Cynthia's Chauffeur
some degree of precision her ladyship's views regarding the eighty
millions of citizens of the United States; had she not said in his
hearing that "American society was evidently quite English--but with
the head cut off?"
That, and a sarcastic computation as to the difference between Ten
Thousand and Four Hundred, constituted her knowledge of America.
Still, he made excuses for her. It was no new thing for an aristocracy
to be narrow-minded. Horace, that fine gentleman, "hated the vulgar
crowd," and Nicolo Machiavelli, fifteen centuries later, denounced the
nobles of Florence for their "easy-going contempt of everything and
everybody"; so Lady St. Maur had plenty of historical precedent for
the coining of cheap epigrams.
The one person Medenham was really bitter against was Millicent
Porthcawl. _She_ had met Cynthia; _she_ herself must have frowned
at the lying innuendoes written from Bournemouth; it would give him
some satisfaction to tell Cynthia that the Porthcawl _menage_ ought
not to figure on her visiting list. But there! Cynthia was too
generous-minded even to avenge her wrongs, though well able to deal
with the Millicents and Mauds and Susans if they dared be spiteful.
Then the coming of Dale with various leather bags roused him from the
reverie induced by his father's curt missive, and he laughed at the
discovery that he was fighting Cynthia's battles already.
The Mercury was raising a good deal of dust in the neighborhood of
Whitchurch when its occupants noticed a pair of urchins perched on a
gate, signaling frantically. It pleased Medenham to mystify Dale, who
was, if possible, more taciturn than ever since those heart-searching
experiences at Gloucester and Hereford.
He pulled up some fifty yards or more down the road.
"You saw those boys?" he said.
"Yes, my lord, but they're only having a game."
"Nothing of the sort. Skip along and ask them if they have found out
the answer. If they say 'a day and five-sevenths,' hand them a
shilling each. Any other reply will be wrong. Don't talk. Just run
there and back, and pay only on a day and five-sevenths."
Dale ran. Soon he was in his seat again.
"I gev' 'em a bob each, my lord," he announced, grave as an owl.
While they were running slowly down the winding lane that led to the
Yat Medenham determined to make sure of his ground with reference to
Mrs. Devar.
"I suppose you left no room for doubt as to my identity in the mind
of the lady to whom you spoke over the telephone last night?" he
inquired.
"None whatever, my lord. She wormed it out of me."
"Did you mention the Earl?"
"Like an ijjit, I began by giving his lordship's name. It was my only
chanst, I couldn't get to the post-office nohow. Why, I was ordered to
bed at eight o'clock, so's his lordship could smoke in peace, as he
said."
"Then my father was determined to stop you from communicating with me,
if possible?"
"If his lordship knew that I crep' down a back stairs to the telephone
I do believe he'd have set about me with a poker," said Dale grimly.
"Strange!" mused Medenham, with eyes now more intent on the hotel than
on the road. "Influences other than Aunt Susan's must be at work. My
father would never have rushed off in a fever from town merely because
of some ill-natured gossip in a letter from Lady Porthcawl."
His mind flew to the Earl's allusions to Marigny, and it occurred to
him then that the latter had used his father's name at Bristol. He
turned to Dale again.
"Before this business is ended I shall probably find it necessary to
kick a Frenchman," he said.
"Make it two of 'em, my lord, an' let me take it out of the other
one," growled Dale.
"Well, there _is_ a bottle-holder," said Medenham, thinking of Devar,
"a short, fat fellow, an Englishman, but a most satisfactory subject
for a drop kick."
"Say when, my lord, an' I'll score a goal with him."
Dale seemed to be speaking feelingly, but his master paid slight heed
to him then. A girl in muslin, wearing a rather stylish hat--now,
where did Cynthia get a hat?--had just sauntered to that end of the
hotel's veranda which gave a glimpse of the road.
"Make yourself comfortable in one of the cottages hereabouts," was
Medenham's parting instruction to his man. "I don't suppose the car
will be needed again to-day, but you might refill the petrol tank--on
the off chance."
"Yes--my lord."
Dale lifted his cap. The ostler who had helped in the cleaning of the
car overnight was standing near the open doors of the coach-house. He
might not have heard the words, but he certainly saw the respectful
action. His eyes grew round, and his lips pursed to give vent to an
imaginary whistle.
"_I_ knew," he told himself. "He's a toff, that's wot he is. Mum's the
word, Willyum. Say nothink, 'specially to wimmen!"
Bowing low before his smiling goddess, Medenham produced the packet of
letters. It happened that the unstamped note for Mrs. Devar lay
uppermost, and Cynthia guessed some part, at least, of its contents.
"Poor Monsieur Marigny!" she cried. "I fear he had a cheerless evening
in Hereford. This is from him. I know his handwriting.... While father
and I were in Paris he often sent invitations for fixtures at the
Velo--once for a coach-drive to Fontainebleau. I was rather sorry I
missed _that_."
Medenham thanked her in his heart for that little pause. No printed
page could be more legible than Cynthia's thought-processes. How
delightful it was to feel that her unspoken words were mirrored in his
own brain!
But these lover-like beatitudes were interrupted by a slight shriek.
She had glanced curiously at a postmark, ripped open an envelope, and
was reading something that surprised her greatly.
"Well, of all the queer things!" she cried. "Here's father in London.
