by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER VIII
BREAKERS AHEAD
The Earl's title-borrowing from Shakespeare was certainly justified bycurrent events, for Dromio of Ephesus and Dromio of Syracuse, to saynothing of their masters, were no bad prototypes of the chief actorsin this Bristol comedy.
Simmonds, not knowing who might have it in mind to investigate thelatest defect in his car, decided it would be wise to disappear untilViscount Medenham was well quit of Bristol. By arrangement with Dale,therefore, he picked up the latter soon after the Mercury was turnedover to Medenham's hands; in effect, the one chauffeur took the otheron a 'bus-driver's holiday. Dale was free until two o'clock. Atthat hour he would depart for Hereford and meet his master, witharrangements made for the night as usual; meanwhile, the day'sprogramme included a pleasant little run to Bath and back.
It was a morning that tempted to the road, but both men had risenearly, and a pint of bitter seemed to be an almost indispensablepreliminary. From Bristol to Bath is no distance to speak of, so aslight dallying over the beer led to an exchange of recent news.
Dale, it will be remembered, was of sporting bent, and he toldSimmonds gleefully of his successful bet at Epsom.
"Five golden quidlets his lordship shoved into me fist at Brighton,"he chortled. "Have you met Smith, who is lookin' after the Frenchman'sDu Vallon? No? Well, _he_ was there, an' his goggles nearly crackedwhen he sawr the money paid--two points over the market price, an'all."
"Sometimes one spots a winner by chanst," observed Simmondsjudicially. "An' that reminds me. Last night a fella tole me there wasa good thing at Kempton to-day.... Now, _what_ was it?"
Dale instantly became a lexicon of weird-sounding words, for theBritish turf is exceedingly democratic in its pronunciation of theclassical and foreign names frequently given to racehorses. His stockof racing lore was eked out by reference to a local paper; stillSimmonds scratched an uncertain pate.
"Pity, too!" he said at last. "This chap had it from his nevvy, whomarried the sister of a housemaid at Beckhampton."
Dale whistled. Here was news, indeed. Beckhampton! the home of "goodthings."
"Is _that_ where it comes from?"
"Yes. Something real hot over a mile."
"_Can't_ you think? Let's look again at the entries."
"Wait a bit," cried Simmonds. "I've got it now. Second horse from thetop of the column in to-morrow's entries in yesterday's _Sportsman_."
Dale understood exactly what the other man meant, and, so long as _he_understood, the fact may suffice for the rest of the world.
"Tell you wot," he suggested eagerly, "when you're ready we'll justrun to the station an' arsk the bookstall people for yesterday'spaper."
The inquiry, the search, the triumphant discovery, the telegraphingof the "information" and a sovereign to Tomkinson in CavendishSquare--"five bob each way" for each of the two--all these things tooktime, and time was very precious to Dale just then. Unhappily, time isoften mute as to its value, and Bath is really quite close to Bristol.
The choice secret of the Beckhampton stable was safely launched--inits speculative element, at any rate--and Dale was about to seathimself beside Simmonds, when an astonished and somewhat irate oldgentleman hooked the handle of an umbrella into his collar andshouted:
"Confound you, Dale! What are you doing here, and where is yourmaster?"
Dale's tanned face grew pale, his ears and eyes assumed the semblanceof a scared rabbit's, and the power of speech positively failed him.
"Do you hear me, Dale?" cried the Earl, that instant alighted from acab. "I am asking you where Viscount Medenham is. If he has gone totown, why have _you_ remained in Bristol?"
"But his lordship hasn't gone to London, my lord," stuttered Dale,finding his voice at last, and far too flustered to collect his wits,though he realized in a dazed way that it was his duty to act exactlyas Viscount Medenham would wish him to act in such tryingcircumstances.
