SITUATION THE FOURTH
It was evident that some kind of armistice or _pourparlers_ had been
arranged between Mrs. Ramsay and her misguided young companion,
for, when the General, the Rector, and Mrs. Morven returned to
England, home, and duty, these ladies still remained abroad, and went
together to a small and picturesque village in the very heart of the
Alpes-Maritimes. Aurea longed for some such quiet retreat, where she
could hide herself, and recover from a blow which had still left its
quivering traces. Love and happiness were possibly within her reach,
and she had, in all ignorance, cast them aside; her widowed chaperone
understood and sympathised, and, though it was she who had inflicted
the wound, she was absolved.
In the inn of a little mountain village the friends spent three weeks
far from the giddy crowds, aloof from luxury, and the world. Here
were thick cups, thin candles, good coffee, and sour bread. What
long walks and talks they enjoyed, and how fully the girl opened her
innocent heart to the experienced, world-worn matron! Letters were
rare, and newspapers ignored; in Aurea’s mental condition, what were
to her the fate of plays, of Cabinets, yea, of nations? She was never
likely to hear tidings of _him_ through the Press; but here Aurea was
wrong. The unexpected--as is so frequently the case--declared itself.
One afternoon the two ladies walked to a town at some distance, and
as they waited for a well-deserved _café complét_, Mrs. Ramsay idly
glanced over an old and fly-blown copy of the continental _Daily Mail_,
and the following paragraph caught her eye and seemed to stab her in
the face:--
“The neighbourhood of Villo, near Turin, has been shocked by a
terrible accident, which took place yesterday. Mr. H. Masham, the
well-known racing motorist, returning victorious from a competition,
in order to avoid a wagon, dashed into a hillside at full speed.
The motor turned over completely; he and the chauffeur were pinned
underneath. Mr. Masham was dead when extricated, and there are no
hopes of the recovery of his companion.”
Mrs. Ramsay made a desperate attempt to hide the paper, but it was
impossible to hide her own white face, and Aurea insisted on reading
the paragraph. When she had grasped its contents, she turned to her
friend for a moment with great, agonised, unseeing eyes, and for the
first time in her life of twenty-one years Aurea Morven fainted.
That same hour Mrs. Ramsay despatched a reply-paid telegram to the
Italian Hospital, asking for immediate tidings of Mr. Owen, and the
answer received was--
“Owen left yesterday--address unknown.”
Well, at any rate, he was still in the land of the living, and from
this important fact Miss Morven must extract such comfort as she
deserved.
The truth was, that the chauffeur’s injuries were not so severe as
had been supposed--a few cuts and bruises, a slight concussion, and a
broken collar-bone. His fine constitution had speedily carried him out
of the doctor’s hands, and when Wynyard returned to London, it was to
find that his sister and her husband had arrived as a part of the great
tide that flows annually from the West. Lady Kesters had heard of her
brother’s accident in New York, and spent a small fortune in cables,
and now they met again, after a separation of six months, with mutual
satisfaction; but, in spite of her insistence, Wynyard firmly resisted
his sister’s invitation to take up his quarters in Mount Street.
“No, no,” he answered, “that is not in the bond; I’ll get through on
my own. I’ve only four months to work off. I can run in and out till I
find another place.”
“What about money, my dear boy? Your stay in that Italian hospital must
have been expensive.”
“I was heavily insured against accidents; after my first week with
Masham--when I realised his style of driving, I took out a policy for
fifteen hundred pounds!”
“I wonder you dare get into a motor,” she said. “I don’t see how you
can possibly have any nerve left.”
“Oh, I’m not such a wreck as all that; and, considering everything,
I got off uncommonly well. I’m sure poor Masham was insane. He
certainly looked it at times. It’s my experience that there are quite
a good-sized crowd of lunatics about at large; I’ve knocked up against
one or two lately. Masham always prophesied he would be killed in a
motor accident--and seemed rather to glory in the prospect.”
“You do tumble into the queerest situations--old maids, dancers,
madman! I must confess I cannot understand why you remained with him,
carrying your life in your hands?”
“In Masham’s hands, you mean!” corrected her brother; “he seldom
allowed me to drive.”
“And if you had been killed, where, pray, did I come in--or Aurea
Morven?”
* * * * *
Owen Wynyard’s next situation as chauffeur was with a certain Mrs.
Buckingham Brune, a wealthy matron who had a fine place in the north of
England. Miss Weedon, her daughter by a first marriage, was a notable
heiress, and her mother was determined that she should make an alliance
befitting her great fortune and fame. Her father, Sir Jacob Weedon, the
son of a peasant, had risen to wealth and honour solely through his
own active brain and dogged industry. He had not the smallest desire
to conceal his origin, and often alluded to the days when he was “a
poor, half-fed body”; and his coal-pick actually hung as a glorious
trophy over the chimneypiece in his smoking-room. But his wife was of
a different type; she smothered (when possible) his reminiscences,
and desired, since his death, to soar to other worlds--on the wings
of Ermentrude’s fortune; but Betsy Ermentrude, a simple maiden in her
prime, inherited her father’s character and ideas, and had no craving
for super-society or to wear the coronet of a peeress. Her mother had
married a second time, a good-looking young man, many years her junior;
he was a lazy member of an impoverished family, who had no objection
to a luxurious home, hunters, motors, pocket-money, and the best of
shooting. It was considered (among his intimates) that Toby Brune had
dropped into a “nice soft thing.” They were not, however, thinking
of Mrs. Brune, who was notoriously as hard as nails, but of Toby’s
enviable surroundings.
Miss Weedon made no rash assertions, never took exception to her
mother’s gay guests, but quietly made up her mind that, as her parent
had pleased herself, she would do likewise, and shape her own life.
Betsy was a slight, sandy-haired girl with appealing blue eyes, a
determined mouth, and a radiant smile. Her figure was willowy and
graceful; in short, she was unnecessarily pretty for an heiress.
This was the entourage in which the chauffeur now found himself, his
sole stipulation being to “live out.” He had no desire to mix with
the great staff of servants, and found comfortable quarters at one
of the gate lodges. The family owned no less than three fine cars;
the one Wynyard drove was a Panhard--the exclusive possession of Miss
Weedon and her friends. Mrs. Brune toured the country in a magnificent
Mercédès. She was a stout, black-haired lady, with a short neck and a
full meridian. To make her look young and slender was the hopeless task
of milliner and maid. Their employer had, however, contrived to squeeze
herself into the best society, was a clever, pushing woman, who had
early acquired the art of “Who to know, and who not to know.” Her cook
was a notable French chef, and smart guests, who stayed at the Court,
invariably carried away with them the happy tidings that “they had been
done remarkably well, and indirect everything was topping!”
Mrs. Buckingham Brune, for her husband’s benefit, rented a fine moor
in Scotland, and here the family were luxuriously established for
August and September. Owen, by special permission, lived with one of
the keepers, and was chiefly employed to fetch guests to and from the
station, or to motor the ladies to the neighbouring sights.
Occasionally Miss Weedon adventured forth alone, and, at a discreet
distance from the lodge, picked up a certain young man--who, as it
happened, was an acquaintance of the chauffeur’s. Miss Weedon’s
love-affairs were not precisely his business, but they had his sympathy
and, if desired, his sanction. Supposing Teddy Wantage were anxious
to marry the heiress and they liked one another, supposing he were
man enough to carry her off--who was to stand in their way? Not he!
He detested Mrs. Buckingham Brune, her preposterous pretensions, and
shameless tuft-hunting, and was fully prepared to help old lame-dog
Teddy over an awkward matrimonial stile.