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 pass 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 ladyship 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."
This brief conversation had illumined at least one dubious page in the
records of the past few days. Medenham realized now that his aunt had
emptied the vials of her wrath on Mrs. Devar, but, that lady being
absent in body, the Earl had received the full dose. It indicated
somewhat the line he should follow when, breakfast ended, his father
suggested that they should smoke a cigarette in the library.
Once there, and the door closed, the Earl established himself on the
hearth-rug with his back to the fireplace. It was high summer, and the
lazy London heat crept in through the open windows; but the hearth-rug
constituted a throne, a seat of Solomon; had his lordship stood
anywhere else he would have felt lacking in authority.
"Now, George, my boy, tell me all about it," he said, with a genially
paternal air that lent itself admirably to the discussion of a
youngster's transgressions.
Medenham had a sense of humor denied to his well-meaning sire. He
recalled the last time he had heard those words. He and another sprig
of nobility had come up to London from Winchester without leave in
order to attend a famous glove contest between heavyweights, and there
had been wigs on the green before an irate head-master would even
deign to flog them. That had happened twelve years ago, almost to a
day. Since then he had fought through a great war, had circled the
globe, had sought the wild places of earth and its monsters in their
lairs. He knew men and matters as his father had never known them. A
Prime Minister had urged him to adopt a political career, and had
virtually promised him a colonial under-secretaryship as soon as he
entered parliament. He held the D.S.O., had been thanked by the Royal
Geographical Society for a paper on Kilimanjaro, and cordially invited
by the Foreign Office to send in any further notes in his possession.
Months later, he heard that Sir Somebody Something was deeply
interested in his comments on the activity of a certain Great Power in
the neighborhood of Britain's chief coaling-stations in the Indian
Ocean.
The absurdity of a family conclave in which he should again be treated
as a small boy, and admonished to apologize and be flogged, while it
brought a smile to his lips, banished any notion of angry
remonstrance.
"By 'all about it' I suppose you mean that you wish to hear what I
have been doing since last Wednesday," he said pleasantly. "Well, dad,
I have obeyed your orders. You asked me to find a wife worthy to reign
at Fairholme. I have succeeded."
"You don't mean to say you have _married_ her!" shouted the Earl, in a
purple upheaval of rage whose lightning-like abruptness was not its
least amazing feature. Certainly Medenham was taken aback by it.
Indeed, he was almost alarmed, though he had no knowledge of apoplexy
in the family.
"I have not even asked the lady yet," he said quietly. "I hope--I
think--that the idea will not be disagreeable to her; but a future
Countess of Fairholme is not to be carried by storm in that fashion.
We must get to know her people----"
"D----n her people!" broke in the older man. "Have you taken leave of
your wits, George, to stand there and talk such infernal nonsense?"
"Steady, dad, steady!" and the quiet voice grew still more calm,
though the forehead wrinkled a little, and there was an ominous
tightening of the lips. "You must take that back. Peter Vanrenen is
quite as great a man in the United States as you are in England--may I
even say, without disrespect, a man who has won a more commanding
position?--and his daughter, Cynthia, is better fitted to adorn a
coronet than a great many women now entitled to wear one."
The Earl laughed, with an immoderate display of an amusement he was
far from feeling.
"Are these Wiggy Devar's credentials? By gad, that shabby little
wretch is flying high when she tries to bag my son for her pretty
protegee!"
"Don't you think it would be wiser, sir, if you allowed me to tell you
exactly what has taken place since we met last?"
"What good purpose will that serve? I have heard the whole story from
Lady Porthcawl, from Dale, from that Frenchman--and Heaven knows I
have been well coached in Mrs. Devar's antecedents by your Aunt Susan.
George, I am surprised that a man of your sound commonsense should
permit yourself to be humbugged so egregiously.... Yes, yes, I am
aware that an accident led you to take Simmonds's place in the
first instance, but can't you see that the Devar creature must have
gone instantly on her bended knees--if she ever does pray, which I
doubt--and thanked Providence for the chance that enabled her to
dispose of an earldom?... At a pretty stiff price, too, I'll be bound,
if the truth were told. Really, George, notwithstanding your very
extensive travels and wide experiences, you are nothing but a kid in
the hands of a managing woman of the Devar variety."
"I am not being given in marriage by Mrs. Devar, I assure you," began
Medenham, smiling anxiously, for the fatherly "tell me all about it"
was not being borne out by the Earl's petulance.
