Cynthia's Chauffeur

This desolate land, given over to stones interspersed with patches of wiry grass on which browsed some hardy sheep, resembled a disturbed ocean suddenly made solid. It was not level, but ran in long, almost regular undulations. In the trough between two of these rounded ridges the road bifurcated, the way to Bristol trending to the left, and a less important thoroughfare glancing off to the right.

There was no sign-post, but a child could scarce have erred if asked to choose the track that led to a big town. Medenham, having consulted the map earlier in the day, swung to the left without hesitation. The car literally flew up the next incline, and the dark lines of trees and hedges in the distance proved that tilled land was being neared. Now he was absolutely sure that he had managed, somehow, to miss the Du Vallon – unless, indeed, its redoubtable mechanism was of a caliber he had not yet come across in the highways and byways of Europe.

With him, to decide was to act. The Mercury slowed up so promptly that Mrs. Devar became alarmed again.

“What is it? – a tire gone?” she cried.

“No, I am on the wrong road – that is all.”

“But there is no other. That turning we passed was a mere lane.”

The car stopped where his watchful glance noted a carpet of sand left by the last shower of rain. He sprang out and examined the marks of recent traffic. Marigny’s vehicle carried non-skid covers with studs arranged in peculiar groups, and their imprint was plain to be seen. But they had followed that road once only. It was impossible to determine off-hand whether they had come or gone, but, if they came from Bristol, then most certainly they had not returned.

Medenham took nothing for granted. Dusk was advancing, and he must make no mistake at this stage. He ran the Mercury slowly ahead, not taking his gaze off the telltale signs. At last he found what he was looking for. The broad scars left by a heavy cart crossed the studs, and had crossed after the passage of the car. Thus he eliminated the vagaries of chance. Marigny had not taken the road to Bristol – he must be on the other one – since no cart was in sight.

Medenham backed and turned. Mrs. Devar, of course, grew agitated.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

Medenham resolved to end this farce of pretense, else he would not be answerable for the manner of his speech.

“I mean to find Miss Vanrenen,” he said. “Pray let that suffice for the hour. Any further explanation you may require can be given at Bristol and in her presence.”

Mrs. Devar began to sob. He heard her, and of all things that he hated it was to become the cause of a woman’s tears. But his lips closed in a thin seam, and he drove fast to the fork in the roads. Another halt here, and the briefest scrutiny showed that his judgment had not erred. The Du Vallon had passed this point twice. If it came from Bristol in the first instance it had gone now to some unfamiliar wilderness that skirted the whole northeastern slopes of the Mendips.

He leaped back to the driving seat, and Mrs. Devar made one more despairing effort to regain control of a situation that had slipped from her grasp nearly an hour ago.

“Please do be sensible, Fitzroy!” she almost screamed. “Even if he has made a mistake in a turning, Count Marigny will take every care of Miss Vanrenen – ”

It was useless. She was appealing to a man of stone, and, indeed, Medenham could not pay heed to her then in any circumstances, for the road surface quickly became very rough, and it needed all his skill to guide his highly-strung car over its inequalities without inflicting an injury that might prove disastrous.

His only consolation was provided by the knowledge that the risk to a stout Mercury was as naught compared with the tortures endured by a French-built racer, with its long wheel-base and low chassis. After a couple of miles of semi-miraculous advance his respect for Smith’s capability as a driver increased literally by leaps and bounds.

But the end was nearer than he thought. On reaching the top of one of those seemingly interminable land-waves, he saw a blurred object in the hollow. Soon he distinguished Cynthia’s fawn-colored dust cloak, and his heart throbbed exultantly when the girl fluttered a handkerchief to show that she, too, had seen.

Mrs. Devar rose and clutched the back of the seat behind him.

“I apologize, Fitzroy,” she piped tremulously. “You were right. They have lost their way and met with some accident. How glad I am that I did not insist on your making straight for Bristol!”

Her unparalleled impudence won his admiration. Such a woman, he thought, was worthy of a better fate than that which put her in the position of a bought intriguer. But Cynthia was near, waving her hands gleefully, and executing a nymph-like thanksgiving dance on a strip of turf by the roadside, so Medenham’s views of Mrs. Devar’s previous actions were tempered by conditions extraordinarily favorable to her at the moment.

