noble was evident, but she never for a moment doubted that Roger would be able to clear himself from blame.
"My husband will be pleased to get his coin back, for he set great store by it," Mrs. Marsh observed, as she rose rather hurriedly to take her departure. "I am extremely sorry I mentioned his suspicion of Roger. I feel sure you are right and that he did not take the coin, though I cannot understand its having been found in Edgar's suit. I think the best way will be to let the matter stand as it is. You don't agree with me? Well, I will question Edgar and see if he can throw any light on the subject. Dear me, what constant worries boys are!"
After she had gone, mother and daughter looked at each other questioningly, and the latter cried:
"Oh, mother, how dreadful to think that Uncle John believes Roger to be a thief! How dare he?"
"He will learn his mistake, my dear," Mrs. Trent responded soothingly, with difficulty concealing her own indignation. "He has misjudged my boy terribly, I am positive of that."
"He thinks Roger took the coin because it is valuable," the little girl proceeded, her voice quavering with anger. "He wouldn't think it if we had plenty of money like himself. Oh, mother, how hard it is to be poor! I believe that somehow this is Edgar's fault. Oh, whatever happens don't let him go to Norfolk with us! I shall beg Cousin Becky not to take him."
"Do nothing of the kind, Polly and I must forbid you to interfere in this affair of the Calais Noble, my dear, it will be sifted out, never fear; your father will see to that. It will be better, for everyone concerned, not to make a fuss about it. I have not the slightest fear on Roger's account, though I think it is not unlikely that he knows something about the Calais Noble, that I must find out. It has hurt me very deeply to hear of your uncle's suspicion, but I am confident Roger will be able to clear himself from it. The truth always prevails, you know."
Mrs. Trent's lips quivered as she spoke, and her eyes grew misty with tears. She had experienced a shock that afternoon, which had shaken her composure; and she was really quite as indignant as her little daughter that anyone should deem Roger so utterly devoid of right principle as to be capable of theft. Anxiously she awaited the boy's arrival; but, contrary to his custom, he was late for tea; and when five o'clock struck, Cousin Becky having returned, they had the meal without him. Miss Trent was informed of all that had occurred during Mrs. Marsh's visit, and her utter incredulity and amazement when she was told of Mr. Marsh's suspicion of Roger was witnessed with the keenest relief by the boy's mother and sister.
"I knew you'd believe in Roger," Polly said tearfully. "I would—against all the world!"
"MOTHER has gone to see Aunt Mary to ask her to take me to Lynn next month," Edgar Marsh informed his cousin, as they passed out of the Grammar School building at about the same time that his mother was leaving Princess Street. "I say, Roger, shall you like me to go with you?" he asked eagerly.
"I don't know," Roger answered dubiously. "But how is it you aren't going for a holiday with Aunt Janie and Uncle John?" he inquired.
"Because father doesn't want to leave home till later. I hope you don't mind—" Edgar broke off in the midst of the sentence, and regarded his cousin anxiously.
"Oh, I don't mind. But, look here, I want to speak to you about Uncle John's Calais Noble. Such an odd thing has happened! Why, how queer you look!"
Well might Roger say so, for his companion had grown very pale, and was gazing at him with an expression of mingled dismay and alarm in his blue eyes; seeing which Roger was confirmed in the suspicion which had entered his mind as soon as he had heard of Cousin Becky's find. "Didn't you put the coin back that day you brought it to school?" he asked. "Did you lose it? What happened, Edgar?"
"I—I don't know what you mean," gasped Edgar.
"Why do you speak of the Calais Noble? What do you know about it?"
"Not so much as you do," Roger replied significantly, with a ring of scorn in his honest voice. "Why do you try to deceive me? I know you couldn't have put the coin back in the cabinet as you said you would, or it wouldn't have been found in your clothes."
"Found in my clothes!" cried Edgar, feeling more and more surprised and frightened. "Oh, Roger, don't go home yet! Come for a walk with me where we shan't be disturbed, and tell me what you have found out."
"Well, I will, if you'll promise to tell no more stories," Roger said relentingly, "not otherwise."
Edgar promised earnestly that he would speak no word which was not absolutely true; and, accordingly, his cousin accompanied him down a side street which made a short cut into the road leading to the clay works, and there, perched by the side of Roger on a five-barred gate, he explained in faltering tones that he had been unable to put the Calais Noble back in its rightful place for the simple reason that he had lost it; whereupon Roger informed him how and where the coin had been found, after which there was silence for some minutes.
"I'm in a pretty bad fix," Edgar remarked dejectedly, at length, heaving a deep sigh.
"Why?" asked Roger. "I should think Uncle John will be very glad to get his Calais Noble back. Aren't you glad it's found?"
"N-o-o, I'd rather not have heard anything more about it. Of course father missed it, but I—I didn't tell him I'd taken it; he didn't ask me if I had, so I held my tongue."
Roger stared at his cousin with deepening amazement; then an expression of contempt crossed his face.
"Father would have been so dreadfully angry if he'd known I'd taken the Calais Noble to school and lost it," Edgar proceeded excusingly. "He never guessed I had anything to do with it, he thought it had been stolen."
"What a coward you are!" Roger exclaimed in a tone which made the other wince. "Who did Uncle John think had stolen it? One of the servants, I suppose? What a shame of you to let him think that! I do feel disgusted with you. But he'll know the truth now."
"Yes," agreed Edgar with a groan of despair. "I wish I'd told him all about it at the time I lost the coin, but I never thought it would turn up again. There would have been a row, of course, but it would have all blown over long before now. You can guess what a state of mind I've been in lately."
