Part 48 (2/2)

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 fort.i.tude 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.”

The tide had seemed to come in galloping like a racehorse, but now it crawled out like a snail; and they were both so utterly worn, that when at last the water was shallow enough, they just sank down and sat in it, leaning against each other, and yearning for what seemed to them the most desirable thing on earth at that moment--a dry spot on which to stretch themselves out and go to sleep.

”I know now what exhaustion is,” said Beth, with her head on Alfred's shoulder.

”Do you know, Beth,” he rejoined with a wan smile, ”you've been picking up information ever since you fell acquainted with me here. I can count a dozen new experiences you've mentioned already. If you go on like this always, you'll know everything in time.”

”I hope so!” Beth muttered. ”Fell acquainted with you, isn't bad; but I wonder if _tumbled_ wouldn't have been better----”

She dozed off uncomfortably before she could finish the sentence. He had settled himself with his head against the uncertain cliff, which beetled above them ominously; but they were both beyond thinking or caring about it. Vaguely conscious of each other, and of the sea-voice that gradually grew distant and more distant as the water went out beyond the headland, leaving them stranded in the empty cove, they rested and slept uneasily, yet heavily enough to know little of the weary while they had to wait before they could make their escape.

For it was not until the sun had set and the moon hung high above the sea in a sombre sky, that at last they were able to go.

CHAPTER XXVII

It was dark night when Beth got back to the little house in Orchard Street. She had hoped to slip in un.o.bserved, but her mother was looking out for her.

”Where have you been?” she demanded angrily.

Beth had come in prepared to tell the whole exciting story, but this reception irritated her, and she answered her mother in exactly the same tone: ”I've been at Fairholm.”

”What have you been doing there?” Mrs. Caldwell snapped.

”Getting myself into a mess, as any one might see who looked at me,”

Beth rejoined. ”I must go and change.”

”You can go to bed,” said her mother.

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