Troublesome Comforts Part 11

"Lubberly loafers," said the Royal Navy. "In the Service things are ordered different."

He opened the door and went out. Through the opening Mrs. Beauchamp caught a glimpse of sailing clouds and starlight.

Dot was pressing on her again.

"Please forgive us if Susie gets home; it has been so miserable. I knew Dash wasn't asleep because of his breathing. It has been dreadful for you and for Susie, but it is worse for us."

Her voice fell to a husky whisper; her great black eyes were full of pa.s.sionate entreaty; she s.h.i.+vered in her thin nightdress.

"My poor, poor children"--there was nothing but the sweetest sympathy in Mrs. Beauchamp's comforting touch--"I forgive you _now_--now while Susie is out there and I am still waiting for her. I will let you know directly we are back and they are safe. You must let me go now."

Their father had disappeared, and Dash came hurrying downstairs in a shamefaced, sidelong fas.h.i.+on to be comforted. He did not like being left beyond the reach of consolation. But Mrs. Beauchamp disengaged the clinging arms.

"We will sit up till we know about them," Dot said, with tears.

"No; you must go to bed and wait there," Mrs. Beauchamp said firmly. "I know," she went on hurriedly, as there were signs of another storm, "that it is far harder; but duties like that _are_ hard, and it is the only thing you can do to help."

"Very well," said Dot, with commendable meekness.

"Very well," echoed Dash.

"Here, get back to bed." The master of the house, booted and mackintoshed, had come back into the hall, and the twins scampered up the stairs at the unaccustomed sternness of his voice. He had a gla.s.s of wine and some biscuits in his hand, and he spoke almost as severely to Mrs.

Beauchamp as he had done to the twins. "Of course I am going with you. I have rugs and mackintoshes and some brandy. Can you suggest anything else? No," as she returned the half-emptied gla.s.s; "drink _all_ the wine.

I _insist_ on it."

Mrs. Beauchamp obeyed mechanically. She seemed to feel new life, a sense of protection, an atmosphere of help; there was some one else to command and to decide.

The last sight she saw as she went out into the night was Dot's fuzzy head leaning over the banisters at a dangerous angle.

CHAPTER XII.

Outside the rain had lessened, and the stars shone more securely. Without a word she hurried down the cross street and on to the Parade by her companion's side, but her feet no longer lagged. Hope had sprung anew in her heart, and as they turned the corner she looked up at him smiling.

"I only know you as 'the father of the twins,'" she said, "and it is a long address."

"My name is Amherst." Then a moment later, as they picked their way across the muddy road to the top of the steps, "I have been trying all this time to find a reason, and I can only frame an excuse--_they have no mother_!"

"Oh, poor twins!" she said.

The tide was distinctly lower, and the wind had died down. The long waves rolled in with almost oily smoothness, and showed no ridge of foam when they broke upon the beach. Patches of seaweed caught and reflected the moonlight.

The old sailor was baling out the boat, and half a dozen hands held her to the sh.o.r.e. An air of excitement pervaded every one, and one or two men offered their services rather sheepishly; but the Royal Navy did not need a.s.sistance.

He settled Mrs. Beauchamp in the bow, with the rugs for a cus.h.i.+on; then he pushed off with his oar, and in another minute they were gliding out from under the shadow of the cliff, making straight for the island in front of them.

Mr. Amherst had taken the other oar, and was rowing bow. On their left little crests of half-submerged rocks showed black against the sea, and on the far horizon the false dawn made a silver line between sky and sea.

Mrs. Beauchamp held the lines mechanically and leant forward, straining her eyes to steer for a possible landing-place; but the beating of her heart had quieted down, and she had a curious feeling that she was drifting, drifting, in this solemn silence, out of a region of torturing fear into the peaceful harbour of a dream.

The twist of the oars in the rowlocks, the rhythmical dip, and the ripple of water against the boat were restful in their monotony. She felt her eyes closing as something slipped through her fingers--Susie's boot, with its long damp laces! She looked at her lap in horror, and tried to push the dreadful object away; but there was nothing there, excepting the wet lines that had fallen from her fingers. Some one put out a rough, kind hand to steady her, and she straightened herself with a start, meeting the old sailor's keen eyes.

"Carry on, ma'am, carry on." Then, a moment later, "Way enough!"

In a minute Mr. Amherst had caught at the crags and drawn the boat alongside, and Ben had sent his voice pealing up against the cliff in a volume of sound that was absolutely terrifying.

"Hulloo! Hulloo--oo!"

A few frightened sea-birds flew out of the crevices in the cliff and wheeled about their heads, but there was no other sound. Mrs. Beauchamp's eyes filled with agonized tears, but the sailor's cheeriness was infectious.

"I'll wake them," he said.

Again his voice went up into the night, as if he defied the poor defences of the dark.

"Hulloo! Hulloo--oo!"

"Susie!" cried Mrs. Beauchamp, in her thinner treble.

And this time there _was_ an answer--a cry small and faint; not at all like Susie's boisterous everyday voice, but human. Ben was out of the boat in a minute, scrambling from peak to peak, and shouting as he went.

Mrs. Beauchamp sat down with an uncertain movement, and covered her face with her hands; whilst Mr. Amherst, clinging to the rock for fear the ebbing tide should carry them out to sea, spoke to her with whimsical entreaty. "Mrs. Beauchamp, please don't faint until Nelson comes back!

Pull yourself together--he _expects_ us to do our duty; and, besides, you will frighten the children."

The last suggestion had an instantaneous effect. From that calm region where love and despair were alike forgotten she came back with a conscious effort to the unsteady boat, and Mr. Amherst's alarmed eyes, and the lapping water against the bow.

"That's right," said Mr. Amherst, with great relief in his voice. "I really didn't know how to get to you. Listen!"

"Safe!" The great voice came pealing down the cliff, waking the echoes on the sh.o.r.e, and with a sort of incredulous joy Mrs. Beauchamp listened to the st.u.r.dy steps coming slowly, surely, carefully down, with a little ripple of shale following them.

She clutched at the gunwale of the boat until she hurt her hands, and strained her eyes for the sight she longed to see. First there came the stalwart figure of the sailor with a bundle in his arms, and behind him a slim, bare-footed, bareheaded, stumbling little creature, who almost fell into the expectant arms waiting for her.

"He's quite warm, mother." It was Susie's voice, faint, eager, appealing, caught by deep sobs. "He has never coughed once--he has never _moved_. He is quite warm; feel him."

"O Susie! And you?"

"Me! Oh, I'm all right," said Susie, wondering. "I did take care of him; I tried my very best."

"But where are your clothes, Susie? And it rained so."

"They are round d.i.c.k," said Susie. "Mother, they kept him beautifully warm."

The men jumped into the boat and pushed off. The little bundle of flannel and serge that held d.i.c.kie rolled quite comfortably to the bottom of the boat; but Susie's mother held two frozen feet in her warm hands and said nothing. Words did not come easily.

Presently Susie spoke again in that strained whisper. "Mother, when I went to sleep I dreamt a ferryman came for us, and his boat was close to the sh.o.r.e, and we were stepping in when you called me back. I knew your voice, and you said 'Susie' quite plainly. I wouldn't go, and I wouldn't let him take d.i.c.k! I screamed and held him tight, and the ferryman said we must pay him, all the same; and then you gave him two pennies, and he went away."

"Susie, I _did_ call. In my heart I have called all night."