Roger made no response. He could not understand the spirit of cowardice which had kept his cousin from confessing the truth; but he realised that the thought of the missing coin must have been a weight upon his conscience.
"I suppose Uncle Martin has given father the Calais Noble by this time," Edgar remarked mournfully by-and-by. "He will be sure to tell him where it was found."
"Sure to," Roger replied; "you'll have to own up, now."
"I see that. I suppose you think pretty badly of me, Roger, don't you?"
"Yes, I do," was the frank admission.
"You'd rather I didn't go with you to Lynn?"
"Well, you see, Edgar, you're not to be trusted," Roger said gravely, "and I hate having to do with a fellow I can't trust. I like my friends to 'act on the square,' as father says, but you know you don't do that."
"Then you won't ever be friendly with me again?" Edgar asked in dismay.
"I don't say that, because you're my cousin; but I think you've been a big coward to let your father believe the Calais Noble had been stolen, when you knew all the time you'd lost it. I didn't tell at home that you'd taken it to school because I'd promised you I wouldn't; but, of course, everyone will know about it now. I shan't hold my tongue any longer."
"I don't know what Polly will think of me," said Edgar dolefully; for, truth to tell, he was afraid of the little girl's sharp tongue. "Mother meant to call to see Aunt Mary this afternoon," he continued, "so I expect she knows by now that the Calais Noble is found. Oh, dear, what a to-do there will be when I get home! I do dread it. I wish I hadn't been a coward and had told father the truth, but—but he would have been so angry."
"I expect he'll be angrier now, won't he?" questioned Roger.
Edgar nodded, his eyes full of tears, a choking sensation in his throat. Much though his companion blamed him, he was sorry for him too, and when he spoke again his voice took a gentler tone.
"Father says if we do anything wrong it's always right and much easier to confess it at once," he said. "And Uncle John isn't very strict with you, he wouldn't be hard on you, I know."
"Of course not; but, you see, I had no right to touch his coins."
"There now, that's what father says," said Roger, "it's doing wrong that makes us cowards. If you'd taken the Calais Noble with Uncle John's consent you wouldn't have been so afraid to tell him you'd lost it. But, I say," he proceeded with an abrupt change of the subject as several carts passed them laden with black clay, "look at the stuff in those carts! Did you ever see clay like that before?"
"Yes, I saw the pit it comes from the other day; it's the best clay, father says, and will burn quite white. He hopes there's a big vein of it; they are at work on one shaft now."
"Let us go on, Edgar, now we're so near the works, and have a look round, shall we?" Roger suggested.
Edgar hesitated. He was wishful to assent to the proposition, which would delay his return home for a short while; but he had been forbidden to visit the clay works—a fact of which his cousin was unaware. He glanced at his watch—a present he had received from his parents on his last birthday—and asked:
"Have we time? It is already half-past four."
"I don't want to be home before five," Roger answered, "and I can run home in quarter of an hour; and as for you—well, I suppose it doesn't matter to five minutes or so what time you get back, does it?"
Edgar admitted that it did not; and, accordingly, the two boys went on, passed the cottages, and entered the clay works. Roger was particularly anxious to see the pit from whence the black clay was procured, and Edgar felt a sense of importance at being able to tell him all about it. Several men were at work in the shaft, but they were so busily employed that for some time they did not notice the two boys standing on the edge of the pit watching them; at last, however, one chanced to glance up, and immediately shouted a warning to be careful.
"All right," Roger replied, moving back at once. "We'd better not go too close, Edgar. Come away."
There had been heavy rain during the night, consequently the ground was very cloggy, and as Roger looked back to ascertain if his cousin was coming, he was horrified to see Edgar, who had turned around to follow him, slip, and with a piercing yell of terror fall backwards into the mouth of the pit.
In a moment the scene was one of the greatest confusion, for the accident had been witnessed by several men engaged in loading carts with clay, and they one and all rushed to the spot where the unfortunate boy had fallen, shouting questions to those below. For a minute Roger was too shocked to move, and when he would have joined the group at the edge of the shaft, someone caught him by the arm and stopped him.
"Let me go to him!" Roger implored. "Oh, poor, poor Edgar! He must have been killed. Oh, please, let me go to him!"
"No, sir," replied a familiar voice, and, looking quickly at his captor, the little boy recognised Caleb Glubb. "You wait here with me till we hear more about what's happened. My mate's gone to find out if your cousin's much injured, or—" The man paused with a shudder. "You can't do any good if I let you go," he added, "you'd better wait, it won't be for long."
Roger's teeth chattered with fright, and his legs trembled so much that he could scarcely stand, but he tried to restrain his emotion, whilst a wild prayer of agony to God rose from his heart. Oh, how awful if Edgar should have been killed! Who would tell the harrowing news to Aunt Janie and Uncle John? So engrossed was he in contemplating the horrors of what might be that he never noticed the arrival of his uncle's dog-cart, nor did he see his uncle hurry past him to the mouth of the pit; but, presently, he became aware that Caleb Glubb was speaking again.
"They've brought him up, Master Roger," Caleb said. "He's unconscious, but they say he isn't dead; maybe, after all, he's not very badly hurt."
"Let me go and find out," Roger said huskily, moving forward. There was a mist in front of his eyes, but he saw several figures bending over the inanimate form of his cousin at a little distance. "Is he dead?" he asked with a sob. "Oh!" he cried as he caught sight of Edgar's pallid face and closed eyes. "Tell me he is not dead!"