And, indeed, many very clever people might have found themselvessinking in some such unexpected quicksand and be not one whit lessbemused than the miserable chauffeur. Morally, he had given the onlypossible answer that left open a way of escape, and he had formed asufficiently shrewd estimate of the relations between his master andthe remarkably good-looking young lady whom the said master wasserving with exemplary diligence to fear dire consequences to himselfif he became the direct cause of a broken idyl. The position was evenworse if he fell back on an artistic lie. The Earl was a dour personwhere servants were concerned, and Salome did not demand John theBaptist's head on a salver with greater gusto than the autocrat ofFairholme would insist on Dale's dismissal when he discovered thefacts. Talk of the horned dilemma--here was an unfortunate asked tochoose which bristle of a porcupine he would sit upon.
The mere presence of his lordship in Bristol betokened a socialatmosphere charged with electricity--a phase of the problem thatconstituted the only clear item in Dale's seething brain: it was toomuch for him; in sudden desperation he determined to stick to theplain truth.
He had to elect very quickly, for the peppery-tempered Earl would notbrook delay.
"Not gone to London, you say? Then where the devil _has_ he gone to?A gentleman at the hotel, a French gentleman, who said he had metthese--these persons with whom my son is gadding about the country,told me that they had left Bristol this morning for London, because acar that was expected to meet them here had broken down."
Suddenly his lordship, a county magistrate noted for his sharpness,glanced at Simmonds. He marched round to the front of the car and sawthat it was registered in London. He waved an accusing umbrella inair.
"What car is this? Is this the motor that won't go? It seems to havereached Bristol all right? Now, my men, I must have a candid tale fromeach of you, or the consequences may be most disagreeable. You, Ipresume," and he lunged _en tierce_ at Simmonds, "have an employer ofsome sort, and I shall make it my business----"
"This is my own car, my lord," said Simmonds stiffly. He could bestubborn as any member of the Upper House when occasion served. "Yourlordship needn't use any threats. Just ask me what you like an' I'llanswer, if I can."
Fairholme, by no means a hasty man in the ordinary affairs of life,and only upset now by the unforeseen annoyances of an unusuallydisquieting mission, realized that he was losing caste. It was a novelexperience to be rebuked by a chauffeur, but he had the sense toswallow his wrath.
"Perhaps I ought to explain that I am particularly anxious to seeLord Medenham," he said more calmly. "I left London at eight o'clockthis morning, and it is most irritating to have missed him by a fewminutes. I only wish to be assured as to his whereabouts, and, ofcourse, I have no reason to believe that any sort of responsibilityfor my son's movements rests with you."
"That's all right, my lord," said Simmonds. "Viscount Medenham wasvery kind to me last Wednesday. I had a first-rate job, and was onmy way to the Savoy Hotel to take it up, when a van ran into me an'smashed the transmission shaft. His lordship met me in Down Street,an' offered to run my two ladies to Epsom an' along the south coastfor a day or two while I repaired damages. I was to turn up here--an'here I am--but it suited his arrangements better to go on with thetour, an' that is all there is to it. A bit of a joke, I call it."
"Yes, my lord, that's hit hexactly," put in Dale, with a nervouseagerness that demanded the help of not less than two aspirates.
The Earl managed to restrain another outburst.
"Nothing to cavil at so far," he said with forced composure. "Theonly point that remains is--where is Lord Medenham now?"
"Somewhere between here an' Gloucester, my lord," said Simmonds.
"Gloucester--that is not on the way to London!"
No reply; neither man was willing to bell the cat. Finding Simmonds atough customer, Fairholme tackled Dale.
"Come, come, this is rather absurd," he cried. "Fancy my son'schauffeur jibbing at my questions! Once and for all, Dale, whereshall I find Lord Medenham to-night?"
There was no
escape now. Dale had to blurt out the fatal word:
"Hereford!"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, my lord. I'm goin' there with his lordship's portmanteaux."
The head of the Fitzroy clan turned to Simmonds again.
"Will you drive me to Gloucester?" he asked.
"No, my lord. I'm under contract to remain in Bristol five days."
"Very well. Stop in Bristol, and be d----d to you. Is there any reasonwhy you should not take me to pick up my son's belongings? Then Daleand I can go to Hereford by train. Viscount Medenham is devilishparticular about his linen. If I stick to his shirts I shall meet himsometime to-day, I suppose."
