CHAPTER XXVIII

THOU OR I!

"What's brave, what's noble, Let's do it, after the high Roman fashion." —SHAKESPEARE.

ETHEL ELVEY had been standing on the bridge, unconscious of any human creature's presence, when Fulvia's movement drew her attention.

"I shall be in! Make haste!" cried Fulvia. The baby shrub might at any moment prove false to her trust, and nothing then could hold her back from the threatened bath. Fulvia had no idea how deep the water might be. She had never learnt to swim. Still, she did not lose her collectedness; and with a vivid sense of alarm was mingled a sense of her absurd position. "I am glad Nigel is not here to see!" flashed through her mind, and then, "But he would have me up directly! What can Ethel do?"

She dared not attempt to climb alone—dared not stir. The slightest movement might precipitate her downwards.

Not many yards lower one big bough of a large tree curved over the stream, actually dipping its leaves and twigs into the running water. Fulvia cast a sidelong glance at this bough. If it had but been nearer! The thought occurred to her that, should she fall in before Ethel could arrive, she might reach and cling to the said bough. It looked strong, extending so far out that the current would probably carry her within grasp of its extremity. Fulvia was able to consider so much while waiting. She resolved to keep cool, not to be flurried.

Ethel uttered the one encouraging cry, and then rushed round at her utmost speed to the bank above Fulvia. The question was, how to proceed when there? She heard Fulvia calling, "Take care! The ground will give way!" And she knew that it would not do to follow in Fulvia's steps.

After one moment for observation, Ethel fixed her hopes upon a slender ash, growing slightly to one side of the position which Fulvia had occupied. She had been unused to exertion lately, and already she found herself panting for breath, with a sense of failing power. But there could be no delay. At any instant Fulvia's support might fail.

"Oh, make haste!" implored Fulvia, as Ethel sprang downwards quickly, yet with caution. "Make haste!" It seemed impossible to hold on longer; and, surely, the little shrub was coming up by the roots.

The branch on which Ethel had fixed her hopes proved to be out of reach—almost, perhaps not quite, if she had breath and strength to spring. She made a hurried attempt, once, twice, in vain; and then her heart was throbbing so furiously that everything around grew hazy, and she was compelled to pause, leaning against the tree.

"Ethel! Ethel!" cried Fulvia.

Ethel collected her energies, and made one supreme effort, throwing all the strength she had into it, and very nearly losing her own balance. This time she did not fail; the bough was in her clasp. If only she had not felt so weak and dizzy—but there was no time to think of her own sensations.

"Ethel!" shrieked Fulvia hoarsely; for again the earth seemed to be sinking under her.

She held on desperately—how, she did not know; and she grew terrified, losing her collectedness.

Ethel, clinging to the tough ash branch, sprang fearlessly down the bank, bending forward with outstretched right hand. Fulvia's came to meet it, and the two met in a firm grip.

Success so far; but in the same moment the ground beneath Fulvia broke away, and Fulvia hung over the brink, depending alone on Ethel. The sudden pull drew Ethel from where she had stood, and she slid down the yielding bank towards the verge.

Perhaps the ash branch might have borne them both, had Ethel's strength been equal to her share of the task; which it was not. The weight of both girls rested now mainly upon Ethel's slender left hand, and the strain was terrible.

For two or three seconds she set her teeth, and held on desperately; but that could not last. She was turning faint; specks danced before her eyes, and Fulvia's voice was unheard. The drag upon her wrist tore the muscles, and the agony became unbearable. Another moment, and the released branch sprang back to its old position, while the two girls rolled helplessly over into deep water, each clinging to the other with unconscious force.

This was Fulvia's second involuntary bath in the river! Last time the water had been her friend, saving her from a deadlier peril; now it was her foe, endangering life.

* * * * * * *

Fulvia's presence of mind forsook her at the moment of the plunge into cold water, and she forgot the low hanging bough; but happily the stream fulfilled her hope. As the two girls rose, still together, Fulvia flung out her arm against something firm, and in a moment she had fast hold.

"Cling! Cling!" she gasped, so soon as speech became possible. She dashed the water out of her eyes, and cast a look round. "Ethel, Ethel, cling; we are safe now!"