"No, no," someone answered, "and no bones are broken; the injury seems to be to his head. He fell on a piece of timber and stunned himself."
Roger did not hear the completion of the sentence, for suddenly he found himself confronted by his uncle's familiar figure.
"Uncle John!" he gasped, terror-stricken by the sight of Mr. Marsh's countenance, which was ghastly in its pallor. "Oh, Uncle John!"
His uncle took him by the arm and drew him aside so that they could not be overheard.
"How is it you are here?" he demanded sternly. "Did you persuade Edgar to come?" Then, as Roger assented, never dreaming of explaining how little persuasion had been required, he continued, "I thought as much. Go home and keep out of my sight. I never wish to see you again. You are a worse boy than I thought. Go."
"But is Edgar much hurt?" asked Roger, too full of anxiety on his cousin's account to resent his uncle's words. "Oh, Uncle John, tell me, do!"
"I don't know myself," Mr. Marsh replied. "I have sent for a doctor and a carriage to convey my poor boy home. The best thing you can do is to go home yourself."
Roger obeyed without further demur; and half an hour later he turned the corner of Princess Street, and caught sight of Polly's face at the sitting-room window. She saw at once that something had happened, and met him at the front door; but he brushed past her into his mother's presence, and flung himself, weeping bitterly, into his mother's arms. It was such an unusual sight to see her brother in tears that the little girl was struck with mingled awe and dismay; but when, between his sobs, he explained what had happened, she no longer wondered at his emotion, but cried bitterly too.
ALL was bustle and confusion at the Rookery when Edgar was brought home, for the news of the accident had so frightened Mrs. Marsh that she had been utterly incapable of giving any instructions to the servants, and, at the sight of her son's unconscious form, she had become so completely unnerved that the doctor, seeing that he could not rely upon her for assistance, had requested her to remain downstairs until he had satisfied himself as to the extent of Edgar's injuries. At the present moment the unhappy mother, overcome with grief and suspense, was pacing up and down the hall, waiting for news of her boy—Edgar had been conveyed to his own bedroom—and bemoaning her inexperience of sickness and her lack of self-control.
"It terrified me to see his dear face looking so deathly," she wailed, when one of the servants ventured a word of consolation. "I could not help crying out. Who's that? There's someone at the front door."
As she spoke the front door opened, and Cousin Becky and Mr. Trent entered, their faces expressive of the greatest concern and sympathy. Cousin Becky had come to know if she could be of any assistance, "for I have seen much sickness and I am really a capital nurse," she explained as Mrs. Marsh regarded her more than a little doubtfully.
"How good of you to come!" Mrs. Marsh replied, much touched. "They have taken my poor boy upstairs, but the doctor will not allow me in his room because I cannot help crying—I fear I am very foolish. Oh, Cousin Becky, I am so thankful you are here."
Cousin Becky divested herself of her bonnet and cloak, and handed them to a servant; then she turned again to Mrs. Marsh, and said: "I am going upstairs at once to offer my services as a nurse. Your brother will remain with you, for I know he will not return to Princess Street until he has heard the doctor's report."
"I will show you Edgar's room," Mrs. Marsh said, and she preceded the old lady upstairs. On the first landing she pointed to a closed door, and whispered: "In there."
Cousin Becky nodded; and Mrs. Marsh watched her as she quietly opened the door and entered the sick room. The next moment the door was closed again; and, though the anxious mother listened attentively, no sound reached her ears; so, very sick at heart, she went downstairs and joined her brother. She was much calmer now, and able to discuss what had happened; she admitted that Edgar had been forbidden to visit the clay works.
"Roger was with him and witnessed the accident," Mr. Trent informed her. "It has been a great shock to him, as you may imagine. It appears he asked Edgar to accompany him to see a new shaft which had lately been opened; he did not know Edgar had been told not to go there. Oh, Janie, thank God your boy was not killed! He might have been, indeed it was marvellous he was not. Fortunately his fall was broken by a wide piece of timber which spanned the shaft, and a man who was standing on the timber at work caught him, or he would have rebounded and fallen to the bottom of the pit. I heard all about it from another man who was at work in the same shaft. Come, try not to cry any more, but pluck up your heart, for there is every reason to hope that Edgar is not very seriously hurt. He will have the best that human skill can do for him; and he is in God's care, dear Janie, don't forget that."
Mrs. Marsh's tears continued to flow, but her brother's words comforted her, and her face brightened as she remarked: "It was very good of Cousin Becky to come to us in our trouble."
"Cousin Becky is very good and kind," Mr. Trent answered. "Directly she heard of poor Edgar's accident she thought you would want help and suggested offering her services to you. You were wise to accept them, and I am sure she will be a great comfort to you."
Mrs. Marsh did indeed find Cousin Becky a great comfort to her in the anxious days which followed, for, though it proved that Edgar had not been dangerously injured, he had slight concussion of the brain and required careful nursing. And, with the best intentions in the world, his mother was very incapable in sickness, so that it was upon Cousin Becky that most of the nursing fell. Cousin Becky was so quiet and gentle in her ways, her voice was so soft and soothing that it did not worry an aching head, and she was so unfailingly cheerful, whilst her skirts never rustled, and her footsteps could scarcely be heard. In short, she was a perfect nurse.
