TAKING RISKS
Early in January Wynyard found himself on the Continent, roaming hither
and thither as dictated by the caprice of his employer. First they went
to Paris, then, leaving behind them the intricacies of the traffic,
departed from that gay city by the Port de Choisy for Mellun, Sens, and
Dijon. From Dijon (the Charing Cross of motors) they sped across to
Biarritz, over the Pyrenees to Madrid, then back to the Riviera, _via_
Carcassonne and Toulouse.
It was Masham’s custom to start at daybreak; the car was on the wing
as soon as the birds. They swept along the great straight highways,
by quiet sleeping farms, through low-hanging mists, and now and then
past an old white-faced château, staring sternly from amidst its
woods--or again, a gaudy red villa smothered in lime trees. Masham had
not overstated the case when he declared that he “took risks.” Once or
twice, when they hummed along wide, empty roads, as the wind roared
past their ears, and the engine vibration was such that every nerve was
ajar, it appeared to the chauffeur that he was trusting his life to
a madman! _Speed_, his employer’s passion, seemed to grow insatiable
with time--his appetite for eating up, with furious haste, miles and
miles and miles, and ever hurrying onwards to the unattainable horizon,
increased with indulgence. The intoxication of motion appeared to lift
him completely out of himself--and to change his personality.
Wynyard had once quoted to his friend, “Needs must when the devil
drives!” Now at times he could readily believe that the old gentleman
himself was holding the steering-wheel!
Sometimes, as they tore through villages, they left a track of
whirling feathers--the remains of a flock of geese or poultry; and
Masham boasted, to his chauffeur’s disgust, that once, between Pau and
Biarritz, he and his machine had been the death of five dogs. On more
than one occasion, when his excitement was frenzied, and he undoubtedly
saw _red_, Wynyard had endeavoured to wrest the steering-wheel from
his employer. They had several narrow escapes, and many of their skids
were neither more nor less than hair-raising. Wynyard’s face, which was
tanned and weather-beaten, displayed several new lines, and sometimes
wore a very grim expression, as the car whirled round a sharp corner
with a single and defiant hoot! But these risks were his price; it was
all in the day’s work, for three hundred a year.
It seemed strange that he was unable to find a commonplace situation,
which offered the happy medium; either he drove an old doddering car at
infrequent intervals, or he was bound to this grey racer, like Ixion to
his wheel.
Excepting on the occasions when Masham was specially reckless, the
situation was all right. They lived at the best hotels, and he sat at
the same table with his employer--whose talk was ever and always of the
car, or other people’s cars--of petrol, garages, tyres, and racing. He
was a man of one idea.
His companion-chauffeur was a good deal staggered by the large quantity
of cognac absorbed by his patron; but it never appeared to affect
his nerves, and merely rendered him unsociable and morose. His one,
all-devouring ambition was to win a race for the highest speed, and to
be known as the most daring and successful motorist in Europe! When
they stopped at hotels he herded with his kind--after the manner of
golfers and racing people--comparing cars, speeds, weights, and prices,
talking knowingly of “mushroom valves” and the “new sliding sleeve
engine.” On such occasions, instead of being, as usual, somewhat stolid
and glum, he became extraordinarily animated and eloquent!
Masham was a man of good family, his own master, and the non-resident
owner of a fine property in the north of England, which, in order to
indulge his passion for speed, he neglected shamefully.
Arrived at Nice, he put up at one of the fashionable hotels, running
over daily to Monte Carlo, which, in the month of March, was crammed.
On these expeditions, he was accompanied by his companion, and the
car was garaged, whilst its owner took what he called “a turn in the
rooms.” He played for high stakes, generally put down a _mille_ note,
and was uncannily lucky. This good fortune he attributed to the little
silver figure of a certain saint, which he clutched in one hand, whilst
he staked with the other; this saint was his mascot. He never remained
long in the Casino, being too impatient and restless; and when he had
made a round of his favourite tables, would sally forth in search of
refreshment, or to saunter about the square and the exquisite gardens.
His companion did not gamble--strong as were inherited instincts, and
hot as was the gambling fever which ran in his blood;--he had no money
to lose, and the prize he wished to win was Aurea Morven.
Naturally, Masham came across many acquaintances in such a
cosmopolitan rendezvous as “Monte.” Wynyard also encountered several
familiar faces, and, one afternoon, as he was passing through a great
crowd at the “Café de Paris,” a light hand was laid on his arm, and,
looking down, he was astonished to meet the upturned blue eyes of Mrs.
Ramsay--Mrs. Ramsay in black, but no longer in weeds; Mrs. Ramsay
another woman, and ten years younger; Mrs. Ramsay self-confident,
prosperous, and handsome.