Ethel had uttered no sound. Her eyes were half shut; her lips had grown blue. It was not easy to make her transfer her grasp of Fulvia to the friendly bough. They were so near its extremity that the wonder was they had not been swept past it by the current. Ethel inevitably would have been, since she was outermost, but for her instinctive grip of Fulvia.

Fulvia, as she seized the bough, drew Ethel nearer; and the gentle force of the stream rather tended now to wash them against it than to carry them away. But they could feel no ground for their feet; and though the water buoyed them up, it was very cold—far colder than Fulvia would have expected.

She gazed about in eager quest for help, and could see no one. While they could cling, they were, as she had said, safe. The question was, how long the power of each would last?

To get to shore unaided was not possible. Even if they could have attempted to work themselves along by the side of the bough, passing hand over hand—an easy matter to a boy, though by no means easy to a girl—it would have been useless. The branch soon curved upwards out of reach, and unless they could climb into the tree, which was out of the question, they would have to cross unaided a space of deep water, which was equally out of the question.

Moreover, Fulvia had serious doubts as to the strength of their support. She did not think it would stand any severe strain. The branch, as a whole, was less stout than it had appeared at a little distance: there were signs about it of age, and of something approaching to rottenness, and higher up, half-way to the bank, she could actually see a slight split, as if the part on which they depended had begun to break off. It might only have begun with the pull of their sudden weight, as Fulvia was swept against it.

She found herself watching that visible split in the wood with fascinated eyes, composed enough to speculate how soon it would widen, yet with terror below.

They could do nothing except cling and cry for help. Fulvia called and called again, without result. Ethel made no such attempt. She seemed just conscious, just able to clutch the bough with one hand, the other being under water out of sight; but no words had yet passed her lips, and the look of exhaustion alarmed Fulvia.

"I don't see or hear anybody. Some one must surely pass soon. Ethel, are you faint? You look so pale. Don't let go!" This companionship in misfortune drew them together, and she felt that Ethel was in peril for her sake. "Don't let anything make you! Can't you hold with both hands?"

"I can't—"

"Why not? Have you hurt yourself?"

"I think—my wrist—"

"Yes; what is it?"

"Only—twisted—"

"Was that why you had to give way? Is the pain very bad?"

"Yes." The monosyllable did for both questions.

Fulvia had one arm over the bough by this time. She quitted her grip of it with the other, and grasped Ethel's dress instead.

"That will help you, will it not?" she said. "Now you cannot go. Ethel, be brave; do try to hope. Somebody is sure to come soon. You must not let yourself faint. This can't last long."

It could not indeed, in another sense, as Fulvia well knew. Their position was rapidly becoming most serious. Her own powers lessened fast, and Ethel drooped more each minute. Now and again it seemed to Fulvia that the clasp of those thin fingers was loosening. She held Ethel tightly, alternately imploring her to keep up, and shouting for aid; but still no one came, and it was impossible that Fulvia should long support Ethel as well as herself.

A new terror arose. Ominous creaks sounded, slight at first, then more distinct; and Fulvia, watching with wide-open eyes, felt certain that the crack above had begun to widen. In a few minutes the whole bough would split off. This was the finishing touch to her misery. Once more Fulvia's composure failed her as terror rose high, and she screamed again for help, in a voice sharpened by fear.

Either the creaks or that new sound in Fulvia's voice aroused Ethel from her semi-trance. The eyes, dim and unseeing a minute earlier, grew clear, and she said distinctly, "It is giving way."

Fulvia broke into despairing sobs. "Ethel, Ethel, what shall we do? Why does no one come? It is cruel—cruel. Must we be drowned? I can't die! I cannot—cannot leave Nigel!"

"Poor Fulvia!" Ethel's faint tones were full of pity. "But if God calls?" she murmured.

Fulvia shut her eyes, and tried to cry for help, for pardon, before it should be too late; but she could not think, could not fix her mind. In days of safety she had not drawn near to God, and now, in the hour of danger, she felt Him far away. The dazzle of the water was all around, even when her eyes were shut; and the stream gently swayed her; and the creaks grew louder, more frequent. She heard Ethel speaking again, "Don't hold me! Let go!"

