Chapter III

HOW IT ALL HAPPENED. MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY—(continued).

THEY say it's a common thing enough—cliffs getting worn away underneath by the washing of the sea, and then hanging right over above, so that great pieces must break off and tumble down now and again. And they told us—afterward, you know—that heavy falls had taken place in this very cove, only not for a good while; and that everybody living in Ermespoint knew it to be dangerous. It did seem so cruelly wrong that not one word of warning should be put up for strangers, to keep them from walking into such a trap. But of course nobody could blame Master Bertram for taking us there, because he was just as new to the place as ourselves and knew no more about how things were.

Such a quantity of rock had never been known to fall before as came down that day. As I've said, it looked like the cliff giving way, though it only was a part from above. A great shower of sand and earth came with the rock, and big blocks rolled and bounded down the beach, which meant danger to us all.

But the worst was to know that underneath that pile lay my husband and little Bessie.

It was for their sake that Master Bertram started off to rush to the cliff, the moment he heard Louey shriek: and most likely he'd have met his death, only Miles saw in a moment he could do no good, and sprang and seized hold of him to stop him. In the moment's struggle, I suppose, or somehow, Master Bertram fell; and a great block of stone came bounding towards them both, as the top of the cliff crashed down; and Miles didn't rush off, only to save himself, as so many would have done. He gripped Master Bertram quick as lightning, and gave him a great drag to one side. You see, Miles was a strong lad, and Master Bertram was thin and light. And he was just in time—for the block rolled and dashed past over where Master Bertram had been, and close to them both, and it was big enough to have killed a man outright. So my Miles saved the life of Master Bertram at the risk of his own. I think it's not every boy of fourteen who'd have done so much, nor been so sharp.

I'm telling this because it happened then, and others saw it beside the boys themselves; not because I saw it. I couldn't see aught at first, except that great pile of fallen rocks, where my husband and Bessie had been. I didn't notice Louey go down near me; and though a sharp bit of rock struck me, I didn't so much as feel it.

A lot of people came hurrying up—sailors and other men I hadn't seen to be near, but yet they must have been. The children were made to move away to a distance as fast as possible; but I couldn't stop to think of them, for I was wild to know about Jervis and Bessie. They say I spoke pretty quiet, only I didn't feel myself to be quiet. The next thing was, I found Miles close by me, and he was saying, "They'll get 'em out, mother, and I am going to help."

I couldn't bear Miles to go near, for I thought there'd surely be another fall of the cliff; and I tried to hold him back, but it was no use. A lot of men were hard at work, and Master Bertram was with them; and they had need of courage, for nobody could say if any moment they mightn't be buried too. But still they kept on, as brave as could be, clearing away the rock and the rubbish, hoping that it mightn't be too late.

Somebody tried to make me go farther off, and I wouldn't be made, not even when a policeman came and ordered me back. I just gazed in his face, and stayed where I was. "Want me to go, when my husband and child are there!" said I. And he looked pitying, and said no more: and maybe I was wrong, but how could I help it?

The time seemed so slow, I didn't know how to bear myself. Sometimes everything turned black, and I couldn't have told where I was, nor what had come to me.

It must have been just after one of those turns that I saw a man carrying something down the beach—carrying a child, and I knew it must be my little Bessie, though I could not properly see. I cried out for Bessie, but somebody stepped between; and I tried to meet him, but I could hardly walk, and he went off and away too quick; and I asked no questions, for my husband wasn't out yet, and I had to wait for him. The blackness came again, and the next minute somebody had hold of my hand, and I jumped up, and cried out, "Is it Jervis?" And then I knew from the feel of the hand, with a glove on it, that it wasn't a man, and I saw the face of Master Bertram's mother, that I had seen on the platform.

"Come with me," she said, and she held me, as if she meant to be obeyed.

"But my husband and Bessie!" said I.

"Yes, they are both taken away," said she. "You must come home with me now."

She led me, for I couldn't see rightly, and I kept stumbling over the pebbles: but she held me up, and somebody helped me on the other side, and not a word was said. I couldn't speak either for a time, I felt so strange: and then I had a pain in my left shoulder, and I suppose I put my hand there, for the lady said, "Does it hurt much?"

I think I looked at her, wondering how she knew, for she said,— "A piece of rock has struck you, and I am afraid you are badly bruised."

I hadn't felt it before, but the pain got worse, till I didn't know how to walk. The rock must have been jagged, for it had torn my dress.

