North, South and over the Sea Part 3

"Well, if you ar'n't you ought to be," said Jinny coquettishly. "Did you see that c.o.c.klin' wench, Jack?"

"Her as went by just now?" inquired John indifferently. "Nay, I didn't take much notice."

"Hoo was a funny-lookin' la.s.s," pursued Jinny. "A bit silly, I think.

Hoo stood an' hoo stared at us same as if we was wild beasts or summat."

"Perhaps she wanted us to buy some of her c.o.c.kles," remarked John, hurriedly volunteering the first explanation that came into his head.

"Eh! very like hoo did. My word, I wish I'd thought on axin' her to let us 'ave a quart--I'm rale fond o' c.o.c.kles. Could we run arter her, think ye, Jack?"

This was the very last thing which John wished to do, and in order to divert Jinny's mind, he hastily proposed that they should hunt for c.o.c.kles themselves.

"Nay," she returned, "I'll not go seechin' for c.o.c.kles--I've got my weddin' dress on, see, an' my new boots an' all."

"Well, then, I will," cried John eagerly. "I need but to kick off my boots an' socks, an' turn up my trousers, an' paddle down yon by the river; there are plenty hereabouts, I know."

"Tide's comin' in--you'd best be careful," screamed Jinny as he bounded barefoot down the slope; but he was already out of earshot.

There sat Jinny on the sunny, wind-swept hill-top; her silk skirt carefully tucked up, and the embroidered frill of her starched white petticoat just resting on her st.u.r.dy, well-shod feet. One plump hand, in its tight kid glove, toying with her posy of roses and "old man,"

the other absently tapping John's discarded foot-gear. Her eyes followed the movements of the lithe young form that wandered hither and thither on the sandy expanse below; her lips were parted in a smile of idle content. All at once a shadow fell across her, and, looking up, she beheld the strange c.o.c.kle girl standing beside her with folded arms. Jinny stared at her for a moment in astonishment from under the brim of her fine befeathered hat:

"Have ye got any c.o.c.kles to-day?" she inquired at length.

"Nay, I haven't," responded the girl rudely; "an' if I had you shouldn't ha' none."

"My word!" exclaimed Jinny angrily, "ye might as well keep a civil tongue i' your 'ead. I don't want none o' your c.o.c.kles, as it jest falls out--my 'usband's gone to get me some."

"Your 'usband," repeated the girl, clapping her hands together in what Jinny thought a very odd and uncalled-for way. "Your 'usband!"

Jinny felt very uncomfortable; the girl's demeanour was so strange that she began to think she had been drinking. Hastily collecting John's socks and boots she scrambled to her feet.

"He's gone c.o.c.klin', has he?" inquired Sally, fixing those queer blue eyes of hers on the wife's face with an extraordinary expression; "an'

you're takkin' care o's shoon till he cooms back? Ha! ha!--happen he'll ne'er coom back."

Jinny turned very red and walked indignantly away; most certainly the girl was either mad or drunk. "Happen he'll ne'er coom back," indeed!

Such impudence! Jinny did not quite like being left alone with her in that solitary place, and partly on this account, partly to disprove her ridiculous a.s.sertion, bent her steps towards the sh.o.r.e, calling loudly to her husband to return.

But a fresh breeze was blowing, and the waves were leaping sh.o.r.eward with unusual haste and energy; her voice did not reach him, and he wandered still further away from her, stooping ever and anon to examine the sand. He had crossed the river some time before, and was now pacing the opposite sh.o.r.e. The muddy waters of this little tidal river had been shallow enough for him to wade through not half-an-hour previously, but were now rising rapidly. He would find his return difficult if not dangerous, and the difficulty and danger were increasing every moment. When Jinny realised this, which she did suddenly, she forgot all about her silk dress and her new boots, and ran frantically towards the water's edge, screaming with all her might; and at last John heard, and began to walk placidly towards the spot where he had originally crossed. The mud banks were out of sight now, and a broad belt of water was spreading rapidly on the other side. It was advancing rapidly also at his rear; soon the stretch of sh.o.r.e, half sand, half mud, on which he stood, would be entirely submerged.

"John! John! coom ower at once!" screamed Jinny, as he paused, looking about him.

"I'm in a fix," he called out. The breeze, which had baffled her endeavours to make herself heard, bore, nevertheless, his words to her. She beckoned and gesticulated, continuing her useless entreaties the while. John laid down his handkerchief full of c.o.c.kles and began to roll up his trousers higher. Jinny fairly danced with impatience.

He made a step or two forward--the water was up to his knees; he walked on, plunging deeper at every step.

Suddenly Jinny uttered an even wilder and more piercing scream--John had disappeared from her sight, and, for a moment, the only trace of him which was evident was his hat rolling and tossing on the brown wavelets. But, before she had time to reiterate the anguished cry, he reappeared, pale and drenched, on the opposite bank.

