“Or struck her head?” said Mr Dickenson.
“Let off the water—is there no boat-hook—nothing?”
What gave to Arthur the power of acting and judging he knew neither then nor afterwards. He turned round and said, low and clear:
“No, that will take too long. Open the gates, and she will be washed down the stream. Come out, Hugh, that is useless.”
“Yes, sir, for the Lord’s sake come out, or you’ll be drowned too,” cried the lock-keeper, as he turned to the great handles of the gates.
“Run, Alice, open the other!”
Quick as thought, Alice crossed the upper gates, and seized the handle. Arthur held out his hand, and, holding by a post, helped Hugh up the steep side, then ran down the bank, and stood some yards below the lock, waiting. Slowly the great doors groaned back and, with a swirl and a rush, out poured the muddy water, for the lock was full. Hugh would have thrown himself in again, but Wood held him back. Arthur strained his eyes as the water rushed through, saw something dim and white above him; sprang after it; dived, disappeared, then rose to the surface—empty-handed. The impetus of the water had carried her further than he had calculated on. Both Hugh and the lock-keeper had come to his help before the white dress rose again: but it was his hand that caught it—he caught her once more in his arms, gained his feet in the shallow water, and carried her to the bank.
There he laid her down with her head on Alice’s lap, and wrung the water from her soft, clinging dress. She had lost her hat; but her tightly-folded hair was still in its place, and one was left of the carnations that he had put in front of her dress in the morning.
Mr Dickenson knelt down and examined her carefully.
“It was not the length of time,” he said, after a few moments.