Then all of a sudden we were at the Rectory. I didn't dare to ask any questions, and I was sick with the pain: so Mrs. Kingscote made me sit down, and she loosened my dress and bathed the shoulder; and my arm below the shoulder was all swelled up. And then she made me drink something hot; I couldn't say what it was. After that I must have turned sleepy or stupid, I don't know which, nor for how long; for when I woke up wide in a fright, and longing to know more, it would be a good hour later. Mrs. Kingscote was gone, and only Miss Ellie sat by me, keeping watch; and I was on the sofa in the little workroom where the Rectory maids used to sit. I couldn't think how I'd come on the sofa, nor why I wasn't with my husband, and I sat up in a hurry and said, "Oh, I must go!"

"Wait, please, till my mother comes. Just one moment," said Miss Ellie.

"I can't wait," said I, all in a fever.

"But you don't know where anybody is," said she. "Wait just one moment;" and hardly was she out of sight before Mrs. Kingscote came in.

"Are you a little better now?" said she, and she sat down by me.

I couldn't answer, for it didn't seem to matter how I was. I wanted to hear about them, you know. I just looked at her hard, and I said—"Then they're killed!"

Mrs. Kingscote's blue eyes, which are every bit like Master Bertram's,—were, I ought to say, for eyes alter as people grow older— her eyes filled up with tears, and her soft hands took tight hold of mine, as if she did want to comfort me.

"Only—one," said she.

I think I cried out sharp at this, and I said, "Oh, not Jervis! Not my little Bessie!"

She didn't speak again directly, but one big tear after another came dropping fast, and her eyes kept filling up and filling up, and her hands wouldn't let mine go.

"Not Jervis!" I said again, and before I could go on she said—

"No, not your husband."

"Then—Bessie," said I; and I began to shake, like as if I had got the palsy.

"Think," said she, and she spoke soft—"think how much happier it is for your little Bessie there—there, in sweet Paradise with our Lord! Try to think of that most. Bessie will never have any more trouble to bear. She is safe for ever and ever in His keeping. Isn't that wonderful?" said she; and it did seem so. Her words took hold of me. "And by-and-by you will meet again, won't you?" said she. "It isn't very long to wait. Only a few years, and soon you will be able to feel glad, though I know how hard it is, for I have two little ones there."

Then there came up the thought of my Bessie's sweet look and loving ways, and how our home wouldn't be like home without her, and I did feel as if I couldn't bear it.

"I want to go to her," I said, and my voice sounded strange, like somebody else speaking. "I want to see her, please. Where is Bessie?"

"In Paradise, with our dear Lord," said she. "She has gone there just a little while before you."

But I wanted the little body that I loved; the little face and hands that had so often kissed and held and clung to me! And when I would not be persuaded, she took me into the big basement-room, where we were all to have had our tea together that afternoon. Little we'd thought of the use that room was to be put to.

There my little angel was, looking as if she was asleep, only so cold and pale. There was a great dented blow on one side of her forehead, where a cruel rock had struck and slain her. Only it had come so sudden, she had had no time to feel fear or pain, and the little lips were smiling still.

They had dressed her in a frilled nightgown of Miss Rosamund's, and had laid her on a small mattress, her little hands outside the sheet; and somebody had scattered a lot of white flowers all over and around her, and a white rosebud was in her fingers.

"You see, she did not suffer. It was all in a moment," said Mrs. Kingscote. While I stood looking, she stooped down to kiss the little thing, and I have always loved her since for that. It seemed to comfort me, and it made me able to cry; and the dear lady cried with me.

"It isn't for very long, you know," she said again. "Only a few years. And they will take such care of your little darling in Paradise. For our Lord Himself is there,—and the holy angels,—and so many who have gone away from earth. They are all full of love and kindness in Paradise, and she will not be lonely. And by-and-by she will be so glad when you go too."

I wondered if she thought I was sure to go, and why she should think it. But I could not speak nor ask questions. I could only cry and let her comfort me.

By-and-by I thought again of Jervis and my other children; and then she led me back to the workroom.

"Miles and Rosie are not hurt at all," she said. "And Louey will soon be better, I hope." She seemed to know all the names quite well "Miles was so good and brave—he saved my boy's life. We shall never never forget that."

She went on to tell me about my husband's state, breaking it gently. It seems that just before the fall of the cliff, Bessie had got off my husband's knee, and gone a few yards out from the cliff—not far enough to save her life; and yet it might have been, but for that one blow on the head, for she was covered over chiefly with earth and sand, and wasn't much hurt in any other part. My husband hadn't moved; and he was terribly crushed by the fall of the rock, though just so far sheltered by the overhanging cliff as not to be buried under the heaviest part; and so he was not killed. But it couldn't be known yet whether he would recover. He had not opened his eyes, nor made any sound, nor given any sign of sense, since first he was found.