He started from Paris yesterday afternoon, and found he had just time
to send me a line by paying a special postal fee at Paddington....
What?... Mrs. Leland going to join us at Chester!... Wire if I get
this!..."
She reread the letter with heightened color. Medenham's heart sank to
his boots while he watched her. Whosoever Mrs. Leland might be--and
Cynthia's first cry of the name sent a shock of recognition through
him--it was fully evident that the addition of another member to the
party would straightway shut him out of his Paradise. Mrs. Devar, in
the role of guardian, had been disposed of satisfactorily, but "Mrs.
Leland" was more than a doubtful quantity. For some kindred reason,
perhaps, Cynthia chose to turn and look at the sparkling Wye when next
she spoke.
"I don't see why Mrs. Leland's unexpected appearance should make any
real difference to our tour," she said in the colorless tone of one
who seeks rather than imparts conviction. "There is plenty of room in
the car. We must take the front seat in turn, that is all."
"May I ask who Mrs. Leland is?" he asked, and, if his voice was
ominously cold, it may be urged in extenuation that in matters
affecting Cynthia he was no greater adept at concealing his thoughts
than the girl herself.
"An old friend of ours," she explained hurriedly. "In fact, her
husband was my father's partner till he died, some years ago. She is a
charming woman, quite a cosmopolitan. She lives in Paris 'most all the
time, but I fancied she was at Trouville for the summer. I wonder...."
She read the letter a third time. Drooping lids and a screen of heavy
eyelashes veiled her eyes, and when the fingers holding that
disturbing note rested on the rail of the veranda again, still those
radiant blue eyes remained invisible, and the eloquent eyebrows were
not arched in laughing bewilderment but straightened in silent
questioning.
"Mr. Vanrenen gives no details," she said at last, and seldom, indeed,
did "Mr. Vanrenen" replace "father" in her speech. "Perhaps he was
writing against time, though he might have told me less about the post
and more of Mrs. Leland. Anyhow, he has a fine Italian hand in some
things, and may be this is one of them.... But I must telegraph at
once."
Medenham roused himself to set forth British idiosyncrasies on the
question of Sunday labor. He remembered the telephone, however, and
Cynthia went off to try and get in touch with the Savoy Hotel. He
withdrew a little way, and began to smoke a reflective cigar, for he
knew now who Mrs. Leland was. In twenty minutes or less Cynthia came
to him. It was difficult to account for her obvious perplexity, though
he could have revealed some of its secret springs readily enough.
"I'm sorry I shall not be able to take that walk, Mr. Fitzroy," she
said, frankly recognizing the tacit pact between them. "We have a long
day before us to-morrow, and we must make Chester in good time, as
Mrs. Leland is coming alone from London. Meanwhile, I must attend to
my correspondence."
"Ah. You have spoken to Mr. Vanrenen, then?"
"No. He was not in the hotel, but he left a message for me, knowing
that I was more likely to 'phone than wire."
She was troubled, disturbed, somewhat resentful of this unforeseen
change in the programme arranged for the next few days. Medenham could
have chosen no more unhappy moment for what he had to say, but during
those twenty minutes of reflection a definite line of action had been
forced upon him, and he meant to follow it to the only logical end.
"I am glad now that I mentioned my own little difficulty at Hereford,"
he said. "Since alterations are to be the order of the day at Chester,
will you allow me to provide another driver for the Mercury there? You
will retain the car, of course, but my place can be taken by a
trustworthy man who understands it quite as well as I do."
"You mean that you are dropping out of the tour, then?"
"Yes."
She shot one indignant glance at his impassive face, for he held in
rigid control the fire that was consuming him.
"Rather a sudden resolve on your part, isn't it? What earthly
difference does the presence of another lady in our party make?"
"I have been thinking matters over," he said doggedly. "Would you mind
reading my father's letter?"
He held out the note received at the Green Dragon, but she ignored it.
"I take it for granted that you have the best of reasons for wishing
to go," she murmured.
"Please oblige me by reading it," he persisted.
Perhaps, despite all his self-restraint, some hint of the wild longing
in his heart to tell her once and for all that no power under that of
the Almighty should tear him from her side moved her to relent. She
took the letter, and began to read.
"Why," she cried, "this was written at Hereford?"
"Yes. My father waited there all night. He left for town only a few
minutes before I entered the hotel this morning."
She read with puzzled brows, smiled a little at "Your aunt is making a
devil of a fuss," and passed quite unheeded the solitary "F." in the
signature.
"I think you ought to go to-day," she commented.
"Not because of any argument advanced there," he growled passionately.
"But your aunt ... she is making a--a fuss. One has to conciliate
aunts at times."
"My aunt is really a most estimable person. I promise myself some
amusement when she explains the origin of the 'fuss' to you."
"To me?"
"Yes. Have I not your permission to bring her to see you in London?"
"Something was said about that."
"May I add that I hope to make Mr. Vanrenen's acquaintance on
Tuesday?"
She looked at him in rather a startled way.
"Are you going to call and see my father?" she asked.
"Yes."
"But--why, exactly?"
"In the first place, to give him news of your well-being. Letters are
good, but the living messenger is better. Secondly, I want to find out
just why he traveled from Paris to London yesterday."
The air was electric between them. Each knew that the other was