Simmonds sought Dale's counsel by an underlook, but that haplesssportsman could offer no suggestion, so the other made the best of abad business.
"I'll do that, of course, my lord," he said with alacrity. "Just grabhis lordship's dressing-case from that porter and shove it inside," hewent on, eying Dale fiercely, well knowing that the whole collapsearose from a cause but too easily traced.
"No, no," broke in the Earl, whose magisterial experiences had taughthim the wisdom of keeping witnesses apart, "Dale comes with me. I wantto sift this business thoroughly. Put the case in front. We can pilethe other luggage on top of it. Now, Dale, jump inside. Your friendknows where to go, I expect."
Thus did two bizarre elements intrude themselves into the naturalorder of things on that fine morning in the West of England. The veryshortness of the road between Bristol and Bath apparently offered aninsuperable obstacle to the passage of Simmonds's car along it, andsome unknown "chap," whose "nevvy" had married the sister of aBeckhampton housemaid, became the predominating factor in a situationthat affected the fortunes of several notable people.
For his part, Lord Fairholme gave no further thought to Marigny. Itdid not even occur to him it might be advisable to call again at theCollege Green Hotel, since Medenham had slept elsewhere, and Herefordwas now the goal. Certainly, the Frenchman's good fairy might havepushed her good offices to excess by permitting him to see, careeringabout Bristol with a pair of chauffeurs, the man whom he believed tobe then on the way to London. But fairies are unreliable creatures,apt to be off with a hop, skip, and a jump, and, in any case, Marignywas writing explicit instructions to Devar, though he would have beenfar more profitably employed in lounging outside the hotel.
So everybody was dissatisfied, more or less, the quaking Dale more,perhaps, than any, and the person who had absolutely no shadow ofcare on his soul was Medenham himself, at that moment guiding theMercury along the splendid highway that connects Bristol withGloucester--taking the run leisurely, too, lest Cynthia should missone fleeting glimpse of the ever-changing beauties of the Severnestuary.
During one of these adagio movements by the engine, Cynthia, who hadbeen consulting a guidebook, leaned forward with a smile on her face.
"What is a lamprey?" she asked.
"A special variety of eel which has a habit of sticking to stones byits mouth," said Medenham. Then he added, after a pause: "Henry theFirst was sixty-seven years of age when he died, so the dish oflampreys was perhaps blamed unjustly."
"You have a good memory," she retorted.
"Oh, is that in your book, Miss Vanrenen? Well, here is another factabout Gloucester. Alfred the Great held a Witenagemot there in 896. Doyou know what a Witenagemot is?"
"Yes," she said, "a smoking concert."
Mrs. Devar invariably resented these bits of by-play, since she couldno more extract their meaning than if they were uttered in Choctaw.
"Some very good people live in Gloucestershire," she put in. "Thereare the----" She began to give extracts from Burke's "Landed Gentry,"whereupon the speedometer index sprang to forty-five, and a noblefifteenth century tower soon lifted its stone lacework above the treesand spires of the ancient city.
Cynthia wished to obtain some photographs of old inns, so, whenthey had admired the cathedral, and shuddered at the memory ofRichard the Third--who wrote at Gloucester the order to Brackenburyfor the murder of the princes in the Tower of London--and smiled atCromwell's mordant wit in saying that the place had more churchesthan godliness when told of the local proverb, "As sure as God's inGloucester," Medenham brought them to Northgate Street, where the NewInn--which is nearly always the most antiquated hostelry in an Englishcountry-town--supplied a fine example of massive timberwork, withcourtyard and external galleries.
The light was so perfect that he persuaded Cynthia to stand in adoorway and let him take a picture. During the focusing interval, hesuggested that the day's route should be varied by leaving the coastroad at Westbury and running through the Forest of Dean, where asecluded hotel in the midst of a real woodland would be an ideal placefor luncheon.
