Cynthia's Chauffeur
"Yes, if you wish to see anything. But one could throw a stone over
the chief show places, they are so close together."
So Cynthia was shown the Alfred Jewel, and Celtic dice-boxes
carefully loaded for the despoiling of Roman legionaries or an
unwary Phoenician, and heard the story of the Holy Grail from the
lips of an ancient who lent credence to the legend by his venerable
appearance. Mixed up with the imposing ruins and the glory of St.
Joseph's Chapel was a visit to the butcher's at the corner of the
street, where the veteran proudly exhibited a duck with four feet. He
then called Cynthia's attention to the carved panels of the George
Hotel, and pointed out a fine window, bayed on each successive story.
She had almost forgotten the wretched duck when he mentioned a
two-headed calf which was on view at a neighboring dairy.
Mrs. Devar showed signs of interest, so Cynthia tipped the old man
hurriedly, and ran to the car.
"I shall come here--some other time," she gasped, and it thrilled her
to believe that Fitzroy understood, though he had heard no word of
quadruped fowl or bicipital monster.
At Wells Medenham pitied her. He bribed a policeman to guard the
Mercury, and when Mrs. Devar saw that more walking was expected of her
she elected to sit in the tonneau and admire the west front of the
cathedral.
"Lady Porthcawl tells me it is a masterpiece," she chirped shrilly,
"so I want to take it in at my leisure."
Once more, therefore, did Medenham allow himself a half hour of
real abandonment. He warned Cynthia that she must not endeavor to
appreciate the architecture; with the hauteur of conscious genius,
Wells refuses to allow anyone to absorb its true grandeur until it
has been seen many times and in all lights.
So he hied her to the exquisite Lady Chapel, and to the Chapter-House
Stairs, and to Peter Lightfoot's quaint old clock in the transept.
Then, by some alchemy worked on a lodgekeeper, he led her to the
gardens of the Bishop's palace, and showed her the real Glastonbury
Thorn, and even persuaded one of the swans in the moat to ring the
bell attached to the wall whereby each morning for many a year the
royal birds have obtained their breakfast.
There is no lovelier garden in England than that of Wells Palace, and
Cynthia was so rapt in it that even Medenham had to pull out his watch
and remind her of dusty roads leading to far-off Bristol.
Mrs. Devar looked so sour when they came from an inspection of one of
the seven wells to which the town owes its name that Cynthia weakened
and sat by her side. Thereupon Medenham made amends for lost time by
exceeding the speed limit along every inch of the run to Cheddar.
Of course he had to crawl through the narrow streets of the little
town, above which the bare crests of the Mendips give such slight
promise of the glorious gorge that cuts through their massiveness from
south to north. Even at the very lip of the magnificent canyon the
outlook is deceptive. Perhaps it is that the eye is caught by the
flaring advertisements of the stalactite caves, or that baser emotions
are awakened by the sight of cozy tea-gardens--of one in particular,
where a cascade tumbles headlong from the black rocks, and a
tree-shaded lawn offers rest and coolness after hours passed in the
hot sun.
Be that as it may, "tea" had a welcome sound, and Medenham, who had
lunched on bread and beer and pickles, was glad to halt at the
entrance of the inn that boasted a waterfall in its grounds.
The road was narrow, and packed with chars-a-bancs awaiting their
hordes of noisy trippers. Some of the men were tipsy, and Medenham
feared for the Mercury's paint. To the left of the hotel lay a
spacious yard that looked inviting. He backed in there when the ladies
had alighted, and ran alongside an automobile on which "Paris" and
"speed" were written in characters legible to the motorist.
A chauffeur was lounging against the stable wall and smoking.
"Hello," said Medenham affably, "what sort of car is that?"
"A 59 Du Vallon," was the answer. Then the man's face lit up with
curiosity.
"Yours is a New Mercury, isn't it?" he cried. "Was that car at
Brighton on Wednesday night?"
"Yes," growled Medenham; he knew what to expect, and his face was grim
beneath the tan.
"But you were not driving it," said the other.
"A chap named Dale was in charge then."
"Oh, is that it? You've brought two ladies here just now?"
"Yes."
"Good! My guv'nor's on the lookout for 'em. He didn't tell me so, but
he made sure they hadn't passed this way when we turned up."
"And when was that?" asked Medenham, feeling unaccountably sick at
heart.
"Soon after lunch. Ran here from Bristol. There's a bad bit of road
over the Mendips, but the rest is fine. I s'pose we'll all be hiking
back there to-night?"
"Most probably," agreed Medenham, who said least when he was most
disturbed; at that moment he could cheerfully have wrung Count Edouard
Marigny's neck.
CHAPTER V
A FLURRY ON THE MENDIPS
It is a contrariety of human nature that men devoted to venturesome
forms of sport should often be tender-hearted as children. Lord
Medenham, who had done some slaying in his time, once risked his life
to save a favorite horse from a Ganges quicksand, and his right arm
still bore the furrows plowed in it by claws that would have torn his
spaniel to pieces in a Kashmir gully had he not thrust the empty
barrels of a .450 Express rifle down the throat of an enraged bear.
In each case, a moment's delay to secure his own safety meant the
sacrifice of a friend, but safety won at such a price would have
galled him worse than the spinning of a coin with death.
