Cynthia's Chauffeur
request to modify an unconventional freedom of manner where Fitzroy
was concerned would meet with a blank refusal. That threatened a real
difficulty in the near future, and she was much perturbed by being
called on to decide instantly on a definite course of action. Too
strong a line might have worse consequences than a _laissez faire_
attitude. As matters stood, the girl was eminently plastic, her
naturally gentle disposition inducing respect for the opinions and
wishes of an older and more experienced woman, yet there was a
fearlessness, a frank candor of thought, in Cynthia's character that
awed and perplexed Mrs. Devar, in whom the unending struggle to keep
afloat in the swift and relentless torrent of social existence had
atrophied every sense save that of self-preservation. An open rupture,
such as she feared might take place if she asserted her shadowy
authority, was not to be dreamed of. What was to be done? Small
wonder, then, that she should tackle her fish vindictively.
"Are you angry because Fitzroy is occupying the same hotel as
ourselves?" asked Cynthia at last.
The girl had amused herself by watching the small coteries of
stiff and starched Britons scattered throughout the room; she was
endeavoring to classify the traveled and the untraveled by varying
degrees of frigidity. As it happened, she was wholly wrong in her
rough analysis. The Englishman who has wandered over the map is, if
anything, more self-contained than his stay-at-home brother. He is
often a stranger in his own land, and the dozen most reserved men
present that evening were probably known by name and deed throughout
the widest bounds of the empire.
But, though eyes and brain were busy, she could not help noticing Mrs.
Devar's taciturn mood. That a born gossip, a retailer of personal
reminiscences confined exclusively to "the best people," should eat
stolidly for five consecutive minutes, seemed somewhat of a miracle,
and Cynthia, as was her habit, came straight to the point.
Mrs. Devar managed to smile, pouting her lips in wry mockery of the
suggestion that a chauffeur's affairs should cause her any uneasiness
whatsoever.
"I was really thinking of our tour," she lied glibly. "I am so sorry
you missed seeing Salisbury Cathedral. Why was the route altered?"
"Because Fitzroy remarked that the cathedral would always remain at
Salisbury, whereas a perfect June day in the New Forest does not come
once in a blue moon when one really wants it."
"For a person of his class he appears to say that sort of thing rather
well."
Cynthia's arched eyebrows were raised a little.
"Why do you invariably insist on the class distinction?" she cried.
"I have always been taught that in England the barrier of rank is
being broken down more and more every day. Your society is the easiest
in the world to enter. You tolerate people in the highest circles
who would certainly suffer from cold feet if they showed up too
prominently in New York or Philadelphia; isn't it rather out of
fashion to be so exclusive?"
"Our aristocracy has such an assured position that it can afford to
unbend," quoted the other.
"Oh, is that it? I heard my father say the other day that it has often
made him tired to see the way in which some of your titled nonentities
grovel before a Lithuanian Jew who is a power on the Rand. But
unbending is a different thing to groveling, perhaps?"
Mrs. Devar sighed, yet she gave a moment's scrutiny to a wine-list
brought by the head waiter.
"A small bottle of 61, please," she said in an undertone.
Then she sighed again, deprecating the Vanrenen directness.
"Unfortunately, my dear, few of our set can avoid altogether the
worship of the golden calf."
Cynthia thrust an obstinate chin into the argument.
"People will do things for bread and butter that they would shy at if
independent," she said. "I can understand the calf proposition much
more easily than the snobbishness that would forbid a gentleman like
Fitzroy from eating a meal in the same apartment as his employers,
simply because he earns money by driving an automobile."
In her earnestness, Cynthia had gone just a little beyond the bounds
of fair comment, and Mrs. Devar was quick to seize the advantage thus
offered.
"From some points of view, Fitzroy and I are in the same boat," she
said quietly. "Still, I cannot agree that it is snobbish to regard a
groom or a coachman as a social inferior. I have been told that there
are several broken-down gentlemen driving omnibuses in London, but
that is no reason why one should ask one of them to dinner, even
though his taste in wine might be beyond dispute."
Cynthia had already regretted her impulsive outburst. Her vein of
romance was imbedded in a rock of good sense, and she took the
implied reproof penitently.
"I am afraid my sympathies rather ran away with my manners," she said.
"Please forgive me. I really didn't mean to charge you with being a
snob. The absurdity of the statement carries its own refutation. I
spoke in general terms, and I am willing to admit that I was wrong in
asking the man to come here to-night. But the incident happened quite
naturally. He mentioned the fact that he often stayed in the hotel as
a boy----"
"Very probably," agreed Mrs. Devar cheerfully. "We are all subject to
ups and downs. For my part, I was speaking _a la_ chaperon, my sole
thought being to safeguard you from the disagreeable busy-bodies who
misconstrue one's motives. And now, let us talk of something more
amusing. You see that woman in old rose brocade--she is sitting with a
bald-headed man at the third table on your left. Well, that is the
Countess of Porthcawl, and the man with her is Roger Ducrot, the
banker. Porthcawl is a most complaisant husband. He never comes within
a thousand miles of Millicent. She is awfully nice; clever, and witty,
and the rest of it--quite a man's woman. We are sure to meet her in
the lounge after dinner and I will introduce you."
Cynthia said she would be delighted. Reading between the lines of Mrs.