"Why?" Fulvia involuntarily loosened her hold on Ethel as she spoke.

"It will not bear us both."

"The bough! Breaking!"

"Yes. Don't be startled. I think you will be all right. I think I ought!"—and there was a quiet smile. "Tell Nigel why. And—oh, Fulvie!" with a passion of longing in the blue eyes—"be very, very good to him!"

Then she unclasped the clinging fingers, which held her to the bough, and fell off. The strained support ceased to creak with the lessened weight, and Ethel's slight form was borne away, carried round the next bond in the river.

A piercing scream burst from Fulvia. She had cried for help before with all her force, but this cry rang far and wide, with a shrill intensity unequalled hitherto. No second cry followed it; voice failed in a convulsion of sobs. Fulvia had not dreamt what Ethel's words meant.

The Bramble family had organised a small expedition that afternoon to a certain Roman encampment some miles down the river. The encampment consisted only of a few stony heaps, well grown over; but a charming wood stood hard by, and Newton Bury people made the most of their one little lion.

Mr. Bramble was there, middle-aged, good-humoured, a degree pompous, and willing to be amused; Mrs. Bramble, plump and complacent; Rose Bramble, and two young lady-cousins of Rose. Only the Duncans went, beside themselves, and for a wonder Dr. Duncan, in addition to his wife and daughter, was of the party. He could seldom find leisure for any such relaxation. Two open carriages bore the eight, and Baldwin Bramble preceded them on his bicycle.

Having enjoyed afternoon tea in the wood, the merry party drove homewards. Dr. Duncan's presence had been secured only through a promise of early return; consequently they stayed a shorter time than was usual with excursion parties. Baldwin, on his bicycle, speedily shot ahead of the more lumbering vehicles. He reached the neighbourhood of the spot where was Fulvia, a short time before she thought of moving. The carriage road lay not far from the river, though not within sight.

Baldwin had begun to find solitude uninteresting. He resolved to wait for the carriages, and to restrain his ardour for a while to match their pace. Leaning his bicycle against a grassy bank by the roadside, he passed through a gate and sat down under a hedge, intent upon his favourite solace. To his disgust, he found that he had mislaid his match-box. Cigars being useless, only one recourse remained to the disappointed young man. He fell sound asleep.

Ethel's voice and Fulvia's cries, in the succession of events which followed, failed to disturb Baldwin's peaceful slumbers. He had an uncomfortable dream or two, but he slept on. Then Fulvia's wild shriek, when Ethel left the bough, effected that which all previous cries had failed to effect. Baldwin awoke, with the echo of her scream still ringing in his ears.

He was not a rapid young man at any time, either in understanding or in doing; but as he sat up, it dawned upon him that somebody was in distress somewhere.

"What's the matter now? Bother!" he said aloud.

Had anybody else been at hand to take the initiative, Baldwin would doubtless have remained quiescent, since he never troubled himself to act unnecessarily. No one except himself appearing to be within call, he made his way towards the river. Where water is at hand, and an appeal for help is heard, one naturally connects the two together.

Baldwin had not far to go. Sobbing wails in a woman's voice guided and quickened his steps. He was soon looking downward upon the low bough, to which a girl clung, her hat off, her face and hands above water, her tones and gestures expressive of urgent appeal for help.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Baldwin.

The question was, how to get at her? Nigel, in Baldwin's place, would probably have taken a header into the river, without hesitation; but Baldwin was not so impulsive. He was a tolerably capable young man when moved by a sufficient motive, and the dire need of the lady below was evident; still, he had on a brand-new bicycling costume, never worn till that day; and not everybody is willing, without consideration, to sacrifice a brand-new suit of clothes.

It was plain that the lady saw him, and was calling out eager entreaties, broken by sobs. Baldwin paid small regard to what she said. Rescue was of course what she wanted; and the difficulty was how to rescue her without getting wet himself. He reluctantly came to the conclusion that the knickerbockers at least must submit to a ducking.

The road was entirely out of sight; but Baldwin was not afraid of the two carriages going by. He knew that the sight of his bicycle would bring them to a halt.

