“Maybe he helped her in,” darkly suggested a third. “I’ve seen them often walking here thegither, and he’s a perfect brute when he’s in a passion. He wad ding her in as sune as look at her.”
This last suggestion found most acceptance. These men knew Smeaton thoroughly—his fiery temper, brutal strength, and impulsive ferocity—and had little doubt but his hand had sent the poor girl to her watery grave. Their only difficulty was how to act in the dilemma.
One thought that it would be safest, in order to avoid awkward questioning by those in authority, to quietly slip the body into the water again, stow away their net in its usual hiding-place, and drop work for the night; but this proposal was not well received, for Jessie was a general favourite, and was admired from a distance by the roughest in the place. While they stood thus in doubt, one of them suddenly exclaimed—
“Deid folk dinna bleed! She’s maybe living yet—let’s gie the puir thing a chance—row her on the grass—lift up her airms—dae onything that’s like to bring her roond.”
The result of this electrifying speech was that the whole gang lent a hand in the rough and ready means of restoration, and, with such good effect, that very shortly the supposed drowned girl gave signs of life, though not of consciousness. Thus encouraged, the men made a litter of their coats, and ran with her to the nearest cottage, where she was put to bed, and tended and nursed as carefully as if she had been in her own home.
Jessie’s parents were sent for and informed as gently as possible of the accident, and their first exclamation on reaching their daughter’s side was—“Oh, the villain! this is Smeaton’s wark!”
Jessie was able to recognise her father, and smile faintly when he took her hand in his own, but she was too weak to give any account of the accident or crime till next morning. By that time the flight of Smeaton had been discovered, and telegrams despatched ordering his arrest and detention; and when Jessie woke she found not only the lieutenant of police, but a magistrate at her bedside, ready to hear her statement and act upon her charge. Then they all were surprised to find that Jessie had no charge to make. She would not, by as much as a look, admit that Smeaton had thrown her into the water, or even struck her so as to cause her to fall in or receive the wound on her temple. How had the accident happened then?
“I must have fallen in,” said Jessie, after a long pause, and with tears in her eyes.
“Yes, you must have fallen in,” impatiently interposed her father, who positively hated her lover, “or you could never have been picked out, but was the falling in purely accidental? Surely, Jessie, I have trained you well enough in truthfulness to be able to rely on your answer in a matter of life and death?”
“Yes, father, dear,” meekly answered Jessie, with fresh tears. “I will always be truthful. But I cannot answer every question. I would rather die and be at rest.”