Cynthia's Chauffeur Part 29

"Anything you like."

He took a cautious step, then another. The water was rising. Luckily the current was not very strong or he could not have stood against it.

"No good," he said. "We must go back."

"Pity I'm not a circus lady. Then I might have balanced myself gracefully on the top of your head."

He murmured something indistinctly, but Cynthia fancied she caught the words:

"You're a dear, anyhow."

"What did you say?" she asked.

"It is high time we were out of here," he answered, turning his back to the pressure of water, which was very great in that place.

"What will happen if there are two channels, and we have pitched on a bank in the middle?"

"I must walk about a bit until I find the right track. The Wye is not very deep at this point. It must shelve rapidly in one direction or the other."

"But it mayn't."

"In that event I shall lower you into the water, ask you to hold tight to my coat collar with both hands, and let me swim. It is only a few yards."

"But I can swim, too."

"Not in a long dress.... Ah, here we are. I thought so."

In a couple of strides the water was below his knees. Soon he was standing on a pebbly beach at the nose of the promontory formed by the bend where the accident had happened. In order to lower Cynthia to the ground without bringing her muslin flounces in contact with his dripping clothes he had to stoop somewhat. Her hair brushed his forehead, his eyes, his lips, as he lifted her down. His hands rested for an instant on the warm softness of her neck and shoulders. His heart leaped in a mad riot of joy at the belief that she would have uttered no protest if he had drawn her nearer instead of setting her decorously on her feet. He dared not look at her, but turned and gazed at the river.

"Thank G.o.d, that is over!" he said.

Cynthia heard something in his voice then that was absent when they were both in peril of being swept away by the silent rush of the black stream.

"Quite an adventure," she sighed, stooping to feel the hem of her frock.

"You are not wet?" he asked, after a pause.

"Not a thread. The water barely touched my feet. How prompt you were!

I suppose men who fight have often to decide quickly like that....

What caused it? A whole seam was torn open."

"It cannot be a stake. Such a thing would not be permitted to exist in this river.... A snag probably. Some old tree stump undermined by last month's heavy rain."

"What of the boat? Is it lost?"

"No. It will be found easily enough in the morning. The damage is trifling. How splendid you were!"

"Please don't. I haven't said a word to you, and I don't mean to."

"But----"

"Well, say it, if you must."

"I am not going to compliment you in the ordinary terms. Just this--nature intended you to be a soldier's bride, Miss Vanrenen."

"Nature, being feminine, may promise that which she does not always mean to carry out. Besides, I don't know many soldiers.... It is charming here, by the river's edge, but I must remember that you are soaked to the skin. Where are we, exactly?"

"About four miles from the hotel, by water: perhaps a mile and three-quarters as the crow flies."

"How far as a girl walks?"

"Let us try," he said briskly. "We seem to have landed in a meadow. If we cross it, all my efforts to save that muslin frock will count as naught, since there is sure to be a heavy dew on the gra.s.s after this fine day. Suppose we follow the bank a little way until we reach some sort of a path. Will you take my hand?"

"No, I need both hands to hold up my dress. But you might grab my arm. I am wearing French shoes, which are not built for clambering over rocks."

Cynthia was adroit. The use of one small word had relieved the situation. Medenham might hold her arm with the utmost tenderness, but so long as he was "grabbing" it there was nothing more to be said.

He piloted her to a narrow strip of turf that bordered the Wye, found a path that ran close to a small wood, and soon they were in a road.

There was slight excuse for arm-holding now, but Cynthia seemed to think that her frills still needed safeguarding, so he did not withdraw the hand which clung to her elbow.

A light in a laborer's cottage promised information; he knocked at the door, which was not opened, but a voice cried:

"Who is it? What do you want?"

"Tell me the nearest way to the Symon's Yat Hotel, please," said Medenham.

"Keep straight on till you come to the ferry. If the boat is on this side you can pull yourself across."

"But if it is not?"

"You must chance it. The nearest bridge is a mile the other way."

"By gad!" said Medenham under his breath.

"I wouldn't care a pin if Mrs. Devar wasn't waiting for me," whispered Cynthia, whose mental att.i.tude during this mishap on the Wye contrasted strangely with her alarm when Marigny's motor collapsed on the Mendips.

"Mrs. Devar is the real problem," laughed Medenham. "We must find some means of soothing her agitation."

"Why don't you like her?"

"That is one of the things I wish to explain later."

"She has been horrid to you, I know, but----"

"I am beginning to think that I owe her a debt of grat.i.tude I can never repay."

"What will happen if that wretched ferryboat is on the wrong side of the river?"