Cynthia's Chauffeur Part 27

"Oh, no, I won't forget," said Mrs. Devar grimly; nevertheless, she felt weak and sick, and in her anxiety to rush out into the fresh air she did forget to hang up the receivers, and the Symon's Yat Hotel was cut off from the world of telephones until someone entered the box early next morning.

She was of a not uncommon type--a physical coward endowed with nerves of steel, but, for once in her life, she came perilously near fainting. It was bad enough that a money-making project of some value should show signs of tumbling in ruins, but far worse that she, an experienced tuft-hunter, should have lived in close companions.h.i.+p with a viscount for four long days and snubbed him rancorously and without cease. There was no escaping the net she had contrived for her own entanglement. She had actually written to Peter Vanrenen that she deemed it her duty as Cynthia's chaperon to acquaint him with Simmonds's defection and the filling of his place by Fitzroy, "a most unsuitable person to act as Miss Vanrenen's chauffeur"--indeed, a young man who, she was sure, "would never have been chosen for such a responsible position" by Mr. Vanrenen himself.

And Fitzroy was Viscount Medenham, heir to the Fairholme estates, one of the most eligible young bachelors in the kingdom! Oh, blind and cra.s.s that she had not guessed the truth! The car, the luncheon-basket, the rare wine, the crest on the silver, the very candor of the wretch in giving his real name, his instant recognition of "Jimmy" Devar's mother, the hints of a childhood pa.s.sed in Suss.e.x--why, even the aunt he spoke of on Derby Day must be Susan St. Maur, while Millicent Porthcawl had actually met him in the Bournemouth hotel!--these and many another vivid index pointed the path of knowledge to one so well versed as she in the intricacies of Debrett. The very attributes which she had taken for an impertinent aping of the manners of society had shouted his ident.i.ty into her deaf ears time and again. Even an intelligent West-end housemaid would have felt some suspicion of the facts when confronted by these piled-up tokens. She remembered noticing his hands, the quality of his linen, his astonis.h.i.+ngly "good" appearance on the only occasion that she had seen him in evening dress; she almost groaned aloud when she recalled the manner of her son's departure from Bristol, and some imp in her heart raked the burnt ashes of the fire that had devoured her when she heard why Captain Devar was requested to resign his commission. Of course, this proud young aristocrat recognized him at once, and had brushed him out of his sight as one might brush a fly off a windowpane.

But how was she to act in face of the threatened disaster? Why had not her son warned her? Did Marigny know, and was that the explanation of his sheepish demeanor when she and Cynthia were about to enter the car that morning? Indeed, Marigny's quiet acceptance of the position was quite as difficult to understand as her own failure to grasp the significance of all that happened since noon on Wednesday. This very day, before breakfast, he had come to her room with the cheering news that information to hand from London would certainly procure the dismissal of "Fitzroy" forthwith. The Mercury was registered in the name of the Earl of Fairholme, the obvious deduction being that his lords.h.i.+p's chauffeur was careering through England in a valuable car without a shred of permission; the merest whisper to Cynthia of this discovery, said the Frenchman, would send "Fitzroy" packing.

And again, what had Cynthia meant when she referred at Chepstow to the "Norman baron scowl" with which "Fitzroy" had favored Marigny? Was she, too, in the secret? Unhappy Mrs. Devar! She glowered at the darkening Wye, and wriggled on her chair in torture.

"Wa.s.s it all right a-bout the tel-e-phone, mam?" said a soft voice at her ear.

She started violently, and the maid was contrite.

"I'm ver-ry sor-ry, mam," she said, "but I see Mr. Fitz-roy down there on the riv-er----"

"Where, where?" cried the other, rather to gain time to collect her wits than to ascertain Medenham's whereabouts.

The girl pointed.

"In that lit-tle boat, all by its-self, mam," she said.

"Oh, it was of no importance. By the way," and Mrs. Devar produced her purse, "you might tell the people in the office not to pay any attention to the statements of a man named Dale, if he rings up from Hereford. He is only a chauffeur, and we shall see him in the morning; perhaps it will be best, if he asks for Fitzroy again to-night, to tell him to await our arrival."

"Yess, mam," and the maid went off, the richer by half-a-crown. Mrs.

Devar's usual "tip" was a sixpence for a week's attentions, so it would demand an abstruse arithmetical calculation to arrive at an exact estimate of the degree of mental disturbance that led to the present lack of proportion.

Left alone once more, her gaze followed a small skiff speeding upstream over the placid surface of the silvery Wye; Medenham was rowing, and Cynthia held the tiller ropes; but Mrs. Devar's thoughts turned her mind's eyes inward, and they surveyed a gray prospect.