She seemed to be aware instinctively of the change in his sentiments wrought by sight of Cynthia. It was in quite a friendly tone that she cried:

“Count Edouard is there; but where is his man?.. Something serious must have happened, and the chauffeur has been sent to obtain help… Oh, how lucky we hurried, and how clever of you to find out which way the car went!”

CHAPTER VI

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S VAGARIES

Cynthia, notwithstanding that spirited pas seul, was rather pale when Medenham stopped the car close beside her. She had been on tenterhooks during the past quarter of an hour – there were silent moments when she measured her own slim figure against the natty Count’s in half-formed resolution to take to her heels along the Cheddar Road.

At first, she had enjoyed the run greatly. Although Dale spoke of Smith as a mechanic, the man was a first-rate driver, and he spun the Du Vallon along at its best speed. But the change from good macadam to none soon made itself felt, and Cynthia was more troubled than she cared to show when the French flier came to a standstill after panting and jolting alarmingly among the ruts. Marigny’s excited questions evoked only unintelligible grunts from Smith; for all that, the irritating truth could not be withheld – the petrol tank was empty; not only had the chauffeur forgotten to fill it that morning, but, by some strange mischance, the supply usually held in reserve had been left at Bristol!

The Frenchman was very angry with Smith, and Smith was humbly apologetic. The pair must have acted convincingly, because each knew to a nicety how soon a gallon of petrol would vaporize in the Du Vallon’s six cylinders. Having taken the precaution to measure that exact quantity into the tank before leaving Cheddar, they were prepared for a breakdown at any point within a few hundred yards of the precise locality where it occurred.

Cynthia, being generous-minded, tried to make little of the mishap. By taking that line she strove to reassure herself.

“Fitzroy is always prepared for emergencies,” she said. “He will soon catch up with us. But what a road! I didn’t really notice it before. Surely this cannot be the only highway between Bristol and Cheddar? – and in England, too, where the roads are so perfect!”

“There are two roads, but this is the nearest one,” explained the glib-tongued Count, seemingly much relieved by the prospect of Fitzroy’s early arrival. “You don’t deserve to be pulled out of a difficulty so promptly, Smith,” he went on, eying the chauffeur sternly.

“There’s a village not very far ahead, sir,” said the abashed Smith.

“Oh, never mind! We must wait for Miss Vanrenen’s car.”

“Wait?” inquired Cynthia. “What else can we do?”

“I take it he meant to walk to some village, and bring a stock of spirit.”

“Oh, dear! I hope no such thing will be necessary.”

From that half hint of latent and highly disagreeable developments dated Cynthia’s uneasiness. She accepted Marigny’s suggestion that they should stroll to the top of the slight hill just descended, whence they would be able to watch their rescuer’s approach from a considerable distance – she even remembered to tell him to smoke – but she answered his lively sallies at random, and agreed unreservedly with his voluble self-reproach.

The obvious disuse of the road, a mere lane providing access to sheep inclosures on the hills, caused her no small perplexity, though she saw fit not to add to her companion’s distress by commenting on it. In any other circumstances she would have been genuinely alarmed, but her well-established acquaintanceship with the Count, together with the apparently certain fact that Fitzroy and Mrs. Devar were coming nearer each second, forbade the tremors that any similar accident must have evoked if, say, they were marooned on some remote mountain range of the continent, and no friendly car was speeding to their aid.

The two halted on the rising ground, and one of them, at least, gazed anxiously into the purple shadows now mellowing the gray monotony of the plateau. The point where the Du Vallon left the main road was invisible from where they stood. Marigny had laid his plans with skill, so his humorous treatment of their plight was not marred by any lurking fear of the Mercury’s unwelcome appearance.

“What a terrible collapse this would be if I were running away with you, Miss Cynthia,” he said slyly. “Let us imagine a priest waiting in some ancient castle ten miles away, and an irate father, or a pair of them, starting from Cheddar in hot pursuit.”

“My imagination fails me there, Monsieur Marigny,” she replied, and the shade of emphasis on his surname showed that she was fully aware of the boundary crossed by the “Miss Cynthia,” an advance which surprised her more than the Frenchman counted on. “At present I am wholly absorbed in a vain effort to picture an automobile somewhere down there in the gathering mists; still, it must arrive soon.”