It was several days after his accident before Edgar was in a fit condition to think of anything; but, with returning strength, he remembered many matters to worry about, and he became very troubled and unhappy. His father visited him every morning before he went to business; but he never mentioned anything he thought would distress his little son, so that no word had been said concerning Edgar's disobedience in going to the clay works, and there was still the mysterious disappearance of the Calais Noble to be explained. His mother, too, though she spent hours by his bedside daily now, would not permit him to talk on any unpleasant subject, and stopped him with a kiss when he began to say that he was sorry he had been disobedient and caused everyone so much anxiety and trouble.
"Don't talk about it, darling," she said tenderly. "You were no more to blame than Roger."
"It was not Roger's fault; mother," he told her earnestly, "I did not tell him I had been forbidden to go to the clay pits. Roger must not be blamed."
"Very well, dearie," Mrs. Marsh replied soothingly, "but don't think about what is past. We want you to make haste and get well."
During the first few days of his illness Edgar had progressed very favourably; but now the doctor was not so satisfied with him, and was puzzled to account for his restless, feverish condition. Cousin Becky, who was a very shrewd observer, thought the patient had something on his mind, and one afternoon, when she was left alone in charge of the little boy, instead of discouraging him when he showed an inclination to become confidential, she sat down on a chair by the bed where she could watch him, and allowed him to talk.
"Have you seen Roger lately, Cousin Becky?" he asked.
"Not since the night of your accident, my dear," she answered. "You know the holidays have commenced, and your cousins and your aunt and uncle have gone to Lynn."
"What, without you?" he cried in surprise.
"Of course," Cousin Becky replied with a soft laugh, "or I should not be here with you now."
"But I thought you intended going with them?"
"I hope to join them later on when you are better, my dear boy. I have promised your mother to remain at the Rookery till you are properly convalescent."
"Thank you so much," he said gratefully, "I—I really don't think I can do without you yet; that is, unless you want to go very particularly. Do you know there was a talk of my going to Lynn too? Mother and father wished it; but Roger didn't want me, and I don't suppose Polly did either."
"Why not, my dear?"
"Because—because—Roger said I was not to be trusted, and, it's true, I'm not. You don't know what a bad boy I've been, no one knows except Roger, I had to tell him."
He raised himself in bed as he spoke and looked at his companion with feverishly bright eyes. "You found the Calais Noble," he said with a slight sob, "so you know something about it, but not all. I took it from father's cabinet to show it to a boy at school, weeks ago, and I lost it; but I never told father, I was afraid to, because it's a valuable coin and very rare. Father thought Roger had stolen it, I heard him tell mother so, and—and I let him believe it. Oh, no wonder you look so surprised and shocked! Oh, dear, you'll never like me again!" And the little boy burst into a storm of tears.
Cousin Becky made no response; but she rose and put her arms around his quivering form, and her silent sympathy soothed and comforted him. He felt she understood his remorse and his wretchedness; and, by-and-by when he grew calmer, he told her the whole story of his cowardice, and, in her pity for his distress of mind, she volunteered to lay all the details before his parents.
"They will forgive you, I know, for you are so very dear to them both," she said earnestly; "but at the same time I am sure they will be very hurt to think that you allowed them to harbour a baseless suspicion of your cousin, simply to save yourself from blame. And Roger is so straightforward, too!"
"Yes!" sighed Edgar. "It has made me dreadfully miserable to know that father thought badly of him."
"And yet you had not the pluck to acknowledge the truth and clear his character in your father's eyes! Oh, child, why cannot you be straight like your cousin? Do you not wish to be honourable and truthful?"
"Oh yes! But—but it's so difficult."
"Do you pray for strength to overcome this moral weakness of yours?" Cousin Becky asked, her bright dark eyes watching him anxiously.
"No," he admitted. "I—I never thought of doing that."
"It's only by prayer and God's help that you can do it, my dear boy. You know what is right; and yet, to save yourself punishment and blame, you deliberately take a crooked path. It is the greatest thing in the world to be true, for only the truthful soul can ever be happy and fearless. 'Great is the truth, and it will prevail.' That is a proverb worth remembering. Do try to bear it in mind, and humbly ask your Father in Heaven to make you a better—a more truthful boy. God has been very merciful to you, my dear. Have you thought how very near you were to meeting a shocking death when you fell down that clay shaft? You had almost a miraculous escape. Have you thanked God for sparing your life?"
"No, but I will," Edgar responded earnestly. "Oh, Cousin Becky, I am so ashamed of myself altogether; you do believe that, don't you?"
"Yes, my dear, I do."
"And will, you try to make mother and father believe it also?"
"I will do my best. Now lie down and rest. I want you to get well and strong as soon as possible, and then I am going to ask your parents a favour."
"What is that?" Edgar inquired as he sank wearily back upon his pillows.
"I am going to ask them to let me take you with me to Lynn."
"Oh, Cousin Becky, after—after all you know about me?"
"Yes; because I believe you're going to turn over a new leaf and try to walk a straight path in the future—because I'm going to trust you," said Cousin Becky as she tucked the bed-clothes around him. She bent over him and kissed him affectionately; but he made no reply, he was too deeply touched. Then she withdrew to the window, where she stood looking thoughtfully out into the sunlit garden until she heard by the patient's regular breathing that he had fallen asleep.
That evening Miss Trent told Mr. and Mrs. Marsh the true story of the loss of the Calais Noble. It was a blow to both of them to learn how their son had behaved; but it came less as a surprise to Mrs. Marsh than to her husband, who reproached himself bitterly for his suspicion of Roger. Needless to say, Edgar was forgiven; but his parents were deeply grieved and mortified that he should have acted so deceptively and allowed his cousin to be blamed in his stead, and Mrs. Marsh was troubled by the remembrance of her last visit to Princess Street, when, in her surprise at hearing the Calais Noble had been found, she had spoken as though Roger was the culprit who had taken the coin.
