Cynthia's Chauffeur
if the truth were told. Really, George, notwithstanding your very
extensive travels and wide experiences, you are nothing but a kid in
the hands of a managing woman of the Devar variety."
"I am not being given in marriage by Mrs. Devar, I assure you," began
Medenham, smiling anxiously, for the fatherly "tell me all about it"
was not being borne out by the Earl's petulance.
"No. You can trust me to take care of that."
"But are you treating me quite fairly? Why should the distorted
version of my affairs given by Lady Porthcawl, a woman whom Cynthia
Vanrenen could not possibly receive in her house, and by Count Edouard
Marigny, a disappointed fortune-hunter, be accepted without cavil,
while my own story is not listened to? I leave Dale out of it. I am
sure he told you the actual truth----"
"By the way, where is he now?"
"Somewhere in the neighborhood of Chester, I believe."
"Have you discharged him?"
"No--why should I?"
"Because I wish it."
"Why in the world are you so unreasonable, dad?"
"Unreasonable! By gad, I like that. Have _I_ been gallivanting round
the country with some----"
"Stop! You are going too far. This conversation must cease here and
now. If you have any respect for yourself, though not for me, you must
adjourn the discussion till after you have met Miss Vanrenen and her
father."
For the first time in his life, the Earl of Fairholme realized his
limitations; he was actually cowed for a few fleeting seconds. But the
arrogant training of the county bench, the seignory of a vast estate,
the unquestioning deference accorded to his views by thousands of men
who tacitly admitted that what he said must be right because he was a
lord--these excellent stays of self-conceit came to his help, and he
snorted indignantly:
"I absolutely refuse to meet either of them."
"That disposes of the whole difficulty for the hour," said Medenham,
turning to leave the room.
"Wait, George.... I insist----"
Perhaps a clearer glimpse of a new and, to him, utterly unsuspected
force in his son's character withheld the imperious command that
trembled on the Earl's lips. Medenham halted. The two looked at each
other, and the older man fidgeted with his collar, which seemed to
have grown tight for his neck.
"Come, come, let us not leave a friendly argument in this unsettled
state," he said after an awkward pause. "My only thought is for your
interests, you know. Your lifelong happiness is at stake, to say
nothing of the future of our house."
"I recognize those considerations so fully that I am going now in
order to shirk even the semblance of a quarrel between us."
"Why not thresh things out? Your aunt will be here in a couple of
hours----"
"You refuse to hear a word. You argue with a hammer, sir. I shall send
a note to Lady St. Maur telling her that she has done mischief in
plenty without adding fuel to the fire by coming here to-day--unless
_you_ wish to consult her, that is?"
The Earl, already afraid of his sister, was rapidly learning to fear
his son.
"Dash it all! don't tell me you are off on this d----d motoring trip
once more?" he cried passionately.
Medenham smiled, even in his anger.
"See how willfully you misunderstand me," he said. "I came away from
Miss Vanrenen solely because matters had gone far enough under rather
absurd conditions. She knows me only as Fitzroy, the chauffeur; it is
time to drop masquerading. Romance is delightful in its way--perhaps
there might well be more of it in this commonplace world of ours--but
none of us can afford to play the knight errant too long, so when next
I meet Cynthia it will be as a man who occupies a social position that
renders our marriage at least possible."
Lord Fairholme threw out his hands in a gesture of sheer bewilderment.
"And do you honestly believe that?" he exclaimed.
"I am quite sure of it. I may have to jump a very big fence indeed
when she learns the harmless deception I have practiced on her, but I
do hope most devoutly that she will look at the facts more calmly than
you have done."
The Earl took a turn or two on the hearth-rug, from which wisdom had
temporarily taken flight. He thought now he could see a way to avoid
open rupture, and he believed, quite rightly, that his son was in no
mood to accept further disillusionment.
"At any rate," he grumbled, "you are cutting a discred--sorry, I
didn't quite mean that--you are not rushing away from town again in
pursuit of the young lady?"
"No."
"When is she due back in London?"
"On Sunday."
"And you will not see her before that day?"
"I believe not--in fact, I am fairly certain of it. Mrs. Leland joined
her at Chester last night, so there should be no curtailment of the
tour."
The Earl started.
"Mrs. Leland! Not the Mrs. Leland of Paris, and San Remo?"
"Yes. By hazard, as it were, you have let me tell you why I came
away--one of the reasons. Mrs. Leland would have recognized me at
once."
"Dear me, dear me, this is a beastly muddle! Look here, George,
promise me you won't do anything stupid for a day or so.... I have
been so pestered by people ... I don't know which way to turn. Why not
stay and meet your aunt?"
"Because I might lose my temper with _her_."
"Ah, well, she _is_ somewhat trying when it comes to family matters.
Still, I may tell her----"
"That she ought to mind her own business? By all means. And oblige me,
too, by telling her that she would confer a boon on humanity if she
persuaded Lady Porthcawl to go to--Jericho--or Tokio--or wherever that
ass, Porthcawl, may happen to be."
"Millicent Porthcawl was at Bournemouth, you know."
"Yes, I spoke to her. She had the impudence to introduce Ducrot to
Cynthia."
