The Beth Book
had not been aware of it at all since the young man appeared, but now
it came into her consciousness with the distinctness of a sudden and
unexpected sound, and she looked in that direction. The last time she
had noticed the tide it was far out; but now, where all had been sand
beyond the sheltered cove, all was water. The silver line stretched
from headland to headland, and was still advancing. Already there was
no way of escape by the sands, and the cove itself would be a bay in a
little while--a bay without a boat! If he did not wake and bestir
himself, the callous waves would come and cover him. Should she call?
She was shy of taking the initiative even to save his life, and
hesitated a moment, and in that moment there came a crash. The
treacherous clay cliff crumbled, and the great mass of it on which she
was lying slid down bodily on to the shining sand. The young man
started up, roused by the rumbling. Had he been a few feet nearer to
the cliff he must have been buried alive. He and Beth stared at each
other stupidly, neither realising what had happened for the first few
minutes. He was the first to recover himself.
"Are you hurt?" he asked with concern, going forward to help her.
"I don't know," she answered, staggering to her feet. "No, I think
not," she added. "I'm a little shaken. I'll sit down."
The sitting would have been a tumble had he not caught her in his arms
and held her up. Beth felt deadly sick for an instant, then she found
herself reclining on the sand, with the young man bending over her,
looking anxiously into her face.
"You're faint," he said.
"Is that faint?" she answered. "What a ghastly sensation! But there is
something I want to remember." She shut her eyes, then opened them,
and looked up at him with a puzzled expression. "It's very odd, I
can't remember," she complained.
The young man could not help her. He looked up at the cliff. "What
were you doing up there?" he asked.
"What were you doing down there?" she rejoined.
"I followed you," he answered simply. "I saw you come this way, then I
lost sight of you; but I thought you would be somewhere on the sands,
because the cliffs are private property."
"The owner is an uncle of mine," said Beth. "I come when I like."
Then they looked into each other's faces shyly, and looked away again,
smiling but confused.
"Why did you follow me?" said Beth. "You did not know me."
"No, but I wanted to," he answered readily. "Where were you?"
"Lying on a shelf where that scar is now, looking down on you."
"Then you saw me model that figure?"
"And the cliff fell," Beth put in irrelevantly to cover a blush. "It
often falls. We're always having landslips here. And I think we'd
better move away from it now," she added, rising. "People are killed
sometimes."
"But tell me," he said, detaining her. "Didn't you know I was
following you?"
Beth became embarrassed.
"You did," he persisted, "and you ran away. Why did you run away?"
"I couldn't help it," Beth confessed; then she uttered an exclamation.
"Look! look! the tide! What shall we do?"
He turned and saw their danger for the first time.
"Our only way of escape is by the cliffs," Beth said, "unless a boat
comes by."
"And the cliffs are perpendicular just here," he rejoined, after
carefully surveying them.
They looked into each other's faces blankly.
"I can't swim--can you?" he asked.
Beth shook her head.
"What is to be done?" he exclaimed.
"There is nothing to be done, I think," she answered quietly. "We may
see a boat, but hardly anybody ever comes along the cliffs. We might
shout, though."
They did so until they were hoarse, but there was no response, and the
tide came creeping up over the sand.
"How calm it is!" Beth observed.
He looked at her curiously. "I don't believe you're a bit afraid," he
said. "_I_'m in a desperate funk."
"I don't believe we're going to be drowned, and I always know what's
coming," she answered. Then after a little she asked him his name.
"Alfred," he answered; "and yours?"
"Beth--Beth Caldwell. Alfred!--I like Alfred."
"I like Beth. It's queer, but I like it all the better for that. It's
like you."
"Do you think me queer?" Beth asked, prepared to resent the
imputation.
"I think you uncommon," he replied.
Beth reflected for a little. "What is your full name?" she asked
finally.
"Alfred Cayley Pounce," he replied. "My father gave me the name of
Alfred that I might always remember I was _A_ Cayley Pounce. But my
ambition is to be _The_ Cayley Pounce," he added with a nervous little
laugh.
Beth compressed her lips, and looked at the rising tide. The next wave
broke at their feet, and both involuntarily stepped back. Behind them
was the mass of earth that had fallen from the cliff. It had descended
in a solid wedge without scattering. Alfred climbed on to it, and
helped Beth up. "We shall be a little higher here, at all events," he
said.
Beth looked along the cliff; the high-water mark was still above their
heads. "It's getting exciting, isn't it?" she observed. "But I don't
feel nasty. Having you here makes--makes a difference, you know."
"If you have to die with me, how shall you feel?" he asked.
"I shall feel till my last gasp that I would much rather have lived
with you," she answered emphatically.
A wavelet splashed up against the clay on which they were standing. He
turned to the cliff and tore at it in a sort of exasperation, trying
to scoop out footholes with his hands by which they might climb up;
but the effort was futile, the soft shale crumbled as he scooped, and
there was no hold to be had on it. His face had grown grey in the last
few minutes, and his eyes were strained and anxious.
"I wonder how you feel," Beth said. "I think I resent the fate that
threatens us more than I fear it. If my life must end now, it will be
so unfinished."
