Cynthia's Chauffeur. Tracy Louis
by exercising a crude humor which is deemed peculiarly suitable to the seaside, though it would be none the less distressing to you.”
“In the States that sort of man gets shot,” she said, and her cheeks glowed with a rush of color.
“Here, on the contrary, he often takes the young lady’s arm and walks off with her,” persisted Medenham.
“I’m going to that pier,” she announced. “Guess you’d better escort me, Mr. Fitzroy.”
“Fate closes every door in my face,” he said sadly. “I cannot go with you – in that direction.”
“Well, of all the odd people! – why not that way, if any other?”
“Because Count Edouard Marigny, the gentleman whose name I could not help overhearing to-day, has just gone there – with another man.”
“Have you a grudge against him, too?”
“I never set eyes on him before six o’clock this evening, but I imagine you would not care to have him see you walking with your chauffeur.”
Cynthia looked up and down the broad sea front, with its thousands of lamps and droves of promenaders.
“At last I am beginning to size up this dear little island,” she said. “I may go with you to a racetrack, I may sit by your side for days in an automobile, I may even eat your luncheon and drink your aunt’s St. Galmier, but I may not ask you to accompany me a hundred yards from my hotel to a pier. Very well, I’ll quit. But before I go, do tell me one thing. Did you really mean to bring your aunt to Epsom to-day?”
“Yes.”
“A mother’s sister sort of aunt – a nice old lady with white hair?”
“One would almost fancy you had met her, Miss Vanrenen.”
“Perhaps I may, some day. Father and I are going to Scotland for a month from the twelfth of August. After that we shall be in the Savoy Hotel about six weeks. Bring her to see me.”
Medenham almost jumped when he heard of the projected visit to the Highlands, but some demon of mischief urged him to say:
“Let’s reckon up. July, August, September – three months – ”
He stopped with a jerk. Cynthia, already aware of some vague power she possessed of stirring this man’s emotions, did not fail to detect his air of restraint.
“It isn’t a proposition that calls for such a lot of calculation,” she said sharply. “Good-night, Mr. Fitzroy. I hope you are punctual morning-time. When there is a date to be kept, I’m a regular alarm clock, my father says.”
She sped across the road, and into the hotel. Then Medenham noticed how dark it had become – reminded him of the tropics, he thought – and made for his own caravanserai, while his brain was busy with a number of disturbing but nebulous problems that seemed to be pronounced in character yet singularly devoid of a beginning, a middle, or an end. Indeed, so puzzling and contradictory were they that he soon fell asleep. When he rose at seven o’clock next morning the said problems had vanished. They must have been part and parcel with the glamor of a June night, and a starlit sky, and the blue depths of the sea and of a girl’s eyes, for the wizard sun had dispelled them long ere he awoke. But he did not telegraph to Simmonds.
Dale brought the car to the Grand Hotel in good time, and Medenham ran it some distance along the front before drawing up at the Metropole. By that means he dissipated any undue curiosity that might be experienced by some lounger on the pavement who happened to notice the change of chauffeurs, while he avoided a prolonged scrutiny by the visitors already packed in chairs on both sides of the porch. He kept his face hidden during the luggage strapping process, and professed not to be aware of Cynthia’s presence until she bade him a cheery “Good-morning.”
Of course, Marigny was there, and Mrs. Devar gushed loudly for the benefit of the other people while settling herself comfortably in the tonneau.
“It was awfully devey of you, Count Edouard, to enliven our first evening away from town. No such good fortune awaits us in Bournemouth, I am afraid.”
“If I am to accept that charming reference as applying to myself, I can only say that my good fortune has exhausted itself already, madame,” said the Frenchman. “When do you return to London?”
“About the end of next week,” put in Cynthia.
“And your father – that delightful Monsieur Vanrenen,” said the Count, breaking into French, “he will join you there?”
“Oh, yes. My father and I are seldom separated a whole fortnight.”
“Then I shall have the pleasure of seeing you there. I go to-day to Salisbury – after that, to Hereford and Liverpool.”
“Why, we shall be in Hereford one day soon. What fun if we met again!”
Marigny looked to heaven, or as far in the direction popularly assigned to heaven as the porch of the Metropole would permit. He was framing a suitable speech, but the Mercury shot out into the open road with a noiseless celerity that disconcerted him.
Medenham at once slackened speed and leaned back.
“I’m very sorry,” he said, “but I clean forgot to ask if you were quite ready to start.”
Cynthia laughed.
“Go right ahead, Fitzroy,” she cried. “Guess the Count is pretty mad, anyhow. He was telling us last night that his Du Vallon is the only car that can hit up twenty at the first buzz.”
“Unpardonable rudeness,” murmured Mrs. Devar.
“On the Count’s part?” asked the girl demurely.
“No, of course not – on the part of this chauffeur person.”
“Oh, I like him,” was the candid answer. “He is a chauffeur of moods, but he can make this car hum. He and I had quite a long chat last night after dinner.”
Mrs. Devar sat up quickly.
“After dinner – last night!” she gasped.
“Yes – I ran into him outside the hotel.”
“At what time?”
“About ten o’clock. I came to the lounge, but you had vanished, and the wonderful light on the sea drew me out of doors.”
“My dear Cynthia!”
“Well, go on; that sounds like the beginning of a letter.”
Mrs. Devar suddenly determined not to feel scandalized.
“Ah, well!” she sighed, “one must relax a little when touring, but you Americans have such free and easy manners that we staid Britons are apt to lose our breath occasionally when we hear of something out of the common.”
“From what Fitzroy said when I told him I was going as far as the pier unaccompanied it seems to me that you staid Britons can be freer if not easier,” retorted Miss Vanrenen.
Her friend smiled sourly.
“If he disapproved he was right, I admit,” she purred.
Cynthia withheld any further confidences.
“What a splendid morning!” she said. “England is marvelously attractive on a day like this. And now, where is the map? I didn’t look up our route yesterday evening. But Fitzroy has it. We lunch at Winchester, I know, and there I see my first English Cathedral. Father advised me to leave St. Paul’s until I visit it with him. He says it is the most perfect building in the world architecturally, but that no one would realize it unless the facts were pointed out. When we were in Rome he said that St. Peter’s, grand as it is, is all wrong in construction. The thrust downwards from the dome is false, it seems.”
“Really,” said Mrs. Devar, who had just caught sight of Lady Somebody-or-other at the window of a house in Hove, and hoped that her ladyship’s eyes were sufficiently good to distinguish at least one occupant of the car.
“Yes;