One of Catharine’s favourite haunts was a meadow by the bridge. She was not given to reading, but she liked a stroll and, as there were plenty of rats, the dog enjoyed the stroll too. Not a week after Maggie’s death she had wandered to this point without her usual companion. A barge had gone down just before she arrived, and for some reason or other had made fast to the bank about a quarter of a mile below her on the side opposite to the towing-path. She sat down under a willow with her face to the water and back to the sun, for it was very hot, and in a few minutes she was half dozing. Suddenly she started, and one of the bargemen stood close by her.
“Hullo, my beauty! Why, you was asleep! Wot’s the time?”
“I haven’t a watch.”
“Haven’t a watch! Now that’s a shame; if you was mine, my love, you should ’ave one o’ gold.”
“It is time I was at home,” said Catharine, rising with as much presence of mind as she could muster; “and I should think it must be your dinner-hour.”
“Damn my dinner-hour, when I’ve got the chance of sittin’ alongside a gal with sich eyes as yourn, my beauty. Why, you make me all of a tremble. Sit down for a bit.”
Catharine moved away, but the bargee caught her round the waist.
“Sit down, I tell yer, jist for a minute. Who’s a-goin’ to hurt yer?”
It was of no use to resist, and she did not scream. She sat down, and his arm relaxed its hold to pick up his pipe which had fallen on the other side. Instantly, without a second’s hesitation she leaped up, and, before his heavy bulk could lift itself, she had turned and rushed along the bank. Had she made for the bridge, he would have overtaken her in the lane, but she went the other way. About fifty yards down the stream, and in the direction of Chapel Farm, was a deep hole in the river bed, about five feet wide. On the other side of it there were not more than eighteen inches of water at any point. Catharine knew that hole well, as the haunt of the jack and the perch. She reached it, cleared it at a bound, and alighted on the bit of shingle just beyond it. Her pursuer came up and stared at her silently, with his mouth half open. Just at that moment the instant sound of wheels was heard, and he slowly sauntered back to his barge. Catharine boldly waded over the intervening shallows, and was across just as the cart reached the top of the bridge, but her shoes remained behind her in the mud. It proved to be her father’s cart, and to contain Tom, who had been over to Thingleby that morning to see what chance there was of getting any money out of a blacksmith who was largely in Mr. Furze’s debt. He saw there was something wrong, and dismounted.
“Why, Miss Catharine, you are all wet! What is the matter?”