Cynthia's Chauffeur Part 32

"Mr. Fitzroy!"

He knew as he looked up that Cynthia dared not face him again, for her voice was too exquisitely subtle in its modulations not to betray its owner's disappointment before she uttered another word.

"I am very sorry," she said rapidly, "but I feel I ought not to leave Mrs. Devar until she is better, so I mean to remain indoors all day. I shall not require the car before nine o'clock to-morrow. If _you_ like to visit Hereford, go at any time that suits your convenience."

She seemed to regret the curtness of her speech, though indeed she was raging inwardly because of certain barbed shafts planted in her breast by Mrs. Devar's faint protests, and tried to mitigate the blow she had inflicted by adding, with a valiant smile:

"For this occasion only, Jupiter must content himself with Mercury as a companion."

"If I had Jove's power----" he began wrathfully.

"If you were Cynthia Vanrenen, you would do exactly what she is doing," she cried, and fled from the window.

It is not to be denied that he extracted some cold comfort from that last cryptic remark. Cynthia wanted to come, but Mrs. Devar had evidently burked the excursion. Why? Because Cynthia's escort would be Viscount Medenham and not Arthur Simmonds, orthodox and highly respectable chauffeur. But Mrs. Devar plainly declared herself on the side of Viscount Medenham last night. Why, then, did she stop a short journey by motor, with the laudable objective of hearing an anthem and a sermon in a cathedral, when overnight she permitted the far less defensible trip on the river with the hated Fitzroy? It needed no great penetration to solve this puzzle. Mrs. Devar was afraid of some development that might happen if the girl visited Hereford that day.

She counted on Medenham being chained to Symon's Yat while Cynthia was there--consequently she had heard something from Dale that rendered it eminently necessary that neither he nor Cynthia should be seen in Hereford on the Sunday. Probably, too, she did not antic.i.p.ate that Cynthia would don the haircloth of self-discipline and avoid him during the whole of the day, since that was what the girl meant by her allusion to Monday's starting-time.

Perhaps, using a woman's privilege, she might change her mind towards sunset; meanwhile, it behooved him to visit Hereford and pry into things there.

Nevertheless, he was a wise lover. Cynthia might dismiss him graciously to follow his own behests, but it might not please her if she discovered that he had taken her permission too literally. He entered the hotel and wrote a letter:

"My dear Miss Vanrenen----" no pretense of "Madam" or other social formula, but a plain and large "My dear," with the name appended as a concession to the humbug of life, even in regard to the woman he loved--"I am going to Hereford, but shall return here for luncheon.

Mrs. Devar's illness is not likely to be lasting, and the view from the Yat is, if possible, better in the afternoon than in the morning.

In addition to my obvious need of a clean collar, I believe that our presence in Hereford to-day is not desired. Why? I shall make it my business to find out. Yours ever sincerely----"

Then he reached a high and stout stone wall of difficulty. Was he to fall back on the subterfuge of "George Augustus Fitzroy," which, of course, was his proper signature in law? He disliked this veil of concealment more and more each instant, but it was manifestly out of the question that he should sign himself "Medenham," or "George,"

while he had fought several pitched battles at Harrow with cla.s.smates who pined to label him "Augustus," abbreviated. So, greatly daring, he wrote: "Mercury's Guv'nor," trusting to luck whether or not Cynthia's cla.s.sical lore would remind her that Mercury was the son of Jupiter.

He reread this effusion twice, and was satisfied with it as the herald of others. "My dear" sounded well; the intimacy of "our presence" was not overdone; while "yours ever sincerely" was excellent. He wondered if Cynthia would a.n.a.lyze it word for word in that fas.h.i.+on. Well, some day he might ask her. For the present he sealed the letter with a sigh and gave it to a waiter for safe delivery; he fancied, but could not be quite sure, that a good deal of unnecessary play with the motor's Gabriel horn five minutes later brought a slender muslined figure to a window of the then distant hotel.

From Symon's Yat to Hereford is about fifteen miles, and Medenham drew out of the narrow lane leading from the river to Whitchurch about a quarter-past nine. Thenceforth a straight and good road lay clear before him, and he meant to break the law as to speed limit by traveling at the fastest rate compatible with his own safety and that of other road-users. It was no disgrace to the Mercury car, therefore, when a dull report and a sudden effort of the steering-wheel to swerve to the right betokened the collapse of an inner tube on the off side.

