A NEW SITUATION
The venerable green motor, whose value by an expert had been so
brutally assessed, was not considered worth repair, yet Miss Bella
Parrett could not endure to part with a possession which had cost
five hundred pounds, for fifteen sovereigns; so it was thrust into a
coach-house, shut in the dark with cobwebs and rats, and abandoned to
its fate.
Miss Susan, who enjoyed motoring and liked the chauffeur, was
exceedingly anxious that Bella should purchase another car, but of
course she was powerless, being next to penniless herself; indeed, at
the outside, her income amounted to one hundred a year--less income
tax. The mere word _motor_ seemed now to operate upon her wealthy
sister as a red rag to a bull; for the loss of five hundred pounds
rankled in her heart like a poisoned arrow.
The old lady had decided for a brougham, a middle-aged driver, and
a steady horse. (It may here be added that the animal, which was
coal-black and had a flowing tail, came out of the stables of an
undertaker, and was as sedate and slow as any funeral procession could
desire.)
As for Wynyard, his fate was sealed! A chauffeur without a car is as a
swan upon a turnpike road. He had had visions of proposing himself as
coachman--for he did not wish to leave the village, and the vicinity
of Aurea Morven--but Miss Parrett had other plans. In her opinion Owen,
the chauffeur, was too good-looking to remain about the place--on
account of the maids--and indeed her sister Susan treated him with most
shocking familiarity, and spoke to him almost as if he were her equal.
Her quick little eyes had also noticed in church that, during her
brother-in-law’s most eloquent sermon, the chauffeur’s attention was
concentrated upon her niece Aurea; and so, without any preamble, she
called him into the library and handed him his pay, a month in advance,
promised a first-rate reference, and waved him from her presence.
And Wynyard’s occupation was gone! There would be no more expeditions
in the ramshackle old motor, no more potting of geraniums for Miss
Susan, no more clipping of hedges, or singing in the choir. He must
depart.
Departures, to be effective, should be abrupt; possibly Wynyard was
unconscious of this, but the following day he left for London; his
yellow tin box went over in a cart to Catsfield, whilst he walked to
the station across the fields by the same road as he had come. His
absence caused an unexpected blank in the little community; the Hogbens
regretted him sorely, he was such a cheery inmate, and gave no trouble.
His absence was deplored at the Drum; the village dogs looked for him
in vain; his voice was missed in the choir; other people missed him who
shall be nameless; and Joss howled for a week.
Wynyard had written to his sister to inform her that, owing to the
breakdown of the dilapidated old car, he was once more out of a job,
and found, in reply, that she was on the eve of sailing for America.
He went round to see her in Mount Street, two days before she started.
“You are looking remarkably fit, Owen,” she said, “and the Parretts
can’t say too much for you; indeed, in Susan’s letter I observe a tone
of actual distress! Six months of the time have passed. I suppose you
have saved a little money?”
“I have twenty pounds in the bank, and a couple of sovereigns to go on
with. Of course I must look out for another billet at once.”
“And on this occasion you will take with you a really well-earned
character. You have no debts and no matrimonial entanglements--eh? What
about Miss Morven?”
“I’ve never laid eyes on her since I saw you.”
“How is that?”
“She’s been in London.”
“And now _you_ are here--ah!”
“I didn’t follow her, as you seem to suppose. I wasn’t likely to get
another billet in Ottinge, and anyway, I was a bit tired of having Miss
Parrett’s heel on my neck.”
“Tired of ‘ordering yourself humbly and lowly to all your betters,’
poor boy! But to return to the young lady; are you still thinking of
her?”
Was he not always thinking of her? But he merely nodded.
“You haven’t written?”
“No; I’m not such a sweep as all that!”
“But, Owen, didn’t you wring a sort of half promise from the
unfortunate girl? I know it was only ‘perhaps,’ but _château qui
parle--femme qui écoute_.”
“I think it will be all right.”
“And that her ‘perhaps’ is as good as another’s solemn vow! I must say
you show extraordinary confidence in yourself and in her, and yet you
scarcely know one another.”
“No, not in the usual dancing, dining-out, race-going style; I give
in to that, or, indeed, in the ordinary way at all. She only saw me
driving or washing the motor, or doing a bit of gardening.”
“And you think you were so admirable in these occupations that you
captured her heart! Owen, I’m seeing you in quite a new light, and
I think you are deceiving yourself. I expect the young woman has
forgotten you by this time. London has--attractions.”
“Time will tell; anyhow, she’s refused the great Bertie Woolcock.”
“No!” incredulously, “who told you? When did you hear it?”
“It was all over Ottinge a week ago, and I heard it at the Drum. I was
also given to understand that Miss Parrett was fit to be tied!”