She agreed. Something in his tone told her that Mrs. Devar's consentto the arrangement had better be taken for granted. So they spedthrough the blossom-laden lanes of Gloucestershire to the leafy depthsof the Forest, and saw the High Beeches, and the Old Beech, and theKing's Walk, and many of the gorgeous vistas that those twin artistsSpring and Summer etched on the wooded undulations of one of Britain'smost delightful landscapes; as a fitting sequel to a run throughfairyland they lunched at the Speech House Hotel, where once the skinsof daring trespassers on the King's preserves were wont to be nailedon the Court House door by the Verderers.
It was Cynthia who pointed the moral.
"There is always an ogre's cave near the Enchanted Garden," she said,"and those were surely ogerish days when men were flayed alive forhunting the King's deer."
It is not to be wondered at if they dawdled somewhat by the way, whenthat way led past Offa's Dyke, through Chepstow, and Tintern, andMonmouth, and Symon's Yat. Indeed, Cynthia's moods alternated betweenwide-eyed enjoyment and sheer regret, for each romantic ruin andcharming countryside not only aroused her enthusiasm but evoked alonging to remain riveted to the spot. Yet she would not be a womanif there were not exceptions to this rule, as shall be seen in duecourse.
Mrs. Devar, perchance tempted by the word "Castle," quitted the car atChepstow, and climbed to the nail-studded oak door of one of the mostperfect examples of a Norman stronghold now extant. Once committed tothe role of sightseer, she was compelled to adhere to it, and beforethe fourth court was reached, had she known the story, she would havesympathized with the pilgrim who did _not_ boil the peas in his shoesof penance. Chepstow Castle is a splendid ruin, but its steepgradients and rough pavements are not fitted for stout ladies who weartight boots.
To make matters worse, the feelings of Cynthia's chaperon soon becameas sore as her toes. The only feature of Marten's Tower that appealedto her was its diabolical ingenuity in providing opportunities forthat interfering chauffeur to assist, almost to lift, Cynthia from onemass of fallen masonry to another. Though she knew nothing of HenryMarten she reviled his memory. She heard "Fitzroy" telling her waywardcharge that the reformer really hated Charles I. because the Kingcalled him "an ugly rascal" in public, and directed that he should beturned out of Hyde Park; the words supplied a cue.
"Pity kings are not as powerful nowadays," she snapped. "Thepresumption of the lower orders is becoming intolerable."
"Unfortunately, Marten retaliated by signing the King's deathwarrant," said Medenham.
"Of course. What else could one expect from a person of his class?"
"But Sir Henry Marten was a celebrated judge, and the son of abaronet, and he married a rich widow--these are not the prevalentdemocratic vices," persisted Medenham.
"You must have sat up half the night reading the guidebook," she criedin vexation at her blunder.
Cynthia laughed so cheerfully that Mrs. Devar thought she had scored.Medenham left it at that, and was content. Both he and Cynthia knewthat lack of space forbade indulgence in such minor details of historyon the part of the book's compiler.
Another little incident heated Mrs. Devar to boiling-point. Cynthiamore than once hinted that, if tired, she might wait for them in thelowermost court, wher
e a fine tree spread its shade over some benches,but the older woman persisted in visiting every dungeon and scramblingup every broken stair. The girl took several photographs, and hadreached the last film in a roll, when the whim seized her to poseMedenham in front of a Norman arch.
"You look rather like a baron," she said gleefully. "I wish I couldborrow some armor and take you in character as the gentleman who builtthis castle. By the way, his name was Fitz-something-or-other. Was hea relation?"
"Fitz Osborne," said Medenham.
"Ah, yes. Fitzroy means King's son, doesn't it?"
"I--er--believe so."
"Well, I can imagine you scowling out of a vizor. It would suit youadmirably."
"But I might not scowl."
"Oh, yes, you would. Remember this morning. Just force yourself tothink for a moment that I am Monsieur----"
She stopped abruptly.
"A little more to the left, please--and turn your face to the sun.There, that is capital."
"Why should Fitzroy scowl at the recollection of Count Edouard?"demanded Mrs. Devar, her eyes devouring the telltale blush thatsuffused the girl's face and neck.
