Cynthia's Chauffeur Part 24

"Yes, my lord. I'm goin' there with his lords.h.i.+p's portmanteaux."

The head of the Fitzroy clan turned to Simmonds again.

"Will you drive me to Gloucester?" he asked.

"No, my lord. I'm under contract to remain in Bristol five days."

"Very well. Stop in Bristol, and be d----d to you. Is there any reason why you should not take me to pick up my son's belongings? Then Dale and I can go to Hereford by train. Viscount Medenham is devilish particular about his linen. If I stick to his s.h.i.+rts I shall meet him sometime to-day, I suppose."

Simmonds sought Dale's counsel by an underlook, but that hapless sportsman could offer no suggestion, so the other made the best of a bad business.

"I'll do that, of course, my lord," he said with alacrity. "Just grab his lords.h.i.+p's dressing-case from that porter and shove it inside," he went on, eying Dale fiercely, well knowing that the whole collapse arose from a cause but too easily traced.

"No, no," broke in the Earl, whose magisterial experiences had taught him the wisdom of keeping witnesses apart, "Dale comes with me. I want to sift this business thoroughly. Put the case in front. We can pile the other luggage on top of it. Now, Dale, jump inside. Your friend knows where to go, I expect."

Thus did two bizarre elements intrude themselves into the natural order of things on that fine morning in the West of England. The very shortness of the road between Bristol and Bath apparently offered an insuperable obstacle to the pa.s.sage of Simmonds's car along it, and some unknown "chap," whose "nevvy" had married the sister of a Beckhampton housemaid, became the predominating factor in a situation that affected the fortunes of several notable people.

For his part, Lord Fairholme gave no further thought to Marigny. It did not even occur to him it might be advisable to call again at the College Green Hotel, since Medenham had slept elsewhere, and Hereford was now the goal. Certainly, the Frenchman's good fairy might have pushed her good offices to excess by permitting him to see, careering about Bristol with a pair of chauffeurs, the man whom he believed to be then on the way to London. But fairies are unreliable creatures, apt to be off with a hop, skip, and a jump, and, in any case, Marigny was writing explicit instructions to Devar, though he would have been far more profitably employed in lounging outside the hotel.

So everybody was dissatisfied, more or less, the quaking Dale more, perhaps, than any, and the person who had absolutely no shadow of care on his soul was Medenham himself, at that moment guiding the Mercury along the splendid highway that connects Bristol with Gloucester--taking the run leisurely, too, lest Cynthia should miss one fleeting glimpse of the ever-changing beauties of the Severn estuary.

During one of these adagio movements by the engine, Cynthia, who had been consulting a guidebook, leaned forward with a smile on her face.

"What is a lamprey?" she asked.

"A special variety of eel which has a habit of sticking to stones by its mouth," said Medenham. Then he added, after a pause: "Henry the First was sixty-seven years of age when he died, so the dish of lampreys was perhaps blamed unjustly."

"You have a good memory," she retorted.

"Oh, is that in your book, Miss Vanrenen? Well, here is another fact about Gloucester. Alfred the Great held a Witenagemot there in 896. Do you know what a Witenagemot is?"

"Yes," she said, "a smoking concert."

Mrs. Devar invariably resented these bits of by-play, since she could no more extract their meaning than if they were uttered in Choctaw.

"Some very good people live in Gloucesters.h.i.+re," she put in. "There are the----" She began to give extracts from Burke's "Landed Gentry,"

whereupon the speedometer index sprang to forty-five, and a n.o.ble fifteenth century tower soon lifted its stone lacework above the trees and spires of the ancient city.

Cynthia wished to obtain some photographs of old inns, so, when they had admired the cathedral, and shuddered at the memory of Richard the Third--who wrote at Gloucester the order to Brackenbury for the murder of the princes in the Tower of London--and smiled at Cromwell's mordant wit in saying that the place had more churches than G.o.dliness when told of the local proverb, "As sure as G.o.d's in Gloucester," Medenham brought them to Northgate Street, where the New Inn--which is nearly always the most antiquated hostelry in an English country-town--supplied a fine example of ma.s.sive timberwork, with courtyard and external galleries.

The light was so perfect that he persuaded Cynthia to stand in a doorway and let him take a picture. During the focusing interval, he suggested that the day's route should be varied by leaving the coast road at Westbury and running through the Forest of Dean, where a secluded hotel in the midst of a real woodland would be an ideal place for luncheon.