Wholly apart from considerations that he was strangely unwilling
to acknowledge, even to his own heart, he now resented Marigny's
cold-blooded pursuit of an unsuspecting girl mainly because of its
unfairness. Were Cynthia Vanrenen no more to him than the hundreds of
pretty women he would meet during a brief London season he would still
have wished to rescue her from the money-hunting gang which had
marked her down as an easy prey. But he had been vouchsafed glimpses
into her white soul. That night at Brighton, and again to-day in the
cloistered depths of the cathedral at Wells, she had admitted him to
the rare intimacy of those who commune deeply in silence.
It was not that he dared yet to think of a love confessed and
reciprocated. The prince in disguise is all very well in a fairy tale;
in England of the twentieth century he is an anachronism; and Medenham
would as soon think of shearing a limb as of profiting by the chance
that threw Cynthia in his way. Of course, a less scrupulous wooer
might have devised a hundred plausible methods of revealing his
identity--was not Mrs. Devar, marriage-broker and adroit sycophant,
ready to hand and purchasable?--and there was small room for doubt
that a girl's natural vanity would be fluttered into a blaze of
romance by learning that her chauffeur was heir to an old and
well-endowed peerage. But honor forbade, nor might he dream of winning
her affections while flying false colors. True, it would not be his
fault if they did not come together again in the near future. He meant
to forestall any breach of confidence on the part of Simmonds by
writing a full explanation of events to Cynthia herself. If his
harmless escapade were presented in its proper light, their next
meeting should be fraught with laughter rather than reproaches; and
then--well, then, he might urge a timid plea that his repute as a
careful pilot during those three memorable days was no bad
recommendation for a permanency!
But now, in a flash, the entire perspective had changed. The Frenchman
and Mrs. Devar, between them, threatened to upset his best-laid plans.
It was one thing to guess the nature of the sordid compact revealed at
Brighton; it was quite another to be brought face to face with its
active development at Cheddar. The intervening hours had disintegrated
all his pet theories. In a word, the difference lay in himself--before
and after close companionship with Cynthia.
It must not be imagined that Medenham indulged in this species of
self-analysis while fetching a pail of water to replace the wastage
from the condenser. He was merely in a very bad temper, and could not
trust himself to speak until he had tended to his beloved engine.
He determined to set doubt at rest forthwith by the simple expedient
of finding Miss Vanrenen, and seeing whether or not Marigny had
waylaid her already.
"Keep an eye on my machine for a minute," he said to the guardian of
the Du Vallon. "By the way, is Captain Devar here?" he added, since
Devar's presence might affect his own actions.
"Oh, you know _him_, do you?" cried the other. "No, he didn't come
with us. We left him at Bristol. He's a bird, the captain. Played some
johnny at billiards last night for a quid, and won. He told the
guv'nor this morning that there is another game fixed for to-day, and
you ought to have seen him wink. It's long odds again' the Bristol
gent, or I'm very much mistaken. Yes, I'll keep any amatoor paws off
your car, and off my own as well, you bet."
To pass from the stable yard to the garden it was not necessary to
enter the hotel. A short path, shaded by trellis-laden creepers and
climbing roses, led to a rustic bridge over the stream. When Medenham
had gone halfway he saw the two women sitting with Marigny at a table
placed well apart from other groups of tea-drinkers. They were talking
animatedly, the Count smiling and profuse of gesture, while Cynthia
listened with interest to what was seemingly a convincing statement
of the fortunate hazard that led to his appearance at Cheddar. The
Frenchman was too skilled a stalker of shy game to pretend a second
time that the meeting was accidental.
Mrs. Devar's shrill accents traveled clearly across the lawn.
"Just fancy that ... finding James at Bath, and persuading him to come
to Bristol on the chance that we might all dine together to-night!
Naughty boy he is--why didn't he run out here in your car?"
Count Edouard said something.
"Business!" she cackled, "I am glad to hear of it. James is too much
of a gad-about to earn money, but people are always asking him to
their houses. He is a _dear_ fellow. I am sure you will like him,
Cynthia."
Medenham had heard enough. He noted that the table was gay with cut
flowers, and a neat waitress had evidently been detailed by the
management to look after these distinguished guests; Marigny's stage
setting for his first decisive move was undoubtedly well contrived. It
was delightfully pastoral--a charming bit of rural England--and, as
such, eminently calculated to impress an American visitor.
Cynthia poured out a cup of tea, heaped a plate with cakes and bread
and butter, and gave some instructions to the waitress. Medenham knew
what that meant. He hurried back by the way he had come, and found
that Marigny's chauffeur had lifted the bonnet off the Mercury.
"More I see of this engine the more I like it--What's your h.p.?"
asked the man, who clearly regarded the Mercury's driver as a brother
in the craft.
"38."
"Looks a sixty, every inch. I wonder if you could hold my car at
Brooklands?"
"Perhaps not, but I may give you some dust to swallow over the
Mendips."
The chauffeur grinned.
"Of course you'd say that, but it all depends on what the guv'nor
means to do. He's a dare-devil at the wheel, I can tell you, an'
never says a word to me when I let things rip. But he's up to some
game to-day. He's fair crazy about that girl you have in tow--what's
her name? Vanrenen, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Medenham, replacing the hood after a critical glance at
the wires, though he hardly thought that this sturdy mechanic would