TOTTIE TOYE
Miss Tottie Toye’s Renault was a beauty, and, after the old rickety
green car, it afforded Wynyard a real pleasure to handle it. He took
it for a trial turn to Bushey, in order to get accustomed to its
mechanism--for every motor has its peculiar little ways and its own
little tempers--and punctually at seven o’clock he was at Rockingham
Mansions, awaiting his employer, the dancer.
Presently, heralded by her high, shrill voice, she appeared,
accompanied by a melancholy young man, and bringing with her such a
reek of scent, that it almost deadened the petrol. Tottie was wrapped
in a magnificent pink velvet cloak trimmed with ermine, and, as she
stepped into the car, turned to her companion and said--
“Teddy boy, just look at my beautiful new chauffeur! Isn’t he like a
young duke?”
Teddy grunted some inaudible reply, slammed the door of the car with
unnecessary violence, and they were off. The London streets at this
hour were swarming with motor busses, cars, cabs, and carriages--people
going to dinners or the play. It was rather different to the empty
roads in the neighbourhood of Ottinge, but Wynyard managed to thread
his way to the theatre dexterously and speedily, and, when the lady
jumped out of the car at the stage door, she clapped him on the back
and said--
“You’ll do all right! Come round for me again at eleven--and don’t be
getting into any mischief.”
He touched his cap and moved away. Precisely at eleven o’clock he was
waiting, and after some delay Tottie reappeared, in a condition of the
highest excitement, screaming with laughter and carrying a gigantic
bouquet. She was accompanied by a very _prononcée_ lady and three young
men. With a good deal of noisy talking and chaffing they all packed
themselves into the car, sitting on one another’s knees, and fared to
the Savoy, where they had supper. Here again he waited outside until
twelve o’clock and closing time; and as he sat, a motionless figure,
a great deal of London life drifted by him: the rolling “Limousine,”
emblem of luxury--broken-down, hopeless-looking men--members of the
dreadful army of the unemployed--flaming women with the scarlet sign of
sin in high relief. What a diabolical existence!
At twelve his party reappeared--noisier and more hilarious than ever.
It struck him that Tottie’s lady friend and two of the young men had
had quite as much supper as was good for them. Once more they crammed
into the car, the party returned to the flat to play bridge, and he at
last was released!
So this was now his life! late hours, excursions into the country
on Sundays, trips to Brighton, to Folkestone, to Margate; he had
no leisure, for, when Tottie was not making use of the car, the
good-natured little creature--unlike Bella Parrett--lent it to her
friends, and her friends made unreasonable use of it. They were all
of the same class as herself: exuberant youths, who imagined that
they were seeing life; prettily painted, beautifully dressed young
women, whom the men called by their christian names; certain elderly
gentlemen; and now and then a portly dame, who was spoken of as “Ma.”
On one occasion, in Bond Street, Tottie and some of her vivacious
companions were shopping--a showy party, with loud voices and louder
clothes, scrambling into the motor at the door of a shop--when who
should pass by but Sir Richard Wynyard! He glared at them, then glanced
at the chauffeur. _What!_ his own nephew in the middle of such a rowdy
crew! Owen touched his cap to him, but he vouchsafed no notice, and,
with a glassy stare, stalked on.
Another time, as Wynyard was waiting outside a theatre, Aurea
Morven and her uncle were coming out. She looked so pretty--lovely,
indeed--in a white cloak with a knot of silver ribbon in her dark hair.
Fortunately, she did not recognise him, for at the moment Tottie dashed
out of the stage door in a violent hurry, followed by two women and a
man, and called authoritatively--
“Go ahead, Owen, old boy! The ‘Troc.’ as hard as you can tear!”
Wynyard had been in the present situation for six weeks, and, although
the pay was good and punctual, he found the life wearing. He never knew
what it was to have a day off--or any time to himself; other employés
had Sundays--Sunday to him was the heaviest day in the whole week.
Tottie, besides her professional engagements, appeared to live in an
irregular round of luncheons, suppers, bridge, and balls--of a certain
class. She was madly extravagant, and seemed to take a peculiar delight
in throwing away her money. The sallow-cheeked parlour-maid, who had a
fancy for Wynyard, and generally contrived to have a word with him when
she came downstairs with cloaks or shoes--informed him in confidence
that “the missus was a-goin’ it!”
“But what can you expect?” she asked, with her nose in the air. “Her
mother kept a tripe shop; she ain’t no class! Of course the money’s
good as long as it’s there; but I don’t fancy these sort of fast
situations. Give _me_ gentry.”