She agreed. Something in his tone told her that Mrs. Devar's consent to the arrangement had better be taken for granted. So they sped through the blossom-laden lanes of Gloucesters.h.i.+re to the leafy depths of the Forest, and saw the High Beeches, and the Old Beech, and the King's Walk, and many of the gorgeous vistas that those twin artists Spring and Summer etched on the wooded undulations of one of Britain's most delightful landscapes; as a fitting sequel to a run through fairyland they lunched at the Speech House Hotel, where once the skins of daring trespa.s.sers on the King's preserves were wont to be nailed on the Court House door by the Verderers.

It was Cynthia who pointed the moral.

"There is always an ogre's cave near the Enchanted Garden," she said, "and those were surely ogerish days when men were flayed alive for hunting the King's deer."

It is not to be wondered at if they dawdled somewhat by the way, when that way led past Offa's d.y.k.e, through Chepstow, and Tintern, and Monmouth, and Symon's Yat. Indeed, Cynthia's moods alternated between wide-eyed enjoyment and sheer regret, for each romantic ruin and charming countryside not only aroused her enthusiasm but evoked a longing to remain riveted to the spot. Yet she would not be a woman if there were not exceptions to this rule, as shall be seen in due course.

Mrs. Devar, perchance tempted by the word "Castle," quitted the car at Chepstow, and climbed to the nail-studded oak door of one of the most perfect examples of a Norman stronghold now extant. Once committed to the role of sightseer, she was compelled to adhere to it, and before the fourth court was reached, had she known the story, she would have sympathized with the pilgrim who did _not_ boil the peas in his shoes of penance. Chepstow Castle is a splendid ruin, but its steep gradients and rough pavements are not fitted for stout ladies who wear tight boots.

To make matters worse, the feelings of Cynthia's chaperon soon became as sore as her toes. The only feature of Marten's Tower that appealed to her was its diabolical ingenuity in providing opportunities for that interfering chauffeur to a.s.sist, almost to lift, Cynthia from one ma.s.s of fallen masonry to another. Though she knew nothing of Henry Marten she reviled his memory. She heard "Fitzroy" telling her wayward charge that the reformer really hated Charles I. because the King called him "an ugly rascal" in public, and directed that he should be turned out of Hyde Park; the words supplied a cue.

"Pity kings are not as powerful nowadays," she snapped. "The presumption of the lower orders is becoming intolerable."

"Unfortunately, Marten retaliated by signing the King's death warrant," said Medenham.

"Of course. What else could one expect from a person of his cla.s.s?"

"But Sir Henry Marten was a celebrated judge, and the son of a baronet, and he married a rich widow--these are not the prevalent democratic vices," persisted Medenham.

"You must have sat up half the night reading the guidebook," she cried in vexation at her blunder.

Cynthia laughed so cheerfully that Mrs. Devar thought she had scored.

Medenham left it at that, and was content. Both he and Cynthia knew that lack of s.p.a.ce forbade indulgence in such minor details of history on the part of the book's compiler.

Another little incident heated Mrs. Devar to boiling-point. Cynthia more than once hinted that, if tired, she might wait for them in the lowermost court, where a fine tree spread its shade over some benches, but the older woman persisted in visiting every dungeon and scrambling up every broken stair. The girl took several photographs, and had reached the last film in a roll, when the whim seized her to pose Medenham in front of a Norman arch.

"You look rather like a baron," she said gleefully. "I wish I could borrow some armor and take you in character as the gentleman who built this castle. By the way, his name was Fitz-something-or-other. Was he a relation?"

"Fitz Osborne," said Medenham.

"Ah, yes. Fitzroy means King's son, doesn't it?"

"I--er--believe so."

"Well, I can imagine you scowling out of a vizor. It would suit you admirably."

"But I might not scowl."

"Oh, yes, you would. Remember this morning. Just force yourself to think for a moment that I am Monsieur----"

She stopped abruptly.

"A little more to the left, please--and turn your face to the sun.

There, that is capital."

"Why should Fitzroy scowl at the recollection of Count Edouard?"

demanded Mrs. Devar, her eyes devouring the telltale blush that suffused the girl's face and neck.

"Only because the Count wished to supplant him as our chauffeur," came the ready answer.

"I thought Monsieur Marigny's offer a very courteous one."

"Undoubtedly. But as I had to decide the matter I preferred to travel in a car that was at my own disposal."

Mrs. Devar dared not go farther. She relapsed into a sulky silence.

She said not a word when Cynthia occupied the front seat for the climb through Chepstow's High Street, and when the girl turned to call her attention to the view from the crest of the famous Wyndcliff she was nodding asleep!