I felt greatly interested.
'Did you meet on board ship, do you mean?' I asked. 'Did you make a voyage together?'
'No, no,' said mamma, smiling again; 'I have never been a long voyage in my life. And the time I was thinking of—ever so long ago—had nothing to do with a voyage. I will tell you the story of it if you like. Shall we sit down here a little? It is perfectly dry.'
My hurry to get home to tell Geordie about Miss Trevor's present had softened down in the interest of what mamma was speaking of; besides, when I came to think of it, I remembered that he could not yet be back from Mr. Lloyd's. So I was very pleased to do as mamma proposed.
'There is a little bathing-place far up in the North,' she began, when we had settled ourselves on a little bank made by some old roots which had spread out beyond the actual pine wood, 'which was rather a favourite in that part of the world a good many years ago, though now, I fancy, it is quite out of fashion. It was considered a very safe place for children, as there are great stretches of sands, and the bathing is very good, except that the tide at one part goes out with great swiftness and force, owing to a current of some kind just there. There is a garrison town—a small one—two miles or so from the bathing village—a station for cavalry—and the sands used to be, and I daresay still are, a favourite exercising ground for the horses. Well, one morning, ever so long ago, as I said——'
'Do you mean fifty years ago, or a hundred perhaps?' I interrupted thoughtlessly, forgetting that the story had some connection with mamma herself.
'No, no,' she said laughing, 'not quite as "ever so long ago" as that. Let me see—I need not be quite exact—about twenty-four or twenty-five years ago, we will say. Well, one fine summer morning an officer, a very young one, of only eighteen or nineteen, was galloping with his men—a small party—up and down these sands, when he heard and saw something which made him suddenly pull up and gaze down towards the sea, which had turned and was rapidly going out. It was just above the bathing-place—a perfectly safe place if the vans were drawn out when the tide turned, and not allowed to get into the sort of current I told you of. But by some mischance one of the vans had been allowed to stay in the water too long—the old bathing man was getting rather stupid, I fancy, and was busy drying things higher up, with his back to the sea, and did not hear the cry from the van, or see the white handkerchief that was frantically waved from its landward side.
The young man had keen eyes and ears; he saw that there was not a moment to be lost—and he quickly took in what had happened and what must be done. The van was almost off its wheels, swaying about with every little wave that ran in, as the water rose and rose. And just outside the door, on the ledge at the top of the steps, stood a forlorn little figure waving a handkerchief, or perhaps it was a towel, and crying at the top of her small voice—
"Help, help; oh, please, help!"
'I don't know what the officer did about his men, who were already some little way off—I suppose he signed to them to wait for him,—but I know what he did himself, and that was to gallop as fast as his horse would go, down to the sea, shouting as he went to the bathing-man, who was quick enough to see what was wrong, as soon as his attention was called to it.