Hazel worked on. In another minute the two young men were beside her, eagerly proffering aid; and, to her immense relief, a large firm hand was tendering her a flask. She seized upon it, and grew sick with alternate hope and fear. She felt that the fiery liquid was the poor little child's last chance—a very little while would decide now. Trembling with anxiety, she set Doris to chafe the wrists and hands with the potent fluid, whilst she moistened the blue, pinched lips, dabbed the temples, and endeavoured to pour a few drops down the throat.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, for Christ's sake," the girl prayed, but her dry lips refused to voice the prayer.
Did the little face look less ghastly, or was it her imagination? And surely—yes, surely the eyelids quivered. With redoubled energy she worked on.
"Can we help? Do tell us what to do," Paul's voice said. He was kneeling at the child's feet, arranging a blanket round the limbs; Digby paced up and down, never taking his eyes from the little group. Hazel did not turn or start. It seemed natural that Paul should be there, in case she wanted him. She made an effort to speak, but her throat was too contracted. She could only answer him with a shake of her head.
Of a sudden the boy's eyes opened, and a faint colour stole into cheeks and lips. Hazel gave a little sob of thankfulness—Doris began to cry; it was saved, saved, this little life! The tension was broken; Hazel staggered to her feet, dizzy with excitement and fatigue. Digby and Paul lifted the child from the ground, and Digby made for the house with his burden, well covered in the blanket, with all speed.
Hazel stood staring blankly after her charge; then, of a sudden, self-consciousness stung her, acting as a momentary stimulus. What a guy she must look—what a guy she had looked all this time, kneeling in her clinging, dripping clothes and hair! How could she meet the little party of people now close upon them, how manage to walk to the house! She turned blindly, tremblingly, flushing red, to Doris and Paul. Then the question answered itself; for the next moment Paul was wrapping a second blanket around herself and, relieved of this and all other need for thought or care, she quietly fainted away, and was borne to the house in Paul's strong arms, all shame and distress gone from her.
Paul Charteris had come to pay a morning call at The Beeches, with leisure to stay to lunch if asked to do so. He was yearning for a glimpse of Hazel and desirous of learning the day that should terminate her visit. Mrs. Travers was about to propose to her guest a stroll down to the riverside in quest of her girls, at the moment of Phyllis's breathless entrance and alarming demand for brandy. Paul's heart ceased to beat for a space, for in the first confused account rendered by the panting girl he only understood that Hazel had been in the water!
Quickly ascertaining the true state of affairs, the whole household fared forth hurriedly, bearing blankets, and the invaluable liquor that had saved the child's life—Paul and Digby running at top speed ahead.
Rescued and rescuer were soon warm and comfortable, for, once at the house, nothing was lacking that could aid in their quick recovery. Mrs. Travers and Doris soon had Hazel in dry clothes, and after the administration of a hot drink of Mrs. Travers's own concocting, the spent girl was easily persuaded to rest upon her bed. Every comfort, too, was lavished upon little Bobbie; so that, when the child's mother, Mrs. Boutcher, arrived, nothing remained but for her to sit beside his couch and watch, with thankful heart, his peaceful slumber.
Hazel also slept; which circumstance Phyllis crept halfway down the stairs to report, Paul halfway up, to learn; and he was able to leave after lunch, satisfied that all was well with the patients. He stoutly refused to have his coat dried, assuring good, kind Mrs. Travers that it was not damp, or in the least way the worse for its close contact with his dripping burden; in face of the fact that in the middle of the shoulder of the grey tweed was a round dark patch of wet, where Hazel's head had lain, and long streaks down his sleeve, where her dripping hair had clung—a circumstance to be observed by all blessed with eyes to see, and which Digby Travers noted with a pang of jealous misery. He fully appreciated the feeling that prompted Paul's stout resistance, for it would indeed be desecration to subject the garment to the rough handling of a servant and to the drying influence of the kitchen fire! For a while he left Paul to fight it out by himself as best he might. Presently more generous feelings came to him, and he quickly put a stop to his mother's importunate suggestions for the supposed comfort of her guest by a half sullen, but affectionate: "Don't bother Charteris, mother, he is all right"; and Paul darted a grateful look at his rival, which, however, the other refused to meet.