Cynthia's Chauffeur
Lest prudence should conquer him a second time he sat down and wrote:
DEAR MISS VANRENEN--I hope the car is behaving in a manner
that befits the messenger of the gods, and that Dale has
justified my faith in him. I am here in fulfillment of my
promise to call on Mr. Vanrenen: unluckily, he is out of
town, and the hotel people say he is not expected back till
a day early next week. If you make any change in your
programme, or even if you have a minute to spare, though
proving yourself a true American by rigidly adhering to
schedule, please send a line to yours ever sincerely----
Once more he hesitated at the name, and contented himself by signing
"George, the Chauffeur."
The problem of an address offered some difficulty, but he boldly
declared for "91 Grosvenor Square" in a postscript, believing, and
correctly as it happened, that Cynthia shared with Sam Weller a
peculiar knowledge of London that rendered one address very like unto
another in her eyes.
The failure to meet Vanrenen was the first real drawback he had
encountered. It was irritating, at the time, but he gave little heed
to it after the first pang of disappointment had passed. Fate, which
had proved so kind during six days, did not see fit to warn him that
her smiles would now be replaced by frowns. She even lulled him into
the belief that Vanrenen's absence might prove fortunate.
"Perhaps," he fancied, "I would have rubbed him up the wrong way. He
is devoted to his daughter, and he might look on my harmless but
unavoidable guile with a prejudiced eye. In any event, I should be
compelled to go slow in analyzing Mrs. Devar's motives, and this
pertinacious Marigny seems to have been fairly intimate with him in
Paris. Yes, on the whole, it is just as well that I missed him.
Cynthia can put matters before him in a better light than is possible
to one who is an utter stranger. I must tell her, in my best American,
that it is up to her to explain Fitzroy to pap."
Before leaving the hotel he inquired for Count Edouard Marigny. He
drew a blank there. No such name had been registered during the year.
The dinner passed without noteworthy incident. Sir Ashley Stoke
condemned the Government, the Marquis of Scarland was more than
skeptical as to the prospects of grouse shooting after the deluge in
April and May, Lord Fairholme growled at the pernicious effects of
the Ground Game Act, and Medenham spoke of these things with his
lips but in his heart thought of Cynthia. The four men were in the
smoking-room, and the Earl was chaffing his son on account of his
inability to play bridge, when Tomkinson entered. He approached
Medenham.
"Dale has arrived; he wishes to see your lordship," he said in a stage
whisper.
"Dale!"
The young man sprang to his feet, and his troubled cry brought a smile
of wonderment to his brother-in-law's face.
"By Jove!" said the Marquis, "you couldn't have jumped quicker if
Tomkinson had said 'the devil' instead of 'Dale.' Who, then, is Dale?"
Medenham hurried from the room without another word. The Earl shook
his head.
"More mischief!" he muttered. "Dale is George's chauffeur. I suppose
he is mixed up in this Vanrenen muddle again."
"What muddle is that?" asked Scarland. "Is George in it?--that would
be unusual."
Fairholme suddenly bethought himself.
"Something to do with a motor," he said vaguely. "The Vanrenens are
Americans, friends of Mrs. Leland's. You remember her, Arthur, don't
you?"
"Perfectly. Is 'Vanrenen' the Peter of that ilk?"
"I think so. Yes--that is the name--Peter Vanrenen."
"Oh, _he's_ all right. If George has any dispute with him I'll settle
it in a minute. He is as straight as they make 'em--bought two of my
prize bulls three years ago for his ranch in Montana. By the way,
someone told me the other day that he has a very pretty daughter--'a
real peach' the man said. Wonder if George has seen her? Begad, he
might go farther and fare worse. We effete aristocrats can do with a
strain of new blood occasionally, eh, what?"
"'Vanrenen' sounds like a blend of old Dutch and New England," said
Sir Ashley Stoke, who was sane on all subjects save one, his pet mania
being the decay of England since the passing of the Victorian age.
The Earl helped himself to a whisky and soda. His egotism was
severely shaken. Who would have thought that a pillar of the state
like Scarland would approve of this Vanrenen girl as a match for
George, even in jest? But he had the good sense to steer clear of
explanations. When he found his voice it was to swear at the quality
of the whisky.
Medenham, meanwhile, had rushed into the hall. He expected to find
Dale there, but saw no one except the suave footman on duty. The man
opened the door.
"Dale is outside, in the car, my lord," he said.
"In the car!" That meant the bursting of a meteor in a blue sky.
Sure enough, there stood the Mercury, dusty and panting, but seemingly
gathering breath for another mighty effort if necessary.
"Come in!" shouted Medenham, on whom the first strong shadow of
impending disaster had fallen as soon as he heard those ill-omened
words "in the car."
Dale scrambled to the pavement and walked stiffly up the steps, being
weary after an almost unbroken run of one hundred and eighty miles.
He nodded to the Mercury, and the footman rang for a pageboy to mount
guard. Medenham led the way into a small anteroom and switched on the
light.
"Now," he said.
"Mr. Vanrenen kem to Chester last night in Simmond's car, my lord.
This mornin' he sent for me an' sez 'who are you?' 'The chauffeur,
sir,' sez I. 'Whose chauffeur?' sez he. 'Yours for the time,' sez I,
bein' sort of ready for him. 'Well, you can get,' sez he. 'Get what?'
sez I. 'Get out,' sez he. Of course, my lord, I knew well enough what
he meant, but I wanted to have it straight, an' I got it."