“If she had an inkling of her late chauffeur’s pretensions, a strait
waistcoat would hardly meet the occasion. How I wish we could take
you with us to America; but it’s not in the bond. Martin has a great
deal of capital invested out there; he is not very strong, and after
we have put all his business through, we are going to spend the winter
in Florida. We shall not be back before April, and then I will keep
my promise. I am so sorry, dear old boy, that I shall be out of the
country while you are ‘dreeing your weird’ and not able to help you;
but of course Uncle Dick’s great object is for you to learn absolute
independence. I will give you my permanent address and a code-book, and
if anything happens for good or bad, you must cable. We have let this
house for six months--to friends. We may as well have it aired, and
have the good rent! Every one lets now--even dukes and duchesses! I
wonder what your next billet will be? You had better advertise.”
“What shall I say?” he asked.
“Let me think.” After a moment she rose and went to her writing-table,
scribbled for a few moments, and brought him the following: ‘As
chauffeur, smart young man, experienced, aged 26, steady, well
recommended, wants situation. Apply---- Office of this paper.’ “Just
send this to the _Car_, the _Morning Post_, the _Field_, _Country
Life_; it will cost you altogether about twenty-five shillings, and
I’ll pay for it.”
“No, no, Sis,” he protested, “that’s not in the bond. And, as it is,
you are keeping up my club subscription.”
“Pooh!” she exclaimed, “what’s that? I hope this time you will get
into a nice rich family who have a good car, and that you will be able
to have a little more variety than in your last place, and no young
ladies. You will be sure and write to me every week?”
At this moment the door opened and Sir Martin Kesters entered, and
paused in the doorway.
“Hullo, Owen, glad to see you,” holding out his hand; “so you are back?”
“Only temporarily--for a day or two.”
“You’ve done six months, and the worst is over.”
“Well, I hope so; but one never can tell.”
“Upon my word, I don’t know how you stood it. Leila described the
place. I’m not a gay young fellow of six-and-twenty, and a week would
have seen me out of it; but six months----” and he gazed at him in
blank astonishment.
“Oh, well,” apologetically, “I’ve learnt all sorts of things. I’m
quite a fair gardener, and can clip a hedge too; I know how to physic
dogs, and fasten up the back of a blouse.”
“_Owen!_” exclaimed his sister, “_I_ am present!”
“It was only Mrs. Hogben; she had no woman in the house, and Tom’s
hands were generally dirty, and she said she looked upon me as her
other son. She is a rare good old soul, and I’d do more for her than
that.”
“You must feel as if you’d been underground, and come up for a
breather,” said his brother-in-law.
“My breather must be short; but I’m not going to take any situation
with ladies.”
“Why so proud and particular? They won’t all be Miss Parretts!”
“Oh, you women are so irregular, unpunctual, and undecided--yes, and
nervous. Even Miss Susan clawed me by the arm when we took a sharp
turn.”
“I hope the next year will fly,” said Sir Martin; “I tried my hand on
your uncle, you know--did Leila tell you? I have got him to make it
eighteen months hard labour--and eighteen months it is.”
“No! I say--that is splendid news! How awfully good of you!”
“I fancy he’s a little bit indulgent now; he finds that you can stick
it, and have brought such a magnificent character.”
“Profound regrets,” supplemented Leila, “if not tears. Ah, here is
dinner! I don’t suppose you’ve _dined_ since you were here in April;
come along, Owen, we are quite alone, and let us drink your health.”
Two days later Wynyard saw his sister and her husband off from Euston
by the White Star Express, and felt that his holiday--his breathing
time, was over. He must get into harness at once. His one hope, as he
wandered about the streets, was that he might catch sight of Aurea.
By all accounts, she was staying in Eaton Place; more than once he
walked over there, and strolled up and down on the opposite side, and
gazed at No. 303 as if he would see through the walls. But it was no
use--telepathy sometimes fails; Aurea never appeared, and, had she
done so--though he was not aware of the sad fact--she would not have
vouchsafed the smallest notice of her aunts’ former employé.
The daily post brought several replies to Owen’s advertisements. When
he had looked through and sorted them, he found that, after all, the
most tempting was from a woman--a certain Mrs. Cavendish Foote, whose
address was Rockingham Mansions, S.W.
The lady announced that she required a really smart, experienced
chauffeur for town--she had a new Renault car; he would have to live
out, and she offered him four guineas a week, and to find himself in
clothes and minor repairs. She wrote from Manchester. He replied,
forwarding his references, and she engaged him by telegram, saying she
would be back in London the following day, when he was to enter her
service, and call to interview her.
