Warren took it, in a firm sympathetic grasp. He himself was looking rather fagged—in fact, decidedly not himself—which was little to be wondered at. What he himself wondered was that he was there at all.
“All’s well that ends well, Miss Lalanté,” he said, cheerily, “which, if not original, about sums up the situation. We’re all about equally wet for that matter, but as long as we keep moving we shan’t take any harm, and the way back to the house, if not long, is rough enough to keep up our circulation.”
“What can I say to you, Mr Warren?” went on Lalanté. “You were just telling me the strongest swimmer would stand no chance in that flood, and then you deliberately went in yourself.”
“Not deliberately, Miss Lalanté,” smiled Warren. “I assure you it was all on the spur of the moment. Charlie, it’s lucky you had the foresight to tumble in above us. If it had been down stream I could never have got near you.”
As a matter of fact the feat had been one of great daring and skill, and having accomplished it Warren felt secretly elated as they took their way home. He realised the warm admiration and gratitude which it had aroused in the girl, and, now that it had ended well, he looked upon the whole affair as a gigantic stroke of luck, and, in fact, as the very best thing that could have happened to him. Bye and bye, when Wyvern’s memory should begin to dim, then this appreciation would turn to something stronger. Curses on Wyvern! Why should he have this priceless possession, and how confoundedly calmly he seemed to accept it, as if it were only his due? He, Warren, would have moved heaven and earth to obtain it, yet why should that other gain it with no effort at all? He himself had all the advantages that Wyvern had. He was a clean-run, strong, healthy man, whom more than one girl of his acquaintance would think herself surpassing lucky to capture. Moreover he had made money, and knew how to go on making it, which was a thing Wyvern never had done and never would. Why the deuce then should Wyvern be where he ought to be? he thought bitterly as he walked dripping beside Lalanté, in the gloom of the now fast-darkening night. Well, at any rate, in all probability Wyvern by that time was nowhere at all, thought this man who had just risked his life when the chances were a hundred to one against him, to save that of a helpless child. Yes. Nowhere at all. There was a wholeheartedness about Bully Rawson and his doings which left no room for doubt. He could be trusted to “take care” of anybody.
And yet, through it all there was a certain modicum of compunction; compunction, but no relenting. Had circumstances compelled Wyvern to give up Lalanté, he would have had no more sincere well-wisher than Warren. As it was he stood in Warren’s way; therefore—out he must go. Then Warren became alive to the fact that Lalanté’s bright eyes were fixed upon him in some concern.
“You didn’t hurt yourself—in the river, did you?” she said anxiously.
“Oh no, no. I’m a dull dog, I’m afraid,” he answered, with a laugh. “Perhaps I am a bit tired.”
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” she persisted, anxiously.
“Very sure indeed. I got a rap on the shin from that confounded tree that did its best to hold me under water, but that was nothing to what I used to get in a football match when I was a nipper.”