Dale's style of speech was elliptical, though he might have been
surprised if told so. For once, Medenham wished he was a loquacious
man.
"Was nothing else said?" he asked. "No message from--anyone? No reason
given? What brought Simmonds to Chester?"
"Mr. Vanrenen picked him up in Bristol at 4 a.m. yesterday, my lord.
Simmonds made out that that there Frenchman, Monsieur Marinny" (Dale
prided himself on a smattering of French), "had pitched a fine ole
tale about you. In fact, the bearings got so hot at Symon's Yat that
Simmonds chucked his job till Mr. Vanrenen sort of apologized."
"Can you be specific, Dale? You are hard to follow."
"Well, my lord, I _could_ do with a drink. It's a long road that
stretches between here an' Chester, an' I left there at ten o'clock
this morning, runnin' through any Gord's quantity of traps, an' all."
Medenham did not smile. He touched a bell, and found that Dale's
specific was a bottle of beer.
"I never set eyes on Miss Cynthia," continued the chauffeur, his wits
quickening under the soothing draught. "Another lady kem out an'
looked me up an' down. 'Yes, that is the car,' she said, an' with that
I remembered seein' her at San Remo. Mrs. Devar seemed as if she
wanted to say somethink, but she daren't, because Mr. Vanrenen's eye
was on her. He made no bones about it, but told me to hike back to
London the minnit Simmonds got the carrier off."
"I am quite clear on that point. What I really want to know is the
reason behind Simmonds's statement about Count Marigny's
tale-pitching, as you term it."
"Oh, of course Mr. Vanrenen didn't _say_ anythink. Simmonds was what
you call puttin' two an' two together. From what Mr. Vanrenen arsked
him it was easy enough to get at the Frenchman's dirty tricks."
"Tell me how Simmonds put it?" said Medenham, with the patience of a
great anger. Dale scratched the back of his ear.
"For one thing, my lord, Mr. Vanrenen wanted to know if you was reelly
a viscount. It was a long time before Simmonds could get him to
believe that the accident in Down Street wasn't a put up job. Then, he
was sure you stopped in Symon's Yat just in order to throw Mr. Marinny
off your track. Simmonds is no fool, my lord, an' he guesses that the
Frenchman brought Mr. Vanrenen hot-foot from Paris so as to--to----"
Dale grinned, and sought inspiration in the bottom of an empty glass.
"Well, my lord, excuse _me_," he said, "but you know what I mean."
Medenham completed the sentence.
"So as to prevent me from marrying Miss Cynthia."
"Exactly what Simmonds an' me said, my lord."
"He will not succeed, Dale."
"I never thought he would. Once your lordship is set on a thing, well,
that thing occurs."
"Thank you. Good-night!"
Medenham did not feel equal to facing the men in the smoking-room
again. He went out, walked up Oxford Street and across the park, and
reached his room about midnight. Next day he devoted himself to work.
In view of the new and strange circumstances that had arisen he
believed confidently that Cynthia would reply to his letter by return
of post, and there should be no chance of delay, because she meant to
stay two days at Windermere, making that town the center of excursions
through lakeland.
While the son was seeking forgetfulness in classifying a collection of
moths and night flies caught during a week at La Turbie, the father
found occupation in prosecuting diligent inquiries into the social and
financial standing of Peter Vanrenen. As a result, the Earl visited
Lady St. Maur, and, as a further result, Lady St. Maur wrote a very
biting and sarcastic note to "My dear Millicent." Moreover, she
decided not to press her nephew to visit her at present.
Next morning, Medenham was up betimes. He heard the early postman's
knock, and Tomkinson in person brought the letters.
"There's nothink in the name of Fitzroy, my lord," said he, having
been warned in that matter overnight.
Medenham took his packet with the best grace possible, trying to
assure himself that Cynthia had written at a late hour and had missed
the first London mail in consequence. Glancing hurriedly through the
correspondence, however, his glance fell on a letter bearing the
Windermere postmark. It was addressed, in an unfamiliar hand, to
"Viscount Medenham," and the writing was bold, well-formed, and
business-like. Then he read:
SIR--My daughter received a note from you this morning, and
she was about to answer it when I informed her that she was
communicating with a person who had given her an assumed
name. I also asked her, as a favor, to permit me to reply in
her stead. Now, I have this to say--Miss Vanrenen does not
know, and will never know from me, the true nature of the
trick you played on her. You bear the label of a gentleman,
so it is my earnest hope--indeed, my sincere belief--that
you will respect the trust she placed in you, and not expose
her to the idle chatter of clubs and scandal-spreading
drawing-rooms. During two days I have been very bitter
against you. To-day I take a calmer view, and, provided that
neither my daughter nor I ever see or hear of you again, I
shall be willing to credit that you acted more in a spirit
of youthful caprice than from any foul desire to injure the
good repute of one who has done no harm to you or yours.
I am,
Yours truly,
PETER VANRENEN.
Medenham read and reread this harsh letter many times. Then, out of
brooding chaos, leaped one fiery question--where was Marigny?
The gate which Cynthia's father had shut and bolted in his face did
not frighten him. He had leaped a wall of brass and triple steel when
he won Cynthia Vanrenen's love in the guise of an humble chauffeur, so
it was unbelievable that the barrier interposed by a father's