Cynthia's Chauffeur
"Oh, don't worry, but listen to that adorable waltz." Ducrot's
polished dome compared badly with the bronzed skin of the nice boy who
had grown to be a man, so her ladyship's rebellious tongue sought
safety in silence, since she could not afford to quarrel with him.
It is certainly true that the gods make mad those whom they mean to
destroy. Never was woman nearer to a momentous discovery than Mrs.
Devar at that instant, but her active brain was plotting how best to
develop a desirable acquaintance in Roger Ducrot, financier, and she
missed utterly the astounding possibility that Viscount Medenham and
George Augustus Fitzroy might be one and the same person.
In any other conditions Millicent Porthcawl's sharp wits could
scarcely have failed to ferret out the truth. Even if Cynthia were
present it was almost a foregone conclusion that the girl would have
told how Fitzroy joined her. The luncheon provided for a missing aunt,
the crest on the silver and linen, the style of the Mercury, a chance
allusion to this somewhat remarkable chauffeur's knowledge of the
South Downs and of Bournemouth, would surely have put her ladyship on
the right track. From sheer enjoyment of an absurd situation she would
have caused Fitzroy to be summoned then and there, if only to see
Wiggy Devar's crestfallen face on learning that she had entertained a
viscount unawares.
But the violins were singing the Valse Bleu, and Cynthia was upstairs,
longing for an excuse to venture forth into the night, and three
people, at least, in the crowded lounge were thinking of anything but
the amazing oddity that had puzzled Ducrot, who did not con his Burke.
Medenham, of course, realized that he had been vouchsafed another
narrow escape. What the morrow might bring forth he neither knew nor
cared. The one disconcerting fact that already shaped itself in the
mists of the coming day was Simmonds tearing breathlessly along the
Bath Road during the all too brief hours between morn and evening.
It is not to be wondered at if he read Cynthia's thoughts. There is a
language without code or symbol known to all young men and maidens--a
language that pierces stout walls and leaps wide valleys--and that
unlettered tongue whispered the hope that the girl might saunter
towards the pier. He turned forthwith into the public gardens, and
quickened his pace. Arrived at the pier, he glanced up at the hotel.
Of girls there were many on cliff and roadway, girls summer-like in
attire, girls slender of waist and airy of tread, but no Cynthia. He
went on the pier, and met more than one pair of bright eyes, but not
Cynthia's.
Then he made off in a fume to Dale's lodging, secured a linen
dust-coat which the man happened to have with him, returned to the
hotel, and hurried unseen to his room, an easy matter in the Royal
Bath, where many staircases twine deviously to the upper floors, and
brilliantly decorated walls dazzle the stranger.
He counted on the exigencies of Lady Porthcawl's toilette stopping a
too early appearance in the morning, and he was right.
At ten o'clock, when Cynthia and Mrs. Devar came out, the men lounging
near the porch were too interested in the girl and the car to bestow a
glance on the chauffeur. Ducrot was there, bland and massive in a golf
suit. He pestered Cynthia with inquiries as to the exact dates when
her father would be in London, and Medenham did not hesitate to cut
short the banker's awkward gallantries by throwing the Mercury into
her stride with a whirl.
"By Jove, Ducrot," said someone, "your pretty friend's car jumped off
like a gee-gee under the starting gate."
"If that chauffeur of hers was mine, I'd boot him," was the wrathful
reply.
"Why? What's he done?"
"He strikes me as an impudent puppy."
"Anyhow, he can swing a motor. See that!" for the Mercury had executed
a corkscrew movement between several vehicles with the sinuous grace
of a greyhound.
Now it was Mrs. Devar, and not Cynthia, who leaned forward and said
pleasantly:
"You seem to be in a hurry to leave Bournemouth, Fitzroy."
"I am not enamored of bricks and mortar on a fine morning," he
answered.
"Well, I have full confidence in you, but don't embroil us with the
police. We have a good deal to see to-day, I understand."
Then he heard the strenuous voice addressing Cynthia.
"Millicent Porthcawl says that Glastonbury is heavenly, and Wells a
peaceful dream. I visited Cheddar once, some years ago, but it rained,
and I felt like a watery cheese."
Lady Porthcawl's commendation ought to have sanctified Glastonbury and
Wells--Mrs. Devar's blue-moldy joke might even have won a smile--but
Cynthia was preoccupied; strange that she, too, should be musing of
Simmonds and a hurrying car, for Medenham had told her that the
transfer would take place at Bristol.
She was only twenty-two, and her very extensive knowledge of the world
had been obtained by three years of travel and constant association
with her father. But her lines had always been cast in pleasant
places. She had no need to deny herself any of the delights that life
has to offer to youth and good health and unlimited means. The
discovery that friendship called for discretion came now almost as a
shock. It seemed to be a stupid social law that barred the way when
she wished to enjoy the company of a well-favored man whom fate had
placed at her disposal for three whole days. Herself a blue-blooded
American, descendant of old Dutch and New England families, she was
quite able to discriminate between reality and sham. Mrs. Devar, she
was sure, was a pinchbeck aristocrat; Count Edouard Marigny might have
sprung from many generations of French gentlemen, but her paid
chauffeur was his superior in every respect save one--since, to all
appearance, Marigny was rich and Fitzroy was poor.