"By gad! Did she, though? I heard something from Scarland about that
affair. Well, well--there's no accounting for tastes. I suppose
you realize, George, that I am keeping back a good deal of the
tittle-tattle which reached me during your absence. I don't want to
hurt your feelings----"
"Thank you. The absurdity of the present position lies in the fact
that I shall have all my work cut out to hold your wrath against these
people within bounds when once you have met Cynthia."
"Oh, I have no doubt she is pretty, and fascinating, and all that sort
of thing," growled the Earl, in a grudging access of good humor.
"Confound it, that is why we are putty in their hands, George. Don't
forget I've had fifty-five years of 'em. Gad! I could tell you
things--all right, let us chuck the dispute for the time. Shall I see
you at dinner?"
"Yes--if you are alone."
"There will be no women. I'll take devilish good care of that.
Scarland is in town for the show, and he is bringing Sir Ashley Stoke,
but Betty is nursing a youngster through the measles. Good Lord! I'm
glad your aunt didn't get hold of Betty!"
Now, Lord Fairholme's diatribes against the sex were not quite
justified. Notorious as a lady-killer in his youth, in middle age he
was as garrulous a gossip as Mrs. Devar herself. Indeed, he had an
uneasy consciousness that Lady St. Maur might turn and rend him if
stress were laid only on _her_ efforts to thwart his son's unexpected
leaning towards matrimony. During every yard of the journey from
Chester to London he had tried to extract information from Marigny,
and the sharp-witted Frenchman had enjoyed himself hugely in
displaying a well-feigned reluctance to yield to the Earl's probing.
It was just as much a part of his scheme to make the threatened
alliance as objectionable on the one side as on the other. By
painting Medenham as an unprincipled adventurer he had succeeded in
alarming Vanrenen; his sly hints, derogatory of both Cynthia and her
father, now fanned the flame of suspicion kindled in Lord Fairholme's
breast by his sister's remonstrances. Unfortunately, his lordship had
gone straight to Curzon Street and told Susan St. Maur every word that
Marigny had said, and a good deal that he had not said, but had left
to be inferred from a smirk, a malicious glance, an airy gesture.
Perhaps the two elderly guardians of the Fairholme line were not
wholly to blame for their interference. The title descended through
male heirs only, and Medenham's marriage thereby attained an added
importance. Lord Fairholme himself had been singularly fortunate in
escaping a mesalliance--several, in fact--and it was the one great
trouble in his otherwise smooth and self-contained life that his
high-born and most admirable countess had died soon after the birth
of her second child, the present Marchioness of Scarland. Such a man
would naturally be the most jealous scrutineer of the pretensions of
his son's chosen wife. Qualities of heart and mind would weigh light
in the scale against genealogy. To his thinking, blue blood differed
from the common red stream as the claret of some noted vintage differs
from the _vin ordinaire_ of the same year. Perhaps he had blundered on
a well-founded theory, but he certainly lacked discrimination as to
the _cru_.
Medenham did some shopping, lunched at a club, surprised his tailor by
a prolonged visit and close inspection of tweeds and broadcloths, and
successfully repressed a strong desire to write a letter. It was some
consolation to peruse for the twentieth time the four closely-written
pages on which Cynthia had set out the tour's timetable for the
benefit of Simmonds. He had not returned it, since she possessed a
copy, and in his mind's eye he followed the Mercury in its flight
up the map from end to end of industrial Lancashire, through smoky
Preston to trim Lancaster and quiet Kendal, and finally, after a long
day, to the brooding peace and serene beauty of Windermere.
At last, rousing himself from his dreaming--for he was now back in his
club again, sipping a cup of tea--he glanced at his watch. Five
o'clock--a likely hour to find Mr. Vanrenen in the hotel, if, as was
most probable, Devar's telegram to his mother was altogether mistaken
in its report of the millionaire's movements.
He meant, of course, to make himself known to Vanrenen, and go through
the whole adventure from A to Z. It should provide an interesting
story, he thought--lively as a novel in some of its chapters, and
calculated to appeal strongly to the bright intelligence of an
American. On his way to the Savoy, he tried to picture to himself just
what Cynthia's father would look like. It was a futile endeavor,
because he had never yet been able to construct a mental portrait of
any man wholly unknown to him. One day in Madras he had telephoned
to an official for leave to shoot an elephant in a Government
reservation, and a deep voice boomed back an answer. Apparently
it belonged to a man whose stature warranted his appointment as
controller of monsters, but when Medenham called in person for the
permit he found that the voice came from a lean and wizened scrap of
humanity about five feet high.
He smiled at the recollection of his dumb surprise at this apparition,
and was in the best of humors with himself when he arrived at the
inquiry office of the Savoy Hotel and asked for Mr. Peter Vanrenen.
"Left here Sunday, sir," was the answer. "He will not return for a
week."
This blow dished his hopes. He had counted strongly on gaining
Vanrenen's friendship and sympathy before Cynthia's dainty vision
met his eyes again.
"Has he gone to Paris?" he inquired.
"Can't say, sir, I'm sure. My orders are to tell callers that Mr.
Vanrenen will be in town next Tuesday."
So, if present arrangements held good, Cynthia would reach London two
days before her father. Well, he must contrive somehow to get Lady St.
Maur in a proper frame of mind. Mrs. Leland's presence would be a
positive blessing in that respect. Meanwhile, there would be no harm
done if he----