Cynthia's Chauffeur

“There is no need, Miss Vanrenen,” said Medenham. “I handed her – well, sufficient to clear all claims.”

“You did? But why?”

The temptation to explain that he had never seen the girl before that day was strong, but he waived it, and contented himself with saying:

“I – er – can’t exactly say – force of habit, I imagine.”

“Is she a friend of yours?”

“No.”

Cynthia subsided into the tonneau.

“Of all the odd things!” she murmured, little dreaming that her chance question had sent a thrill of sheer delight through Medenham’s every vein.

“What is it now?” inquired Mrs. Devar vindictively, for she detested these half confidences.

“Oh, nothing of any importance. Fitzroy footed the bill, it seems.”

“Very probably. He must have bribed the girl to be impudent.”

Cynthia left it at that. She wished these people would stop their quarreling, which threatened to spoil an otherwise perfect day.

The Mercury ran smoothly into ancient Bristol, crossed the Avon by the pontoon bridge, and whirled up the hill to the College Green Hotel. There, on the steps, stood Captain James Devar. Obviously, he did not recognize them, and Medenham guessed the reason – he expected to meet his mother only, and bestowed no second glance on a car containing two ladies. Indeed, his first words betrayed sheer amazement. Mrs. Devar cried, “Ah, there you are, James!” and James’s eyeglass fell from its well-worn crease.

“Hello, mater!” he exclaimed. “But what’s up? Why are you – where is Marigny?”

“Miles away – the silly man ran short of petrol. Fortunately our car came to the rescue, or it would have been most awkward, since Miss Vanrenen was with the Count at the time. Cynthia, you have not met my son. James, this is Miss Vanrenen.”

The little man danced forward. Like all short and stout mortals, he was nimble on his feet, and his mother’s voluble outburst warned him of an unforeseen hitch in the arrangements.

“Delighted, I’m shaw,” said he. “But, by gad, fancy losing poo-aw Eddie! What have you done with him? Dwiven a stake through him and buwied him at a cwoss woad?”

Medenham dreaded that the too-faithful Simmonds, car and all, would be found awaiting their arrival, and it was a decided relief when the only automobile in sight proved to be the state equipage of some local magnate dining at the hotel. Cynthia, apparently, had shared his thoughts so far as they concerned Simmonds.

“I suppose your friend Simmonds will reveal his whereabouts during the evening,” she said, while disencumbering herself of her wraps. Mrs. Devar had already alighted, but the girl was standing in the car and spoke over Medenham’s shoulder.

“Of course, he may not be here,” was the answer, not given too loudly, since Mrs. Devar had hastened to give details to the perplexed James, and there was no need to let either of them overhear his words.

“Oh my! What will happen, then?”

“In that event, I should feel compelled to take his place again.”

“But the compulsion, as you put it, tends rather to take you to London.”

“I have changed my mind, Miss Vanrenen,” he said simply.

She tittered. There was just a spice of coquetry in her manner as she stooped nearer.

“You believe that Simmonds would not have found me in that wretched lane to-night,” she whispered.

“I am quite sure of it.”

“But the whole affair was a mere stupid error.”

“I am only too glad that I was enabled to put it right,” he said with due gravity.

“Cynthia,” came a shrill voice, “do make haste, I am positively starving.”

“Guess you’d better lose Simmonds,” breathed the girl, and an unaccountable fluttering of her heart induced a remarkably high color in her cheeks when she sped up the steps of the hotel and entered the brilliantly-lighted atrium.

As for Medenham, though he had carefully mapped out the exact line of conduct to be followed in Bristol while watching the radiantly white arc of road that quivered in front of the car during the run from the Mendips, for a second or two he dared not trust his voice to ask the hall-porter certain necessary questions. Unaided by the glamor of birth or position he had won this delightful girl’s confidence. She believed in him now as she would never again believe in Count Edouard Marigny; what that meant in such a moment, none can tell but a devout lover. Naturally, that was his point of view; it did not occur to him that Cynthia might already have regretted the impulse which led her to utter her thoughts aloud. Her nature was of the Martian type revealed to Swedenborg in one of his philosophic trances. “The inhabitants of Mars,” said he, “account it wicked to think one thing and speak another – to wish one thing while the face expresses another.” Happy Martians, perhaps, but not quite happy Cynthia, still blushing hotly because of her daring suggestion as to the disposal of Simmonds.