“Why, it’s _Owen_!” she exclaimed. “Who would have thought of seeing
you here?”
He smiled affirmatively, and glanced at her companions round the
tea-table. Ottinge was strongly represented: here were the Rector and
Miss Aurea, also General and Mrs. Morven, and a smart young man in
attendance on the younger lady.
“Hullo, Owen!” exclaimed Mr. Morven, rising and shaking hands; “this
_is_ an unexpected meeting!” and he stared with puzzled interest at the
erect figure, high-bred face, unimpeachable grey suit, and Homburg hat.
“I’m not over here to gamble,” he continued. “We are at Mentone, and
I’ve come to have a look at this pretty, wicked place.”
“It’s pretty wicked by all accounts!” replied Wynyard, speaking now, as
Mr. Morven noted, in the tone of equal to equal.
“Aurea,” he said, turning to his daughter, “don’t you see Owen?”
Miss Morven--who had entirely regained her beauty, and was charmingly
dressed--glanced up from underneath her immense rose-wreathed hat,
and coolly surveyed her former lover. She was, if possible, prettier
than ever, he said to himself, as he doffed his hat in acknowledgment
of her curt nod; but her eyes, as they met his, resembled two dark
pools--frozen. For some unknown and unguessed-at reason, Aurea was no
longer friendly to him--much less anything nearer--and the discovery
seemed to plant a dagger in his throat. He found it desperately
difficult to utter a word, much less to carry on a brisk conversation
with the Rector and Mrs. Ramsay. General and Mrs. Morven were, he
concluded, the important elderly couple who sat at the other side of
the table, and the young man, who was engrossing Miss Morven’s sole
attention, was some idle ass, who wore his hair parted in the middle,
and three rings on his left hand. He hated him then and there!
Meanwhile, Miss Morven encouraged him, and kept up a conversation
in low, confidential tones. Her hat concealed her face, and Wynyard
realised, for the first time in his life, how rude a hat could be!
This black hat, garlanded with pink flowers, was but too eloquently
expressive of the fact, that its wearer desired to ignore the
existence--much less the presence--of her aunts’ late employé.
However, the Rector and Mrs. Ramsay were most anxiously disposed to
make amends for Miss Morven’s detachment.
“What do you think of the gardens?” inquired the former, indicating the
flower-beds that lay between them and the Casino--a blaze of velvet
violas. “Quite in your line, eh?”
Wynyard muttered an inarticulate assent--all his thoughts were
concentrated on Aurea.
“I’m glad to see you are getting on,” resumed the Rector cheerily;
“prospects improving, eh?”
“I’m afraid not,” answered the chauffeur; his mind full of this
gentleman’s only daughter, and the haughty little face which was so
studiously concealed.
“What are you doing now, eh?”
“I’m with Masham, a man who has a racing motor, as useful companion.”
“Oh, by Jove, I know him!” broke in the General. “Masham’s the wildest
driver in England, or, indeed, Europe--a racing lunatic--wish you
safely out of his company! Is he here?”
“Yes, in the rooms; and I’m just loafing about till he is ready to go
back to Nice.”
“You have never asked about poor dear little Ottinge,” interposed Mrs.
Ramsay, with an injured air,--Mrs. Ramsay who had hitherto been a
silent and much interested spectator of Wynyard and Aurea. What _was_
the matter with the girl?
“And how is Ottinge?” he inquired, turning to the Rector.
“Oh, pretty well, thank you. Young Hogben is married to Dilly Topham.
I must say I never thought _that_ would come off, but it has; and they
seem fairly happy. Old Mrs. Topham, however, gave no dowry; she cannot
bear to part with a penny, but she sent a present of three jars of
mouldy jam, and a broken-down lamp.”
“Miss Parrett has been dangerously ill,” supplemented Mrs. Ramsay, “but
is better. Old Thunder has bought a donkey and a bath-chair; and oh,
sad news indeed!--how _am_ I to tell you?--Mackenzie is no more.”
“I can bear up,” he answered, with a short laugh. This was ungrateful,
for was it not Mackenzie who had introduced him to Aurea?
“He was kicked by a horse, and was killed on the spot,” said the
Rector; “I think, Mrs. Ramsay, you show a very unneighbourly spirit.”
“But I never considered myself the neighbour of Mackenzie!” she
argued, “just the opposite--and he was not an estimable character. A
good man should not own a bad dog.”
“Oh, well, give a dog a bad name----”
“And Mackenzie deserved it,” she interrupted; “he was the village
bully. If he met a smaller dog, it was death for the small dog; if one
of his own size, he passed on. You know, or you may not know, that, at
teas at the Rectory, he sat on the laps of timid ladies, devoured their
offerings, and intimidated them with growls--they dared not displace
him.” Then, turning her head, “Aurea, we are talking of Mackenzie and
his enormities.”
