Cynthia's Chauffeur
quickly. As opposition was useless, she laughed, with the careless
ease of one who was in no way concerned.
"Don't you think," she said, "that if your father sees this car
Simmonds will be dispensed with somehow?"
Cynthia nodded. The argument was unanswerable.
They were crossing the course at a walking pace; at that point a sort
of passage was kept clear by the police for the convenience of those
occupants of the stands who wished to visit the paddock. The owner
of Vendetta, having been congratulated by royalty, was taking some
friends to admire the horse during the rubbing-down process, when his
glance suddenly fell on Medenham. Though amazed, he was not rendered
speechless.
"Well, I'm----" he began.
But the Mercury possessed a singularly loud and clear motor-horn, and
the voice of the Honorable Charles was drowned. Still, his gestures
were eloquent. Quite obviously, he was saying to a man whose arm he
caught:
"Did you ever in your life see anybody more like George than that
chauffeur? Why, damme, it is Medenham!"
So Mrs. Devar lost a golden opportunity. She knew Fenton by sight, and
her shrewd wits must have set her on the right track had she witnessed
his bewilderment. Being a pretentious person, however, and not able to
afford the up-keep of a motor, she was enjoying the surprise of two
well-dressed women who recognized her. Then the car leaped forward
again, and she scored a dearly won triumph.
At this crisis Medenham's scrutiny of the road map provided by
Simmonds for the tour was well repaid. He turned sharp to the right
past the back of the stands, and was fortunate in finding enough clear
road to render pursuit by his elderly cousin a vain thing, even if it
were thought of. The Mercury had to cross the caravan zone carefully,
but once Tattenham Corner was reached the way lay open to Reigate.
Through a land of gorse and heather they sped until they came to the
famous hill. They ran down in a noiseless flight that caused Cynthia
to experience the sensation of being borne on wings.
"I imagine that aeroplaning is something like this," she confided to
her companion.
"If it is, it must be enjoyable. I don't suppose, at my time of
life, I shall ever try to navigate the air in one of those frail
contrivances pictured in the newspapers. But I was nearly tempted to
go up in a balloon two years ago."
Cynthia stole a glance at Mrs. Devar's rotund figure, and laughed. She
could not help it, though she flushed furiously at what she deemed an
involuntary rudeness on her part.
"Oh, it sounds funny, I have no doubt," said the other, placidly
good-tempered, "but I really meant it at the moment. You have met
Count Edouard Marigny, I fancy?"
"Yes, in Paris last month. In fact----"
Cynthia hesitated. She had scarcely recovered from the excitement of
the racing and was not choosing her words quite happily. Mrs. Devar,
still sugary, ended the sentence.
"In fact, it was he who recommended me to Mr. Vanrenen as your
chaperon. Yes, my dear, Monsieur Marigny and I are old friends. He and
my son are inseparable when Captain Devar is in Paris. Well, as I was
saying, the Count offered to take me up in his balloon, L'Etoile, and
I was ready to go, but the weather became stormy and an ascent from
the Velo was impossible, or highly dangerous, at any rate."
Mrs. Devar cultivated the high-pitched voice that she regarded as
the hall-mark of good breeding, and, in that silent rush downhill,
Medenham could not avoid hearing each syllable. It was eminently
pleasing to listen to Cynthia's praise of his car, and he was wroth
with the other woman for wrenching the girl's thoughts away so
promptly from a topic dear to his heart. Therein he erred, for the
gods were being kind to him. Little recking how valuable was the
information he had just been given, he slackened speed somewhat, and
leaned back in the seat.
"We are nearing Reigate now," he remarked with half-turned head. "The
town begins on the other side of that tunnel. Which inn do you wish to
stop at for tea?"
"It seems to me that I have barely ended lunch," said Cynthia. "Shall
we cut out your old-world Reigate inn, Mrs. Devar, and take tea at
Crawley or Handcross?"
"By all means. How well you know the names of the towns and villages.
Yet you have never before visited this part of England."
"We Americans are nothing if not thorough," answered the girl. "I
would not be happy if I failed to look up our route on the map. More
than that, I note the name of each river we cross and try to identify
every range of hills. You must test me and count my mistakes."
Mrs. Devar spread her hands in a gesture copied from her French
acquaintances.
"My dear, I am the most ignorant person geographically. I remember how
that delightful Count Edouard laughed when I asked him if the Loire
joined the Seine above or below Paris. It seems that I was thinking of
the Oise all the time. The Marchioness of Belfort told me of my error
afterwards."
Cynthia laughed merrily, but made no reply.
Medenham bent over the levers and the car danced on through Reigate.
Mrs. Devar impressed him as a despicable type of tuft-hunter. His
acquaintance with the species was not extensive; he had read of
elderly dowagers who eked out their slender means by introducing the
daughters of rich Americans to English society, and the thing was not
in itself wholly indefensible; but he felt sure that Cynthia Vanrenen
needed no such social sponsor, while the mere bracketing of Count
Edouard Marigny with "Jimmy" Devar caused him to regard this unknown
Frenchman with a suspicion that was already active enough so far as
Mrs. Devar was concerned. And the Marchioness of Belfort, too! A
decrepit old cadger with an infallible system for roulette!
