Cynthia's Chauffeur Part 39

"No--merely a Georgian residence."

"I seem to have heard of it--somewhere--I can't remember."

He remembered quite well--was not Mrs. Devar, student of Burke, sitting in the car at the castle gate?

"Oh, we must hurry," he said shamefacedly. "I have kept you here too long, for we have yet to

trace huge forests and unharbour'd heaths, Infamous hills and sandy perilous wilds,

before we see Chester--and Mrs. Leland."

With that the bubble was p.r.i.c.ked, and staid Ludlow became a busy market-town again, its streets blocked by the barrows of hucksters and farmers' carts, its converging roads thronged with cattle. At Shrewsbury Medenham was vouchsafed a gleam of frosty humor by Mrs. Devar's anxiety lest her son might have obeyed her earlier injunctions, and kept tryst at "The Raven" after all. That trivial diversion soon pa.s.sed. He hoped that Cynthia would share the front seat with him in the final run to Chester; but she remained tucked up in the tonneau, and the dread that kept her there was bitter-sweet to him, since it betrayed her increasing lack of confidence in herself.

The rendezvous was at the Grosvenor Hotel, and Medenham had made up his mind how to act long before the red towers of Chester Cathedral glowed above the city's haze in the fire of a magnificent sunset. Dale was waiting on the pavement when the Mercury drew up at the galleried entrance to the hotel.

Medenham leaped down.

"Good-by, Miss Vanrenen," he said, holding out his hand. "I can catch an early train to town by hurrying away at once. This is Dale, who will take my place. He is thoroughly reliable, and an even more careful driver than I am."

"Are you really going--like that?" faltered Cynthia, and her face blanched at the suddenness of it.

"Yes. I shall have the pleasure of seeing you in London when you return."

Their hands met in a firm clasp. Mrs. Devar, too fl.u.s.tered at first to gasp more than an "Oh!" of astonishment, leaned forward and shook his hand with marked cordiality.

"You must tell Dale to take great care of us," she said, knowingly.

"I think he realizes the exceeding trust I repose in him," he said, but the accompanying smile was meant for Cynthia, and she read into it a farewell that presaged many things.

He disappeared without another word. When a slim, elegantly-gowned lady had hastened to the door from the drawing-room, whence she was summoned by a page, she found two dust-covered figures in the act of alighting from a well-appointed car. Her next glance was at the solemn jowl of the chauffeur.

"Cynthia, my darling girl!" she cried, with arms thrown wide.

There could be no doubting the heartiness of the greeting, and in that motherly embrace Cynthia felt a repose, a security, that she had been willfully skeptical of during many weary hours. But polite usage called for an introduction, and Mrs. Leland and Mrs. Devar eyed each other warily, with the smiles of convention.

Mrs. Leland glanced at Dale.

"And who is this?" she asked, seizing the opportunity to settle a point that was perplexing her strangely.

"Our chauffeur," said Cynthia, and a glint of fun showed through the wanness of her cheeks.

"But not--not----"

Even smooth-tongued Mrs. Leland was at a loss.

"Not Fitzroy, who left us a minute ago. This man's name is Dale. One wonders, though, how you knew--why you doubted," cried Cynthia in sharp discernment.

"Pray why did Fitzroy leave you a minute ago?" was all that the other woman could find to say.

"He had to return to London. But, there--it is I who ought to ask questions. Let us go inside. I want to get some of the grit out of my eyes and hair; then I shall become an absolute mark of interrogation--so I warn you. Of course, I am delighted to see you; but queer things have happened, and I am pining to have them cleared up. When did you see father last? Is he still in London?"

Mrs. Leland answered, with freer speech now, but in her heart she was saddened by Medenham's duplicity. Six months earlier he and the Earl had dined at the villa she was occupying at San Remo for the winter.

She then took a great liking to him on account of his shy and reticent but singularly pleasing manners. She was prepared to laugh at the present escapade when she had discussed it with him that night. Now he had fled, doubtless through fear. That was bad. That looked ugly and mean. Most certainly Peter Vanrenen had acted rightly in bringing her post-haste from Trouville. She must use all her skill if mischief were to be avoided.

CHAPTER XIII

WHEREIN WRATH BEGUILES GOOD JUDGMENT

"Good-mornin', George."

"Good-morning, dad."

"Enjoy your run to Hereford?"

"Immensely. Did you?"

"It was not so bad. Rather tiresome, you know, travelin' alone, but on the return journey I fell in with a decent sort of Frenchman who helped to pa.s.s the time."

"Monsieur Marigny, in fact?"

"Ah, you know him, of course. I had forgotten."

"I have met him. He is not the kind of person I care to know."

The Earl selected an egg, tapped it, and asked his son what he thought of the crops--did they want rain? The two were breakfasting alone--at the moment there was not even a man-servant in the room--but Lord Fairholme had long ago established the golden rule that controversial topics were taboo during meals. Medenham laughed outright at the sudden change of topic. He remembered that Dale was sent to bed in the Green Dragon Hotel at eight o'clock, and he had not the least doubt that his father's ukase was really a dodge to secure an undisturbed dinner. But he was under no delusions because of this placid meeting in the breakfast-room. There was thunder in the air. Tomkinson had warned him of it overnight.

"There's bin ructions while you were away, my lord," the butler had whispered, waylaying him in the hall just before midnight. "Lady St.

Maur has upset the Earl somethink dreadful;" and Medenham had growled in reply: "Her ladys.h.i.+p will lunch here at one o'clock to-morrow, Tomkinson. Have an ambulance ready at two, for she will be in little pieces before I have done with her. The mangling will be somethink orful."

"But what has become of Dale, my lord?" went on Tomkinson in a hushed voice.

"Dale? He is all right. Why? Is _he_ in the soup, too?"

"No, my lord. I've heard nothink of that, but he sent me a wire from Bristol----"

"A telegram--about what?"

"About a horse."

"Oh, the deuce take you and your horses. By the way, that reminds me--you gave me a rotten tip for the Derby."

"It was a false run race, my lord. The favorite was swep' off his feet at Tattenham Corner, and couldn't get into his stride again till the field was opposite Langland's Stands. After that----"

"After that I'm going to bed. But I forgive you, Tomkinson. You put up a ripping good lunch. You're a far better butler than a tipster."