"It is the eger;I've often seen it on Severn,where the swift seaward current meets the spring-tide.Look what a crest of foam it has,like a wild boar's mane.We often call it the river-boar.""But it is only a big wave."
"Big enough to swamp a boat,though."
And while I spoke I saw,to my horror,that there actually was a boat,with two men in it,trying to get out of the way of the eger.
"They never can!they'll assuredly be drowned!O John!"But he had already slipped from my side and swung himself by furze-bushes and grass down the steep slope to the water's edge.
It was a breathless moment.The eger travelled slowly in its passage,changing the smooth,sparkling river to a whirl of conflicting currents,in which no boat could live--least of all that light pleasure-boat,with its toppling sail.In it was a youth Iknew by sight,Mr.Brithwood of the Mythe House,and another gentleman.
They both pulled hard--they got out of the mid-stream,but not close enough to land;and already there was but two oars'length between them and the "boar.""Swim for it!"I heard one cry to the other:but swimming would not have saved them.
"Hold there!"shouted John at the top of his voice;"throw that rope out and I will pull you in!"It was a hard tug:I shuddered to see him wade knee-deep in the stream--but he succeeded.Both gentlemen leaped safe on shore.The younger tried desperately to save his boat,but it was too late.
Already the "water-boar"had clutched it--the rope broke like a gossamer-thread--the trim,white sail was dragged down--rose up once,broken and torn,like a butterfly caught in a mill-stream--then disappeared.
"So it's all over with her,poor thing!"
"Who cares?--We might have lost our lives,"sharply said the other,an older and sickly-looking gentleman,dressed in mourning,to whom life did not seem a particularly pleasant thing,though he appeared to value it so highly.
They both scrambled up the Mythe,without noticing John Halifax:then the elder turned.
"But who pulled us ashore?Was it you,my young friend?"John Halifax,emptying his soaked boots,answered,"I suppose so.""Indeed,we owe you much."
"Not more than a crown will pay,"said young Brithwood,gruffly;"Iknow him,Cousin March.He works in Fletcher the Quaker's tan-yard.""Nonsense!"cried Mr.March,who had stood looking at the boy with a kindly,even half-sad air."Impossible!Young man,will you tell me to whom I am so much obliged?""My name is John Halifax."
"Yes;but WHAT are you?"
"What he said.Mr.Brithwood knows me well enough:I work in the tan-yard.""Oh!"Mr.March turned away with a resumption of dignity,though evidently both surprised and disappointed.Young Brithwood laughed.
"I told you so,cousin.Hey,lad!"eyeing John over,"you've been out at grass,and changed your coat for the better:but you're certainly the same lad that my curricle nearly ran over one day;you were driving a cart of skins--pah!I remember.""So do I,"said John,fiercely;but when the youth's insolent laughter broke out again he controlled himself.The laughter ceased.
"Well,you've done me a good turn for an ill one,young--what's-your-name,so here's a guinea for you."He threw it towards him;it fell on the ground,and lay there.
"Nay,nay,Richard,"expostulated the sickly gentleman,who,after all,WAS a gentleman.He stood apparently struggling with conflicting intentions,and not very easy in his mind."My good fellow,"he said at last,in a constrained voice,"I won't forget your bravery.If I could do anything for you--and meanwhile if a trifle like this"--and he slipped something into John's hand.
John returned it with a bow,merely saying "that he would rather not take any money."The gentleman looked very much astonished.There was a little more of persistence on one side and resistance on the other;and then Mr.
March put the guineas irresolutely back into his pocket,looking the while lingeringly at the boy--at his tall figure,and flushed,proud face.
"How old are you?"
"Fifteen,nearly."
"Ah!"it was almost a sigh.He turned away,and turned back again.
"My name is March--Henry March;if you should ever--""Thank you,sir.Good-day."
"Good-day."I fancied he was half inclined to shake hands--but John did not,or would not,see it.Mr.March walked on,following young Brithwood;but at the stile he turned round once more and glanced at John.Then they disappeared.
"I'm glad they're gone:now we can be comfortable."He flung himself down,wrung out his wet stockings,laughed at me for being so afraid he would take cold,and so angry at young Brithwood's insults.
I sat wrapped in my cloak,and watched him making idle circles in the sandy path with the rose-switch he had cut.