Chapter XII Death and the Tide
The grey dawn was creeping in through the windows of Sea View Cottage, eclipsing the yellow glow of the lamp which had burned all night in the little sitting-room.
Madelaine rose from her chair and pulled up the blind. The wind had abated somewhat, though a stiff breeze still blew from the sea. Dead twigs and fallen leaves were littered over the lawn, and the plants in the border were bent and broken from the effects of the late gale. A great sheaf of white chrysanthemums lay prostrate on the ground just in front of where she stood, the pure blossoms all draggled and smirched.
“How Robin admired those flowers yesterday,” she said to herself. “I think I can see him now as he stood beside them, looking back at me with his own bright, happy smile. Shall I never see him run to meet me again—my precious little son!”
As she spoke, she heard the click of the garden gate, and there, right before her on the path, was Robin himself—a pale, rather dishevelled Robin, it is true, but there was no doubt about the reality of the sight.
Madelaine felt almost delirious with joy as she held him in her arms, and showered kisses upon his cheeks, his hands, his hair. She could scarcely believe that the terrible dream of the night had passed away, and that her treasure had been restored to her again.
“Mother,” he said, looking anxiously up into her face, “I wish you would go to Julius. I’m sure he is very ill, he looks so funny, and he is talking such nonsense too. I couldn’t get him even to sit up.”
“Where is he, Robin, and what have you been doing with yourselves all this time?”
“I was afraid you’d be worrying about us,” answered the boy. “I wanted to come on to you at once, after we had got rested a little in the cottage, but the wind was so bad, I really don’t think I could have walked along the cliff by myself, even if it had been daylight. Then my clothes were so sopping wet, old Timothy made me take them off and get into his bed. I was dreadfully tired, mother, and I fell asleep in about a minute, and didn’t wake up until it was morning.”
“Old Timothy!” repeated Mrs. Power. “Have you been in his house all night, then?”
“Yes,” replied Robin, “but I don’t think it’s at all safe for him and Julius to be there now. A great piece of the wall fell down just as it began to get light. I rather fancy it was that which woke me. There is only one end of the cottage left, and a big hole came in the ceiling of the kitchen just as I was going out at the door.”
Mrs. Power rose to her feet.
“I must go to the village at once and rouse the men,” she said. “The rest of the house may fall at any minute. Oh, Robin my boy, to think what you have escaped! It makes me shudder, even to imagine it!”
“It was nothing to the awful time we had upon the beach, before we got into shelter,” answered the child, “but I’ll tell you all about it, mother, after you come back. I do so want you to go and look at Julius.”
Leaving Robin to be fed and cared for by Mrs. Sheppard, Madelaine Power sallied forth without further delay.
Only one or two were stirring in the hamlet at that early hour, but among these she gladly recognized Benjamin Green as he opportunely issued from “The Bull.” He had wakened that morning with a strange feeling of guilt upon his conscience. It seemed to lie like a heavy burden, not to be easily shaken off. For a moment he was unable to account for such an unwonted sensation, when suddenly recollection returned to him, and leaping up, he hastily put on his clothes.
“I ought to have gone last night,” he said. “Such a storm as it was, and poor old father all alone up there in that dangerous place!”
Tardy thoughts of duty rose within his breast, and faint pulses of filial affection, long passed away, began once more to make themselves felt. He willingly joined Mrs. Power as with rapid steps she trod the narrow path which led along the top of the cliff.
The storm had passed away, but the sea still flung itself sullenly upon the shore. As they neared the spot, Madelaine gave an exclamation of distress.
“Look what a huge piece of the crag has gone!” she said. “I thought Robin was exaggerating when he told me half the cottage had fallen down, but it is much worse than I expected.”
“It’s a good thing the kitchen is at the landward end,” remarked Ben. “I see it is standing yet.”
They were soon at the little garden gate, but though it was wide open, they found their way barred. It now hung uselessly over a great empty gap, its broken rails flapping drearily in the wind. A long crack down the middle of what remained of the house showed where the next slip would probably come. The portion next the cliff had already given way and the rafters were even now overhanging the edge. Some bricks from the chimney loosened as they approached, and they heard them clatter down the roof and fall with a dull thud on the beach below.
“Surely father will not be against leaving the place now!” said Ben. “If we get him out before the whole thing goes down, we shall be lucky.”
He vaulted over the low wall, and in a few strides had crossed the garden plot. Mrs. Power scrambled after him and reached the door almost as soon as he did. In spite of the peril and the ominous sounds of sliding and cracking which surrounded them on every hand their steps were arrested on the threshold.
Old Timothy was lying asleep on his pillow as they entered, his white hair scarcely whiter than his face. No sign of fear was on it, and he seemed breathing as peacefully as a child upon its mother’s arm. Beside him in the bed lay Julius, flushed and feverish, moving his head restlessly from side to side.
As they stood, the first rays of the rising sun burst through the little latticed window and shone full on the old man’s face. He felt the glow through his closed eyelids, and opened them with a startled glance. Springing up in his bed, he stretched out his arms to the light, apparently dazzled with the sudden brightness.
“It is the glory of God!” he cried—and to Madelaine his homely features seemed transfigured with a radiance that was divine. “It is the blessed Angel of Death, and he has come to bear me up to the city of gold.”
Folding his hands as if in prayer, he closed his eyes and reverently bowed his head.
“I’m waiting, old friend,” he said. “I’m waiting, and I’m wholly ready to go.”
Suddenly the frail figure relaxed its tension and fell back upon the pillow.
“He’s gone,” whispered Ben.
Madelaine went forward and gently smoothed his brow. “We can do no more for him now,” she said.
“His poor body must not be left here,” remarked Ben. “I shall take it to some safer resting-place than this. If I carried him, do you think that you would be able to manage the boy?”
“Easily,” replied Madelaine, as she gathered up the lad in her strong motherly arms. Ben wrapped the still form of his father in a blanket and followed her out of the room.
Some fishermen had by this time arrived at the cottage and were standing beside the garden fence. Gladly they relieved Mrs. Power and her companion of their burdens and bore them away from the dangerous spot.
They had not proceeded many yards, when a low rumble, growing louder as they listened, caused them to turn quickly round in the direction whence the sound came.
All at once a noise like thunder smote upon their ears, and to their horror they saw a long chasm yawn between them and the cottage wall. It widened as they gazed, until with a crash, a great slice of the cliff suddenly disappeared from before their eyes. Where the old house had so lately stood, the edge of the cliff now cut straight across the horizon—there was nothing to break the level line where earth joined sky.
“I’m glad father didn’t see it go,” said Ben. “It would have fairly broken his heart. Queer fancies he used to take about some things!”
“We need not mourn for him,” replied Mrs. Power. “His faith has been rewarded, and he has now a more enduring dwelling-place above. He was quite right about his friends. The Tide has had its will in the end, but the Angel of Death came for him first. Old Timothy has been received into the eternal home, and has seen the glorious face of Him he called ‘The Best Friend of all.’ Truly we could not wish him back.”