For two seconds Baldwin debated whether to climb down the bough to Fulvia. He decided against that mode, doubting whether the bough would bear his additional weight, and feeling sure that he could not get the young lady to land by any such means.

"Yes, yes; I'm coming," he called, with cheerful deliberation, as he pulled off his coat. The girl seemed in a desperate hurry, he thought. She was urging something passionately, with hysterical vehemence, but he could not distinguish a word.

Where Fulvia and Ethel had fallen in, the bank was steep. Here, below the tree, it sloped gradually into the river, and Baldwin waded several steps with caution.

"Hallo!" he exclaimed, stopping short, when the stream rose above his waist. "I say! If it isn't—! Why, it is—Miss Rolfe!"

"Save Ethel!" sobbed Fulvia incoherently.

"I wouldn't be so frightened—I really wouldn't, Miss Rolfe," expostulated Baldwin, in a tone of concern. "See, now, couldn't you manage to pull yourself along the bough towards me, just a yard or two?—It's no earthly use speaking to her; she won't hear a word," muttered the young man. "Nothing for it but to swim. I say," raising his voice, "don't you grab me, Miss Rolfe. We don't want to go under together." He had vivid recollections of her conduct on a former occasion, when he had not been the rescuing party.

A few strokes carried him across the intervening space, and he laid one hand upon the low lying branch. It snapped away like tinder, and he made a vehement snatch at Fulvia, just in time, as she was going with it.

"Hallo!" he once more ejaculated.

Fulvia gasped, and struggled. Baldwin held her dexterously at arm's length, and struck out for the bank, which he reached somewhat lower down. He sprang out, helped her up, and gave himself a shake. The knickerbockers were done for.

Streaming with water, breathless and stupefied, Fulvia sank to the ground; but as her gasps lessened, sense and speech returned.

"Don't mind me!—Oh, don't mind me!" she implored. "Ethel has gone down—drowning—the river—Oh, go and save her!"

"Hallo! You don't say there's another?"

Fulvia, almost shrieked in answer, "Yes!—Yes!—Ethel—Ethel Elvey!" Would he never understand?

"Bramble, what's all this? Fulvia!" exclaimed Dr. Duncan, arriving on the scene.

"She'd better drive home. Just got her out of the river. Yes—nice, isn't it?" with a rueful glance at his boots. "I don't think she knows what she's saying—" in an undertone, confidentially. "That's rubbish, you know, about Miss Elvey."

"No! No! No! He will not understand," cried Fulvia. "We fell in together—Ethel and I—and she has gone down—down the river! The branch was breaking, and she let go! Oh, save her!"

Dr. Duncan turned sharply to Baldwin. "Send her home in one carriage at once," he said. "Keep the other, and come after me."

Then he was off at full speed, losing not a moment, active as a boy in his movements, quickly out of sight.

"Oh, go—go too!—Never mind me!" urged Fulvia.

"I've got to see you off first. Dr. Duncan will do all that can be done," said Baldwin, feeling little doubt that the rescue of Ethel, if not already accomplished, must come too late. "You'll catch your death of cold, if you don't hurry."

"No, no! You must leave me and go!" implored Fulvia; but she implored in vain—Baldwin would not so much as listen. He half led, half dragged her over the rough ground, till the road was reached, where the two open carriages waited.

A chorus of exclamations greeted Baldwin and his dripping companion. He singled out Mrs. Duncan, and explained tersely how things stood. "Miss Rolfe was to drive home at once," he said; "Dr. Duncan ordered it. The other carriage had better wait." In an undertone Baldwin added, "Don't you let her put off. She's half frantic already, and if Miss Elvey—you know what I mean."

Mrs. Duncan did know too well. She wrapped warm shawls round the shivering girl, and despatched her without delay, under the charge of Mrs. Bramble and the two cousins, Rose Bramble taking to the coach box. Better all of them out of the way, thought Mrs. Duncan, regretting only that Annibel could not go also. Fulvia hysterically begged to be allowed to wait; but, like Baldwin, Mrs. Duncan would not listen.

"My dear, it is as much as your life is worth," she said; and she gave parting directions to the others. "Tell Mrs. Browning and Daisy that Fulvia must take off all her wet things, and get into bed as fast as possible, and have something hot to drink."