But she was deeply puzzled by the mishap to the Du Vallon. Unwilling to think evil of anyone, she felt, nevertheless, that Fitzroy (as she called him) would never have treated both Mrs. Devar and the Frenchman so cavalierly if he had not anticipated the very incident that happened on the Mendips. Why did he turn back? How did he really find out what had become of them? What would Simmonds have done in his stead? A hundred strange doubts throbbed in her brain, but they were jumbled in confusion before that more intimate and insistent question – how would Fitzroy interpret her eagerness to retain him in her service?

Meanwhile, the Swedish seer’s theory of Martian speech and thought acting in unity was making itself at home on the pavement in front of the hotel.

Medenham learnt from the hall-porter that a motor-car had reached Bristol from London about five o’clock. The driver, who was alone, had asked for Miss Vanrenen, and was told that she was expected but had not yet arrived, whereupon he went off, saying that he would call after dinner.

“Another shuffer kem a bit later an’ axed the same thing,” went on the man, “but he didn’t have no car, an’ he left no word about callin’ again.”

“Excellent!” said Medenham. “Now please go and tell Captain Devar that I wish to see him.”

“Here?”

“Yes. I cannot leave my car. He must be at liberty, as he is in evening dress, and the ladies will not come downstairs under half an hour.”

Devar soon appeared. His mother had managed to inform him that the substituted driver was responsible for the complete collapse of Marigny’s project, and he was puffing with annoyance, though well aware that he must not display it.

“Well,” said he, strutting up to Medenham and blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke from his thick lips, “well, what is it, my man?”

For answer, Medenham disconnected a lamp and held it close to his own face.

“Do you recognize me?” he asked.

Devar, in blank astonishment, affected to screw in his eyeglass more firmly.

“No,” he said, “nor am I particularly anxious to make your acquaintance. You have behaved wather badly, I understand, but that is of no consequence now, as Simmonds has bwought his car he-aw – ”

“Look again, Devar. We last met in Calcutta, where you swindled me out of fifty pounds. Unfortunately I did not hear of your presence in South Africa until you were cashiered at Cape Town, or I might have saved the authorities some trouble.”

The man wilted under those stern eyes.

“Good gad! Medenham!” he stammered.

Medenham replaced the lamp in its socket.

“I am glad you are not trying any pretense,” he said. “Otherwise I would be forced to take action, with the most lamentable consequences for you, Devar. Now, I will hold my hand, provided you obey me implicitly. Send for your overcoat, go straight to the Central Station, and travel to London by the next train. You can scribble some excuse to your mother, but, if I have any cause even to suspect that you have told her who I am, I shall not hesitate to put the police on your track. You must vanish, and be dumb – for three months at least. If you are hard up, I will give you some money – sufficient for a fortnight’s needs – and you can write to me for further supplies at my London address. Even a rascal like you must be permitted to live, I suppose, so I risk breaking the law myself by screening you from justice. Those are my terms. Do you accept them?”

The red face had grown yellow, and the steel-gray eyes that were a heritage of the Devar family glistened with terror, but the man endeavored to obtain mercy.

“Dash it all, Medenham,” he groaned, “don’t be too hard on me. I’m goin’ stwaight now – ’pon me honor. This chap, Marigny – ”

“You fool! I offer you liberty and money, yet you try brazenly to get me to fall in with your wretched designs against Miss Vanrenen! Which is it to be – a police cell or the railway station?”

Medenham moved as if to summon the hall-porter. In a very frenzy of fear Devar caught his arm.

“For Gawd’s sake – ” he whispered.

“You go, then?”

“Yes.”

“I am prepared to spare you to the utmost extent. Tell the hall-porter to bring your overcoat and hat, and to give you a sheet of note-paper and an envelope. Show me what you write. If it is satisfactory I shall start you with twenty pounds. You can send from London to-morrow for your belongings, as your hotel bill will be paid. But remember! One treacherous word from you and I telegraph to Scotland Yard.”

Mrs. Devar had a bad quarter of an hour when a penciled note from her son was delivered at her room and she read:

Dear Mater – I hardly had time to tell you that I am obliged to return to town this evening. Please make my apologies to Miss Vanrenen and Count Marigny. Yours ever,

J.

Medenham frowned a little at the reference to Cynthia, but something of the sort was necessary if an open scandal was to be avoided. As for “Dear Mater,” she was so unnerved that she actually wept. Hard and calculating though she might be, the man was her son, and the bitter experiences of twenty years warned her that he had been driven from Bristol by some ghost new risen from an evil past.