Then Marigny put forth a tentative claw.

“I hate to tell you,” he said, “mais il faut marcher quand le diable est aux trousses.1 I am unwillingly forced to believe that your chauffeur has taken the other road.”

“The other road!” wailed Cynthia in sudden and most poignant foreboding. It was then that she first began to estimate her running powers.

“Yes, there are two, you know. The second one is not so direct – ”

“If you think that, your man had better go at once to the village he spoke of. Is it certain that he will obtain petrol there?”

“Almost certain.”

“Really, Monsieur Marigny, I fail to understand you. Why should you express a doubt? He appeared to be confident enough five minutes ago. He was ready to start until we prevented him.”

That the girl should yield to slight panic was precisely what Count Edouard desired. True, Cynthia’s sparkling eyes and firm lips were eloquent of keen annoyance rather than fear, but Marigny was an adept in reading the danger signals of beauty in distress, and he saw in these symptoms the heralds of tears and fright. His experience did not lead him far astray, but he had not allowed for racial difference between the Latin and the Anglo-Saxon. Cynthia might weep, she might even attempt to run, but in the last resource she would face him with dauntless courage.

“I assure you I would not have had this thing happen on any account,” he said in a voice that vibrated with sympathy. “Indeed, I pray your pity in my own behalf, Miss Vanrenen. After all, it is I who suffer the agony of failure when I meant only to please. You will reach Bristol this evening, a little late, perhaps, but quite safely, and I hope that you will laugh then at the predicament which now looks so ill-starred.”

His seeming sincerity appeased her to some extent. In rapid swing back to the commonplace, she affected to laugh.

“It is not so serious, after all,” she said, with more calmness than she felt. “Just for a moment you threw me off the rails by your lawyer-like vagueness.”

Drawing a little apart, she looked steadily back along the deserted road.

“I see nothing of my car,” she murmured at last. “It will soon be dusk. We must take no more chances. Please send for that benzine right away.”

Smith was dispatched forthwith on what he knew to be a fool’s errand, since both he and Marigny were practically sure of their ground. The nearest petrol was to be found at Langford, two miles along the Bristol road from the fork, and four miles in the opposite direction to that taken by Smith, who, when he returned empty-handed an hour later, must make another long journey to Langford. The Du Vallon was now anchored immovably until eleven o’clock, and it was well that the girl could not realize the true nature of the ordeal before her, or events might have taken an awkward twist.

The Frenchman meant no real harm by his rascally scheme, for Cynthia Vanrenen, daughter of a well-known American citizen, was not to be wooed and won in the fashion that commended itself to unscrupulous lovers in by-gone days. Yet his design blended subtlety and daring in a way that was worthy of ancestors who had ruffled it at Versailles with the cavaliers of old France. He trusted implicitly to the effect of a somewhat exciting adventure on the susceptible feminine heart. The phantom of distrust would soon vanish. She would yield to the spell of a night scented with the breath of summer, languorous with soft zephyrs, a night when the spirit of romance itself would emparadise the lonely waste, and a belated moon, “like to a silver bow new-bent in heaven,” would lend its glamor to a sky already spangled with glowing sapphires.

In such a night, all things were possible.

In such a nightStood Dido with a willow in her handUpon the wild sea-banks, and waft her loveTo come again to Carthage.

Marigny had indeed arranged a situation worthy of his nurturing among the decadents of Paris. He believed that in these surroundings an impressionable girl would admit him to a degree of intimacy not to be attained by many days of prosaic meetings. At the right moment, when his well-bribed servant was gone to Langford, he would remember a bottle of wine and some sandwiches stored in the car that morning to provide the luncheon that he might not obtain at a wayside inn. Cynthia and he would make merry over the feast. The magnetism that had never yet failed him in affairs of the heart would surely prove potent now at this real crisis in his life. Marriage to a rich woman could alone snatch him from the social abyss, and the prospect became doubly alluring when it took the guise of Cynthia. He would restore her to a disconsolate chaperon some time before midnight, and he was cynic enough to admit that if he had not then succeeded in winning her esteem by his chivalry, his unobtrusive tenderness, his devoted attentions – above all, by his flow of interesting talk and well-turned epigram – the fault would be his own, and not attributable to adverse conditions.

