Cynthia's Chauffeur

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER XV

  THE OUTCOME

  The fine weather which had endured so long gave way that night.Storm-clouds swept up from the Atlantic, and England was drenched inrain when Medenham quitted Charing Cross at 9 p.m. At the eleventhhour he determined to take Dale with him, but that belated display ofwisdom arose more from the need he felt of human companionship thanfrom any sense of the absurdity of going alone to fight a duel in aforeign land. He had given no thought during the fleeting hours to thenecessity of communicating with his relatives in case he fell a victimto Marigny's rancor, so he devoted himself now to writing a briefaccount to the Marquis of Scarland of the causes that led up to theduel. He concluded with an entreaty that his brother-in-law should useall means within his power to close down any inquiry that mightresult, and pointed out that in this connection Dale would prove avaluable ally, since his testimony would make clear the fact that thecontest had taken place in France, where duels are looked on with amore lenient eye than in England.

  It was difficult to write legibly in the fast-moving, ill-lightedtrain, so he completed the letter on board the steamer, but did nothand it to Dale until after Calais was reached.

  While the steamer was drawing up to her berth, he saw Count EdouardMarigny among the few passengers on deck. He had turned his back onthe Frenchman at Charing Cross, but the imperturbable Count, noticingDale in the half-light of dawn, believed that Medenham had brought afellow-countryman as a witness. He strolled up, and said affably:

  "Is this gentleman your friend?"

  "Yes," said Medenham, "though not quite in the sense that you mean. Hewill accompany me to the hotel, and await my return there."

  The Frenchman was evidently mystified; he smiled, but passed noother comment. Dale, who heard what was said, now wondered more thanever what lay behind this sudden journey to France. He had alreadyrecognized Marigny as the owner of the Du Vallon, for he had seen himleaving the Metropole Hotel at Brighton not many days ago, and had thebest of reasons for regarding him as Viscount Medenham's implacableenemy. Why, then, were these two crossing the Channel in company,going together to some hotel, and leaving him, Dale, to kick his heelsin the small hours of the morning till it pleased them to pick him upagain?

  In justice to the loyal-hearted chauffeur, plunged quite unknowinglyinto the crisis of his life, it must be said that the notion of aduel did not even occur to his puzzled brain.

  Nor was he given much time for speculation. A carriage awaited thetrio at the quay. They carried no luggage to entail a delay at theCustoms, and they drove off at a rapid pace through silent streets ina drenched downpour of rain. When they reached the Hotel de la Plage,neither Medenham nor the Frenchman alighted, but the former handedDale a letter.

  "I may be detained in France somewhat longer than I anticipated," hesaid in a matter-of-fact tone. "If that is so, and you have to returnto England without me, hand this letter to the Marquis of Scarland.Take great care of it, and keep it in your possession until you arepositively assured that I am unable to go with you."

  These enigmatical instructions bothered their hearer far more than anyof the strange proceedings of the night.

  "How shall I know, my lord, whether I am to go back with you or not?"he asked.

  "Oh, of course I shall make that quite clear," laughed Medenham. "Atpresent, all you have to do is to wait here a little while."

  His careless demeanor dispelled the first dim shadow of doubt that hadarisen in Dale's mind. The man was no stranger on the Continent,having traveled with his employer over the length and breadth ofFrance and Northern Italy; but the manner of this visit to the Hotelde la Plage at Calais was so perplexing that he essayed anotherquestion.

  "When may I expect you, my lord?" he asked.

  Medenham affected to consult his watch.

  "Within an hour," he said; "perhaps a few minutes more. At any rate,you can arrange to catch the afternoon boat. Meanwhile, make yourselfcomfortable."

  By this time, three men, whom he had never seen before, came out fromthe hotel. Apparently, they were fully prepared for the coming of thevisitors from England. They greeted Count Marigny cordially, and wereintroduced to Medenham. Without more ado, two of them entered thevehicle; the third, hoisting an umbrella, climbed to the side of thedriver, to whom no orders were given, and the cab rattled rapidly awayover the paving-stones, leaving Dale to gaze disconsolately after it.