“But Mrs. Foote’s all right,” protested Wynyard; “it’s her friends that
are such a queer lot--and, I’m afraid, they cheat her.”
“You bet they do! And as to her being all right--I should say she was
all wrong, if you ask _me_. She’s no more Mrs. Cavendish Foote than
I am; she was divorced three years ago. Cavendish Foote--he was a
young fool on the Stock Exchange; she broke him, and now he’s gone to
America.”
An exceedingly unpleasant idea had lately been born in Owen’s mind; it
was this--that his employer had taken a fancy to _him_. She leant with
unnecessary weight on his arm when she stepped in and out of the motor;
summoned him to her sitting-room on various pretexts to give him notes;
offered cigarettes, talked to him confidentially, and begged him “to
look upon her as a friend.”
“I like you, Owen, I swear I do, and I’d do a lot for you, so I would
too--and don’t you make any mistake about that!”
Wynyard found this state of affairs extremely embarrassing--especially
when they went for trips into the country alone, and, wrapped up in
furs, she would come and sit beside him, and tell him of all her
successes; stop at inns, order lunch, and invite him to share the meal,
and drink champagne! But this he steadily declined. The cooler and more
reserved he was, naturally the more _empressé_ she became; and one of
her pals, in his hearing, had loudly chaffed her on being “_mashed on
her chauffeur_.”
Once or twice, she found some one to mind the car, and gave him a
ticket for the theatre, in order that he might witness her performance.
Tottie really was marvellous; it was no wonder that she was earning two
hundred pounds a week! Her dancing, her agility, her vivacity, and her
impudence, enraptured each nightly audience. There was something in her
gaiety and her unstudied animation that reminded him of Aurea Morven;
yet to think of the two in the same moment was neither more or less
than profanation--the one was a sort of irresponsible imp, whilst the
other resembled a beautiful and benevolent fairy.
It was early in December, Tottie had run over to Paris with Mr. Cloake
and suitable pals, and Wynyard had got his neck out of the collar for
a few days. In fact, he had insisted on a holiday, and treated himself
to a dinner at his club. Here he met some old friends--that is to say,
young men of his own age, who had been at Eton, or in the Service with
him. He always looked well turned out, and none of them ever thought of
asking “What are you doing now?” except a schoolfellow, who said--
“I say, old man, we don’t often see _you_ here! What’s your job? I know
the uncle has cut up rusty, and that you are on your own. Fellows say
that you are down in some big steel works at Sheffield, and they have
seen you out with the hounds.”
“No, they’re wrong--that’s a bad shot. I don’t mind telling you, old
pal, that I’m a _chauffeur_.”
His friend stared, and then burst out into a roar of laughter.
“Yes, I’m the chauffeur of the well-known Tottie Toye.”
This information seemed to leave the other not only solemn, but
speechless--which being the case, Wynyard went on to impart to him in
confidence all the particulars of his uncle’s manifesto, and how he
was endeavouring to keep himself in independence, without as much as a
penny stamp from one of his relatives.
“I’ve done eight months,” he said, “and I’ve saved thirty pounds. I
seem to see the Winning Post.”
“By George!” exclaimed his friend, “I don’t know how you can stick it.
Fancy being mixed up with Tottie and her crowd!”
“Oh, for that matter, I’ve nothing to say to them. ‘Needs must when the
devil drives,’ and the pay is good.”
“I believe Tottie has a mania for spending money. She has been twice
married; her extravagance is crazy, and her generosity boundless--of
course, she is robbed all round. Now she has got into the hands of a
fellow called Cloake--and unless I’m mistaken the end is near. Get out
of it as soon as you can, Wynyard, my friend.”
“I believe I shall. I can’t say it’s a job I fancy.”
“Look here, I’ve an idea. There’s a friend of mine--Masham--an
enormously rich chap, a bachelor, mad keen about motoring--racing, you
know. He was in the Paris to Berlin race--and has been over to Long
Island--and on the slightest provocation would be off to Timbuctoo!
He’s looking for a man, not so much to drive--but, of course, he must
be a chauffeur--as to go about with him--a gentleman. I should say it
was the very billet for you--_if_ he doesn’t kill you! It’s not every
one’s job; he is so confoundedly rash, and is always ready to take
risks.”
“I don’t mind that,” said Wynyard; “‘nothing venture--nothing have.’”
“He wants a smart chap--a well-bred ’un--with no nerves. Shall I
undertake the delicate negotiation? I expect you’d suit him down to the
ground!”