It was not surprising, therefore, that he failed to choke back the curse quick risen to his lips when the throb of the Mercury’s engine came over the crest of the hill. Never was mailed dragon more terrible to the beholder, even in the days of knight-errantry. In an instant his well-conceived project had gone by the board. He saw himself discredited, suspected, a skulking plotter driven into the open, a self-confessed trickster utterly at the mercy of some haphazard question that would lay bare his pretenses and cover his counterfeit rhapsody with ridicule.

If Cynthia had heard, and hearing understood, it is possible that a great many remarkable incidents then in embryo would have passed into the mists of what might have been. For instance, she would not have deigned to notice Count Edouard Marigny’s further existence. The next time she met him he would fill a place in the landscape comparable to that occupied by a migratory beetle. But her heart was leaping for joy, and her cry of thankfulness quite drowned in her ears the Frenchman’s furious oath.

Mrs. Devar, having had time to gather her wits, made a gallant attempt to retrieve her fellow-conspirator’s shattered fortunes.

“My dearest Cynthia,” she cried effusively, “do say you are not hurt!”

“Not a bit,” was the cheerful answer. “It is not I, but the car, that is out of commission. Didn’t you see me do the Salomé act when you were thrown on the screen?”

“Ah! the car has broken down. I do not wonder – this fearful road – ”

“The road seems to have strayed out of Colorado, but that isn’t the trouble. We are short of petrol. Please give some to Monsieur Marigny, Fitzroy. Then we can hurry to Bristol, and the Count must pick up his chauffeur on the way.”

Without more ado, she seated herself by Mrs. Devar’s side, and Marigny realized that he had been robbed of a golden opportunity. No persuasion would bring Cynthia back into the Du Vallon that evening; it would need the exercise of all his subtle tact to induce her to re-enter it at any time in the near future.

He strove to appear at his ease, even essayed a few words of congratulation on the happy chance that brought the Mercury to their relief, but the imperious young lady cut short his limping phrases.

“Oh, don’t let us waste these precious minutes,” she protested. “It will be quite dark soon, and if there is much more of this wretched track – ”

Medenham broke in at that. Mrs. Devar’s change of front had caused him some grim amusement, but the discovery of Marigny’s artifice roused his wrath again. It was high time that Cynthia should be enlightened, partly at least, as to the true nature of the “accident” that had befallen her; he had already solved the riddle of Smith’s disappearance.

“The road to Bristol lies behind you, Miss Vanrenen,” he said.

“One of the roads,” cried the Frenchman.

“No, the only road,” persisted Medenham. “We return to it some two miles in the rear. Had you followed your present path much farther you could not possibly have reached Bristol to-night.”

“But there is a village quite near. My chauffeur has gone there for petrol. Someone would have told us of our mistake.”

“There is no petrol to be bought at Blagdon, which is a mere hamlet on the downs. Anyhow, here are two gallons – ample for your needs – but if your man is walking to Blagdon you will be compelled to wait till he returns, Monsieur Marigny.”

Though Medenham did not endeavor to check the contemptuous note that crept into his voice, he certainly ought not to have uttered those two concluding words. Had he ransacked his ample vocabulary of the French language he could scarcely have hit upon another set of syllables offering similar difficulties to the foreigner. It was quite evident that his accurate pronunciation startled the accomplices. Each arrived at the same conclusion, though by different channels; this man was no mere chauffeur, and the fact rendered his marked hostility all the more significant.

Nevertheless, for the moment, Marigny concealed his uneasiness: by a display of good humor he hoped to gloss over the palpable absurdity of his earlier statements to Cynthia.

“I seem to have bungled this business very badly,” he said airily. “Please don’t be too hard on me. I shall make the amende when I see you in Bristol. Au revoir, chères dames! Tell them to keep me some dinner. I may not be so very far behind, since you ladies will take some time over your toilette, and I shall – what do you call it – scorch like mad after I have found that careless scoundrel, Smith.”

Cynthia had suddenly grown dumb, so Mrs. Devar tried once more to relax the tension.