"Run la.s.s," he cried, "run quick an' fetch a rope, else I'll be drowned. I can't get across the river--the water's nigh ower my head as 'tis, an' my feet keep sinkin' into the mud."

Almost before he had ceased speaking Jinny had turned and was staggering with trembling limbs towards the sandhills. How should she get help in time? There was no habitation within a mile at least, and the water was rising moment by moment. It would be better for him to make a bold dash for safety now. Surely he could get across where he had crossed before, by those brown stepping-stones.

What Jinny took for stepping-stones were in reality the remains of a submerged forest, and no doubt, if John could have discovered their whereabouts, would have afforded him a tolerably secure footing, but they were indistinguishable now beneath the brown, swirling waters.

Oh! he would be drowned!--he would be drowned! The yielding sand crumbling beneath Jinny's feet rendered her faltering progress even more slow. She paused hesitating, ran distractedly backwards a few paces; then, as John imperatively waved his arms, plunged forward again and toiled up the slope. All at once her distracted eyes met those of the girl from whom she had fled a little while before, the c.o.c.kling girl, who was seated very composedly on an out-jutting point of the sandhill, whence she must have had a good view of John and his recent struggle. Jinny, panting upwards, cast a desperate glance upon her.

"For G.o.d's sake help me! My 'usband 'll be drowned before my e'en.

Wheer can we get help? Will ye run one way an' I'll tak' t' other?"

Sally looked down at the convulsed face. "I'm not goin' to run noways," she retorted. "Run yoursel'; I'm not goin' to be sent o' your arrands."

"But he'll be drowned!" gasped poor Jinny.

"He'll be a fool if he drowns then," retorted the girl with a sneer.

"He can get across easy enough if he finds th' reet place."

"Oh, thank G.o.d for that!" cried Jinny with momentary hope. "Will ye show me wheer's th' reet place, quick, for the wayter's coomin' in awful fast. It's down by th' steppin'-stones yon, isn't it?"

"Aye," replied the girl, 'it's down theer; ye'd best go an' look for 'em."

"Eh dear! won't ye show me?" cried Jinny wringing her hands. "I'll gi'e you all as I 'ave i' th' world. My watch, see--an' I've money i'

th' box a' whoam--I'll gi'e you everythin'. Eh, do run down wi' me now, else it'll be too late."

"I want noan o' your bra.s.s an' stuff," cried Sally violently. "He's nought to me--let him drown if he can't save hissel'. He's yourn an'

not mine. Ye'd best see to him."

"Eh, you wicked, wicked wench!" sobbed Jinny. "'Owever can ye find it i' your 'eart--but I'll waste no more time on you."

She clambered on, and soon was flying down the slope on the farther side. How long she ran she could not tell--it seemed to her a century since she had left the sh.o.r.e behind. Her brain reeled, her heart throbbed to suffocation--the terrible thought was ever present to her mind: "At this moment perhaps he is drowning--I may find him dead when I go back." Her very desperation lent her speed, and, moreover, fortune favoured her quest, for it was in reality only a very few minutes after her parting with Sally that she came upon a loving couple seated by the road-side. The man was a fisherman well known to Jinny. How she explained and what she promised she never quite knew, but, in an inconceivably short s.p.a.ce of time they were speeding back together, the man preceding her with long, swinging strides. There was no time to lose in looking for a rope--he thought he knew a place where he could get Mr. d.i.c.kinson across; if not available, he himself could swim.

But, lo and behold! when they reached the summit of the hill and were about to plunge downwards to the sh.o.r.e, an unlooked-for sight met their eyes. There, on the hither side of the river stood John, alive and well, though plastered with mud from head to foot, and by his side was Sally, with her drenched raiment clinging to her, and the water dripping from the loosened strands of her long hair.

"Seems s...o...b..y else has had the savin' of him," cried the fisherman, astonished and perhaps a little disappointed; Mrs. d.i.c.kinson had promised such wonderful things.

Jinny, speechless with joy, ran down the slope and flung herself upon her husband. His face was pale and all astir with emotion.

"Jinny," he said, when at length she allowed him to speak--"Jinny, _she_ saved me."

Jinny turned to Sally. "Eh, how can I ever thank you," she cried brokenly. "You saved my 'usband arter all. I don't know how to thank you."

Sally looked round with a fierce light in her eyes. "Ye needn't thank me--I didn't save him for you."

"I'm sure," said John, in a voice husky with emotion, "I don't know what to say mysel'--it is more than I could have expected, that you should risk your life for my sake."

"'Twasn't for your sake neither then," said Sally still fiercely.

"Then, in the name of fortune! why did you do it?" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"I did it--for mysel'," said Sally.

She turned away, the water dripping from her at every step, and bounded up the slope with the erect carriage and springing gait which John remembered of old.