Susan and her niece had promptly availed themselves of this permission, and seized the opportunity of penetrating into far-away villages and to distant country seats; and the poor old motor, at their request, was racketted along at its best speed, as they were bound to be in Ottinge before dark, in order that the car might be washed. If they, by any chance, were a little late, they were received at the hall door by Miss Parrett, in cold silence, watch in hand.
After the recent heavy rains, the low, marshy country was flooded, and, returning one afternoon from a twenty-mile expedition, at a sharp turn in the road where the ground sloped steeply, the motor ran into a wide sheet of water—a neighbouring river had burst its banks. There was no going back, that was impossible. Miss Susan for once lost her nerve, and, putting her head out, asked the chauffeur piteously—
“What shall we do?”
“There’s only one thing for it, miss,” he answered promptly. “I don’t think the water is deep, and I’ll keep straight on—as near as I can guess—in the middle of the road; you see, there are ditches at either side, and I can’t turn; but you need not be nervous—as long as the water doesn’t reach the magneto you are all right.”
But, as they crept forward cautiously, the water was gradually rising; it rose and rose, till it stole in under the door, and then the motor came to a full stop.
“Now, what’s going to happen?” demanded Miss Susan excitedly.
“I see the road is not more than fifty yards ahead, and the water is shallower. We have stuck in the worst part.”
“But what is to become of us, my good man? Are we to sit here all night—and the motor may blow up?”
“I’ll go to a farmhouse and borrow a couple of horses, and I dare say after a bit I can start her again.”
“And are we to remain here, Owen, and be half-drowned? You know my sister will be crazy if we are not home by seven.”