Perhaps his mood communicated itself to the accelerator. At any rate,
the Mercury seemed to sympathize, and it was a lucky hazard that kept
the glorious stretch of road between Reigate and Crawley free of
police traps on that memorable Wednesday. The car simply leaped out
of Surrey into Sussex, the undulating parklands on both sides of the
smooth highway appearing to float past in stately procession, and
there was a fine gleam in Cynthia's blue eyes when the first check to
a splendid run came in the outskirts of Crawley.
She leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder.
"Tea here, please," she said. Then she added, as if it were an
afterthought: "If you promise to let her rip in that style after we
reach the open country again I shall sit on the front seat."
The words were almost whispered into his ear. Certainly they were not
meant to enlighten Mrs. Devar, and Medenham, turning, found his face
very near the girl's.
"I'm bribed," he answered, and not until both were settled back in
their seats did they realize that either had said anything unusual.
Medenham, however, took his cup of tea _a la chauffeur_, helping
himself to bread and butter from a plate deposited on the bonnet by a
waiting-maid.
When the ladies reappeared from the interior of a roadside restaurant
he was in his place, ready to start. He did not offer to put them in
the car, adjust their wraps, and close the door. If Miss Vanrenen
liked to keep her promise, that was her affair, but no action on his
part would hint of prior knowledge that she intended to ride in front.
Nevertheless, he could not repress a smile when he heard Mrs. Devar's
distinctly chilly, "Oh, not at all!" in response to Cynthia's polite
apology for deserting her until they neared Brighton.
Somehow, the car underwent a subtle change when the girl took her seat
by his side. From a machine quivering with life and power it became a
triumphal chariot. By sheer perfection of mechanical energy it had
bridged the gulf that lay between the millionaire's daughter and the
hired man, since there could be no question that Cynthia Vanrenen
placed Viscount Medenham in no other category. Indeed, his occasional
lapses from the demeanor of a lower social grade might well have
earned him her marked disfavor, and, as there was no shred of personal
vanity in his character, he gave all the credit to the sentient
creature of steel and iron that was so ready to respond to his touch.
Swayed by an unconscious telepathy, the girl almost interpreted his
unspoken thought. She watched his deft manipulation of levers and
brakes, and fancied that his hands dwelt on the steering-wheel with a
caress.
"You have a real lovely automobile, Fitzroy," she said, "and I have a
sort of notion that you are devoted to it. May I ask--is it your own
car?"
"Yes. I bought it six months ago. I learnt to drive in France, and, as
soon as I heard of the new American engine, I--er--couldn't rest until
I had tried it."
He was on the point of saying something wholly different, but managed
to twist the second half of the sentence in time. What would Miss
Vanrenen have thought had he continued: "I sent my chauffeur to
England, and, on receipt of his report, I had this car shipped within
a week?"
There are problems too deep for speculation when a man is guiding a
ton of palpitating metal along a hedge-lined road at forty miles an
hour. This was one.
Cynthia, knowing nothing of any "new American engine," would die
rather than confess her ignorance. Moreover, she was pondering a
problem of her own. If it was not his master's car he might be open
to a bargain.
"Simmonds is an old friend of yours, I suppose?" she said.
"Yes, I have known him some years. We were in South Africa together."
"In the war, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"How dreadful! Have you ever killed anybody?"
"Not with petrol, I am happy to state."
There was an eloquent pause. Cynthia examined his reply, and
discovered that it covered a good deal of ground. Perhaps, too, it
conveyed the least little bit of a snub. Hence, her tone stiffened
perceptibly.
"I mentioned Simmonds," she explained, "because I think my father
might arrange--to the satisfaction of all parties, of course--that you
should carry through this present tour, while Simmonds would come into
our service when we return to London."
Medenham laughed. In its way, the compliment was graceful and well
meant, but the utter absurdity of his position was now thrust upon him
with overwhelming force.
"I am very much obliged to you, Miss Vanrenen," he said, venturing
to look once more into those alluring eyes, so shy, so daring, so
divinely wise and childishly candid. "If circumstances permitted,
there is nothing I would like better than to take you through this
Paradise of a June England; but it is quite impossible. Simmonds must
bring his car to Bristol, as I positively cannot be absent from town
longer than three days."
Cynthia did not pout. She nodded appreciation of the weighty if
undescribed business that called Fitzroy and his Mercury back to
London, but in her heart she mused on the strangeness of things, and
wondered if this smiling land produced many chauffeurs who lauded it
in such phrases.
Up and down Handcross Hill they whirred, treating that respectable
eminence as if it were a snow bump in the path of a flying toboggan.
Medenham had roamed the South Downs as a boy, and he was able now to
point out Chanctonbury Ring, the Devil's Dyke, Ditchling Beacon, and
the rest of the round-shouldered giants that guard the Weald. In the
mellow light of a superlatively fine afternoon the Downs wore their
gayest raiment of blue and purple, red and green--decked, too, with
ribands of white roads and ruffs of rose-laden hedges.
Cynthia forgot many times, and he hardly ever remembered, that he
was a chauffeur, and the miles, too, were disregarded until the sea
sparkled in their eyes as they emerged from the great gap which the