Cynthia's Chauffeur
"I have evidently beaten the market--that is, if I get the money.
Horrible thought! I may be welshed!"
He strode back rapidly to the bookmaker's stand.
"What do you think of our chauffeur now?" cried Cynthia radiantly, for
the winning of those few sovereigns was a real joy to her, and the
shadow of the welsher had no terrors, since she did not know what
Medenham meant.
"He improves on acquaintance," admitted Mrs. Devar, thawing a little
under the influence of a successful tip.
He soon returned, and handed them six sovereigns apiece.
"My man paid up like a Briton," he said cheerfully. "I have no
reliable information as to the next race, so what do you ladies say
if we lunch quietly before we attack the ring for the Derby?"
There was an awkward pause. The air of Epsom Downs is stimulating,
especially after one has found the winner of the first race.
"We have not brought anything to eat," admitted Cynthia ruefully. "We
ordered some sandwiches before leaving the hotel, and we mean to stop
for tea at some old-world hotel in Reigate which Mrs. Devar
recommends."
"Unfortunately I was not hungry at sandwich time," sighed Mrs. Devar.
"If it comes to that, neither was I, whereas I have a most unromantic
appetite now. But what can do, as the Babus say in India. I am rather
inclined to doubt the quality of anything we can buy here."
Medenham's face lit up.
"India!" he cried. "Have you been to India?"
"Yes, have you? My father and I passed last cold weather there."
Warned by a sudden expansion of Mrs. Devar's prominent eyes, he gave a
quick turn to a dangerous topic, since it was in Calcutta that the
gallant ex-captain of Horton's Horse had "borrowed" fifty pounds from
him. Naturally, the lady omitted the telltale prefix to her son's
rank, but it was unquestionably true that the British army had
dispensed with his services.
"I was only thinking that acquaintance with the East, Miss Vanrenen,
would prepare you for the mysterious workings of Kismet," said
Medenham lightly. "When I came across Simmonds this morning I was
bewailing the fact that my respected aunt had fallen ill and could not
accompany me to-day. May I offer you the luncheon which I provided for
her?"
He withdrew the wicker basket from its nook beneath the front seat;
before his astonished guests could utter a protest, it was opened, and
he was deftly unpacking the contents.
"But that is _your_ luncheon," protested Cynthia, finding it incumbent
on her to say something by way of polite refusal.
"And his aunt's, my dear."
In those few words Mrs. Devar conveyed skepticism as to the aunt and
ready acceptance of the proffered fare; but Medenham paid no heed; he
had discovered that the napkins, cutlery, even the plates, bore the
family crest. The silver, too, was of a quality that could not fail to
evoke comment.
"Well, here goes!" he growled under his breath. "If I come a purler it
will not be for the first time where women are concerned."
He laughed as he produced some lobster in aspic and a chicken.
"It is jolly useful to have as a friend a butler in a big house," he
said. "I didn't know what Tomkinson had given me, but these
confections look all right."
Mrs. Devar's glance dwelt on the crest the instant she took a plate.
She smiled in her superior way. While Medenham was wrestling with the
cork of a bottle of claret she whispered:
"This is screamingly funny, Cynthia. I have solved the riddle at last.
Our chauffeur is using his master's car and his master's eatables as
well."
"Don't care a cent," said Cynthia, who found the lobster admirable.
"But if any inquiry is made and our names are mixed up in it, Mr.
Vanrenen may be angry."
"Father would be tickled to death. I shall insist on paying for
everything, of course, and my responsibility ends there. No, thank
you--" this to Medenham who was offering her a glass of wine. "I drink
water only. Have you any?"
Mrs. Devar took the wine, and Medenham fished in the basket for the
St. Galmier, since Lady St. Maur cultivated gout with her biliousness.
"Dear me!" she murmured after a sip.
"What is it now?" asked Cynthia.
"Perfect, my dear. Such a bouquet! I wonder what house it came from,"
and she pondered the crest again, but in vain, for heraldry is an
exact science, and the greater part of her education had been given by
a hard world. She did not fail, therefore, to notice that three
persons were catered for by the packer of the basket. An unknown upper
housemaid was already suspect, and now she added mentally "some
shop-girl friend." The climax was reached when Medenham staged the
strawberries. Cynthia, to whom the good things of the table were
commonplaces, ate them and was thankful, but Mrs. Devar made another
note: "Ten shillings a basket, at the very least; and _three
baskets_!"
A deep, booming yell from the mob proclaimed that the second race was
in progress.
"I can't see a thing unless I am perched on the seat, and if I stand
up I shall upset the crockery," announced Cynthia. "But I am not
interested yet awhile. If Grimalkin wins I shall shout myself hoarse."
"He hasn't a ghost of a chance," said Medenham.
"Oh, but he has. Mr. Deane told my father----"
"But Tomkinson told me," he interrupted.
"Tomkinson. Is that your butler friend?"
"Yes. He says the King's horse will win."
"Surely the owner of Grimalkin must know more about the race than a
butler?"
"You would not think so, Miss Vanrenen, if you knew Tomkinson."
"Where is he butler?" asked Mrs. Devar suavely.
"I forget for the moment, madam," replied Medenham with equal suavity.
The lady waived the retort. She was sure of her ground now.
"In any case, I imagine that both Mr. Deane and this Tomkinson may be
mistaken. I am told that a horse trained locally has a splendid
chance--let me see--yes, here it is: the Honorable Charles Fenton's
Vendetta."