Curiously enough, the man whose alert shoulders and well-poised head
were ever in view as the car hummed joyously through the pine woods
had taken on something of the mere mechanic in aspect since donning
that serviceable linen coat. The garment was weather-stained. It bore
records of over-lubrication, of struggles with stiff outer covers, of
rain and mud--that bird-lime type of mud peculiar to French military
roads in the Alpes Maritimes--while a zealous detective might have
found traces of the black and greasy deposit that collects on the door
handles and side rails of P. L. M. railway carriages. Medenham
borrowed it because of the intolerable heat of the leather jacket. Its
distinctive character became visible when he viewed it in the June
sunshine, and he wore it as a substitute for sackcloth, since he, no
less than Cynthia, recognized that a dangerous acquaintance was
drawing to an end. So Dale's coat imposed a shield, as it were,
between the two, but the man drove with little heed to the witching
scenery that Dorset unfolded at each turn of the road, and the woman
sat distrait, almost downcast.
Mrs. Devar was smugly complacent. Difficulties that loomed large
overnight were now vague shadows. When the Mercury stopped in front of
a comfortable inn at Yeovil it was she, and not Cynthia, who suggested
a social departure.
"This seems to be the only place in the town where luncheon is
provided. You had better leave the car in charge of a stableman, and
join us, Fitzroy," she said graciously.
"Thank you, madam," said Medenham, rousing himself from a reverie, "I
prefer to remain here. The hotel people will look after my slight
wants, as I dislike the notion of anyone tampering with the engine
while I am absent."
"Is it so delicate, then?" asked Cynthia, with a smile that he hardly
understood, since he could not know how thoroughly he had routed Mrs.
Devar's theories of the previous night.
"No, far from it. But its very simplicity challenges examination, and
an inquisitive clodhopper can effect more damage in a minute than I
can repair in an hour."
His gruff tone was music in Mrs. Devar's ears. She actually sighed her
relief, but explained the lapse instantly.
"I do hope there is something nice to eat," she said. "This wonderful
air makes one dreadfully hungry. When our tour is ended, Cynthia, I
shall have to bant for months."
The fare was excellent. Under its stimulating influence Miss Vanrenen
forgot her vapors and elected for the front seat during the run to
Glastonbury. Medenham thawed, too. By chance their talk turned to
wayside flowers, and he let the Mercury creep through a high-banked
lane, all ablaze with wild roses and honeysuckle, while he pointed out
the blue field scabious, the pink and cream meadow-sweet, the
samphire, the milk-wort and the columbine, the campions in the
cornland, and the yellow vetchling that ran up the hillside towards
one of the wooded "islands" peculiar to the center of Somerset.
Cynthia listened, and, if she marveled, betrayed no hint of surprise
that a chauffeur should have such a store of the woodman's craft.
Medenham, aware only of a rapt audience of one, threw disguise to the
breeze created by the car when the pace quickened. He told of the
Glastonbury Thorn, and how it was brought to the west country by no
less a gardener than Joseph of Arimathea, and how St. Patrick was born
in the Isle of Avallon, so called because its apple-orchards bore
golden fruit, and how the very name of Glastonbury is derived from the
crystal water that hemmed the isle----
"Please let me intrude one little question," murmured the girl. "I am
very ignorant of some things. What has 'Avallon' got to do with
'apples'?"
"Ha!" cried Medenham, warming to his subject and retarding speed
again, "that opens up a wide field. In Celtic mythology Avallon is
Ynys yr Afallon, the Island of Apples. It is the Land of the Blessed,
where Morgana holds her court. Great heroes like King Arthur and Ogier
le Dane were carried there after death, and, as apples were the only
first-rate fruit known to the northern nations, a place where they
grew in luscious abundance came to be regarded as the soul-kingdom.
Merlin says that fairyland is full of apple trees----"
"I believe it is," cried Cynthia, nudging his arm and pointing to an
orchard in full bloom.
Mrs. Devar could hear little and understand less of what they were
saying; but the nudge was eloquent; her steel-blue eyes narrowed, and
she thrust her face between them.
"We mustn't dawdle on the road, Fitzroy. Bristol is still a long way
off, and we have so much to see--Glastonbury, Wells, Cheddar."
Though Cynthia was vexed by the interruption she did not show it.
Indeed, she was aware of her companion's strange reiteration of
the towns to be visited, since Mrs. Devar had already admitted a
special weakness in geography, and during the trip from Brighton to
Bournemouth was quite unable to name a town, a county, or a landmark.
But the queer thought of a moment was dispelled by sight of the ruins
of St. Dunstan's monastery appearing above a low wall. In front of the
broken arches and tottering walls grew some apple trees so old and
worn that no blossom decked their gnarled branches. Unbidden tears
glistened in the girl's eyes.
"If I lived here I would plant a new orchard," she said tremulously.
"I think Guinevere would like it, and you say she is buried with her
king in St. Joseph's Chapel."
Medenham had suddenly grown stern again. He glanced at her, and then
made great business with brakes and levers, for Mrs. Devar was still
inquisitive.
"There is a fine old Pilgrims' Inn, the George, in the main street,"
he said jerkily. "I propose to stop there; the entrance to the Abbey
is exactly opposite. In the George they will show you a room in which
Henry the Eighth slept, and I would recommend you to get a guide for
half an hour at least."
"Must we walk?" demanded Mrs. Devar plaintively.