At first Mr. Marsh absolutely refused his permission for Edgar to accompany Miss Trent to Norfolk when the project was broached to him. He thought, under the circumstances, that it would be pleasanter for his cousins to be without him, he said. However, Cousin Becky begged him to reconsider the matter and to let the boy go with her as a favour to herself, and, reflecting that they were under a great obligation to her, he felt he must give in to her wish.
"It shall be as you please," he said at length; "you have been very kind to us, and it is exceedingly good of you to burden yourself with the charge of our wayward boy. We are deeply indebted to you, indeed."
"You were in trouble and wanted me," said Cousin Becky simply. "I am very glad to have been of use."
The colour deepened in Mrs. Marsh's cheeks as, at that moment, she met the old lady's glance, for she could not help remembering that she had declined to have Cousin Becky beneath her roof as a guest only a few months ago, and she felt suddenly abashed. Perhaps memory was busy, with Cousin Becky, too; if so, her countenance did not show it, and there was nothing but kindness and goodwill in the expression of her bright, dark eyes, though there lurked a slight gleam of humour in their tranquil depths.
The Mill House at Lynn was a picturesque old dwelling, with a smooth lawn stretching before its front windows, and a large kitchen garden at the back, beyond which was the mill leat and the big mill wheel, which was silent nowadays; for, like so many small grist-mills, this one did not pay to work. No one at Lynn knew much of the present owner of the Mill House, except that she was an elderly lady who had purchased the house for a country residence some few years previously, though she seldom chose to occupy it. An old man and his wife—Jabez and Sarah Triggs—dwelt there as caretakers; and they made it known in the village, when one day at the commencement of August strangers took possession of the Mill House, that their mistress had lent the house to some friends for a few weeks.
The Trents had been in residence at the Mill House for nearly a fortnight when there arrived a letter from Cousin Becky intimating that she hoped to join them shortly and bring Edgar with her. The news was received with very mingled feelings by the young folks of the family. Like their elders, they had been greatly disappointed at having had to leave Cousin Becky at Beaworthy; but Mr. Trent had arranged the time for his holiday, and Cousin Becky had begged them to go to Norfolk without her, which they had accordingly done. Delighted though they were to know that the old lady would soon be with them to share in their enjoyments, it must be admitted that there was not a member of the Trent family who would not have been better pleased if she had been coming alone; and when, one morning, at the breakfast table, Mrs. Trent put down the letter she had been reading and announced that Cousin Becky and Edgar might be expected on the following day, Polly and Roger exchanged quick glances and became suddenly thoughtful.
"It is good news to hear Edgar is well enough to travel," Mrs. Trent remarked. "I am glad he is making such a quick recovery."
"So am I," rejoined Roger heartily; "but, somehow, I wish he wasn't coming. We've had such a happy time, and he's sure to spoil everything."
"And he's been so horrid to you, Roger!" Polly exclaimed resentfully. "Of course, I've been sorry for him since he's been ill; but think how he's made you suffer for his fault. He didn't mind letting you be thought a thief."
"That's what I feel I can't forgive him for," Roger said, turning crimson with indignation at the remembrance. "When you told me all Aunt Janie had said and I recollected how Uncle John had spoken to me, I—oh, I can't explain what I felt! And even now, when everyone knows it was Edgar himself who lost the Calais Noble, and Uncle John has written me such a nice, kind letter, I can't help being furious against Edgar for letting people think so badly of me."
"He has made all the reparation possible," Mr. Trent said gravely, regarding his little son with a look of understanding and sympathy. "You know, Cousin Becky wrote in her last letter that he had made a clean breast of everything, even to his knowledge of the suspicion his parents had entertained of you. I confess I wish Cousin Becky was coming without him; but, as she has elected to bring him with her, we must make the best of him. Remember, he has been ill, and it will be far more trying for him to meet you. Roger, whom he has wronged, than it will be for you to meet him."
Roger made no answer; but his face wore a very thoughtful expression as he looked out of the open window, his eyes wandering over golden corn fields, dotted with scarlet poppies waving in the pleasant breeze, to distant sand-dunes and woods, between which and the corn fields ran a silvery river on its course to the German Ocean. Here and there was to be seen a windmill with extended sails; but there was no sight of any habitation, for the village of Lynn was only to be seen from the back windows, as it lay between the Mill House and the sea.
"What time are Cousin Becky and Edgar coming, mother?" inquired Polly by-and-by.
"They will arrive at about six o'clock in the evening, my dear. Louisa and I will have to be rather busy this morning, so you must go with your father and Roger, if they will take you."
"Of course we will," Mr. Trent replied, smiling. "We have planned a sail—that is, if the wind is suitable."
"There's Jabez in the garden, let us ask him what he thinks of the weather before we start," said Polly as they all rose from the table.
Accordingly, whilst Mr. Trent lingered conversing with his wife, the children repaired to the front garden to interview Jabez Triggs. He was a tall, old man, whose duty it was to attend to the Mill House gardens. Until the last few years he had been a fisherman, and he was as interesting to talk to as sea-faring people usually are; he had on several occasions greatly entertained Polly and Roger with stories of the wonderful adventures he had experienced in his youthful days, and had been gratified by the attention with which they had listened to him. They thought him the nicest old man they had ever met, and Polly consulted him every morning as to what the weather was likely to be during the day. Sometimes he became quite confidential with her, and once he had told her that his wife, being deaf, had the advantage of him in many ways.