  Then the vague suspicions in his mind awoke into activity. For onething, he had heard one of the strangers alluded to as "Monsieur leDocteur." For another, the newcomers carried a curious-looking parcel,or case, of an elongated shape that suggested unusual contents. Sometrick of memory came to his aid. In an hotel at Lyons he had watched avalet packing just such an object with the remainder of his employer'sluggage, and was told, on inquiry, that it contained foils. But whyfoils? ... at four o'clock in the morning? ... in a country where menmight still requite an outrage by an appeal to the law of the jungle?

  Hastily drawing from his breast pocket the letter intrusted to him, heexamined the superscription. It was addressed simply to the Marquis ofScarland, and must surely be a document of immense significance, orthe young Viscount would not have brought him all the way from Londonto act as messenger rather than intrust it to the post. Each instantDale's ideas became clearer; each instant his heart throbbed with adeeper anxiety. At last, when the four-wheeler disappeared from sightround an angle of the rain-soaked boulevard, he yielded to impulse andran into the hotel. French people are early risers, but the visitorsto Calais that morning were astir at an hour when most of the hotelstaff were still sound asleep. A night porter, however, was awaitinghim at the entrance, and Dale forthwith engaged in a valiant strugglewith the French language in the effort to ascertain, first, whetherthe man possessed a bicycle, and, secondly, whether he would lend it.The Frenchman, of course, broke into a voluble statement out of allproportion to the demand, but the production of a British sovereignseemed to interpret matters satisfactorily, because a bicycle waspromptly produced from a shed in the rear of the building.

  Dale handed the man the sovereign, jumped on the machine, and rode offrapidly in the direction taken by the cab. He had no difficulty inturning the corner round which it had vanished, but a little fartheron he erred in thinking that it had gone straight ahead, since thedriver had really turned to the right again in order to keep clear ofthe fortifications. Dale traveled at such a pace that the first longstretch of straight road opening up before his eyes convinced him ofhis blunder when no cab was in sight. He raced back, dismounted atthe crossing, examined the road for wheel-marks, and soon was in thesaddle again. He was destined to be thus bothered three times in all,but, taught wisdom by his initial mistake, he never passed a crossroadwithout searching for the recent tracks of wheels.

  The rain helped him wherever the roadway was macadamized, butthe paved _routes militaires_ with which Calais abounds offereddifficulties that caused many minutes of delay. At last, he foundhimself in the open country, scorching along a sandy road thattraversed the low dunes lying between the town of Calais and Cape GrisNez. It was not easy to see far ahead owing to the rain and mist, andhe had covered a mile or more beyond the last of the scattered villasand cottages which form the eastern suburb of the port, when he sawthe elusive cab drawn up by the roadside. The horse was steaming asthough it had been driven at a great pace, and the driver stood near,smoking a cigarette, and protecting himself from the persistentdownpour by an umbrella.

  Dale soon reached the man, and said breathlessly, in his slow French:

  "Where are the gentlemen?"

  The cabman, who had evidently been paid to hold his tongue, merelyshrugged. Dale, breathing hard, laid a heavy hand on his shoulder,whereupon the other answered: "I don't know."

  This, of course, was a lie, and the fact that it was a lie alarmedDale quite as much as any of the sinister incidents which had alreadybefallen. For one thing, there was no house into which five men couldhave gone. On each side of the road were
bleak sandhills; to the rightwas the sea, gray and lowering beneath a leaden-hued sky that seemedto weep above a dead earth. Here, undoubtedly, was the cab, since Dalecould swear to both horse and man. Where, then, were its occupants?

  Having to depend upon his wits, he gave no further heed to theFrenchman, but, fancying that he saw vestiges of recent footmarks onthe right, or seaward, side of the road, and dragging the bicycle withhim, he climbed to the top of the nearest dune, as he believed that aview of the sands could be obtained from that point. He was right. Thesea was at a greater distance than he imagined would be the case, buta wide strip of firm sand, its wet patches glistening dully in thehalf-light, extended to the water's edge almost from the base of thehillock on which he stood.