Near the Rectory was a tiny little house, hardly bigger than a cottage, where a nice woman lived, named Mrs. Coles. She was the very same that Master Bertram meant when he talked of "Old Nurse;" though I never could see what he meant by saying she and I were alike. She'd been years in service to Mr. Kingscote's mother, and had had the care of him all through his childhood; and when Mr. and Mrs. Kingscote came to live at Ermespoint, nothing would content them but finding a home for Mrs. Coles there too. She'd been settled in near a month; and she'd got three little rooms which she was to let as lodgings to somebody or other, only she hadn't found any lodgers yet. So, by Mr. Kingscote's order, Jervis and Louey had been taken straight to her, Mr. Kingscote knowing she'd do well for them both. Mrs. Coles was a good nurse, and had had a deal of experience; and though she was getting oldish, she had plenty of work in her still.

Miles was gone with his father, and Rosie was in the Rectory nursery.

It did seem to me I'd ought to have been with Jervis all this while; but Mrs. Kingscote told me I was too ill at the first. She said I should go now as soon as I liked, only I must have some tea first; and she didn't think my shoulder would let me do much for a day or two. Which seemed likely enough, for when I moved the pain turned me sick, though the doctor had seen me and said there wasn't any bones broken.

While I drank my tea Mrs. Kingscote sat and talked with me, as kind as could be. Going back to Littleburgh couldn't of course be thought of yet, she said. Jervis couldn't be moved, and I shouldn't wish to leave him. If I liked, her husband would write for me to Jervis' employers.

Those weren't such days for clubs as these; but my husband belonged to a "Benefit" Society, and I knew we should have fifteen shillings or so coming in weekly while he was disabled—at least for a certain time. Still, I didn't see how we were to get along; and the lady seemed to understand my thought. "We shall help you," she said, "and I think we can find some work for your boy. We will look after you all," said she, "just as you looked after my boy when he needed it. I don't forget that!—or Miles saving his life!" and her eyes filled up again. "Don't you see, it seems as if you and we were bound together?" And I couldn't but thank her, and say how good she was to talk so. I won't say I wasn't proud of Miles in all my sorrow.

"There's just one thing more, Mrs. Murchison," said she. "I want you to say a kind word to my poor boy before you go. It's asking a great deal, just now when you are so tried, but he is almost heart-broken, because it was he who led you all under the cliffs, and he seems to feel as if in a way it lay at his door. But he had no idea of the danger. If he had, he wouldn't have taken his own sisters, you know."

"Nobody could blame the young gentleman, ma'am," said I. "It was just his kindness; and he was as ignorant as we were."

"I knew you would feel so," said she. And then she said, "It was my boy who put all those flowers. He is so upset. You will speak to him while I go to get my bonnet?"

As soon as she was gone Master Bertram came in, and, dear me, he was altered. He had grown as pale!—and all the fun gone out of his eyes. He just dragged himself in, as if he was so tired he could hardly walk, and he stood by me, and he said, "I didn't know there was danger, Mrs. Murchison. I'd have cut off my right arm sooner than—"

"I'm sure you would, sir," said I. "It wasn't your fault, no more than mine."

"If you'll believe me," says he—just as if I was accusing him. "And poor little Bessie—" says he. But he couldn't get on, and his face went as white as paper, and he sat down and dropped it on his hands, like he'd done in the train.

"She's better off, sir," I tried to say, though it was all I could do.

"If only I could have saved her," says he, fetching a long breath.

"I know you would, sir," said I, and the tears were running down my cheeks. He didn't cry, but I could see his chest heaving up and down with the struggle not to give in. "I'm afraid it's made you ill again, sir," said I, for he did look bad.

"Oh, that's nothing," says he, sighing. "If only—Don't tell mother. She's going with you. And if your husband—" But all at once he couldn't stand any more. There was a sort of sound like a sob, and he jumped up and was gone before I could say a word. Master Bertram never was one who could bear to be seen crying; and I suppose he wouldn't have cried, whatever he felt, if he hadn't been in a weak state of body. It's wonderful how ashamed young gentlemen are of it's being known they ever shed a tear. It's a sort of pride with them to seem not to mind. Master Bertram always was such a one for carrying everything off with a high hand, so to say; but that day he was knocked down, and no mistake.

Then Mrs. Kingscote came in, and she didn't ask any questions, but just set off with me for Mrs. Coles' cottage.