“Do be careful, Count Edouard,” she cried; “this piece of road is dreadfully dangerous, and, when all is said and done, another half hour is now of no great consequence.”

“If your chauffeur has really gone to Blagdon, he will not be back under an hour at least,” broke in Medenham’s disdainful voice. “Unless you wish to wreck your car you will not attempt to follow him.”

With that he bent over the head lamps, and their radiance fell unexpectedly on Marigny’s scowling face, since the discomfited adventurer could no longer pretend to ignore the Englishman’s menace. Still, he was powerless. Though quivering with anger and balked desire, he dared not provoke a scene in Cynthia’s presence, and her continued silence already warned him that she was bewildered if not actually suspicious. He forced a laugh.

“Explanations are like swamps,” he said. “The farther you plunge into them the deeper you sink. So, good-bye! To please you, Mrs. Devar, I shall crawl. As for Miss Vanrenen, I see that she does not care what becomes of me.”

Cynthia weakened a little at that. Certainly she wondered why her model chauffeur chose to express his opinions so bluntly, while Marigny’s unwillingness to take offense was admirable.

“Is there no better plan?” she asked quickly, for Medenham had started the engine, and his hand was on the reversing lever.

“For what?” he demanded.

“For extricating my friend from his difficulty?”

“If he likes to come with us, he can leave his car here all night, and return for it to-morrow.”

“Perhaps – ”

“Please do not trouble yourself in the least on my account,” broke in the Count gayly. “As for abandoning my car, such a stupid notion would never enter my mind. No, no! I wait for Smith, but you may rely on my appearance in Bristol before you have finished dinner.”

Though it was no simple matter to back and turn the Mercury in that rough and narrow road, Medenham accomplished the maneuver with a skill that the Frenchman appreciated to the full. For the first time he noted the number when the tail-lamp revealed it.

“X L 4000,” he commented to himself. “I must inquire who the owner is. Devar or Smith will know where to apply for the information. And I must also ascertain that fellow’s history. Confound him, and my luck, too! If the Devar woman has any sense she will keep Cynthia well out of his way until the other chauffeur arrives.”

As it happened, the “Devar woman” was thinking the same thing at the same moment, but, being nervous, dared not attempt to utter her thoughts while the car was creeping cautiously over the ruts and stones. At last, when the highroad was reached, the pace quickened, and she regained the faculty of speech.

“We have had a quite eventful day,” she said with an air of motherly solicitude, turning to the distrait girl by her side. “I am sure you are tired. What between an extra amount of sightseeing and poor Count Edouard’s unfortunate mistake, we have been in the car nearly twelve hours.”

“How did Fitzroy discover that we had taken the wrong road?” asked Cynthia, rousing herself from a perplexed reverie.

“Well, he drove very fast from Cheddar, much too fast, to my thinking, though the risk has been more than justified by circumstances. Of course, it is always easy to be wise after the event. At any rate, there being no sign of your car when we reached the top of a long hill, we – er – we discussed matters, and decided to explore the byroad.”

“Did you remain long in Cheddar? If Fitzroy hit up the pace, why were you so far behind?”

“I waited a few minutes to address some postcards. And that reminds me – Fitzroy sent a most impertinent message by one of the servants – ”

“Impertinent!”

“My dear, there is no other word for it – something about going off without me if I did not start instantly. Really, I shall be glad when Simmonds takes his place. But there! We must not renew our Bournemouth argument.”

“And he caused a servant in the hotel to speak to you in that manner?”

“Yes – the very girl who waited on us at tea – a pert creature, who seemed to find the task congenial.”

Mrs. Devar was building better than she knew. Cynthia laughed, though not with the whole-souled merriment that was music in Medenham’s ears.

“She has been properly punished; I forgot to tip her,” she explained.

“Count Edouard would see to that – ”

“He didn’t. I noticed what he paid – out of sheer curiosity. Perhaps I ought to send her something.”

“My dear Cynthia!”

But dear Cynthia was making believe to be quite amused by a notion that had just suggested itself. She leaned forward in the darkness and touched Medenham’s shoulder.

“Do you happen to know the name of the waitress who brought you some tea at Cheddar?” she asked. “None of us gave her anything, and I hate to omit these small items. If I had her name I could forward a postal order from Bristol.”