  At first, his anxious eyes strained through the haze in vain, untilsome circling seagulls caught his attention, and then he discernedsome vague forms silhouetted against a brighter belt of the sea to thenortheast.

  Three of the figures were black and motionless, but two gave an eeriesuggestion of whiteness and movement. Abandoning the bicycle, andhardly realizing why he should be so perturbed, Dale ran forward.Twice he stumbled and fell amidst the stringy heath grass, but he wasup again in a frenzy of haste, and soon was near enough to the groupof men to see that Medenham and Marigny, bare-headed and in theirshirt sleeves, were fighting with swords.

  Dale's eyes were now half-blinded with perspiration, for he had riddenfast through the mud from Calais, and this final run through yieldingsand and clinging sedge was exhausting to one who seldom walked asmany furlongs as he had covered miles that morning. But even inhis panic of distress he fancied that his master was pressing theFrenchman severely. It was no child's play, this battle with coldsteel. The slender, venomous-looking blades whirled and stabbed with afearsome vehemence, and the sharp rasp of each riposte and parry rangout with a horrible suggestiveness in the moist air. And then, as helumbered heavily on, Dale thought he saw something that turned himsick with terror. Almost halting, he swept a hasty hand across hiseyes--then he was sure.

  Medenham, with arm extended in a feint in tierce, was bearing soheavily on his opponent's rapier that his right foot slipped, and hestumbled badly. At once Marigny struck with the deadly quickness andcertainty of a cobra. His weapon pierced Medenham's breast high upon the right side. The stroke was so true and furious that theEnglishman, already unbalanced, was driven on to his back on the sand.Marigny wrenched the blade free, and stooped with obvious intent toplunge it again through his opponent's body. A warning shout from eachof the three spectators withheld him. He scowled vindictively, butdared not make that second mortal thrust. These French gentlemen whomhe had summoned from Paris were bound by a rigid code of honor thatwould infallibly have caused him to be branded as a murderer had hecompleted matters to his satisfaction. Nevertheless, he bent andpeered closely into Medenham's face, gray now as the sand on which hewas lying.

  "I think it will serve," he muttered to himself. "May the devil takehim, but I thought he would get the better of me!"

  He turned away with an affectation of coolness which he was far fromfeeling, while the doctor knelt to examine Medenham's injury. He sawsomeone running towards him, but believed it must be one of thewitnesses, and his eyes fell to the stained blade in his hand.

  "I rather forgot myself----" he began.

  But the excuse was stopped short by a blow on the angle of the jawthat stretched him by Medenham's side and apparently as lifeless.

  Assuredly, Dale was not versed in the punctilio of the duel, but heknew how and where to hit with a fist that was hard as one of his ownspanners. He put weight and passion into that punch, and scarcelyunderstood how effective it was until he found himself struggling inthe grasp of two excited Frenchmen. He cursed both them and Marignyfluently, and vowed the most horrible vengeance on all three, but sooncalmed himself sufficiently to see that Count Edouard could not stir,and his perturbed wits then sought to learn the extent of his master'sinjury. Still he swore at Marigny.

  "Damn you!" he cried hoarsely, "you would have stabbed him as he waslying there if these pals of yours hadn't stopped you!"

  At last, recovering some degree of self-possession, he assisted theastounded and rather frightened Frenchmen to carry Medenham to thewaiting carriage. One, who spoke English, asked him to help inrendering a like service to Marigny, but he refused with an oath, andthe others dared not press him, he looked so fierce and threatening.

  "Is he dead?" he asked the doctor brokenly.

