Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 7

by Unknown

I ran down the back of the hill to the edge of the interposing flood; a stunted tree was in the middle, the fork of which I knew was as high as my shoulder; a mass of weeds and briars was already gathered against it; the water had raised them within a foot of the first branch; then I might still ford a passage; no moment was to be lost; I ran back for the lady, but met her half-way in wild alarm, her head bare, her beautiful hair shaken out into the blast, her hands clasped, and her figure just sinking. I caught her in my arms, and bore her forward with all my speed; but before I again reached the sweeping inundation, insensibility had released her from the terrors of our passage.

I dashed in, holding her across my body, with her head resting on my shoulder; the first step took me to the knee. I raised my burden and plunged forward; the water rose to my haunches. I lifted her again across my breast, rushed on, and sank to the waist. I felt that I could not long support a dead weight in that position; so lowering her limbs into the water, I profited by that relief, and reached the tree.

The flood had now covered me to the breast, and the lady’s neck and bosom were all that remained unimmersed. I leaned against the old trunk, and breathed myself. I raised her drooping head on my shoulder, and pressed my cheek to her forehead; but neither lip nor eyelid moved. I could not but gaze upon her face; it lay among the long floating tresses and turbulent eddies, fair as the water’s own lily, and as unconscious. My heart warmed to the lovely being, and I bent over her, kissing her lips, and pressing her bosom to mine, with an affection so strangely strong, that I might have stood thus till escape had been impossible, but that the rustling of the rubbish, as it crept up the rugged stump with the rise of the waters, caught my ear. A thunderbolt smouldering at my feet could not have sounded so horrible. All my fresh affections rushed back to my heart in multiplied alarm for the safety of their new-found treasure. I started from my resting-place, and swinging back the long hair from my eyes, once more breasted the stream with clenched teeth and dripping brows. But still, as farther I advanced, the water grew deeper and deeper, and the current split upon my shoulder, and twisted through my legs, still stronger and stronger. Lumps of black moss, dried peats, and heavy sods, now struck me, and tumbled on; while wisps of yellow grass and long straws doubled across my body and entangled me. My limbs wavered at every step as I strained and writhed them through the current. I gave way—I was half lifted—the river and the burn met not a hundred yards below. Had I had the strength of ten men, I could not have supported her through that tumult. Every step swerved towards the conclusion of at least her existence; yet with love tenfold did I now press her to my heart, and with tenfold energy struggle to make good her rescue. Her eyes opened—I murmured prayers, comforts, and endearments—she saw the red torrent around, the tawny breakers before, the black storm overhead; but she saw love in my eye, she heard it in my words; and there, within her probable deathbed, and in the embrace of her probable companion in death, she was wooed among the waters, and was won. Another effort—but the eddy swung me round, and I had given up all as lost, save my interest in that perishing girl; when suddenly I heard, through the dashing of waves and the hissing of rain, the hoarse cry of a man, “Courage—hold up, sir—this way, halloo!” I turned, half thinking it imagination, but there I really saw a man up to the breast in the flood, supporting with arms and shoulders a powerful black horse, which he urged across the current. Another minute, and I stood firm behind the breakwater they formed at my side. My dear charge had again fainted; he assisted me to raise her to the saddle; but suddenly, as he looked at her, he uttered a wild cry of astonishment, and kissing and embracing her, exclaimed, “My Madeline, my daughter, my dear child!—Why, sir, how is this?”

“Oh, sir, the river is rising a foot a-minute—take the bridle, I beseech you, and let me support the lady and the horse’s flank—I will explain all when she is out of danger.” So saying, I laid my shoulder to the work and urged him on; we had an easier task, and in another minute succeeded in getting safe out of that perilous passage.

I now looked at our preserver; he was a handsome, tall, and vigorous man, about forty—evidently a soldier and gentleman. He lifted his daughter from the saddle; and while I recounted the particulars of her adventure, unclasped her habit and chafed her forehead; but all was of no avail. He looked distractedly, first at his daughter and then at me; and after a pause of contending emotions, rose, laid her across the pommel, placed his foot in the stirrup, and turning to me said, “I am embarrassed by many circumstances—take my blessings for this day’s help—and forget us.”

“I can never forget.”

“Then take this trifling remembrance.” He pulled a ring from his finger and handed it to me; threw himself into the saddle; placed his daughter across his body, and crying, ere I could say a word for sheer amazement, “Farewell, farewell!” and once more, with some emotion, “Farewell, sir, and may God bless you!” put spurs to his horse, and dashed off at full speed for a pass which leads into the wild country of the Misty Braes.

Till they disappeared among the hills, I stood watching them from the bank where they had left me, bare-headed, numbed, and indignant; with the rain still pelting on me, and the ring between my fingers. It was a costly diamond; I pitched it after him with a curse, and bent my weary way towards Knowehead, a distance of full five miles, in a maze of uncertainty and speculation. She had not told her name, and she seemed to desire a concealment of her residence; her father’s conduct more plainly evinced the same motive; many of the heads of the rebellion were still lurking with their families among the mountains of Ulster; the only house in the direction they had taken, at all likely to be the retreat of respectable persons, was the old Grange of Moyabel; and it was the property of a gentleman then abroad, but connected with all the chief Catholic rebels in the North. All this made me naturally conclude that these were some of that unhappy party; and when I considered that both daughter and father had been riding from different quarters to the same destination—for, as well as I could surmise from her vague account of herself, she had left the servant, behind whom she had come so far, to wait the arrival of her father, who had promised to join them there—I was able to satisfy myself of their being only on their way to Moyabel; and I therefore determined not to create suspicion by making useless inquiries as to the present family there, but to take the first opportunity of judging for myself of the new comers. But how, after such a dismissal, introduce myself? Here lay the difficulty, and beyond this I could fix on nothing; so with a heavy heart I climbed the hill before my kinsman’s house, and presented myself at the wide door of the kitchen, just as the twilight was darkening down into night.