"No. You can trust me to take care of that."
"But are you treating me quite fairly? Why should the distorted
version of my affairs given by Lady Porthcawl, a woman whom Cynthia
Vanrenen could not possibly receive in her house, and by Count Edouard
Marigny, a disappointed fortune-hunter, be accepted without cavil,
while my own story is not listened to? I leave Dale out of it. I am
sure he told you the actual truth----"
"By the way, where is he now?"
"Somewhere in the neighborhood of Chester, I believe."
"Have you discharged him?"
"No--why should I?"
"Because I wish it."
"Why in the world are you so unreasonable, dad?"
"Unreasonable! By gad, I like that. Have _I_ been gallivanting round
the country with some----"
"Stop! You are going too far. This conversation must cease here and
now. If you have any respect for yourself, though not for me, you must
adjourn the discussion till after you have met Miss Vanrenen and her
father."
For the first time in his life, the Earl of Fairholme realized his
limitations; he was actually cowed for a few fleeting seconds. But the
arrogant training of the county bench, the seignory of a vast estate,
the unquestioning deference accorded to his views by thousands of men
who tacitly admitted that what he said must be right because he was a
lord--these excellent stays of self-conceit came to his help, and he
snorted indignantly:
"I absolutely refuse to meet either of them."
"That disposes of the whole difficulty for the hour," said Medenham,
turning to leave the room.
"Wait, George.... I insist----"
Perhaps a clearer glimpse of a new and, to him, utterly unsuspected
force in his son's character withheld the imperious command that
trembled on the Earl's lips. Medenham halted. The two looked at each
other, and the older man fidgeted with his collar, which seemed to
have grown tight for his neck.
"Come, come, let us not leave a friendly argument in this unsettled
state," he said after an awkward pause. "My only thought is for your
interests, you know. Your lifelong happiness is at stake, to say
nothing of the future of our house."
"I recognize those considerations so fully that I am going now in
order to shirk even the semblance of a quarrel between us."
"Why not thresh things out? Your aunt will be here in a couple of
hours----"
"You refuse to hear a word. You argue with a hammer, sir. I shall send
a note to Lady St. Maur telling her that she has done mischief in
plenty without adding fuel to the fire by coming here to-day--unless
_you_ wish to consult her, that is?"
The Earl, already afraid of his sister, was rapidly learning to fear
his son.
"Dash it all! don't tell me you are off on this d----d motoring trip
once more?" he cried passionately.
Medenham smiled, even in his anger.
"See how willfully you misunderstand me," he said. "I came away from
Miss Vanrenen solely because matters had gone far enough under rather
absurd conditions. She knows me only as Fitzroy, the chauffeur; it is
time to drop masquerading. Romance is delightful in its way--perhaps
there might well be more of it in this commonplace world of ours--but
none of us can afford to play the knight errant too long, so when next
I meet Cynthia it will be as a man who occupies a social position that
renders our marriage at least possible."
Lord Fairholme threw out his hands in a gesture of sheer bewilderment.
"And do you honestly believe that?" he exclaimed.
"I am quite sure of it. I may have to jump a very big fence indeed
when she learns the harmless deception I have practiced on her, but I
do hope most devoutly that she will look at the facts more calmly than
you have done."
The Earl took a turn or two on the hearth-rug, from which wisdom had
temporarily taken flight. He thought now he could see a way to avoid
open rupture, and he believed, quite rightly, that his son was in no
mood to accept further disillusionment.
"At any rate," he grumbled, "you are cutting a discred--sorry, I
didn't quite mean that--you are not rushing away from town again in
pursuit of the young lady?"
"No."
"When is she due back in London?"
"On Sunday."
"And you will not see her before that day?"
"I believe not--in fact, I am fairly certain of it. Mrs. Leland joined
her at Chester last night, so there should be no curtailment of the
tour."
The Earl started.
"Mrs. Leland! Not the Mrs. Leland of Paris, and San Remo?"
"Yes. By hazard, as it were, you have let me tell you why I came
away--one of the reasons. Mrs. Leland would have recognized me at
once."
"Dear me, dear me, this is a beastly muddle! Look here, George,
promise me you won't do anything stupid for a day or so.... I have
been so pestered by people ... I don't know which way to turn. Why not
stay and meet your aunt?"
"Because I might lose my temper with _her_."
"Ah, well, she _is_ somewhat trying when it comes to family matters.