  There could be no mistaking the meaning of the words, for his red-shoteyes glared fixedly at the limp body of his master. The other shookhis head, but pointed in the direction of Calais, as though tosuggest that the sooner the injured man was taken to some place wherehis wound could be properly attended to, the better would be thefaint chance of life that remained. By this time the seconds wereapproaching, and Marigny had seemingly recovered to a slight extentfrom the knockout blow which he had received so unexpectedly.

  The doctor, who was the only self-collected person present, pointed tothe bicycle.

  "Hotel," he said emphatically. "Go hotel--quick!"

  Dale was minded not to desert his master, but the anxiety in thedoctor's face warned him that the request ought to be obeyed. If thespark of vitality still flickering in Medenham's body was to bepreserved not a moment should be lost in preparing a room for hisreception.

  Gulping down his anguish, Dale mounted and made off. At a distant bendin the road he turned his head and looked back along that dismalheath. All five were packed in the cab, and the coachman was urgingthe unwilling horse into a trot.

  * * * * *

  And what of Cynthia?

  The break in the weather was the one thing needed to put an abrupt endto all pretense of enjoyment so far as the Windermere tourists wereconcerned. Strained relations existed from the moment Vanrenen arrivedat Chester. For the first time in her life, Cynthia thought that herfather was not acting with the open-eyed justice which she expectedfrom him, and for the first time in his life Peter Vanrenen harboredan uneasy suspicion that his daughter had not been quite candid withhim. It was impossible, of course, in the close intimacy of long hoursspent together in a touring car, that there should not be manyreferences to Fitzroy and the Mercury. They were inevitable as themilestones, and Vanrenen, who was just as prone as other men tolook at facts through his own spectacles, failed to understand howan intelligent girl like his daughter could remain in constantassociation with Viscount Medenham for five days, and yet not discoverhis identity.

  More than once, indeed, notwithstanding the caution exercised by theothers--engaged now in a tacit conspiracy to dispel memories of afoolish entanglement from the girl's mind--the identification ofFitzroy with the young Viscount trembled on the very lip of discovery.Thus, on Friday, when they had motored to Grasmere, and had gatheredbefore lunch in the lounge of the delightfully old-fashioned RothayHotel, Vanrenen happened to pick up an illustrated paper, containing apage of pictures of the Scarland short-horns.

  Now, being a busy man, he gave little heed to the terminologicalconvolutions of names among the British aristocracy. He had not theslightest notion that the Marquis of Scarland's wife was Medenham'ssister, and, with the quick interest of the stock-breeder, he pointedout to Mrs. Leland an animal that resembled one of his own pedigreebulls, at present waxing fat on the Montana ranch. For the momentMrs. Leland herself had forgotten the relationship between the twomen.

  "I met the Marquis last year at San Remo," she said heedlessly."Anyone more unlike a British peer you could not imagine. If Iremember rightly, he is a blunt, farmer-like person, but his wifeis very charming. By the way, who was she?"

  Such a question could not pass Mrs. Devar unanswered.

  "Lady Betty Fitzroy," she chirped instantly.

  Cynthia, who was looking through the window at the square-toweredlittle church, throned midst the somber yews which shelter the gravesof Wordsworth and his kin, caught the odd conjuncti
on ofnames--"Betty" and "Fitzroy."

  "Who is that you are speaking of, father?" she asked, though with alistless air that Medenham had never seen during any minute of thosefive happy days.

  "The Marquis of Scarland--the man from whom I bought some cattle a fewyears ago," he said, trusting to the directness of the reply to carryit through unchallenged.

  Cynthia's brows puckered in a reflective frown.

  "That is odd," she murmured.

  "What is odd?" asked her father, while Mrs. Leland bent over theperiodical to hide a smile of embarrassment.

  "Oh, just a curious way of running in grooves people have in thiscountry. They call towns after men and men after towns."

  She was about to add that Fitzroy had told her of a sister Betty whowas married to a man named Scarland, a breeder of pedigree stock, butchecked the impulse. For some reason known best to her father, he didnot seem to wish any mention to be made of the vanished chauffeur, butshe did not gauge the true extent of his readiness to drop the subjecton that occasion.