"Only because the Count wished to supplant him as our chauffeur," camethe ready answer.
"I thought Monsieur Marigny's offer a very courteous one."
"Undoubtedly. But as I had to decide the matter I preferred to travelin a car that was at my own disposal."
Mrs. Devar dared not go farther. She relapsed into a sulky silence.She said not a word when Cynthia occupied the front seat for the climbthrough Chepstow's High Street, and when the girl turned to call herattention to the view from the crest of the famous Wyndcliff she wasnodding asleep!
Cynthia told Medenham, and there was a touch of regret in her voice.
"Poor dear," she said in an undertone, "the Castle was too much forher, and the fresh air has made her drowsy."
He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and instantly made up his mindto broach a project that he had thought out carefully since hisquarrel with the Frenchman.
"You mean to stay in Hereford during the whole of to-morrow, MissVanrenen?" he asked.
"Yes. Somehow, I don't see myself scampering across the map on theBritish Sabbath. Besides, I am all behindhand with my letters, and myfather will be telegraphing something emphatic if I don't go beyond'Much love' on a picture postcard."
"Symon's Yat is exceptionally beautiful, and there is a capital littlehotel there. The Wye runs past the front door, the boating is superb,and there will be a brilliant moon after dinner."
"And the answer is?"
"That we could run into Hereford before breakfast, leaving you plentyof time to attend the morning service at the cathedral."
Cynthia did not look at him or she would have seen that he was ratherbaronial in aspect just then. Sad to relate, they were speeding downthe Wyndcliff gorge without giving it the undisturbed notice itmerited.
"I have a kind of notion that Mrs. Devar wouldn't catch on to theboating proposition," she said thoughtfully.
"Perhaps not, but the river takes a wide bend there, and she could seeus from the hotel veranda all the time."
"Guess it can't be fixed up, anyhow," she sighed.
Twice had she lapsed into the idioms of her native land. What, then,was the matter with Cynthia that she had forgotten her self-imposedresolution to speak only in that purer English which is quite ashighly appreciated in New York as in London?
It was Saturday afternoon, and they overtook and passed a break-loadof beanfeasters going to Tintern. There is no mob so cruelly sarcasticas the British, and it may be that the revelers in the break enviedthe dusty chauffeur his pretty companion. At any rate, they greetedthe passing of the car with jeers and cat-calls, and awoke Mrs. Devar.It is a weakness of human nature to endeavor to conceal the fact thatyou have been asleep when you are supposed to be awake, so she leanedforward now, and asked nonchalantly:
"Are we near Hereford?"
"No," said Cynthia. "We have a long way to go yet." She paused. "Areyou really very tired?" she added, as an afterthought.
"Yes, dear. The air is positively overpowering."
There was another pause.
"Ah, well," sighed the girl, "we shall have a nice long rest when westop for tea at--at--what is the name of the place?"
"Symon's Yat."
Medenham's voice was husky. Truth to tell, he was rather besidehimself. He had played for a high stake and had nearly won. Even nowthe issue hung on a word, a mere whiff of volition: and if he knewexactly how much depended on that swing of the balance he might havebeen startled into a more earnest plea, and spoiled everything.
"But that will throw us late in arriving at Hereford," said Mrs.Devar.
"Does it really matter? We shall be there all day to-morrow."
"No, it is of no consequence, though Count Edouard said he would meetus there."
"And I refused to pledge myself to any arrangement. In fact, I wouldmuch prefer that his Countship should scorch on to Liverpool orManchester, or wherever he happens to be going."
"Oh, Cynthia! And he going out of his way to be so friendly andagreeable!"
"Well, perhaps that was an unkind thing to say. What I mean is that wemust feel ourselves at liberty to depart from a cut-and-driedschedule. Half the charm of wandering through England in an automobileis in one's freedom from timetables."
Back dropped Mrs. Devar, and Medenham recovered sufficientself-control to point out to Cynthia her first glimpse of the graywalls that vie with Fountains Abbey and Rievaulx for pride of place asthe most beautiful ruin in England.