"You see, missie, a man can't argue with a woman who's as deaf as a post," he had said aggrievedly, "and, though, maybe, it's all for the best, it's hard on me, you'll agree. Sarah's a good wife and as trustworthy as—but, there, we're both that, I hope, and Miss Trent knows it, or she wouldn't have put us in charge of the Mill House."
"Did Cousin Becky—that's Miss Trent, you know—get you your situation here?" Polly had inquired curiously.
"Why, of course, missie," the old man had replied, evidently surprised at her question. "She heard tell of Sarah and me in the village—how we were getting up in years and had always been respectable people, and she offered us the post of caretakers, and here we've been for nigh four years now. I often think what a blow it must have been to poor Miss Trent to have lost her brother, so wrapped up in him as she was," the old man had concluded meditatively.
On this particular morning, Jabez Triggs, upon being consulted, foretold a fine day, and declared the fresh wind was blowing the right sort of breeze for a pleasant sail, with no chance of a squall. Then Polly informed him that Miss Trent was expected on the morrow, and his weather-beaten countenance broke into a beaming smile.
"Well, I am pleased to hear it," he said with a glad ring in his voice, "and Sarah will be, too, I'll answer for that. I must run over the grass with the machine this afternoon; but I don't think Miss Trent will find the gardens have been neglected, and she was never one to complain without cause."
The children spent a delightful morning with their father, sailing; and when they returned at dinner-time, they were in high spirits, and their faces, which had already become sun-burnt, glowed with excitement as they proudly presented their mother with several fine mackerel which they had caught by means of a hook and a line. Mrs. Trent had been assisting Louisa to prepare the bedrooms for Cousin Becky and Edgar, and had passed a busy morning; but she was looking very bright, and was not feeling in the least over-tired. The complete change of air and scene was doing her an immense deal of good, and though they had been barely a fortnight at the Mill House, she had lost much of the languor which had characterised her movements during the height of the summer at Beaworthy, and it was no exertion for her to be cheerful now.
"I believe Cousin Becky will find us all looking better," Mr. Trent said complacently. "I know I feel it myself."
And when, on the following evening, Cousin Becky arrived with her pale-faced little companion, her very first words were to exclaim joyfully how well and bright everyone was looking. Edgar found himself greeted very kindly by his aunt and uncle, whilst Polly was quite touched by his wan appearance, and regarded him commiseratingly as she addressed him in a much friendlier tone than she had intended to adopt.
"Dear me, you do look bad," she said candidly. "I don't think I ever saw anyone look worse. Do you feel ill now?"
"No," he answered, "not at all, thank you. I'm all right." Although he was speaking to Polly he was looking at Roger the while. Roger had shaken hands with him, but he had not uttered a word, nor had he met the appealing glance of his cousin's eyes.
"You don't look all right," Polly remarked, "you've altered a great deal. I suppose you are still rather weak, and that makes your voice sound so quivery."
"Of course I feel not quite myself," Edgar admitted. "My head gets dizzy and my legs shake, but I'm getting better every day."
Edgar was sent to bed early on the night of his arrival at the Mill House, for he was naturally very tired after his journey. His aunt came to say good-night to him the last thing before she went to her own room, also Cousin Becky, and his uncle paused at his door to call to him, "Goodnight, Edgar. Pleasant dreams, my boy."
An hour previously he had heard Polly and Roger whispering on the landing; neither of them had entered his room, however, nor spoken to him; and now, when all the household had retired for the night, he lay awake, physically weary, but too troubled to sleep, tortured by the haunting thought that his cousins were displeased he had come. He was unwelcome, he was sure of that, for, though Polly had certainly spoken to him kindly on his arrival—he was grateful to her for having done so—neither she nor her brother had taken any further notice of him during the rest of the evening, and Roger had not even looked at him once.
"I suppose he hates me, and I'm sure it's no wonder," Edgar thought miserably, bursting at last into a flood of tears.
He hid his head under the bed-clothes and tried to stifle his sobs; but Roger, in bed in the next room, on the point of falling asleep, heard them, and was on the alert in a moment. He had determined to keep his cousin at a distance; but the sounds of his passionate weeping made him feel very uneasy. What could be the meaning of Edgar's crying like that?
"I suppose he's doing it because he's been bad," he muttered. "But what a booby he is! He'll make himself ill again if he doesn't mind. I suppose I'd better go and find out what's wrong."
Accordingly he got up, and, stepping noiselessly so as not to disturb the other members of the household, went to Edgar's room. It was not quite dark, for the blinds were not drawn, and the moon was up. Edgar was crying less noisily now; but he did not hear Roger's footsteps approach the bed, so that he started up with a faint cry of surprise and alarm when someone pulled the bed-clothes from off his head and demanded to be told what all the row was about.
"Oh, Roger," he gasped. "Is it you?"
"Yes. What are you blubbering about?" Roger asked bluntly. "I can't sleep if you go on like that—crying like a girl! Why, Polly wouldn't do it. She'd be ashamed."
"I'm very sorry," whimpered Edgar, "but I—I can't help it."
"Are you feeling ill?" Roger questioned more gently. "If that's it, I'd better speak to mother or Cousin Becky."
"No, no. I'm not ill; it's only that I'm so miserable because of the way I've behaved about—about you."
"So you ought to be!"
"I know, I know! I'm very sorry, Roger, I am, indeed!"