  Mrs. Leland looked up, caught his eye with a smile, and asked how manymiles it was to Thirlmere. Cynthia's thoughts brooded again on poetsand lonely graves, and the danger passed.

  Mrs. Devar, in these days, had recovered her complacency. The lettershe wrote from Symon's Yat had reached Vanrenen from Paris, and itshearty disapproval of Fitzroy helped to re-establish his good opinionof her. She heard constantly, too, from Marigny and her son. Bothagreed that the comet-like flight of Medenham across their horizon wasrapidly losing its significance. Still, she was not quite happy. Mrs.Leland's advent had thrust her into the background, for the Americanwidow was rich, good-looking, and cultured, and the flow of small talkbetween the newcomer and Cynthia left her as hopelessly out of rangeas used to be the case when that domineering Medenham would lean backin the car and say things beyond her comprehension, or murmur them toCynthia if she happened to be sitting by his side.

  Luncheon had ended, but the clouds which had been gathering over thelake country during the morning suddenly poured a deluge over athirsty land. Thirlmere and Ullswater and the rest of the glories ofWestmoreland that lay beyond the pass of Dunmail Raise were swallowedup in a fog of rain. Simmonds, questioned by the millionaire, admittedthat a weather-beaten native had prophesied "a week of it," more orless.

  Four Britons might have sat down and played Bridge stolidly, but threeof this quartette were Americans, and within two hours of the changein the elements, they were seated in the London-bound train atWindermere Station.

  Not one of them was really displeased because of this rapid alterationin their plans. Cynthia was ill at ease; Mrs. Leland wished to rejoinher guests at Trouville; Vanrenen, who was anxious to complete certainbusiness negotiations in Paris, believed that a complete change ofscene and new interests in life would speedily bring Cynthia back toher own cheery self; while Mrs. Devar, though the abandonment of thetour meant reversion to a cheap boarding-house, was not sorry that ithad come to an end. In London, she would be more in her element, and,at any rate, she was beginning to feel cramped through sitting threein a row in Simmonds's car, after the luxurious comfort of two in thetonneau of the Mercury.

  So it came to pass that on Friday evening, while Medenham was drivingfrom Cavendish Square to Charing Cross, Cynthia was crossing London ona converging line from St. Pancras to the Savoy Hotel. Strange,indeed, was the play of Fate's shuttle that it should have so nearlyreunited the unseen threads of their destinies! Again, a triflingcircumstance conspired to detain Vanrenen in London. One of hisbusiness associates in Paris, rendered impatient by the failure of thegreat man to return as quickly as he had promised, arrived in Englandby the afternoon service from the Gare du Nord, and was actuallystanding in the foyer of the hotel when Vanrenen entered with theothers. As a result of this meeting, the journey to Paris arranged forSaturday was postponed till Sunday, and on this trivial base wasdestined to be built a very remarkable edifice.

  It chanced that Mrs. Leland, too, decided to have a day in London, andshe and Cynthia went out early. They returned to lunch at the hotel,and the girl, pleading lack of appetite, slipped out alone to buy acopy of Milton's poems. From the book-seller's she wandered into theEmbankment Gardens.

  She was a dutiful daughter, and had resolved to obey without questionher father's stern command not to enter again into communication witha man of whom he so strongly disapproved. But she was not content,for all that, and the dripping trees and rain-sodden flowers seemednow to accord with her distraught mood. The fine, though not bright,interval that had tempted her forth soon gave way to another shower,and she ran for shelter into the Charing Cross Station of theMetropolitan Railway. She stood in one of the doorways looking outdisconsolately over the river, when a taxicab drove up and depositedits occupant at the station. Then some unbidden impulse led her tohail the driver.

  "Take me to Cavendish Square," she said.

  "What number, miss?" he asked.

  "No number. Just drive slowly round the square and return to the SavoyHotel."