Certainly those old Cistercians knew how and where to build theirmonasteries. They had the true sense of beauty, whether in site ordesign, and at Tintern they chose the loveliest nook of a lovelyvalley. Cynthia silently feasted her vision on each new panoramarevealed by the winding road, and ever the gray Abbey grew moredistinct, more ornate, more completely the architectural gem of anentrancing landscape.
But disillusion was at hand.
Rounding the last bend of the descent, the Mercury purred into themidst of a collection of horsed vehicles and frayed motors. By someunhappy chance the whole countryside seemed to have chosen Tintern asa rendezvous that Saturday. The patrons of a neighboring hoteloverflowed into the roadway; the brooding peace of the dead-and-gonemonks had fled before this invasion; instead of memories of miteredabbots and cowled friars there were the realities of loud-voicedgrooms and porkpie-eating excursionists.
"Please drive on," whispered Cynthia. "I must see Tintern anothertime."
Although Medenham hoped to consume a precious hour or more in showingher the noble church, the cloisters, the chapter-house, the monks'parlor, and the rest of the stone records of a quiet monastic life, herealized to the full how utterly incongruous were the enthusiastictrippers with their surroundings. The car threaded their ranksgingerly, and was soon running free along the tree-shaded road toMonmouth.
Happily, that delightful old town was sufficiently familiar to him inearlier days that he was now able to supplement the general knowledgeof its past gleaned already by the girl's reading. He halted in frontof the Welsh Gate on Monnow Bridge, and told her that although thevenerable curiosity dates back to 1270 it is nevertheless the lastdefensive work in Britain in which serious preparations were made forcivil war, as it was expected that the Chartists would march fromNewport to attack Monmouth Jail in 1839.
"Six hundred years," mused Cynthia aloud. "If there are sermons instones what a history is pent in these!"
"And how greatly it would differ from the accepted versions," laughedMedenham.
"Do we never know the truth, then?"
"Oh, yes, if we are actually mixed up in some affair of worldwideimportance, but that is precisely the reason why the actors remaindumb."
Oddly enough, this was the first of Medenham's utterances that Mrs.Devar approved of.
"Evidently you have moved in high society, Fitzroy," she chimed in.
"Ye
s, madam," he said. "More than once, when in a hurry, I have runmadly through Mayfair."
"Oh, nonsense!" she cried, resenting the studied civility of the"madam" and ruffled by the quip, "you speak of Mayfair, yet I don'tsuppose you really know where it is."
"I shall never forget where Down Street is, I assure you," he saidcheerfully.
"And pray, why Down Street in particular?"
"Because that is where I met Simmonds, last Wednesday, and arranged totake on his job."
"In your mind, then, it figures as broken-down-street," cooed Cynthia.
After that the Mercury crossed the Monnow, and Mrs. Devar mutteredsomething about the mistake one made when one encouraged servants tobe too familiar. But Cynthia was not to be repressed. She was bubblingover with high spirits, and amused herself by telling Medenham thatHenry V. was born at Monmouth and afterwards won the battle ofAgincourt--"scraps of history not generally known," she confided tohim.
From the back of the car Mrs. Devar watched them with a hawklikeintentness that showed how thoroughly those "forty winks" snatchedwhile in the Wyndcliff had restored her flagging energies. Thoughit was absurd to suppose that Cynthia Vanrenen, daughter of amillionaire, a girl dowered with all that happy fortune had to give,would so far forget her social position as to flirt with the chauffeurof a hired car, this experienced marriage-broker did not fail torealize what a stumbling-block the dreadful person was in the path ofCount Edouard Marigny.