"I should just think you are! But it's no good howling about it and keeping me awake. Do shut up and go to sleep." Roger spoke gruffly, but in his heart of hearts he was sorry for his cousin's distress. The moonlight showed him such a wan, thin face, with big, hollow, blue eyes which sought his wistfully. "I daresay you feel pretty bad in your mind," he proceeded, "I should if I were you; but Cousin Becky wrote that Aunt Janie and Uncle John had forgiven you everything, and—"
"Yes; but you haven't forgiven me," Edgar interrupted with a sob. "Don't you think you ever will?"
"I—I—I have," Roger answered slowly. "I didn't think I could, but I have. I couldn't say, 'Our Father' if I hadn't. And, look here, don't talk any more about it—that will help me to forget."
"Oh, Roger!" There was amazement and a world of thankfulness in Edgar's eager voice. "I've been so mean, so cowardly," he said deprecatingly, "and you—you're such a brick!"
"Oh, shut up!" Roger responded impolitely, with a yawn. "Do lie down and go to sleep. I'm going back to bed, I'm getting quite cold. What are you doing?" he cried, as the other flung his arms around his neck and, in a transport of gratitude, kissed him upon the cheek. "I don't know what's come to you to-night," he continued when his cousin released him and he retreated towards the door. "What do you think the boys at school would say if they saw you do that? We're not girls. I shan't tell Polly; but—mind you don't do it again."
"I won't," Edgar promised. "I don't know what made me then, only I felt I must because—because you're been so awfully good to me."
Then as Roger's white-clad figure stole out of the room, and he was alone once more, he lay himself back in bed thinking that surely this cousin of his was the noblest, most generous boy in the world. He had not deserved Roger's forgiveness, that he knew well; he had been treated far, far better than he had deserved.
It was wonderful how quickly Edgar improved in health and spirits after his arrival at the Mill House. In a very few days he was able to join his cousins in their amusements, and showed no sign of spoiling their pleasure as they had feared he would do. Surely some great change had taken place in the boy to make him so different from the old Edgar, who had set his own pleasure above every other consideration, for now, though the selfishness he had cultivated so long peeped out occasionally, he was evidently trying to check it, and—a more difficult task still—he was earnestly endeavouring to be straightforward in word and deed. Much to his relief no one mentioned the subject of the Calais Noble, not even Polly, who, however, made him give her a description of his accident, afterwards remarking that it could have been actually no worse than a nightmare such as she had frequently experienced herself when she had dreamt of falling over a precipice and had awakened to find herself safe in bed.
"Yes, it was just like that," Edgar replied, "only I awoke with a frightful headache. Wasn't I surprised to see Cousin Becky there! Mother says she shall never be able to repay her for her kindness to me."
"And yet Aunt Janie wouldn't ask her to stay at the Rookery when she wrote about coming to Beaworthy," Polly reminded him, for she had an excellent memory. "Cousin Becky belongs more to us than she does to you, Edgar, you must see that," she added; and her cousin did not argue the point.
All too quickly the August days passed by, and Mr. Trent's three weeks' holiday was nearly spent when he received a letter—as welcome as it was unexpected—from his employer, telling him he could be spared from the office for another week. Everyone was delighted, and Polly fairly lost her head and capered round the dining-room in her excitement on learning the contents of her uncle's letter.
"A whole week longer in this beautiful place!" she exclaimed ecstatically. "Oh, I do hope the weather will continue fine so that we can spend most of the time out-of-doors! What are we all going to do to-day?"
"I intend to hire a pony carriage—there is one to be had in the village—and take your mother and Cousin Becky for a drive this afternoon, Polly," her father informed her. "So you young people will have to find your own amusements."
"We can easily do that," she replied; and the boys agreed.
Accordingly, after dinner, when their elders had started for their drive, the children, left to their own devices, wandered through the village to the beach. The tide was out, and they walked round the cliffs, pretending they were explorers in a strange country where they had to guard against sudden attacks from wild beasts and savages. This game amused them for some time; but it was tiring making their way on the wet sand, and when they came to a pretty little cove, they sat down beneath the shelter of the cliffs to rest.
"We're safe here," remarked Edgar, "because if the tide came in and we couldn't get back to Lynn by the shore, the cliffs are not very steep, we could easily climb them."
"Yes I but it takes the tide a long time to come in," Polly replied. "I don't think it's low water yet."
"Oh yes, it is," corrected her cousin. "Jabez Triggs told me it would be low water at three o'clock, and it must be quite that. Why, it's past four," he amended, as he took out his watch and looked at it. "How the afternoon has flown!"
"And what an age we've been coming here!" exclaimed Roger, surprised at the time.
"We've had a fine game," said the little girl, taking off her broad-brimmed straw hat and fanning her hot face with it. "How we shall think and talk of all the fun we've had here when we get home—to Beaworthy, I mean! I wonder if we shall come to the Mill House another year? I asked Cousin Becky, and she said it was quite possible."
"I never enjoyed a holiday so much in my life before," Edgar declared. "I'd much rather stay at a village than at a larger place. Last year we went to Bournemouth, and I had a dreadfully slow time. I say, what an old chap Jabez Triggs is, isn't he?"
"Yes, but I like him," Roger answered, "he tells such exciting stories. What do you think he told me yesterday? Why, that not very many years ago there were acres of land between the village and the sea, and now you know the houses are close to the beach."
"How's that?" questioned Polly.
"Because the sea is gradually sucking away the land," her brother explained.
"Some people believe there are villages buried beneath the sea, and the fisher folk say they can sometimes hear the bells ringing in church towers—"
"Under the sea?" interposed Edgar unbelievingly.
