Chapter III: The Rescue

Two persons, ignorant of each other's presence, sat nigh the river on a windy day in October. The latter rains had fallen, the springs were unsealed. Each rillet was swollen to a gushing stream and the rivers ran in torrents. North and south they shouted from their drowned fountains and hurried a mighty volume of cherry red and spumy water back again to the Channel and the Severn Sea, whence it had come.

Auna, running riotously high above her summer bed, hung dead sticks and withered foliage on inundated branch and bough, to mark her progress and leave a signal of her autumn frolic. She shouted, wild as a mænad, and leapt from rock to rock, swirling here, flinging wide, glassy billows there, and submerging each familiar stock and stone along her banks. The height of the freshet was over and the river had already fallen a foot from her torrent of the day before. Now sunshine filled the valley, while the fires of the fall flashed on oak and beech and the last of the rowan berries.

On Shipley Bridge sat a man smoking and waiting to keep an appointment. He was to meet Benny Veale from the warrens, and beside him, in a limp heap of grey and white fur, lay a dozen dead rabbits.

Adam Winter, the new tenant of Shipley Farm, was a man of thirty with a fair, commonplace face. He stood only five feet eight, but was well built and strongly put together. He wore a small moustache and a little patch of sandy whisker before each ear. His pale blue eyes were kindly, the expression of his face amiable, easy and rather wistful.

He had failed at Brent and lost half his capital, an inheritance from his dead father; and now he was trying his luck again on a smaller place, with the moorman's privileges of turbary and grazing. A maiden aunt kept house for him, and his right hand was an elder brother, Samuel Winter, a man weak-minded and lacking in self-control, yet resolute to work, happy in solitude and not difficult to manage.

Adam had made a start and being of a temperate and reflective nature in most affairs of life, faced the future without fear. He was not ambitious, or concerned to do much more than keep his aunt and brother and himself in solvency. Five years earlier he had been in love in a tepid fashion, but his romance came to nothing and its failure left him cast down for a short while only. He soon recovered, but revived no ambition to wed.

Here, then, he lingered with the sun on his back, appreciated the gentle warmth, smoked his pipe, listened to the thunder of the river in the gorge beneath him and perceived that the granite bridge vibrated to its rough challenge.

A heavy network of boughs hid the valley above him. Otherwise he had observed the only other occupant of the spot, where sat Margery on her favourite ledge, now only just clear of the water. The pool beneath her remained calm no more, but was alive and dancing and deep. The bottom had disappeared in the peat-soaked current, and little argosies of spume trembled here with bursting bubbles, while half the backwater was hidden under the honey-coloured churnings of the river. Her favourite, smooth reaches were no longer smooth; her laughing stickles were drowned. All heaved and rolled with unwonted weight of waters, and against the deep baying of the river, Margery's puppies lifted their shrill yap. Above her crossed the arms of oak and ash; upon the banks the fern was down and the tawny brakes spread sodden purple under much rain. Beneath this point, Auna narrowed to a cleft, where an augmented waterfall now tumbled into the gully below.

Margery sat and brooded, for the day was one of eventful character in her life. To-morrow her reign as kennel-maid at Red House would end; she was to return home and not reappear until after her marriage. Happiness dominated her mind; yet there were regrets. Never again would she wear doublet and hose; and that grieved her, for she loved this attire and marvelled why women should be denied such seemly and convenient raiment. It was a small thing, yet not to be relinquished without sighs. And she would be queen of the puppy dogs no more. The busy, russet creatures, growing sturdy now and ripe for discipline, still made her the centre of their activities and joys. Their eyes were ever uplifted to her, for she was their god--the benignant power that ordered their world, chastened them, cheered them and encouraged them, applauded them, made games for them, flung fir cones for them, consoled them in disaster, shared their joy, filled their little, ever hungry bellies.

Now they nosed her and squeaked into her ears, while she sat with elbows on knees and chin in hands as motionless as the grey stones.

"Oh, you duckies!" she said aloud, "how am I going to say good-bye to you even for six weeks? But half of you will be sold and out in the world before I come back."