Medenham, however, believed that he had settled one difficulty, and prepared blithely to tackle another. He ran the car to the garage where he had arranged to meet Dale.

“Have you seen Simmonds?” was his first question.

“Yes, my l – , yes, sir.”

“Where is he?”

“Just off for a snack, sir, before goin’ to the hotel.”

“Bring him here at once. We will attend to the snack afterwards. No mistake, now, Dale. He must see no one in the hotel until he and I have had a talk.”

Simmonds was produced. He saluted.

“Glad to meet you again, my lord,” he said. “I hope I haven’t caused any trouble by sending that telegram to Bournemouth, but Dale tells me that you don’t wish your title to be known.”

“Forget it,” said Medenham. “I have done you a good turn, Simmonds – are you prepared to do me one?”

“Just try me, sir.”

“Put your car out of commission. Stick a pin through the earth contact of your magneto and jam it against a cylinder, or something of the sort. Then go to Miss Vanrenen and tell her how sorry you are, but you must have another week at least to pull things straight. She will not be vexed, and I guarantee you against any possible loss. To put the best face on affairs, you had better remain in Bristol a few days at my expense. Of course, it is understood that I deputize for you during the remainder of the tour.”

Simmonds, no courtier, grinned broadly, and even Dale winked at the North Star; Medenham had steeled himself against such manifestations of crude opinion – his face was impassive as that of a graven image.

“Of course I’ll oblige you in that way, my lord. Who wouldn’t?” came the slow reply.

CHAPTER VII

WHEREIN CYNTHIA TAKES HER OWN LINE

When the Mercury, shining from Dale’s attentions, halted noiselessly opposite the College Green Hotel on the Saturday morning, Count Edouard Marigny was standing there; the Du Vallon was not in evidence, and its owner’s attire bespoke other aims than motoring, at any rate for the hour.

Evidently he was well content with himself. A straw hat was set on the back of his head, a cigarette stuck between his lips, his hands were thrust into his trousers pockets, and his feet were spread widely apart. Taken altogether, he had the air of a man without a care in the world.

He smiled, too, in the most friendly fashion, when Medenham’s eyes met his.

“I hear that Simmonds is unable to carry out his contract,” he said cheerfully.

“You are mistaken, a second time, monsieur,” said Medenham.

“Why, then, are you here this morning?”

“I am acting for Simmonds. If anything, my car is slightly superior to his, while I may be regarded as an equally competent driver, so the contract is kept in all essentials.”

Marigny still smiled. The Frenchman of mid-Victorian romance would have shelved this point by indulging in “an inimitable shrug”; but nowadays Parisians of the Count’s type do not shrug – with John Bull’s clothing they have adopted no small share of his stolidness.

“It is immaterial,” he said. “I have sent my man to offer him my Du Vallon, and Smith will go with him to explain its humors. You, as a skilled motorist, understand that a car is of the feminine gender. Like any other charming demoiselle, it demands the exercise of tact – it yields willingly to gentle handling – ”

Medenham cut short the Count’s neatly turned phrases.

“Simmonds has no need to avail himself of your courtesy,” he said. “As for the rest, give me your address in Paris, and when next I visit the French capital I shall be delighted to analyze these subtleties with you.”

“Ah, most admirable! But the really vital question before us to-day is your address in London, Mr. Fitzroy.”

Marigny dwelt on the surname as if it were a succulent oyster, and, in the undeniable surprise of the moment, Medenham was forced to believe that “Captain” Devar, formerly of Horton’s Horse, had dared all by telling his confederate the truth, or some part of the truth. The two men looked squarely at each other, and Marigny did not fail to misinterpret the dubious frown on Medenham’s face.

He descended a step or two, and crossed the pavement leisurely, dropping his voice so that it might not reach the ears of a porter, laden with the ladies’ traveling boxes, who appeared in the doorway.

“Why should we quarrel?” he asked, with an engaging frankness well calculated to reassure a startled evildoer. “In this matter I am anxious to treat you as a gentleman. Allons, donc! Hurry off instantly, and tell Simmonds to bring the Du Vallon here. Leave me to explain everything to Miss Vanrenen. Surely you agree that she ought to be spared the unpleasantness of a wrangle – or, shall we say, an exposure? You see,” he continued with a trifle more animation, and speaking in French, “the game is not worth the candle. In a few hours, at the least, you will be in the hands of the police, whereas, by reaching London to-night, you may be able to pacify the Earl of Fairholme. I can help, perhaps. I will say all that is possible, and my testimony ought to carry some weight.”