"Yes, but perhaps that's not true, they may only fancy it," Roger admitted. "But Jabez says every storm takes away a bit of the land, that's quite certain. He remembers when he was a boy that a whole row of cottages was washed away one night; he pointed out to me the spot where they used to stand, and even when it's low tide it's covered with deep water now."
Polly gave a little shudder, and listened in silence whilst her companions continued their conversation. She was glad there had been no storm during their sojourn at the Mill House, for the thought of the encroaching sea was somewhat alarming to her mind.
"I think it's about time we went home," she observed at length, as she put on her hat and rose to her feet. "The tide seems to be coming in very fast now, so we ought to be going, for I know one can only get to this cove at low water."
"Polly is nervous," said Roger teasingly. "All right, we'll come; but there's no need to hurry."
The little girl was not certain of that; however, she held her peace and walked ahead of the boys in the direction of the point which hid the cove from sight of the village of Lynn. By-and-by she turned and came running back. "It's no good going on," she informed them, a startled expression in her eyes, "for the tide's come in, and—and—" She paused, looking anxiously at the cliffs which she knew they would now be obliged to climb, and she shuddered as she reflected how easily she became giddy. "I wish we'd turned back before," she added with a tremble in her voice.
The boys hastened on to the point, but they could not get around it, for, as Polly had represented to them, the sea had come in, and they were cut off from Lynn. However, they were not in the least dismayed.
"This is something like an adventure," Roger said as he and his cousin joined his sister again. "Why, Polly, how scared you look! We can easily get home by the cliffs."
"You may, but I can't," Polly replied despondently. "I shall be sure to get giddy and fall."
"Oh, nonsense!" her brother exclaimed impatiently. "You'll be all right. I'll go ahead and give you a hand. It will be rare fun, you'll see."
Polly doubted it, and the expression of her face was so dolorous that her companions both burst out laughing. Greatly offended, she turned from them and made her way towards the base of the cliffs, her figure held very upright—as though she had swallowed a poker, as she heard Roger tell Edgar—and her heart indignant against her brother and cousin alike. Her eyes were full of angry tears which blurred her sight; and perhaps that accounted for what followed; for, suddenly, she slipped on a piece of seaweed and fell, twisting her ankle as she did so.
"Oh, Polly, you should be more careful!" exclaimed Roger as he darted forward and assisted his sister to get up. She clung to him for a minute, then sank back on the ground. "What's the matter?" he asked anxiously.
"I've hurt my foot, Roger; I can't go any further."
"But, Polly, you must," he insisted, with a swift glance seawards.
"And I tell you I can't," she said, beginning to cry. "I can't walk, it—it hurts me."
"Oh, here's a pretty kettle of fish!" cried Roger, looking despairingly at his sister.
"Can't you really walk, Polly?" questioned Edgar. "At any rate, try."
She made the attempt; but the few steps she took caused her keen pain; to climb the cliff was out of the question. "She can't do it," Edgar said decidedly. "It's cruel to try and make her. Don't cry, Polly. We'll go back to Lynn and get a boat to fetch you."
"But supposing the tide comes up before you have time to get the boat here?" she inquired. "It's coming in very fast. Oh, do you mean to say you are going to leave me alone?"
"One of us will stay with you if you wish it," said Roger, beginning to realise the gravity of their position. "I'll stay whilst Edgar—"
"No, you go, Roger, because you'll be quicker than I could be," Edgar interrupted. "You can run much faster than I can, and when you reach the top of the cliff you must run all the way to Lynn, because—because I think there isn't much time to waste," he concluded in rather a trembling tone.
"Yes, yes, you go, Roger," urged Polly eagerly, for she had more confidence in her brother than in her cousin. "Edgar's quite right, he wouldn't be so quick as you."
"All right, then; I'm off," Roger answered. "I won't be longer than I can possibly help. Don't get low-spirited, Polly."
They watched him nimbly climb the side of the cliff, which presented no difficulties to him, for he was sure-footed and possessed a steady head. On reaching the summit he shouted and waved his handkerchief encouragingly, then disappeared from view. Polly heaved a sigh of relief, and expressed a hope that they would not have a great while to wait, to which her companion made no response. He was watching the incoming tide, and trying to calculate how long it would be before it would reach the bottom of the cliffs; he trusted nothing would happen to delay Roger on his mission.
"It's good of you to stay with me," Polly said gratefully, at length. "I suppose it was selfish of me not to want to be left alone. Isn't it nearly time for the boat to come?"
Edgar shook his head and he became silent, whilst they both listened to the soft lap-lap of the waves as they slowly drew nearer and nearer. Polly crouched on the ground close to the cliff, her face pale and frightened, and Edgar stood by her side, eagerly watching the point around which the expected boat must appear. Slowly the time dragged on until Roger had been gone more than an hour, and only about a dozen yards of sand divided the children from the water now.
"What shall we do if the tide comes right up to us?" asked Polly, in a voice which betrayed the intensest anxiety. "Shall you climb up the cliff?"
"And leave you? No, no, I won't do that. But I think we shall see a boat soon now. I wonder which of us will see it first."
He tried to speak cheerily for the sake of his companion, but a sense of terrible fear and hopelessness was creeping over him. He glanced at Polly; but instead of watching for the boat, she had covered her face with her hands, and he guessed she was praying. Then from the depths of his heart he prayed, too; and, mingled with his earnest petition for deliverance from the incoming tide was the prayer that, whatever happened, he might not, on this occasion, prove himself a coward.
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.