Cynthia's Chauffeur
"I mean," he went on, perceiving that his hearer was none the wiser,
"I mean that the chauffeur you allude to is Viscount Medenham."
Marigny, though born on the banks of the Loire, was a Southern
Frenchman by descent, and the hereditary tint of olive in his skin
became prominent only when his emotions were aroused. Now the pink and
white of his complexion was tinged with yellowish-green. Never before
in his life had he been quite so surprised--never.
"He--he said his name was Fitzroy," was all he could gasp.
"So it is--the dog. Took the family name and dropped his title in
order to go gallivanting about the country with this young person....
An American, I am told--and with that detestable creature, Mrs. Devar!
Nice thing! No wonder Lady Porthcawl was shocked. May I ask, sir, who
_you_ are?"
Lord Fairholme was very angry, and not without good reason. He had
traveled from London at an absurdly early hour in response to the
urgent representations of Susan, Lady St. Maur, to whom her intimate
friend, Millicent Porthcawl, had written a thrilling account of the
goings-on at Bournemouth. It happened that the Countess of Porthcawl's
bedroom overlooked the carriage-way in front of the Royal Bath Hotel,
and, when she recovered from the stupor of recognizing Medenham in
the chauffeur of the Vanrenen equipage, she gratified her spite by
sending a lively and wholly distorted version of the tour to his aunt.
The letter reached Curzon Street during the afternoon, and exercised a
remarkably restorative effect on the now convalescent lover of forced
strawberries. Lady St. Maur ordered her carriage, and was driven in a
jiffy to the Fairholme mansion in Cavendish Square, where she and her
brother indulged in the most lugubrious opinions as to the future of
"poor George." They assumed that he would fall an easy prey to the
wiles of a "designing American." Neither of them had met many citizens
of the United States, and each shared to the fullest extent the common
British dislike of every person and every thing that is new and
strange, so they had visions of a Countess of Fairholme who would
speak in the weird tongue of Chicago, whose name would be "Mamie," who
would call the earl "poppa number two," and prefix every utterance
with "Say," or "My land!"
Both brother and sister had laughed many a time at the stage version
of a Briton as presented in Paris, but they forgot that the average
Englishman's conception of the average American is equally ludicrous
in its blunders. In devising means "to save George" they flew into a
panic. Lady St. Maur telegraphed a frantic appeal to Lady Porthcawl
for information, but "dear Millicent" took thought, saw that she was
already sufficiently committed, and caused her maid to reply that she
had left Bournemouth for the weekend.
A telegram to the hotel manager produced more definite news. Cynthia,
providing against the receipt of any urgent message from her father,
had given the College Green Hotel as her address for the night; but
this intelligence arrived too late to permit of the Earl's departure
till next morning. Lady Porthcawl's hint that the "devoted George was
traveling incognito" prevented the use of wire or post. If the
infatuated viscount were to be brought to reason there was nothing for
it but that the Earl should hurry to Bristol by an early train next
morning. He did hurry, and arrived five minutes too late.
Marigny, of course, saw that lightning had darted from a summer sky.
If the despised chauffeur had proved such a tough opponent, what would
happen now that he turned out to be a sprig of the aristocracy? He
guessed at once that the Earl of Fairholme appraised Cynthia Vanrenen
by the Devar standard. He knew that five minutes in Cynthia's company
would alter this doughty old gentleman's views so greatly that his
present fury would give place to idolatry. No matter what the cost,
they two must not meet, and it was very evident that if Hereford were
mentioned as the night's rendezvous, the Earl would proceed there by
the next train.
What was to be done? He decided promptly. Lifting his hat, and
offering Lord Fairholme his card, he made up his mind to lie, and lie
speciously, with circumstantial detail and convincing knowledge.
"I happened to meet the Vanrenens in Paris," he said. "Business
brought me here, and I was surprised to see Miss Vanrenen without her
father. You will pardon my reference to your son, I am sure. His
attitude is explicable now. He resented my offer of friendly
assistance to the young lady. Perhaps he thought she might avail
herself of it."
"Assistance? What is the matter?"
"She had arranged for a car to meet her here. As it was not
forthcoming, she altered her plans for a tour of Oxford, Kenilworth,
and Warwick, and has gone in Viscount--Viscount----"
"Medenham's."
"Ah, yes--I did not catch the name precisely--in your son's car to
London."
By this time Lord Fairholme had ascertained the Frenchman's
description, and he was sufficiently well acquainted with the Valley
of the Loire to recollect the Chateau Marigny as a house of some
importance.
"I beg your pardon, Monsieur le Comte, if I seemed to speak brusquely
at first," he said, "but we all appear to be mixed up in a comedy of
errors. I remember now that my son telegraphed from Brighton to say
that he would return to-day. Perhaps my journey from town was
unnecessary, and he may be only engaged in some harmless escapade that
is now nearing its end. I am very much obliged to you, and--er--I hope
you will call when next you are in London. You know my name--my place
is in Cavendish Square. Good-day."
So Marigny was left a second time on the steps of the hotel, while the
cab which brought the Earl of Fairholme from the railway station took
him back to it.