Medenham was thoroughly mystified. That the Frenchman was not yet aware of his identity was now clear enough, though, with Devar’s probable duplicity still running in his mind, he could not solve the puzzle presented by this vaunted half-knowledge.

Again the other attributed his perplexity to anything except its real cause.

“I am willing to befriend you,” he urged emphatically. “You have acted foolishly, but not criminally, I hope. In your anxiety to help a colleague you forgot the fine distinction which the law draws between meum and tuum– ”

“No,” said Medenham, turning to the porter. “Put the larger box on the carrier, and strap the other on top of it – the locks outwards. Then you will find that they fit exactly.”

“Don’t be a headstrong idiot,” muttered the Count, with a certain heat of annoyance making itself felt in his patronizing tone. “Miss Vanrenen will come out at any minute – ”

Medenham glanced at the clock by the side of the speed indicator.

“Miss Vanrenen is due now unless she is being purposely detained by Mrs. Devar,” he commented dryly.

“But why persist in this piece of folly?” growled Marigny, to whose reluctant consciousness the idea of failure suddenly presented itself. “You must realize by this time that I know who owns your car. A telegram from me will put the authorities on your track, your arrest will follow, and Miss Vanrenen will be subjected to the gravest inconvenience. Sacré nom d’un pipe! If you will not yield to fair means I must resort to foul. It comes to this – you either quit Bristol at once or I inform Miss Vanrenen of the trick you have played on her.”

Medenham turned and picked up from the seat the pair of stout driving-gloves which had caught Smith’s inquiring eye by reason of their quality and substance. He drew on the right-hand glove, and buttoned it. When he answered, he spoke with irritating slowness.

“Would it not be better for all concerned that the lady in whose behalf you profess to be so deeply moved should be permitted to continue her tour without further disturbance? You and I can meet in London, monsieur, and I shall then have much pleasure in convincing you that I am a most peaceable and law-abiding person.”

“No,” came the angry retort. “I have decided. I withdraw my offer to overlook your offense. At whatever cost, Miss Vanrenen must be protected until her father learns how his wishes have been disregarded by a couple of English bandits.”

“Sorry,” said Medenham coolly.

He alighted in the roadway, as the driving seat was near the curb. A glance into the vestibule of the hotel revealed Cynthia, in motor coat and veil, giving some instructions, probably with regard to letters, to a deferential hall-porter. Walking rapidly round the front of the car, he caught Marigny’s shoulder with his left hand.

“If you dare to open your mouth in Miss Vanrenen’s presence, other than by way of some commonplace remark, I shall forthwith smash your face to a jelly,” he said.

A queer shiver ran through the Frenchman’s body, but Medenham did not commit the error of imagining that his adversary was afraid. His grip on Marigny’s shoulder tightened. The two were now not twelve inches apart, and the Englishman read that involuntary tension of the muscles aright, for there is a palsy of rage as of fear.

“I have some acquaintance with the savate,” he said suavely. “Please take my word for it, and you will be spared an injury. A moment ago you offered to treat me like a gentleman. I reciprocate now by being willing to accept your promise to hold your tongue. Miss Vanrenen is coming… What say you?”

“I agree,” said Marigny, though his dark eyes blazed redly.

“Ah, thanks!” and Medenham’s left hand busied itself once more with the fastening of the glove.

“You understand, of course?” he heard, in a soft snarl.

“Perfectly. The truce ends with my departure. Meanwhile, you are acting wisely. I don’t suppose I shall ever respect you so much again.”

“Now, you two – what are you discussing?” cried Cynthia from the porch. “I hope you are not trying to persuade my chauffeur to yield his place to you, Monsieur Marigny. Once bitten, twice shy, you know, and I would insist on checking each mile by the map if you were at the wheel.”

“Your chauffeur is immovable, mademoiselle,” was the ready answer, though the accompanying smile was not one of the Count’s best efforts.

“He looks it. Why are you vexed, Fitzroy? Can’t you forgive your friend Simmonds?”

Cynthia lifted those demure blue eyes of hers, and held Medenham’s gaze steadfast.

“I trust you are not challenging contradiction, Miss Vanrenen?” he said, with deliberate resolve not to let her slip back thus easily into the rôle of gracious employer.

She did not flinch, but her eyebrows arched a little.