Dale, the unseen monster who had struck this paralyzing blow, spoke of "the Frenchman." Lord Fairholme had charged both Dale and "the Frenchman" with tricking him. Therefore, the Earl and Marigny had met at Bristol. If so, and there could be little doubt of it, Marigny would hardly appear in Hereford, and if she attempted to telephone to the Green Dragon Hotel, where Cynthia had engaged rooms, she would not only fail to reach Marigny but probably reveal to a wrathful Earl the very fact which Dale seemed to have withheld from him, namely, his son's address at the moment.

She a.s.sumed that Dale knew how to communicate with his master because Medenham had telegraphed the name of the hotel at Symon's Yat. Therein she was right. Medenham wanted his baggage, and, having ascertained that there was a suitable train, sent instructions that Dale was to travel by it. This, of course, the man could not do. Lord Fairholme had carried off his son's portmanteaux, and had actually hired a room in the Green Dragon next to that reserved for Cynthia.

Suddenly grown wise, Mrs. Devar decided against the telephone.

But there remained the secrecy of the post-office. What harm if she sent a brief message to both the Green Dragon and the Mitre Hotels--Marigny would be sure to put up at one or the other if he were in Hereford--and demand his advice? She hurried to the drawing-room and wrote:

Remaining Symon's Yat Hotel to-night. Suppose you are aware of to-day's developments. F. is son of gentleman you met in Bristol. Wire reply. DEVAR.

She went to the hotel bureau, but a sympathetic landlady shook her head.

"The post-office is closed. No telegrams can be dispatched until eight o'clock on Monday," she said. "But there is the telephone----"

"It is matterless," said Mrs. Devar, crus.h.i.+ng the written forms in her fingers as though she had reason to believe they might sting her.

She resolved to let events drift now. They had pa.s.sed beyond her control. Perhaps a policy of masterly inactivity might rescue her from the tornado which had swept her off her feet. In any case, she must fight her own battles, irrespective of the cabal entered into in Paris. Captain James Devar was an impossible ally; the French Count was a negligible quant.i.ty when compared with an English viscount whose ancestry threw back to the Conquest and whose estates covered half of a midland s.h.i.+re; but there remained, active as ever, the self-interest of a poor widow from whose despairing grasp was slipping a golden opportunity.

"Is it too late?" she asked herself. "Can anything be done? Maud, my dear, you are up against it, as they say in America. Pull yourself together, and see if you can't twist your mistakes to your own advantage."

Cynthia, meanwhile, was enjoying herself hugely. The placid reaches of the Wye offered a delightful contrast to the sun-baked roads of Monmouths.h.i.+re; and, it may be added, there was enough of Mother Eve in her composition to render the proceeding none the less attractive because it was unconventional. Perhaps, deep hidden in her consciousness, lurked a doubt--but that was successfully stifled for the hour.

Indeed, her wits were trying to solve a minor puzzle. Her woman's eye had seen and her quick brain was marveling at certain details in Medenham's costume. There are conditions, even in England, in which a flannel suit is hard to obtain, and the manner of their coming to Symon's Yat seemed to preclude the buying of ready-made garments, a solution which would occur to an American instantly. Yet here was that incomprehensible chauffeur clad in the correct regalia of the Thames Rowing Club, though Cynthia, of course, did not recognize the colors.

"How did you manage it?" she asked, wide-eyed and smiling.

"I hunted through the hotels and met a man about my own size who was just off to town," he said.

"But--there are gaps."

"I thought they fitted rather well. In fact, he was slightly the stouter of the two."

"Don't be stupid. The gaps are in your story. Did you borrow or buy?"

"I borrowed. Luckily, he was a decent fellow, and there was no trouble."

"Did you know him?"

"By name only."

"Do Englishmen lend their clothes to promiscuous strangers?"

"More, much more; they give them at times."

She was silent for a few seconds. He had persuaded her that oars were preferable to sails on such a still night, especially as he was not acquainted with the shallows, but he had not explained that if he rowed and she steered he would be able to gaze his fill at her.

"What colors are those?" she demanded suddenly.

"I ought to have told you that I happened to find a member of the club to which I belong," he countered. Then, before she could pin him down to a definite statement, he tried to carry the war into the enemy's country.

"By the way, I hope I am not presuming on the fact that you have consented to take this little excursion, Miss Vanrenen, but may I ask how _you_ contrive to appear each evening in a muslin frock? Those hold-alls on the motor are strictly utilitarian, and a mere man would imagine that muslin could not escape being crushed."

"It doesn't. I have a maid iron it for me before dinner. At Hereford I shall receive a fresh one from London, and send this back by post. But fancy you noticing such a thing! Have you any sisters?"

"Yes, one."

"How old is she?"

"Twenty-three."

"Dear me! A year older than me. Oh, ought I to have said 'than I'?

That always puzzles me."

"You have Milton on your side. He wrote:

Satan--than whom no higher sat.

Still, it is generally allowed that Milton wrote bad grammar there."

Cynthia was awed momentarily--a quotation from "Paradise Lost" always commands respect--so she harked back to an easier topic.

"Is your sister married?"