She pushed them away and the pups scattered to pursue their pleasure. They were wide awake to the meaning of water and she felt no fear for them, but concentrated on herself and the days to come.

There stole into her heart a feeling that the past had been too good to continue long.

"It isn't often what's good turns into what's better," thought Margery. "My days can't be so perfect for ever, if what mother says is true."

Then suddenly, without one preliminary monition, Mrs. Huxam's prophecy was confirmed, and the rag of many colours that men call life rent for Margery and revealed a new thing.

She heard a sudden howl of terror from a puppy, and leaping up, saw one of her charges in the river. Two playing on the bank had rolled together at water's brink, and in a moment one was over. The current tumbled the small thing away and swept him into the main channel. He now bore down upon Margery, who stood ten yards below, and she perceived that the sole way to save him must be by wading to the central tide, where it gleamed between two shallows a few yards above the fall. If she failed, the terrier would certainly go over and make an end of himself. He was drowning already, with terrified eyes and black nose lifted, while he swept downward like a dead leaf, beating the water with his paws.

She did not hesitate, but dashed in at once, knee deep, thigh deep, all unconscious of the forces against her. She intercepted the little lump of red hair, grabbed him, and then, finding herself powerless to stem the heaving water, took both hands to the puppy and flung him five yards to the bank. Happily he fell light on broken fern, where he lay shivering, shaking and weeping till his brothers found him.

To plunge before the stream had been easy but, against the flood water, return proved impossible for Margery. The river converged and held her now at the centre of the current, where its energies were concentrating for the fall. She heard the roar behind her and felt fierce hands thrusting her backwards toward it. She strove to fight forward, but her long, slim legs were not built to oppose such power. She swayed, and as she lifted one foot, the other was instantly swept from under her. Now she was up to her waist and in another two seconds off her feet and rolled over. A yard above the waterfall her head and shoulders were heaved up and she tried to catch a rock in vain. Then she screamed, with the terror of sudden death in her voice, and a moment later vanished in the great, amber-coloured roll of the river, as it swept to its fall.

Her cry had been heard, though it seemed doubtful whether a human being could survive that shattering drop, even if the rocks were merciful. But Adam Winter caught the shriek and, jumping to his feet and peering under the boughs, was just in time to see a human arm and leg thrust from the resounding arc of the waterfall and hurled into the welter of foam beneath. He knew the place and wasted no time. He judged that some foolhardy boy had fallen into the water and been swept to destruction; but the scream made it clear that the victim had come to his ordeal with plenty of life in him.

Winter scrambled down the bank, flinging off his coat as he did so. If any thought passed through his mind as he automatically rushed to his task, it was one of annoyance that he should be called to a business so unpleasant. The discomfort troubled him more than the danger; indeed for him there was little danger. He jumped over a bank into the river, found it reach to his middle and then ploughed up from the shallow end of the hole to the deep water under the fall. The place was dark and full of the din of the water. He saw a hand sweep up and disappear; then he left the ground and swam a few strokes to the boiling dance of the foam.

Good fortune favoured Adam, for he came straight upon Margery's floating body, held her before she sank again, got his shoulder under her and so swam the little distance necessary to reach foothold. Then he stood up, gripped her round the waist and presently carried her clear of the river. Not till he found her hair all over his face did he know that he had saved a woman. He brushed it away and recognised Margery; then, in great dread that he carried a corpse, set out with her to the Red House. His own place was nearer, but Adam felt impelled up the valley.

The girl remained quite unconscious. She was not heavy and he made good way, finding time to wonder what had brought her into the river. Then the puppies appeared and crept in doubt and dismay round him. To see their god limp, silent, still, thus carried in a man's arms, appalled them. They barked and whimpered, but would not lose sight of their guardian and followed in an agitated company at Winter's heels.

Thus they came, until Bullstone, proceeding under the fir trees to find Margery, suddenly discovered her in Winter's arms. The blood surged up to his face; he stared; he snorted and then charged forward.

"What in God's name----?" roared Jacob; then he dropped his ash sapling and almost snatched the unconscious girl from Adam.