He made no reply, and she stood looking out to sea thoughtfully. "It's
Sunday," she observed at last. "There won't be many boats about
to-day."
The water had begun to creep up on to their last refuge; it washed
over her feet as she spoke, and she shrank back. Alfred put his arm
round her protectingly.
"Do you still believe we shall not be drowned?" he said.
"Yes," she answered. "But, even if we were, it wouldn't be the end of
us. We have been here in this world before, you and I, and we shall
come again."
"What makes you think such queer things?" he asked.
"I don't think them," she answered. "I know them. The things I think
are generally all wrong; but the things I know about--that come to me
like this--are right. Only I can't command them. One comes to me now
and again like a flash, as that one did down there just now when I
said we should not be drowned; but if I put a question to myself, I
can get no answer."
The water had crept up over their feet while they were speaking. It
was coming in at a great rate, but there were no waves to splash them,
only a sort of gentle heave and ripple that brought it on insensibly,
so that it had lapped up to the cliff behind them before they
suspected it. Beth shivered as it rose around her.
"It's a good thing I changed my dress," she said suddenly. "That
summer silk would certainly have been spoilt."
Alfred held her tight, and looked down into her face, but said
nothing.
"I'm thinking so many things," Beth broke out again. "I'm glad it's a
still day for one thing, and not freezing cold. The cold would have
numbed us, and we should have been swept off our feet if there had
been any waves. I want to ask you so many things. Why did you make
that figure on the sand?"
"I want to be a sculptor," he said; "but my people object, and they
won't let me have the proper materials to model in, so I model in
anything."
The water was almost up to Beth's waist. She had to turn and cling to
him to keep her footing. She hid her face on his shoulder, and they
stood so some time. The water rose above her waist. Alfred was head
and shoulders taller than she was. He realised that she would be
covered first.
"I must hold her up somehow," he muttered.
Beth raised her head. "Alfred," she began, "we're neither of us
cowards, are we? You are hating to die, I can see, but you're not
going to make an exhibition of yourself to the elements; and I'm
hating it, too--I'm horribly anxious--and the cold makes me sob in my
breath as the water comes up. It is like dying by inches from the feet
up; but while my head is alive, I defy death to make me whimper."
"Do you despair, then?" he exclaimed, as if there had been some
safeguard in her certainty.
"I have no knowledge at this moment," she answered. "I am in suspense.
But that is nothing. The things that have come to me like that on a
sudden positively have always been true, however much I might doubt
and question beforehand. I did know at that moment that we should not
be drowned; but I don't know it now. My spirit can't grasp the idea,
though, of being here in this comfortable body talking to you one
moment, and the next being turned out of house and home into eternity
alone."
"Not alone," he interrupted, clasping her closer. "I'll hold you tight
through all eternity."
Beth looked up at him, and then they kissed each other frankly, and
forgot their danger for a blissful interval.
They were keeping their foothold with difficulty now. The last heave
of the tide came up to Beth's shoulder, and took her breath away. Had
it not been for the support of the cliff behind them, they could not
have kept their position many minutes. But the cliff itself was a
danger, for the sea was eating into it, and might bring down another
mass of it at any moment. The agony of death, the last struggle with
the water, had begun.
"I hate it," Beth gasped, "but I'm not afraid."
The steady gentle heave of the sea was like the breathing of a placid
sleeper. It rose round them once more, up, up, over Beth's head. They
clung closer to each other and to the cliff, staggering and fighting
for their foothold. Then it sank back from them, then slowly came
again, rising in an irregular wavy line all along the face of the
cliffs with a sobbing sound as if in its great heart it shrank from
the cruel deed it was doing--rose and fell, rose and fell again.
Alfred's face was grey and distorted. He groaned aloud.
"Are you suffering?" Beth exclaimed. "Oh, I wish it was over."
She had really the more to suffer of the two, for every wave nearly
covered her; but her nerve and physique were better than his, and her
will was of iron. The only thing that disturbed her fortitude were the
signs of distress from him.
Gently, gently the water came creeping up and up again. It had swelled
so high the last time that Beth was all but gone; and now she held her
breath, expecting for certain to be overwhelmed. But, after a pause,
it went down once more, then rose again, and again subsided.
Alfred stood with shut eyes and clenched teeth, blindly resisting.
Beth kept her wits about her.
"Alfred!" she cried on a sudden, "I was right! I was not deceived!
Stand fast! The tide is on the turn."
He opened his eyes and stared about him in a bewildered way. His face
was haggard and drawn from the strain, his strength all but exhausted;
he did not seem to understand.
"Hold on!" Beth cried again. "You'll be a big sculptor yet. The tide
has turned. It's going out, Alfred, it's going out. It washed an inch
lower last time. Keep up! Keep up! O Lord, help me to hold him! help
me to hold him! It's funny," she went on, changing with one of her
sudden strange transitions from the part of actor to that of
spectator, as it were. "It's funny we neither of us prayed. People in
danger do, as a rule, they say in the books; but I never even thought
of it."