Still, I may tell her----"
"That she ought to mind her own business? By all means. And oblige me,
too, by telling her that she would confer a boon on humanity if she
persuaded Lady Porthcawl to go to--Jericho--or Tokio--or wherever that
ass, Porthcawl, may happen to be."
"Millicent Porthcawl was at Bournemouth, you know."
"Yes, I spoke to her. She had the impudence to introduce Ducrot to
Cynthia."
"By gad! Did she, though? I heard something from Scarland about that
affair. Well, well--there's no accounting for tastes. I suppose
you realize, George, that I am keeping back a good deal of the
tittle-tattle which reached me during your absence. I don't want to
hurt your feelings----"
"Thank you. The absurdity of the present position lies in the fact
that I shall have all my work cut out to hold your wrath against these
people within bounds when once you have met Cynthia."
"Oh, I have no doubt she is pretty, and fascinating, and all that sort
of thing," growled the Earl, in a grudging access of good humor.
"Confound it, that is why we are putty in their hands, George. Don't
forget I've had fifty-five years of 'em. Gad! I could tell you
things--all right, let us chuck the dispute for the time. Shall I see
you at dinner?"
"Yes--if you are alone."
"There will be no women. I'll take devilish good care of that.
Scarland is in town for the show, and he is bringing Sir Ashley Stoke,
but Betty is nursing a youngster through the measles. Good Lord! I'm
glad your aunt didn't get hold of Betty!"
Now, Lord Fairholme's diatribes against the sex were not quite
justified. Notorious as a lady-killer in his youth, in middle age he
was as garrulous a gossip as Mrs. Devar herself. Indeed, he had an
uneasy consciousness that Lady St. Maur might turn and rend him if
stress were laid only on _her_ efforts to thwart his son's unexpected
leaning towards matrimony. During every yard of the journey from
Chester to London he had tried to extract information from Marigny,
and the sharp-witted Frenchman had enjoyed himself hugely in
displaying a well-feigned reluctance to yield to the Earl's probing.
It was just as much a part of his scheme to make the threatened
alliance as objectionable on the one side as on the other. By
painting Medenham as an unprincipled adventurer he had succeeded in
alarming Vanrenen; his sly hints, derogatory of both Cynthia and her
father, now fanned the flame of suspicion kindled in Lord Fairholme's
breast by his sister's remonstrances. Unfortunately, his lordship had
gone straight to Curzon Street and told Susan St. Maur every word that
Marigny had said, and a good deal that he had not said, but had left
to be inferred from a smirk, a malicious glance, an airy gesture.
Perhaps the two elderly guardians of the Fairholme line were not
wholly to blame for their interference. The title descended through
male heirs only, and Medenham's marriage thereby attained an added
importance. Lord Fairholme himself had been singularly fortunate in
escaping a mesalliance--several, in fact--and it was the one great
trouble in his otherwise smooth and self-contained life that his
high-born and most admirable countess had died soon after the birth
of her second child, the present Marchioness of Scarland. Such a man
would naturally be the most jealous scrutineer of the pretensions of
his son's chosen wife. Qualities of heart and mind would weigh light
in the scale against genealogy. To his thinking, blue blood differed
from the common red stream as the claret of some noted vintage differs
from the _vin ordinaire_ of the same year. Perhaps he had blundered on
a well-founded theory, but he certainly lacked discrimination as to
the _cru_.
Medenham did some shopping, lunched at a club, surprised his tailor by
a prolonged visit and close inspection of tweeds and broadcloths, and
successfully repressed a strong desire to write a letter. It was some
consolation to peruse for the twentieth time the four closely-written
pages on which Cynthia had set out the tour's timetable for the
benefit of Simmonds. He had not returned it, since she possessed a
copy, and in his mind's eye he followed the Mercury in its flight
up the map from end to end of industrial Lancashire, through smoky
Preston to trim Lancaster and quiet Kendal, and finally, after a long
day, to the brooding peace and serene beauty of Windermere.
At last, rousing himself from his dreaming--for he was now back in his
club again, sipping a cup of tea--he glanced at his watch. Five
o'clock--a likely hour to find Mr. Vanrenen in the hotel, if, as was
most probable, Devar's telegram to his mother was altogether mistaken
in its report of the millionaire's movements.