Devar's description, it was not easy to comprehend the distinction
that forbade friendship with Fitzroy while offering it with Millicent,
Countess of Porthcawl. But the girl was resolved not to open a new
rift. In her heart she longed for the day that would reunite her to
her father; meanwhile, Mrs. Devar must be dealt with gently.
Despite its tame ending, this unctuous discussion on social ethics led
to wholly unforeseen results.
The allusion to a possible pier at Bournemouth meant more than Mrs.
Devar imagined, but Cynthia resisted the allurements of another
entrancing evening, went early to her room, and wrote duty letters for
a couple of hours. The excuse served to cut short her share of the
Countess's brilliant conversation, though Mr. Ducrot tried to make
himself very agreeable when he heard the name of Vanrenen.
Medenham, standing in the hall, suddenly came face to face with Lady
Porthcawl, who was endowed with an unerring eye for minute shades of
distinction in the evening dress garments of the opposite sex. Her
correspondence consisted largely of picture postcards, and she had
just purchased some stamps from the hall porter when she saw Medenham
take a telegram from the rack where it had been reposing since the
afternoon. It was, she knew, addressed to "Viscount Medenham." That,
and her recollection of his father, banished doubt.
"George!" she cried, with a charming air of having found the one man
whom she was longing to meet, "don't say I've grown so old that you
have forgotten me!"
He started, rather more violently than might be looked for in a
shikari whose nerves had been tested in many a ticklish encounter with
other members of the cat tribe. In fact, he had just been disturbed by
coming across the unexpected telegram, wherein Simmonds assured his
lordship that the rejuvenated car would arrive at the College Green
Hotel, Bristol, on Friday evening. At the very moment that he realized
the imminence of Cynthia's disappearance into the void it was doubly
disconcerting to be hailed by a woman who knew his world so intimately
that it would be folly to smile vacantly at her presumed mistake.
Some glint of annoyance must have leaped to his eyes, for the lively
countess glanced around with a mimic fright that testified to her
skill as an actress.
"Good gracious!" she whispered, "have I given you away? I couldn't
guess you were here under a _nom de voyage_--now, could I?--when that
telegram has been staring at everybody for hours."
"You have misinterpreted my amazement, Lady Porthcawl," he said,
spurred into self-possession by the hint at an intrigue. "I could not
believe that time would turn back even for a pretty woman. You look
younger than ever, though I have not seen you for----"
"Oh, hush!" she cried. "Don't spoil your nice speech by counting
years. When did you arrive in England? Are you alone--really? You've
grown quite a man in your jungles. Will you come to the lounge? I
want ever so much to have a long talk with you. Mr. Ducrot is
there--the financier, you know--but I have left him safely anchored
alongside Maud Devar--a soft-furred old pussie who is clawing me now
behind my back, I am sure. Have you ever met her? Wiggy Devar she was
christened in Monte, because an excited German leaned over her at the
tables one night and things happened to her coiffure. And to show you
how broad-minded I am, I'll get her to bring downstairs the sweetest
and daintiest American ingenue you'd find between here and Chicago,
even if you went by way of Paris. Cynthia Vanrenen is her name,
daughter of _the_ Vanrenen. He made, not a pile, but a pyramid, out of
Milwaukees. She is _it_--a pukka Gibson girl, quite ducky, with the
dearest bit of an accent, and Mamma Devar is gadding around with her
in a mo-car. Do come!"
Medenham was able to pick and choose where he listed in answering this
hail of words.
"I'm awfully sorry," he said, "but the telegram I have just received
affects all my plans. I must hurry away this instant. When will you be
in town? Then I shall call, praying meanwhile that there may be no
Ducrots or Devars there to blight a glorious gossip. If you bring me
up to date as to affairs in Park Lane I'll reciprocate about the giddy
equator. How--or perhaps I ought to say where--is Porthcawl?"
"In China," snapped her ladyship, fully alive to Medenham's polite
evasion of her blandishments.
"By gad," he laughed, "that is a long way from Bournemouth. Well,
good-bye. Keep me a date in Clarges Street."
"Clarges Street is off the map," she said coldly. "It's South
Belgravia, verging on Pimlico, nowadays. That is why Porthcawl is in
China ... and it explains Ducrot, too."
An unconscious bitterness crept into the smooth voice; Medenham, who
hated confidences from the butterfly type of woman, nevertheless
pitied her.
"Tell me where you live and I'll come round and hear all about it," he
said sympathetically.
She gave him an address, and suddenly smiled on him with a yearning
tenderness. She watched his tall figure as he strode down the hill
towards the town to keep an imaginary appointment.
"He used to be a nice boy," she sighed, "and now he is a man....
Heigh-ho, you're a back number, Millie, dear!"
But she was her own bright self when she returned to the bald-headed
Ducrot and the bewigged Mrs. Devar.
"What a small world it is!" she vowed. "I ran across Medenham in the
hall."
The banker's shining forehead wrinkled in a reflective frown.
"Medenham?" he said.
"Fairholme's eldest son."
Mrs. Devar chortled.
"Such fun!" she said. "Our chauffeur calls himself George Augustus
Fitzroy."
"How odd!" agreed Countess Millicent.
"You people speak in riddles. Who or what is odd?" asked Ducrot.