The Du Vallon came panting from the garage, but the Frenchman sent it
away again. Hereford was no great distance by the direct road, and he
had already determined not to follow the tortuous route devised by
Cynthia for the day's run. Moreover, he must now reconsider his
schemes. The long telegrams which he had just dispatched to Devar in
London and to Peter Vanrenen in Paris might demand supplements.
And to think of that accursed chauffeur being a viscount! His gorge
rose at that. The thought almost choked him. It was well that the
hall-porter did not understand French, or the words that were muttered
by Marigny as he turned on his heel and re-entered the hotel might
have shocked him. And, indeed, they were most unsuited for the ears of
a hall-porter who dwelt next door to a cathedral.
CHAPTER VIII
BREAKERS AHEAD
The Earl's title-borrowing from Shakespeare was certainly justified by
current events, for Dromio of Ephesus and Dromio of Syracuse, to say
nothing of their masters, were no bad prototypes of the chief actors
in this Bristol comedy.
Simmonds, not knowing who might have it in mind to investigate the
latest defect in his car, decided it would be wise to disappear until
Viscount Medenham was well quit of Bristol. By arrangement with Dale,
therefore, he picked up the latter soon after the Mercury was turned
over to Medenham's hands; in effect, the one chauffeur took the other
on a 'bus-driver's holiday. Dale was free until two o'clock. At
that hour he would depart for Hereford and meet his master, with
arrangements made for the night as usual; meanwhile, the day's
programme included a pleasant little run to Bath and back.
It was a morning that tempted to the road, but both men had risen
early, and a pint of bitter seemed to be an almost indispensable
preliminary. From Bristol to Bath is no distance to speak of, so a
slight dallying over the beer led to an exchange of recent news.
Dale, it will be remembered, was of sporting bent, and he told
Simmonds gleefully of his successful bet at Epsom.
"Five golden quidlets his lordship shoved into me fist at Brighton,"
he chortled. "Have you met Smith, who is lookin' after the Frenchman's
Du Vallon? No? Well, _he_ was there, an' his goggles nearly cracked
when he sawr the money paid--two points over the market price, an'
all."
"Sometimes one spots a winner by chanst," observed Simmonds
judicially. "An' that reminds me. Last night a fella tole me there was
a good thing at Kempton to-day.... Now, _what_ was it?"
Dale instantly became a lexicon of weird-sounding words, for the
British turf is exceedingly democratic in its pronunciation of the
classical and foreign names frequently given to racehorses. His stock
of racing lore was eked out by reference to a local paper; still
Simmonds scratched an uncertain pate.
"Pity, too!" he said at last. "This chap had it from his nevvy, who
married the sister of a housemaid at Beckhampton."
Dale whistled. Here was news, indeed. Beckhampton! the home of "good
things."
"Is _that_ where it comes from?"
"Yes. Something real hot over a mile."
"_Can't_ you think? Let's look again at the entries."
"Wait a bit," cried Simmonds. "I've got it now. Second horse from the
top of the column in to-morrow's entries in yesterday's _Sportsman_."
Dale understood exactly what the other man meant, and, so long as _he_
understood, the fact may suffice for the rest of the world.
"Tell you wot," he suggested eagerly, "when you're ready we'll just
run to the station an' arsk the bookstall people for yesterday's
paper."
The inquiry, the search, the triumphant discovery, the telegraphing
of the "information" and a sovereign to Tomkinson in Cavendish
Square--"five bob each way" for each of the two--all these things took
time, and time was very precious to Dale just then. Unhappily, time is
often mute as to its value, and Bath is really quite close to Bristol.
The choice secret of the Beckhampton stable was safely launched--in
its speculative element, at any rate--and Dale was about to seat
himself beside Simmonds, when an astonished and somewhat irate old
gentleman hooked the handle of an umbrella into his collar and
shouted:
"Confound you, Dale! What are you doing here, and where is your
master?"
Dale's tanned face grew pale, his ears and eyes assumed the semblance
of a scared rabbit's, and the power of speech positively failed him.
"Do you hear me, Dale?" cried the Earl, that instant alighted from a
cab. "I am asking you where Viscount Medenham is. If he has gone to
town, why have _you_ remained in Bristol?"
"But his lordship hasn't gone to London, my lord," stuttered Dale,
finding his voice at last, and far too flustered to collect his wits,
though he realized in a dazed way that it was his duty to act exactly
as Viscount Medenham would wish him to act in such trying
circumstances.
And, indeed, many very clever people might have found themselves
sinking in some such unexpected quicksand and be not one whit less
bemused than the miserable chauffeur. Morally, he had given the only
possible answer that left open a way of escape, and he had formed a
sufficiently shrewd estimate of the relations between his master and
the remarkably good-looking young lady whom the said master was
serving with exemplary diligence to fear dire consequences to himself
if he became the direct cause of a broken idyl. The position was even
worse if he fell back on an artistic lie. The Earl was a dour person
where servants were concerned, and Salome did not demand John the
Baptist's head on a salver with greater gusto than the autocrat of
Fairholme would insist on Dale's dismissal when he discovered the
facts. Talk of the horned dilemma--here was an unfortunate asked to
choose which bristle of a porcupine he would sit upon.
The mere presence of his lordship in Bristol betokened a social
atmosphere charged with electricity--a phase of the problem that