He meant, of course, to make himself known to Vanrenen, and go through
the whole adventure from A to Z. It should provide an interesting
story, he thought--lively as a novel in some of its chapters, and
calculated to appeal strongly to the bright intelligence of an
American. On his way to the Savoy, he tried to picture to himself just
what Cynthia's father would look like. It was a futile endeavor,
because he had never yet been able to construct a mental portrait of
any man wholly unknown to him. One day in Madras he had telephoned
to an official for leave to shoot an elephant in a Government
reservation, and a deep voice boomed back an answer. Apparently
it belonged to a man whose stature warranted his appointment as
controller of monsters, but when Medenham called in person for the
permit he found that the voice came from a lean and wizened scrap of
humanity about five feet high.
He smiled at the recollection of his dumb surprise at this apparition,
and was in the best of humors with himself when he arrived at the
inquiry office of the Savoy Hotel and asked for Mr. Peter Vanrenen.
"Left here Sunday, sir," was the answer. "He will not return for a
week."
This blow dished his hopes. He had counted strongly on gaining
Vanrenen's friendship and sympathy before Cynthia's dainty vision
met his eyes again.
"Has he gone to Paris?" he inquired.
"Can't say, sir, I'm sure. My orders are to tell callers that Mr.
Vanrenen will be in town next Tuesday."
So, if present arrangements held good, Cynthia would reach London two
days before her father. Well, he must contrive somehow to get Lady St.
Maur in a proper frame of mind. Mrs. Leland's presence would be a
positive blessing in that respect. Meanwhile, there would be no harm
done if he----
Lest prudence should conquer him a second time he sat down and wrote:
DEAR MISS VANRENEN--I hope the car is behaving in a manner
that befits the messenger of the gods, and that Dale has
justified my faith in him. I am here in fulfillment of my
promise to call on Mr. Vanrenen: unluckily, he is out of
town, and the hotel people say he is not expected back till
a day early next week. If you make any change in your
programme, or even if you have a minute to spare, though
proving yourself a true American by rigidly adhering to
schedule, please send a line to yours ever sincerely----
Once more he hesitated at the name, and contented himself by signing
"George, the Chauffeur."
The problem of an address offered some difficulty, but he boldly
declared for "91 Grosvenor Square" in a postscript, believing, and
correctly as it happened, that Cynthia shared with Sam Weller a
peculiar knowledge of London that rendered one address very like unto
another in her eyes.
The failure to meet Vanrenen was the first real drawback he had
encountered. It was irritating, at the time, but he gave little heed
to it after the first pang of disappointment had passed. Fate, which
had proved so kind during six days, did not see fit to warn him that
her smiles would now be replaced by frowns. She even lulled him into
the belief that Vanrenen's absence might prove fortunate.
"Perhaps," he fancied, "I would have rubbed him up the wrong way. He
is devoted to his daughter, and he might look on my harmless but
unavoidable guile with a prejudiced eye. In any event, I should be
compelled to go slow in analyzing Mrs. Devar's motives, and this
pertinacious Marigny seems to have been fairly intimate with him in
Paris. Yes, on the whole, it is just as well that I missed him.
Cynthia can put matters before him in a better light than is possible
to one who is an utter stranger. I must tell her, in my best American,
that it is up to her to explain Fitzroy to pap."
Before leaving the hotel he inquired for Count Edouard Marigny. He
drew a blank there. No such name had been registered during the year.
The dinner passed without noteworthy incident. Sir Ashley Stoke
condemned the Government, the Marquis of Scarland was more than
skeptical as to the prospects of grouse shooting after the deluge in
April and May, Lord Fairholme growled at the pernicious effects of
the Ground Game Act, and Medenham spoke of these things with his
lips but in his heart thought of Cynthia. The four men were in the
smoking-room, and the Earl was chaffing his son on account of his
inability to play bridge, when Tomkinson entered. He approached
Medenham.
"Dale has arrived; he wishes to see your lordship," he said in a stage
whisper.
"Dale!"
The young man sprang to his feet, and his troubled cry brought a smile
of wonderment to his brother-in-law's face.
"By Jove!" said the Marquis, "you couldn't have jumped quicker if
Tomkinson had said 'the devil' instead of 'Dale.' Who, then, is Dale?"
Medenham hurried from the room without another word. The Earl shook
his head.
"More mischief!" he muttered. "Dale is George's chauffeur. I suppose
he is mixed up in this Vanrenen muddle again."
"What muddle is that?" asked Scarland. "Is George in it?--that would
be unusual."
Fairholme suddenly bethought himself.
