8. CHAPTER VIII.
IN THE WATER.
The cry for help was uttered by Judge Bland, who, swept away
by the current of the Blackwater, called aloud for some one to come
to the assistance of his daughter, who seemed about to share his fate.
They had ridden out, as we have seen, in the morning to visit Mr.
Randolph, a neighbor, on the opposite side of the Blackwater, and
no difficulty had been experienced in passing the ford, as the stream
had not then risen. On their return all was changed. The rains
had done their worst; the river was rushing between its banks,
and Judge Bland saw at a glance that the ford, so easily crossed in
the morning, was now dangerous or impracticable.
Evelyn had pushed her small horse into the water before her
father was aware of it.
“Do not attempt it, my daughter! Take care!”
A gay laugh came back.
“Brownie can swim!—but he will not have to! Look, papa!
The water is not up to the saddle!”
An instant afterward, the small animal was swept from his feet.
Judge Bland, driving his horse with the spur, caught at the bridle,
but failed to reach it. He was swept down; his frightened horse
became unmanageable; the aged gentleman lost his seat and was
carried away, uttering, as the water caught him, that cry for
“help”—not for himself, but for his daughter.
Harley had reached the bank in a few bounds of his horse, and
first caught a glimpse of Judge Bland's riderless animal as the current
bore him down. But something more frightful quickly attracted
his attention. Through a mass of foliage dipping in the
stream he saw, in the middle of the current, the head and shoulders
of Evelyn. She was clinging to the neck of her horse, which
the water was sweeping away; a moment afterward the animal
struck, and half-rose upon, the small island mentioned. The girl
was thrown forward on the debris of rock and earth, and the animal,
as though nothing had happened, struck out for shore, and safely
reached the bank some distance below.
Harley was already in the stream, swimming toward the island.
Accustomed to rough riding, and mounted on a well-trained and
powerful animal, he reached the island without trouble. Pushing
his horse upon the mass of rock, he left him standing there and
ran to the girl. She had half-risen, lying upon her right side, and
supporting herself with both hands.
Her first cry was “Oh! my father! my father!”
“I must think of you first,” said Harley, coolly; “the river is
rising. There is no time to be lost. Rise, if you can; if you cannot,
I will lift you.”
The poor girl was nearly distracted with grief, and only wrung
her hands, crying, “Father! father!”
Harley thereupon took her up in his arms, as he would have
lifted a baby; carried her to the horse; placed her on her feet, supporting
her with his left arm around her waist, and, mounting, drew
her up before him. He then drove his horse into the stream, saying,
as he did so,
“There is the chance that my horse will reach shore without
accident. If he strikes a root, there will be danger. Then, try not
to cling to me, as you will probably drown yourself and me too.”
The angry waves were by this time roaring around them and puffeting
them. Harley supported the girl without the least difficulty,
and they would speedily have reached shore, but then, all at once,
occurred what he had feared. The powerful animal, swept headlong,
but swimming bravely, suddenly struck, and entangled his
legs in, a submerged root of one of the large trees leaning from the
bank, raised himself out of water, uttered a sharp neigh, and,
turning on his side, was carried under.
Harley had provided for the accident. He had taken his feet
from the stirrups, and clung only with his knees. As the horse
sank he threw himself from the saddle, and passing his left arm
around the young lady's back, and under her arm, struck out with
his right.
They would have reached shore in a few moments, but suddenly
the young girl's arms darted toward his neck, and the small hands
were clasped around it.
“Do not cling to me! You will drown yourself.”
The hands clung all the tighter, and Harley felt that he was sinking.
The thought passed through his mind, “If this were a man,
I would know what to do—I would use brute force; but it is a
woman!” His head was dragged down; the pale face of the girl
was against his cheek—her eyes closed; the fatal arms still clinging
around his neck. Making a last effort—as he was sinking, in spite
of his great strength—Harley seized with his right hand the two
delicate wrists of the girl, tore them violently from his neck; caught
them with his left hand, twisted them upward in his strong grasp,
and throwing the weight of her body on his left shoulder, struck
out once more with his right arm.
They were saved. The girl was now a mere dead-weight, and
Harley swam with her to a projecting point of sand where the
ground was level, found his feet touch earth, and carried her in his
arms to the dry land. She had fainted.
Harley had just placed her on the bank, when a low moan came
from some water-flags, ten paces off. He went to the spot, and
reached it just as Judge Bland was dragging his bruised limbs from
the water. He had been swept, by main force of the current, on
the low bank, and narrowly escaped drowning.
His first cry was—“My daughter!”
“She is safe,” said Harley. Then he exclaimed:
“Judge Bland? I am Justin Harley, sir. Thank God! I was here
to help my father's friend. But here is Miss Bland.” He pointed
to her. “She is unhurt.”
The old gentleman was already lifting his daughter in his arms.
Evelyn opened her eyes, saw him, clung around his neck, and burst
into tears, exclaiming:
“Oh, father! father!”
The horses of the whole party had the good fortune to get out of
the fierce current unhurt, and were easily caught. The storm had
muttered away into the distance. Evelyn had been lifted to the
saddle by her father, and they returned homeward, Harley leaving
them where the road divided. He would come to Blandfield and
pay his respects, he said; then, in response to Judge Bland's earnest
words, he pressed that gentleman's hand, made a ceremonious bow
to the young lady, and went toward Huntsdon.
“Well, this is something like an adventure,” he said, as he rode
homeward. “If I read it in a romance, I should no doubt sneer at
the writer for straining after effect, inventing the improbable, and
for not confining himself to the good, respectable, natural humdrum
of every day. Well, I prefer humdrum, I think. I am not a
romance-hero. I shall not establish further relations with this
handsome damsel.”
After going a little further, he said, half-aloud, as before:
“I will go back to Europe. This country depresses me more than
ever. That ford on the Blackwater had a sickening effect on me;
I had forgotten it was there.”
As he came near Huntsdon, the sky overhead had become perfectly
clear, and the sun sent a crimson glare from beneath two
bars of black cloud on the horizon. The red light slept on the trees
and the long façade of the building. Not a leaf stirred; not a sound
disturbed the silence.
“I will go back,” he muttered. “I am determined on that. I
can endure anything better than this pitiless serenity of nature!”
[ILLUSTRATION]
"Judge Bland was dragging his bruised limbs from the water."—P. 38.
[Description: 513EAF. Image of three people: a woman is lying on the riverbank unconscious, her clothes drenched; there are two men on the right side of the image, one man is pulling the judge out of the river.]