"Fell into the river and went over the rocks into the pool," said the younger man quietly. "Please the Lord she ain't dead. I don't think she is."

Jacob was panting.

"For any man but me to touch her!" he almost groaned, to himself rather than the rescuer.

Winter stared and stopped. He was about to explain events, but Jacob strode away, the puppies streaming behind him.

He lifted his voice and bawled for help before he reached his door. Then Mrs. Bullstone hastened and found him already beside the kitchen fire. He lowered Margery to the ground, bade his mother undress her and went for brandy.

Returning with it he found the sufferer had regained consciousness. She could not speak but her eyes were open. She drank; then Jacob went for blankets and within ten minutes had left the house, hastened to the stables and saddled a horse. He quickly galloped off to Brent for a doctor and Margery's mother.

In time they arrived, to a turmoil of talk and tears from Mrs. Bullstone--a dislocated, agitated upheaval in which Judith Huxam and her daughter alone preserved calm. The physician found Margery bruised and cruelly shaken, but without a broken bone. There was concussion, how severe he could not immediately determine.

He directed them and asked a question of Jacob before leaving.

"How did she get in the water? Not intentionally I hope?"

For the last time that day Bullstone was staggered beyond reason.

"'Intentionally?' Good God, doctor, she's engaged to marry me!" he said. Then happened a strange thing, for in the morning, Margery proved already better after sleep, and sitting beside a convalescent sweetheart, Bullstone was reminded of one he had forgotten.

With deep emotion he came to her and gasped to see how small Margery appeared, sitting up with a pink shawl round her shoulders and her hair down.

Out of his joy and to steady himself, he blamed her--even assuming an angry manner.

"Properly mad, and must mean a screw loose in you," he said. "To go into a raging torrent like that for a puppy! You never thought of me."

"Of course I thought of you," she answered in a weary, little voice. "It was your dog and I had to save it. But in truth I thought of nothing. I was in the water before I began to think."

The threatened shadow seemed still to hang over her. Her voice was weak and her manner listless.

"I'd give ten years of my life if it had been me who rescued you," he said. "It's proper gall to think that any other man did it."

"You must forgive him--for my sake, Jacob."

"Forgive him! The mischief is that I'm under a life-long obligation now, and he may be the sort to rub it in. Not that he'll need to. I shan't forget that my debts are for ever beyond payment."

"Have you thanked him?"

"Not yet."

She was silent and then expressed a desire that startled her lover.

"No more have I. But I'm not going to let the day pass before I do."

"I'll say all there's need to say."

"No, Jacob. Life's life. I'm properly thankful not to be drowned. Think what he's done for me! If you say a word against, you'll vex me, and I mustn't be vexed."

The subject dropped while she talked of her accident--such of it as she remembered; but she felt desirous to know the exact sequel, and that only Adam Winter could tell her. When Jacob put her off and told her to trust Winter to him, she became quite silent. Then she asked him to leave her.

He went and presently the doctor called and gave a good report. He, too, brought discomfort, for Margery had repeated her wish to thank Adam Winter, and begged that she might do so immediately. She was wilful and strangely insistent, as it seemed to Jacob. Her mother, however, supported her and held it a right thing to happen. The doctor therefore advised that Mr. Winter should see her before she slept. He had found Margery so completely recovered that there was no need to call again.

"Keep her in bed one more day, and then let her get up and stop by the fire," he said. "Youth will never cease to astonish me."

Jacob Bullstone went to Shipley Farm after midday dinner and summoned Adam Winter.

"You've done more than I can pay, as you well know," he said, "and that's granted; but if it's ever in my power to lessen the obligation, I gladly shall, for I little like to be in any man's debt."

"No need to talk that way. There's no debt and no obligation. Who wouldn't have done the same? Didn't Miss Huxam go in the water herself after a puppy? We do these things, not for any return, but because we must. I'd have done as much for a sheep--so would you. I hope she's out of danger?"

"She's wishful to see you--nothing will do but she thanks you herself this instant moment."

"No need at all."