For once in her life, "Wiggy" Devar forced herself to think clearly.She saw that "Fitzroy" was a man who might prove exceedingly dangerouswhere a girl's susceptible heart was concerned. He had the address andsemblance of a gentleman; he seemed to be able to talk some jargon ofhistory and literature and art that appealed mightily to Cynthia;worst of all, he had undoubtedly ascertained, by some means whollybeyond her ken, that she and the Frenchman were in league. She wasquite in the dark as to the cause of her son's extraordinary behaviorthe previous evening, but she was beginning to suspect that thismeddlesome Fitzroy had contrived, somehow or other, to banish CaptainDevar as he had outwitted Marigny on the Mendips. Talented schemerthat she was, she did not believe for a moment that Simmonds had toldthe truth at Bristol. She argued, with cold logic, that the man wouldnot risk the loss of an excellent commission by bringing from London acar so hopelessly out of repair that it could not be made availableunder four or five days. But her increasing alarm centered chiefly inCynthia's attitude. If, by her allusion to a "cut-and-dried schedule,"the girl implied a design to depart from the tour planned in London,then the Count's wooing became a most uncertain thing, since it wasmanifestly out of the question that he should continue to waylay themat stopping-places chosen haphazard during each day's run.
So Mrs. Devar noted with a malignant eye each friendly glanceexchanged by the couple in front, and listened to the snatches oftheir talk with a malevolence that was fanned to fury by their obviousheedlessness of her presence. She felt that the crisis called fordecisive action. There was only one person alive to whose judgmentCynthia Vanrenen would bow, and Mrs. Devar began seriously to considerthe advisability of writing to Peter Vanrenen.
If any lingering doubt remained in her mind as to the soundness ofthis view, it was dispelled soon after they reached Symon's Yat. Shewas sitting in the inclosed veranda of a cozy hotel perched on theright bank of the Wye when Cynthia suddenly leaped up, teacup in hand,and looked down at the river.
"There are the duckiest little yachts I have ever seen skimming abouton that stretch of water," she cried over her shoulder. "The meresight of them makes me taste all the dust I have swallowed betweenhere and London. Don't you think it would be real cute to remain hereto-night and run into Hereford to-morrow after an early cup of tea?"
Cynthia need not have taken the trouble to avert her scarlet face fromMrs. Devar's inquisitive eyes; indeed, Mrs. Devar herself was gladthat her quick-witted and perhaps quick-tempered young friend had notsurprised the wry smile that twisted her own lips.
"Just as you please, Cynthia," said she amiably.
Then the girl resolutely crushed the absurd emotion that led her toshirk her companion's scrutiny: she was so taken aback by thisunexpected complaisance in a quarter where she was prepared foropposition that she turned and laid a grateful hand on the otherwoman's arm.
"Now that is perfectly sweet of you," she said softly. "I would justlove to see that river by moonlight, and--and--I fancied you were abit weary of the road. It wouldn't matter if the country were not sowonderful, but when one has to screw one's head round quickly or onemisses a castle or a prize landscape, a hundred miles of that sort ofthing becomes a strain."
"This seems to be quite a restful place," agreed Mrs. Devar. "Haveyou--er--told Fitzroy of the proposed alteration in our arrangements?"
Cynthia grew interested in the yachts again.
"No," she said, "I've not mentioned it to him--yet."
A maid-servant entered, and Cynthia inquired if the hotel couldprovide three rooms for her party.
The girl, a pretty Celt of the fair-haired type, said she was surethere was accommodation.
"Then," said Cynthia, with what she felt to be a thoroughlyself-possessed air, "please ask my chauffeur if he would like anothercup of tea, and tell him to house the car and have our boxes sent in,as we shall stay here till half-past eight to-morrow morning."
Mrs. Devar's letter to Peter Vanrenen forthwith entered the categoryof things that must be done at the earliest opportunity. She wrote itbefore dinner, taking a full hour in the privacy of her room tocompose its few carefully considered sentences. She posted it, too,and was confirmed in her estimate of its very real importance when shesaw a muslined Cynthia saunter out and join "Fitzroy," who happened tobe standing on a tiny landing-stage near a boathouse.
Yet, so strangely constituted is human nature of the Devar variety,she would have given half the money she possessed if she could haverecalled that letter an hour later. But His Majesty's mails areinexorable as fate. A twopence-ha'penny stamp had linked Symon's Yatand Paris, and not all Mrs. Devar's world-worn ingenuity could sunderthat link.
