“Is that all you know about it—now, after all the mischief you have made! You have done your worst to part us.”
Though still quite a junior counsel, Gregory had been long enough called to the Bar to understand that women must not be cited to the bar of reason. Their opinions deserve the most perfect respect, because they are inspired; and no good woman ever changes them.
At any rate, Mabel was right this time. Before they could say a word, or look round, they not only heard but saw a boy riding and raving furiously, on the other side of the water. He was coming down the course of the stream towards them as fast as his donkey could flounder, and slide, and tear along over the snow-drifts. And at the top of his voice he was shouting,—
“A swan, a swan, a girt white swan! The bootiful leddy have turned into a girt swan! Oh, I never!”
“Are you mad, you young fool? Just get back from the water,” cried Gregory Lovejoy, sternly; for as Bonny pulled up, the horses, weary as they were, jumped round in affright, at Jack’s white nose and great ears jerking in a shady place. “Get back from the water, or we shall all be in it!” For the wheeler, having caught the leader’s scare, was backing right into the Woeburn, and Mabel could not help a little scream; till the sailor sprang cleverly over the wheel, and seized the shaft-horse by the head.
“There she cometh! there she cometh!” shouted Bonny all the while; “oh, whatever shall I do?”
“I see it! I see it!” cried Mabel, leaning over the rail of the gig, and gazing up the dark stream steadfastly; “oh, what can it be? It is all white. And hangs upon the water so. It must be some one floating drowned!”
Charlie, the sailor, without a word, ran to a bulge of the bank, as he saw the white thing coming nearer, looked at it for an instant with all his eyes, then flung off his coat, and plunged into the water, as if for a little pleasant swim. He had no idea of the power of the current; but if he had known all about it, he would have gone head-foremost all the same. For he saw in mid-channel the form of a woman, helpless, senseless, at the mercy of the water; and that was quite enough for him.
From his childhood up he had been a swimmer, and was quite at his ease in rough water; and therefore despised this sliding smoothness. But before he had taken three strokes, he felt that he had mistaken his enemy. Instead of swimming up the stream (which looked very easy to do from the bank), he could not even hold his own with arms and legs against it, but was quietly washed down by the force bearing into the cups of his shoulders. But in spite of the volume of torrent, he felt as comfortable as could be; for the water was by some twenty degrees warmer than in the frosty air.
“Cut the traces,” he managed to shout, as his brother and sister hung over the bank.