"Something to do with a motor," he said vaguely. "The Vanrenens are
Americans, friends of Mrs. Leland's. You remember her, Arthur, don't
you?"
"Perfectly. Is 'Vanrenen' the Peter of that ilk?"
"I think so. Yes--that is the name--Peter Vanrenen."
"Oh, _he's_ all right. If George has any dispute with him I'll settle
it in a minute. He is as straight as they make 'em--bought two of my
prize bulls three years ago for his ranch in Montana. By the way,
someone told me the other day that he has a very pretty daughter--'a
real peach' the man said. Wonder if George has seen her? Begad, he
might go farther and fare worse. We effete aristocrats can do with a
strain of new blood occasionally, eh, what?"
"'Vanrenen' sounds like a blend of old Dutch and New England," said
Sir Ashley Stoke, who was sane on all subjects save one, his pet mania
being the decay of England since the passing of the Victorian age.
The Earl helped himself to a whisky and soda. His egotism was
severely shaken. Who would have thought that a pillar of the state
like Scarland would approve of this Vanrenen girl as a match for
George, even in jest? But he had the good sense to steer clear of
explanations. When he found his voice it was to swear at the quality
of the whisky.
Medenham, meanwhile, had rushed into the hall. He expected to find
Dale there, but saw no one except the suave footman on duty. The man
opened the door.
"Dale is outside, in the car, my lord," he said.
"In the car!" That meant the bursting of a meteor in a blue sky.
Sure enough, there stood the Mercury, dusty and panting, but seemingly
gathering breath for another mighty effort if necessary.
"Come in!" shouted Medenham, on whom the first strong shadow of
impending disaster had fallen as soon as he heard those ill-omened
words "in the car."
Dale scrambled to the pavement and walked stiffly up the steps, being
weary after an almost unbroken run of one hundred and eighty miles.
He nodded to the Mercury, and the footman rang for a pageboy to mount
guard. Medenham led the way into a small anteroom and switched on the
light.
"Now," he said.
"Mr. Vanrenen kem to Chester last night in Simmond's car, my lord.
This mornin' he sent for me an' sez 'who are you?' 'The chauffeur,
sir,' sez I. 'Whose chauffeur?' sez he. 'Yours for the time,' sez I,
bein' sort of ready for him. 'Well, you can get,' sez he. 'Get what?'
sez I. 'Get out,' sez he. Of course, my lord, I knew well enough what
he meant, but I wanted to have it straight, an' I got it."
Dale's style of speech was elliptical, though he might have been
surprised if told so. For once, Medenham wished he was a loquacious
man.
"Was nothing else said?" he asked. "No message from--anyone? No reason
given? What brought Simmonds to Chester?"
"Mr. Vanrenen picked him up in Bristol at 4 a.m. yesterday, my lord.
Simmonds made out that that there Frenchman, Monsieur Marinny" (Dale
prided himself on a smattering of French), "had pitched a fine ole
tale about you. In fact, the bearings got so hot at Symon's Yat that
Simmonds chucked his job till Mr. Vanrenen sort of apologized."
"Can you be specific, Dale? You are hard to follow."
"Well, my lord, I _could_ do with a drink. It's a long road that
stretches between here an' Chester, an' I left there at ten o'clock
this morning, runnin' through any Gord's quantity of traps, an' all."
Medenham did not smile. He touched a bell, and found that Dale's
specific was a bottle of beer.
"I never set eyes on Miss Cynthia," continued the chauffeur, his wits
quickening under the soothing draught. "Another lady kem out an'
looked me up an' down. 'Yes, that is the car,' she said, an' with that
I remembered seein' her at San Remo. Mrs. Devar seemed as if she
wanted to say somethink, but she daren't, because Mr. Vanrenen's eye
was on her. He made no bones about it, but told me to hike back to
London the minnit Simmonds got the carrier off."
"I am quite clear on that point. What I really want to know is the
reason behind Simmonds's statement about Count Marigny's
tale-pitching, as you term it."
"Oh, of course Mr. Vanrenen didn't _say_ anythink. Simmonds was what
you call puttin' two an' two together. From what Mr. Vanrenen arsked
him it was easy enough to get at the Frenchman's dirty tricks."
"Tell me how Simmonds put it?" said Medenham, with the patience of a
great anger. Dale scratched the back of his ear.