“Oh, are you?” she rejoined, with civil indifference.
“Yes,” resumed Mrs. Ramsay; “and is not it well known that he attacked
a solitary visitor in the Rectory drawing-room--whose furs affronted
him--and tore her muff to shreds with ferocious satisfaction? I believe
her screams could be heard at the Drum, and she had to be restored with
brandy and burnt feathers.”
“You would delight Dr. Johnson, my dear lady,” said the Parson; “he
loved a good hater.”
“Oh, if you only knew how he treated and maltreated my poor paying
guests,”--and she looked at Wynyard--“_you_ remember the beagle, and
how you doctored him; only for you he would have died.”
“Yes; but the beagle survives--Mackenzie is no more. _De mortuis nil
nisi bonum._”
To hear this chauffeur with a ready Latin quotation in his mouth! What
was the world coming to? thought Mrs. Morven, who had finished her tea,
and was now playing the part of a dignified audience.
“We are all at the Hôtel des Montaignes, Mentone,” continued Mrs.
Ramsay; “I want you to come over and see me, will you?”
“I should be delighted, but my time is not my own--perhaps I can get
off on Sunday. May I write?”
“Do; and I shall expect to hear that you are coming to lunch.”
“Here is Masham,” he announced, as the muscular, brick-faced gentleman
pushed and elbowed his way towards them.
“Hullo, Owen, ready to start, eh? We must get a move on.”--“Oh,” to the
General, “glad to see you--splendid weather out here, eh?”
At this moment a party of compatriots arrived, and figuratively
swallowed up General and Mrs. Morven, the Rector, Mrs. Ramsay, and even
the celebrated Mr. Masham. Here was Wynyard’s opportunity, and, as
usual, he seized upon it without ceremony. It was impossible that Aurea
(who was rarely out of his thoughts), whose little word, “perhaps,” had
buoyed him up on many stormy waters, meant what her looks and attitude
implied. Resolutely he came up to her, ignoring the glassy stare of her
companion, and said--
“Miss Morven--has forgotten me--_perhaps_?”
Miss Morven looked up at him with an expression of delicate disdain.
Could this self-possessed young lady, in a wonderful hat and Parisian
frock, be the self-same girl who had stood beside him on Yampton Hill,
with loosened hair and spattered habit?
After a reflective pause, she murmured--
“No, I’ve not forgotten my aunts’--er--chauffeur; but I do not think we
were ever--_acquainted_.”
Wynyard had wonderful self-command, but mentally he reeled; he felt as
if some one had suddenly dealt him a terrible blow between the eyes.
Outwardly he turned a sudden, pallid white, and drew back, as Miss
Morven rose, picked up her parasol, and said to her companion--
“_Now_, if you like, I will go down to the Condamine and see the motor
boats.”
And, almost at the same moment, Mr. Masham claimed his companion and
hurried him away to the garage.
“I say,” said the General to his brother (he usually prefaced his
remarks with “I say”), “who was the young stranger who seemed to know
Ottinge? ’Pon my word, he deserves a medal for the discovery. Wait, I
seem to know his face! Yes, I’ve got it. Wynyard of the Red Hussars--he
went the pace--uncle cut up rough--he’s in my club.”
“No, for once you are a bit out! You will be amused to hear that that
good-looking, well-set-up young man was Bella’s chauffeur.”
“Nonsense!”
“It’s a sober fact. I liked him,” continued the Rector; “he has good
manners--manners make the man--I had him in the choir, and he’s a
first-class cricketer. I always, between you and me, believed him to be
a gentleman who was expiating some--er--mistake. I declare, Susan was
actually fond of him, and he turned the heads, unintentionally--I’ll
say that for him--of every girl in the village.”
“Well, I’m blowed! He is the very image of Dick Wynyard’s heir--next to
the baronetcy and property. Old Dick never speaks of him now, and I’ve
not seen him about for nearly two years. Mrs. Ramsay, what do you say
to a village romance, and a chauffeur being as like a young swell as
two peas?”
“Oh,” replied the lady, deliberately moulding on her gloves, “truth
is stranger than fiction; I’ve known some funny things in my life. I
always liked Owen, and I am glad to see he is getting up in the world.”
“Up!” repeated the General; “if he is companion to Masham, he is much
more likely to leave the world altogether--and that at an early date!
Well, Edgar, Aurea has gone off with young Beauclerc and his people to
the boats. Shall we go to La Turbie as arranged, and have the honour of
escorting the two ladies?”
And then, with one consent, they rose with a loud noise of scraping
chairs, and passed into the square in single file.