"So I say--no hurry anyway; but that's her will and she must be obeyed, if you please."

"Them caught from the grave like that did ought to be humoured," said Adam's aunt. She was a little woman with grey hair and a red face.

"I'll come, then, if it must be so," said Winter. "The green plover be back, and I shot a brace this morning. Will she accept 'em?"

"No, thanks; I'll get a bird or two for her presently."

The men returned together. Their walk had been silent on Jacob's part, while Adam related the particulars of the rescue.

"I properly thank you," said Margery, when they ascended to her room and Adam took a chair in the window, while Bullstone stood with his hands in his pocket at the foot of the bed and Judith Huxam sat beside it.

"We'll never, never forget it, Jacob and me," continued Margery.

"I hope you will, then," answered the farmer. "Why such a noise about it? Duty's duty. In fact 'twas more of a pleasure than a duty, I'm sure, and if I hadn't much feared you was a goner, I should have enjoyed the fun."

Jacob's eyes were restless, he frowned and moved about. Then he turned his back and examined some family photographs on Margery's mantelshelf.

"To save a life is a great thing, Mr. Winter," said Mrs. Huxam. "Now, whatever your own life's got in store for you, you can always remember that you had a hand, under God, in keeping a human creature alive."

"The puppy's no worse," declared Margery, "and if he knew which it was, Jacob would never part with it. But we never shall know, for I don't remember which I saved. You must be terrible strong to have faced that awful water. It took me like a leaf."

"Wasn't the water's fault," he answered. "Young women can't go playing about with the rivers in flood. A little item like you was bound to be swept away."

"It's a wonderful thing to look at a man who's saved your life," said Margery.

"Wish I was a finer object," he replied.

Jacob hid his emotion, but had to speak and occupy himself. The invalid was nursing two young puppies from the last litter. She had demanded something to play with.

"Best let me take them back," he said. "Mustn't keep Mr. Winter--he's a busy man. And mustn't spoil young dogs. Bless it, you're cuddling them as if they was a brace of babbies!"

"They are babbies," answered Margery, "and if you can't cuddle babbies, what should you cuddle?"

She was wilful still and continued to speak in a tired, small voice.

"Are you fond of dogs?" she asked, and Adam declared that he was.

"What's life without 'em, I say," he answered.

"So do I," she replied. "Jacob can't see the human side of dogs--no, you can't, Jacob. He's all for discipline."

"Quite right too," declared Winter. "You must put into the heart of a dog his bounden duty from the first, else he'll grow up a nuisance to himself and everybody else. Work did ought to be found for every dog. If it ain't, they think life's all play and that makes 'em selfish."

"Jacob's the whole law and the prophets about dogs," asserted Margery. "They're blessed creatures and nothing's too good for them--you know you think so, Jacob."

"They haven't got souls, however," explained Mrs. Huxam, "and you had no sort of right, Margery, to run the risk of drowning for a dog."

"Some dogs have got far bigger souls than some men," answered her daughter; "and you've only got to look in their eyes to see 'em."

"That's a wicked thing to say, and I'm sorry you said it," replied Judith. "It shows your mind is wandering still and there's fever left in your brain. So these men had best to be gone. You forget your religion, Margery."

The girl was silenced, but Adam Winter, who did not fear Mrs. Huxam, ventured on a doubtful joke.

"The dogs have got religion anyway," he assured them, "for I'm sure the little ones worship your darter, ma'am; and the big ones worship Mr. Bullstone."

"'Tis a great thing to search to the heart of a dog," murmured Margery, "and nobody ever did that like Jacob."

Adam Winter, conscious that his last remark had annoyed Mrs. Huxam, though she did not answer it with words, got up to go his way.

"Mustn't bide no more," he said. "And I hope you'll soon be down house and as right as rain, Miss."

She stretched out a hand and he took it and stood a moment on his way to the door.

"Mind you come to our wedding," bade Margery. "I will have you there; there wouldn't have been a wedding at all but for you."

"I'll gladly come, be sure."

He went through the door, and Bullstone followed without speaking.