It seemed to him that this was good enough! He would rather like a job
in town for a change--the more particularly as Aurea and her father
were staying with General Morven in Eaton Place, and now and then he
might obtain a glimpse of her! He glanced through the other letters
before finally making up his mind; one was from a nobleman in the north
of Scotland, who lived thirty miles from a railway station. He thought
of the bitter Scotch winters, and how he would be cut off from all
society but that of the servants’ hall; no, that was no good. Another
was from a lady who was going on tour to the south of France and Italy.
The terms she offered were low, and she preferred as chauffeur, a
married man. There were several others, but on the whole the situation
in London seemed to be the best. He debated as to whether he should put
on his chauffeur clothes or not, but decided against it, and, hailing a
taxi-cab, found himself at Rockingham Mansions in ten minutes.
These were a fine set of flats, with carpeted stairs, imposing hall,
and gorgeously liveried attendants. He asked to be shown to Mrs.
Cavendish Foote’s address. It was No. 20 on the third floor. The door
was opened by a smart maid with a very small cap, an immensely frizzled
head, and sallow cheeks.
“To see Mrs. Cavendish Foote on business?” she repeated, and ushered
him into the tiny hall, which was decorated with a curious assortment
of pictures, stuffed heads, arms, and looking-glasses.
“Oh, bring him in here,” commanded a shrill treble voice, and Wynyard
found himself entering a large sitting-room, where he was saluted by an
overwhelming perfume of scent, and the angry barking of a tiny black
Pom. with a pink bow in his hair.
The apartment had been recently decorated; the prevailing colours
were white and pink--white walls, into which large mirrors had been
introduced--pink curtains, pink carpets, pink and white chintz. Two or
three half-dead bouquets stood in vases, an opera cloak and a feather
boa encumbered one chair, a motor coat another, several papers and
letters were strewn upon the floor, and on a long lounge under the
windows, a lady--white and pink to match her room--lay extended at full
length, her shapely legs crossed, and a cigarette in her mouth. She
wore a loose pink _negligé_--the wide sleeves exhibiting her arms bare
to the shoulder.
“Hullo!” she exclaimed, when she caught sight of Wynyard, as he emerged
from behind the screen.
“Mrs. Cavendish Foote, I presume?” he inquired.
“Right-o!” she answered, suddenly assuming a sitting posture; “and who
may _you_ be?”
“I’ve come about the situation as chauffeur.”
“The chauffeur!” she screamed. “Good Lord! why, I’m blessed if you
ain’t a toff!”
“Is that a drawback?” he asked gravely.
“Well, no--I suppose, rather an advantage! I thought you were my
manager, or I wouldn’t have let you in,” and she pulled down her
sleeves, and threw the stump of her cigarette into the fireplace. “You
see, though I’m Mrs. Cavendish Foote, my professional name is Tottie
Toye. I dare say, you have seen me on the boards?”
“Yes, I have had the pleasure,” he answered politely.
“Oh my!” she ejaculated. “Well, anyhow, you’ve got pretty manners. Can
you drive?”
“Yes.”
“I mean in London traffic. I don’t want to get smashed up, you know; if
I break a leg, where am I? How long were you in your last place?”
“Six months.”
“And your reason for leaving?”
“They gave up keeping a motor.”
“_Idiots!_” she exclaimed. “I couldn’t live without mine! Your job will
be to take me to the shop, and fetch me back at night, and to run me
about London in the daytime, and out into the country on Sundays--home
on Monday night. Do you think you can manage all that?”
“I think so.”
“The car is in the garage close to this. I dare say you would like to
take her out for a run and try her? I shall want you this evening at
seven o’clock.”
“Very well,” he agreed.
“I suppose you’re one of these gentlemen that have come down in the
world, and, of course, a chauffeur has a ripping good time. I like your
looks. By the way, what’s your name?”
“Owen.”
“And I suspect you are at this game, because you are _owing_
money--eh?” and she burst into a shriek of laughter at her own joke.
“Well, life has its ups and downs! If it was all just flat, I should be
bored stiff. I’ve had some queer old turns myself.”
At this moment the door opened, and a stout, prosperous-looking
gentleman made his appearance--red-faced, blue-chinned, wonderfully got
up, with shining hair, and shining boots.
“Hullo, Tottie!” he exclaimed; “who have we got here?” glancing
suspiciously at Owen. “A new Johnny--eh--you _naughty_ girl?”
“No, no, dear old man,” she protested; “and do you know, that you
are twenty minutes late? so I have given him your precious time.
This”--waving her hand at Owen--“is Mr. Cloake, my manager. Mr. Cloake,
let me present you to my new chauffeur.”