“Oh, no,” she said offhandedly. “Simmonds told me his misfortunes last night, and I assumed that you and he had settled matters satisfactorily between you.”

“As for that,” broke in the Count, “I have just offered my car as a substitute, but Fitzroy prefers to take you as far as Hereford, at any cost.”

“Hereford! I understood from Simmonds that Mr. Fitzroy would see us through the remainder of the tour?”

“Monsieur Marigny is somewhat vague in our island topography: you saw that last evening,” said Medenham.

He smiled. Cynthia, too, glanced from one to the other with a frank merriment that showed how fully she appreciated their mutual dislike. As for Marigny, his white teeth gleamed now in a sarcastic grin.

“Adversity is a strict master,” he said, lapsing into his own language again. “My blunder of yesterday has shown me the need of caution, so I go no farther than Hereford in my thoughts.”

“It is more to the point to tell us how far you are going in your car,” cried the girl lightly.

“I, too, hope to be in Hereford to-night. Mrs. Devar says you mean to spend Sunday there. If that is a fixed thing, and you can bear with me for a few hours, I shall meet you there without fail.”

“Come, by all means, if your road lies that way; but don’t let us make formal engagements. I love to think that I am drifting at will through this land of gardens and apple blossom. And, just think of it – three cathedrals in one day – a Minster for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with Tintern Abbey thrown in for afternoon tea. Such a wealth of medievalism makes my head reel… I was in there for matins,” and she nodded to the grave old pile rearing its massive Gothic within a few paces of the hotel. “At high noon we shall visit Gloucester, and to-night we shall see Hereford. All that within a short hundred miles, to say nothing of Chepstow, Monmouth, the Wye Valley! Ah, me! I shall never overtake my correspondence while there are so many glories to describe. See, I have bought some darling little guidebooks which tell you just what to say in a letter. What between judicious extracts and a sheaf of picture postcards scribbled at each place I’ll try and keep my friends in good humor.”

She produced from a pocket three of the red-covered volumes so familiar to Americans in Britain – and to Britons themselves, for that matter, when the belated discovery is made that it is not necessary to cross the Channel in order to enjoy a holiday – and showed them laughingly to Medenham.

“Now,” she cried, “I am armed against you. No longer will you be able to paralyze me with your learning. If you say 1269 at Tintern I shall retort with 1387 at Monmouth. When you point out Nell Gwynne’s birthplace in Hereford, I shall take you to the Haven Inn, where David Garrick was born, and, if you aren’t very, very good, I shall tell you how much the New Town Hall cost, and who laid the foundation stone.”

Medenham alone held the key to the girl’s lively mood, and it was a novel and quite delightful sensation to be thus admitted to the inner shrine of her emotions, as it were. She was chattering at random in order to smooth away the awkwardness of meeting him after that whispered indiscretion at their parting overnight. Here, at least, Marigny was hopelessly at sea —désorienté, as he would have put it – because he could not possibly know that Cynthia herself had counseled the disappearance of Simmonds. Indeed, he attributed her high spirits to mere politeness – to her wish that he should believe she had forgotten the fiasco on the Mendips.

This imagined salving of his wounded vanity served only to inflame him the more against Medenham. He was still afire with resentment, since no Frenchman can understand the rude Saxon usage that enforces submission under a threat of physical violence. That a man should be ready to defend his honor – to convince an opponent by endeavoring to kill him – yes, he accepted without cavil those tenets of the French social code. But the brutal British fixity of purpose displayed by this truculent chauffeur left him gasping with indignation. He was quite sure that the man meant exactly what he had said. He felt that any real departure from the compact wrung from him by force would prove disastrous to his personal appearance, and he was sensible of a certain weighing underlook in the Englishman’s eyes when his seemingly harmless chatter hinted at a change of existing plans as soon as Hereford was reached.

But that was a mere feint, a preliminary flourish, such as a practiced swordsman executes in empty air before saluting his opponent. He had not the slightest intention of testing Medenham’s pugilistic powers just then. The reasonable probability of having his chief features beaten to a pulp was not inviting, while the crude efficacy of the notion, in its influence on Miss Vanrenen’s affairs, was not the least stupefying element in a difficult and wholly unforeseen situation. He realized fully that anything in the nature of a scuffle would alienate the girl’s sympathies forever, no matter how strong a case for interference he might present afterwards. The chauffeur would be dismissed on the spot, but with the offender would go his own prospect of winning the heiress to the Vanrenen millions.