  He eyed her curiously, but made no comment. Soon she was speeding upRegent Street, bent on gratifying the truly curious whim of seeingwhat manner of residence it was that Fitzroy occupied in London. Fatehad failed in her weaving during the previous evening, but on thepresent occasion she combined warp and weft without any error.

  The cab was crawling past the Fairholme mansion, and Cynthia'sastonished eyes were regarding its style and general air ofmagnificence with some degree of heart-sinking--for it did thenseem to be true that Mrs. Devar's original estimate of Fitzroy wascorrect--when a man sprang out of another taxi in front of the door,and glanced at her while in the very act of running up the steps.Recognition was mutual. Dale muttered under his breath a whollyunjustifiable assumption as to his future state, halted dubiously,and then signaled to Cynthia's driver to stop. He strode towards heracross the road, and thrust his head through the open window.

  "Of course, miss," he said roughly, "you don't know what hashappened?"

  "No," she said, too greatly surprised to resent his strange manner.

  "Well," he growled, "somebody's been nearly killed on your account,that's all."

  "Somebody," she repeated, and her lips went white.

  "Yes, you ought to guess well enough who it is. He and that rottenFrenchman fought a duel this morning on the sands near Calais, andMarinny as good as murdered him."

  Dale's heart was sore against her as the cause of his master's plight,but even in his own distress he was quick to see the shrinking terrorin the girl's eyes.

  "Are you speaking of Mr. Fitzroy?" she demanded. "Are you telling thetruth? Oh, for Heaven's sake, man, tell me what you mean."

  "I mean what I say, miss," said he more softly. "I have left himalmost at death's door in an hotel at Calais. That damned Frenchman... I beg your pardon, miss, but I can't contain myself when I thinkof him--ran a sword through him this morning, and would have killedhim outright if he hadn't been stopped by some other gentlemen. Andnow, there he is, a-lying in the hotel, with a doctor and a nursetrying to coax the life back into him, while I had to scurry back hereto tell his people."

  Some women might have shrieked and fainted--not so Cynthia. At thatinstant there was one thing to be done, and one only. She saw the openroad, and took it without faltering or thought as to the future.

  "When is the next train to Calais?" she asked.

  "At nine o'clock to-night, miss."

  "Oh, God!" she wailed under her breath.

  Dale's voice grew even more sympathetic.

  "Was you a-thinking of going to him, miss?" he asked.

  "Would that I could fly there," she moaned.

  He scratched the back of his ear, for it was by such means that Dalesought inspiration.

  "Dash it all!" he cried. "I wish I had seen you half an hour earlier.There is a train that leaves Charing Cross at twenty minutes past two.It goes by way of Folkestone and Boulogne, and from Boulogne one canget easy to Calais. Anyhow, what
's the use of talkin'--it is toolate."

  Cynthia glanced at her watch. It was just twenty-five minutes tothree.

  "How far is Folkestone?" was the immediate demand generated by herpractical American brain.

  "Seventy-two miles," said the chauffeur, who knew his roads out ofLondon.

  "And what time does the boat leave?"

  A light irradiated his face, and he swore volubly.

  "We can do it!" he shouted. "By the Lord, we can do it! Are you game?"

  Game? The light that leaped to her eyes was sufficient answer. He toreopen the door of the cab, roaring to the driver:

  "Round that corner to the right--quick--then into the mews at theback!"

  Within two minutes the Mercury was attracting the attention of thepolice as it whirled through the traffic towards Westminster Bridge.Dale's face was set like a block of granite. He had risked a good dealin leaving his master at the point of death at Calais; he was nowrisking more, far more, in rushing back to Calais again without havingdischarged the duty which had dragged him from that master's bedside.But he thought he had secured the best physician London could bring tothe sufferer's aid, and the belief sustained him in an action that wasalmost heroic. He was a simple-minded fellow, with a marked tastefor speed in both animals and machinery, but he had hit on onewell-defined trait in human nature when he decided that if a man isdying for the sake of a woman the presence of that woman may cure whenall else will fail.