It was well that those bulging steel-gray eyes were bent over the
card, or they could not have failed to catch the flicker of amazement
that swept across Medenham's sun-browned face when he heard the name
of his cousin. He had not been in England a full week as yet, and he
happened not to have read a list of probable starters for the Derby.
He had glanced at the programme during breakfast that morning, but
some remark made by the Earl caused him to lay down the newspaper,
and, when next he picked it up, he became interested in an article on
the Cape to Cairo railway, written by someone who had not the remotest
notion of the difficulties to be surmounted before that very desirable
line can be constructed.
Cynthia, however, was watching him, and she laughed gleefully.
"Ah, Fitzroy, you hadn't heard of Vendetta before," she cried.
"Confess now--your faith in Tomkinson is shaken."
"Vendetta certainly does sound like war to the knife," said he.
"It is twenty to one," purred Mrs. Devar complacently. "I shall risk
the five pounds I won on the first race, and it will be very nice if I
receive a hundred."
"I stick to Old Glory," announced the valiant Cynthia.
"The King for me," declared Medenham, though he realized, without any
knowledge of the merits of the horses engaged, that the Honorable
Charles was not the sort of man to run a three-year-old in the Derby
merely for the sake of seeing his racing colors flashing in the sun.
Mrs. Devar kept to her word, and handed over the five pounds. Cynthia
staked seven, the five she had won and the ten dollars of her original
intent: whereupon Medenham said that he must cross the course and make
these bets in the ring--would the ladies raise any objection to his
absence, as he could not return until after the race? No, they were
quite content to remain in the car, so he repacked the luncheon basket
and left them.
Vendetta won by three lengths.
Medenham had secured twenty-five to one, and the bookmaker who paid
him added the genial advice: "Put that little lot where the flies
can't get at it." The man could afford to be affable, seeing that
the bet was the only one in his book against the horse's name. The
King's horse and Grimalkin were the public favorites, but both were
hopelessly shut in at Tattenham Corner, and neither showed in the
front rank at any stage of a fast run race. When Medenham climbed the
hill again, hot and uncomfortable in his leather clothing, Mrs. Devar
actually welcomed him with an expansive smile.
"What odds did you get me?" she cried, as soon as he was within
earshot.
"A hundred and twenty-five pounds to five, madam," he said.
"Oh, what luck! You must keep the odd five pounds, Fitzroy."
"No, thank you. I hedged on Vendetta, so I am still winning."
"But really, I insist."
He handed her a bundle of notes.
"You will find a hundred and thirty pounds there," he said, and
she understood that his refusal to accept her money was final. She
was intensely surprised that he had given her so much more than
she expected, and the first unworthy thought was succeeded by a
second--how dared this impudent chauffeur decline her bounty?
Cynthia pouted at him.
"Your Tomkinson is a fraud," she said.
"Your Grimalkin was well named," said he.
"That remark is very cutting, I suppose, Fitzroy."
"Oh, no. I merely meant to convey that a cat is not a racehorse."
"Poor fellow," mused Cynthia, "he is vexed because he lost. I must
make it up to him somehow, but he is such an extraordinary person, I
hardly dare suggest such a thing."
She began to adjust her veil and dust coat.
"If you are ready, Mrs. Devar," she said, "I think we ought to hit the
pike for Brighton."
Mrs. Devar laughed. Fitzroy evidently understood, as he had taken his
seat and the engine was humming.
"Americanisms are most fascinating," she vowed. "I wish you would use
more of them, Cynthia. I love them."
Cynthia was slightly ruffled, though if pressed for a reason she could
hardly have given one.
"Slang is useful occasionally, but I am trying to cure myself of the
habit," she said tartly.
"A picturesque phrase is always pardonable. Oh, is this quite
safe?----"
The Mercury, finding an opening, had shot down the hill with a smooth
celerity that alarmed the older woman. Cynthia leaned back composedly.
"Fitzroy means to reach the road before the police stop the traffic
for the next race," she said. Then, after a pause, she added: "I wish
we could keep this car for the rest of our tour, yet I suppose I ought
not to interfere in the arrangement father made with Simmonds."
Mrs. Devar frowned. Her momentary tremor had fled, and she had every
cause to regard with uneasiness the threatened substitution during the
forthcoming ten days, of this quite impossible Fitzroy for that very
chauffeur-like person, Simmonds. Her acquaintance with Peter Vanrenen
and his daughter was sufficiently intimate to warn her that Cynthia's
least desire was granted by her indulgent parent; in fact, Cynthia
would have been hopelessly spoilt were it not for a combination of
those happy chances which seem to conspire at times in the creation of
the American girl at her best. She was devoted to her father, her
nature was bright and cheerful, and she had a heart that bubbled over
with kindliness. Mrs. Devar chose the right line of attack. She
resolved to appeal to the girl's sympathies.
"I am afraid it would be a rather cruel thing to deprive Simmonds of
his engagement," she said softly. "He has bought a car, I understand,
on the strength of the contract with Mr. Vanrenen----"
"That doesn't cut any ice--I mean there would be no ill effect for
Simmonds," explained Cynthia hurriedly. "Father will meet us in London
at the end of our run, and Simmonds could come to us then."
The steel-gray eyes narrowed. Their owner was compelled to decide