From the motorist's point of view it was difficult to understand the cause of the mishap. The whole four tires were new so recently as the previous Monday, and Medenham was far too deeply absorbed in his own affairs to grasp the essential fact that Fate was still taking an intelligent interest in him.

Of course, he did not hurry over the work as though his life depended on it. Even when the cover was replaced and the tire pumped to the proper degree of air-pressure he lit a cigarette and had a look at the magneto before restarting the engine. Two small boys had appeared from s.p.a.ce, and he amused himself by asking them to reckon how long it would take two men to mow a field of gra.s.s which one of the men could mow in three days and the other in four. He promised a reward of sixpence if the correct answer were forthcoming in a minute, and raised it to a s.h.i.+lling during the next minute. This stimulated their wits to suggest "a day and three-quarters" instead of the first frantic effort of "three days and a half."

"No," said he. "Think it over, ponder it with ardor, and if you have the right answer ready when I pa.s.s this way again about midday I'll give you a s.h.i.+lling each."

There is no saying what sum he would have given those urchins if some magician had spoken by their mouths and bade him hasten to Hereford with all the zest of all the horses pent beneath the Mercury's bonnet.

But he left the boys ciphering on a gate with a bit of lead pencil which he lent them, and pulled up at the door of the Green Dragon Hotel in Hereford just five minutes after the Sunday morning express to London had s.n.a.t.c.hed a fuming and indignant Earl of Fairholme from off the platform of the Great Western railway station.

"Whose car?" inquired a hall-porter.

"Mine," said Medenham, rather surprised by the question.

"Sorry, sir. I thought you might be the party Lord Fairholme was expecting."

"Did you say 'Lord Fairholme'?"

Medenham spoke with the slow accents of sheer astonishment, and the man hastened to explain.

"Yes, sir. His lords.h.i.+p has been a-d.a.m.nin' everybody since two o'clock yesterday afternoon because a Miss Vanrenen, who had ordered rooms here, didn't turn up. She's on a motor tour through England, so I thought----"

"You have made no mistake. But are you quite sure that the Earl of Fairholme asked for Miss Vanrenen?"

"Not exactly that, sir, but he seemed to be uncommon vexed when we could give him no news of her."

"Where is his lords.h.i.+p now?"

"Gone to London, sir, by the 10.5. He d.a.m.ned me for the last time half an hour ago."

"Oh, did he?"

Medenham glanced at his watch, twisted himself free of the wheel, leaped to the pavement, and tapped one of the hall-porter's gold epaulettes impressively.

"I am forced to believe that you are speaking the truth," he said.

"Now, tell me all about it, there's a good fellow. I am a bit rattled, because, don't you see, Lord Fairholme is my father, and he is the last man on earth whom I would have expected to meet in Hereford to-day. During the less exciting intervals in his speech did you find out why he came here?"

"Perhaps the manageress may be able to tell you something, sir. Beg pardon, but may I ask your name?"

"Medenham."

The man tickled the back of his ear in doubt, since he was aware that an Earl's son usually has a courtesy t.i.tle.

"Lord Medenham?" he hazarded.

"Viscount."

"I thought, perhaps, you might have been a gentleman named Fitzroy, my lord," he said.

"Well, I am that, too. If you feel that I ought to be presented to the manageress in state, kindly announce me as George Augustus Fitzroy, Viscount Medenham, of Medenham Hall, Downs.h.i.+re, and 91 Cavendish Square, London."

The hall-porter's eyes twinkled.

"I didn't mean that, my lord, but there's a chauffeur, name of Dale----"

"Ah, what of him?"

"_He_ knows _all_ about it, my lord, and he's hiding in a hayloft down the stable yard at this minnit, because your lords.h.i.+p's father threatened to give him in charge for stealing a couple of your portmanteaux."

"Tell me he thieved successfully and I shall fork out handsomely."

The man grinned. He was shrewd enough to realize that, no matter what mystery lay behind all this, the aid of the police would not be requisitioned.

"I believe----" he began. Then he made off, with a cry of "Wait just a few seconds, my lord. I'll bring Dale."

And Dale appeared, picking bits of hay off his uniform, and striving vainly to compose his features into their customary expression of a stolid alertness that hears nothing but his master's orders, sees nothing that does not concern his duties. He gave one sharp glance at the car, and his face grew chauffeurish, but the look of hang-dog despair returned when he met Medenham's eyes.

"I couldn't get away to save me life, my lord," he grumbled. "It was a fair cop at Bristol, an' no mistake. His lords.h.i.+p swooped down on me an' Simmonds at the station, so wot could I do?"

Medenham laughed.