"For one thing, my lord, Mr. Vanrenen wanted to know if you was reelly
a viscount. It was a long time before Simmonds could get him to
believe that the accident in Down Street wasn't a put up job. Then, he
was sure you stopped in Symon's Yat just in order to throw Mr. Marinny
off your track. Simmonds is no fool, my lord, an' he guesses that the
Frenchman brought Mr. Vanrenen hot-foot from Paris so as to--to----"
Dale grinned, and sought inspiration in the bottom of an empty glass.
"Well, my lord, excuse _me_," he said, "but you know what I mean."
Medenham completed the sentence.
"So as to prevent me from marrying Miss Cynthia."
"Exactly what Simmonds an' me said, my lord."
"He will not succeed, Dale."
"I never thought he would. Once your lordship is set on a thing, well,
that thing occurs."
"Thank you. Good-night!"
Medenham did not feel equal to facing the men in the smoking-room
again. He went out, walked up Oxford Street and across the park, and
reached his room about midnight. Next day he devoted himself to work.
In view of the new and strange circumstances that had arisen he
believed confidently that Cynthia would reply to his letter by return
of post, and there should be no chance of delay, because she meant to
stay two days at Windermere, making that town the center of excursions
through lakeland.
While the son was seeking forgetfulness in classifying a collection of
moths and night flies caught during a week at La Turbie, the father
found occupation in prosecuting diligent inquiries into the social and
financial standing of Peter Vanrenen. As a result, the Earl visited
Lady St. Maur, and, as a further result, Lady St. Maur wrote a very
biting and sarcastic note to "My dear Millicent." Moreover, she
decided not to press her nephew to visit her at present.
Next morning, Medenham was up betimes. He heard the early postman's
knock, and Tomkinson in person brought the letters.
"There's nothink in the name of Fitzroy, my lord," said he, having
been warned in that matter overnight.
Medenham took his packet with the best grace possible, trying to
assure himself that Cynthia had written at a late hour and had missed
the first London mail in consequence. Glancing hurriedly through the
correspondence, however, his glance fell on a letter bearing the
Windermere postmark. It was addressed, in an unfamiliar hand, to
"Viscount Medenham," and the writing was bold, well-formed, and
business-like. Then he read:
SIR--My daughter received a note from you this morning, and
she was about to answer it when I informed her that she was
communicating with a person who had given her an assumed
name. I also asked her, as a favor, to permit me to reply in
her stead. Now, I have this to say--Miss Vanrenen does not
know, and will never know from me, the true nature of the
trick you played on her. You bear the label of a gentleman,
so it is my earnest hope--indeed, my sincere belief--that
you will respect the trust she placed in you, and not expose
her to the idle chatter of clubs and scandal-spreading
drawing-rooms. During two days I have been very bitter
against you. To-day I take a calmer view, and, provided that
neither my daughter nor I ever see or hear of you again, I
shall be willing to credit that you acted more in a spirit
of youthful caprice than from any foul desire to injure the
good repute of one who has done no harm to you or yours.
I am,
Yours truly,
PETER VANRENEN.
Medenham read and reread this harsh letter many times. Then, out of
brooding chaos, leaped one fiery question--where was Marigny?
The gate which Cynthia's father had shut and bolted in his face did
not frighten him. He had leaped a wall of brass and triple steel when
he won Cynthia Vanrenen's love in the guise of an humble chauffeur, so
it was unbelievable that the barrier interposed by a father's
misguided wrath should prove unsurmountable.
But Marigny! He wanted to feel his fingers clutching that slender
throat, to see that pink and white face empurple and grow black under
their strain, and it was all-important that the scoundrel should be
brought to book before the Vanrenens returned to London. He gave a
passing thought to Mrs. Leland, it was true. If she shared with
Vanrenen the silly little secret of his identity, it was beyond
comprehension that she should let her friend hold the view that he
(Medenham) was merely an enterprising blackguard.
Still, these considerations were light as thistle-down compared with
the need of finding Marigny. He and Dale began to hunt London for the
Frenchman. But they had to deal with a wary bird, who would not break
covert till it suited his own convenience. And then, the sublime cheek
of the man! On the Friday morning, when Medenham rose with a fixed
resolve to obtain the services of a private detective, he received
this note:
DEAR VISCOUNT MEDENHAM--I have a notion, as our mutual
acquaintance Mr. Vanrenen would say (Do you know him? Now
that I consider the matter, I think not), that you are
anxious to meet me. We have things to discuss, have we not?
Well, then I await you at the above address.
Yours to command,
EDOUARD MARIGNY.