SIR RICHARD AS CHAPERON
Sir Richard Wynyard was passing through Edinburgh on his way to London;
he had been shooting up in Perthshire, and found, as he drove up to
Waverley Station, that he had missed his train by two minutes--this,
and the fact that he felt some acute twinges of gout, combined to make
him a little short in his manner. As he had an hour’s wait, he pushed
up to the book-stall, gruffly demanded an English paper, and tossed a
copper in payment. The copper missed its goal, fell with a clang on
the flags, and a young man, who was also buying papers--a chauffeur
chap,--turned about, and Sir Richard found that he was face to face
with his nephew--also that he was extremely glad of the meeting. The
baronet was beginning to feel a bit lonely in life; now that old
age was reaching for him, he experienced the lack of some personal
belongings, of comfort and hope in the future, and a sense of exclusion
and loneliness invaded him, especially in those hours when he lay awake
’twixt dark and dawn. His nearest of kin, Leila and Owen, had been out
of touch with him for many months--Leila away in the United States, and
Owen working his life or death sentence.
He had been terribly frightened at the time of Mr. Masham’s accident,
had sorely repented of his bargain with his heir, and repeatedly said
to himself, “There was no doubt that motoring was an infernally risky
business.”
“Hullo, Owen!” he exclaimed, “what are you doing here?”
“I’m driving a car. My people have just gone off by the express.”
“Um--quite fit now?” looking him over from head to foot.
“Yes, thanks; I’m all right.”
“And what’s your job?”
“I’m chauffeur to Mrs. Buckingham Brune, of Ashbourne Court. She’s up
here on a moor just now.”
“Buckingham Brune--yes--yes--I know--enormously rich; daughter, a great
heiress--let’s see--a quarter of a million--Miss Weedon?”
“She was Miss Weedon till an hour ago; now she’s Mrs. Wantage! I
brought her in from the lodge this morning, attended the wedding, and
saw the runaway couple off ten minutes ago.”
“Bless my soul!” Sir Richard gave a little stagger. “What! eh? You
don’t mean it! I say, what a fellow you are for being in the thick of
rows and bothers!”
“Oh, no bother to _me_,” replied his nephew carelessly; “I’m only a
chauffeur, not a chaperon; but I must say I’m awfully glad Wantage
brought it off!”
“And what a haul--half a million!”
“Yes; but, upon my honour, I don’t believe he was thinking of the
money. She’s an uncommonly nice girl.”
Sir Richard’s face expressed scornful incredulity.
“Pity you didn’t go in for her yourself, eh!” Then, after a meditative
pause, “I expect there will be a holy row! What will her mother say?”
“That remains to be heard! She wanted her daughter to marry that
drunken little sweep, Vippen--he’s staying there now.”
“Lord Vippen?”
He nodded.
“And it’s my painful duty to face the music, and deliver the fatal
letter.”
Sir Richard gave a long whistle.
“Yes; it’s a job I don’t half fancy. Well, I must be getting a move
on--the car is just outside.” Then, holding out his hand, “I’m awfully
glad to have seen you, Uncle Dick, and looking so fit.”
“I say, Owen,” suddenly taking him by the arm and leading him aside,
“_I’ve_ had enough of this.”
His nephew stared at him interrogatively.
“Let’s cry quits--time’s up--all but a few weeks! You have done
uncommonly well, and I was an old idiot.”
“No, I don’t think so, sir. I believe it was quite a sound idea; but,
since you’ve given me the word, I must confess I’m not sorry it’s
finished.”
“And I’ll tell you what, my boy--you gave me a jolly good fright the
time Masham was killed.”
“Nothing to my own fright when the car turned over; but, I say, I must
be off to Hillstan--it’s thirty miles away--and do my errand. Where
shall I find you when I come back? I’m fairly safe to get the kick
out, and I expect I’ll have to walk to our nearest drivelling little
station.”
“Look here, Owen, I’ll hire a car. I’ll telephone now, and go with you,
and this other can fetch us back--we’ll have a good talk.”
Owen was secretly amused, though his face was impassive. Here was
Uncle Dick, extraordinarily eager for his company, actually chartering
a motor, and grudging him out of his sight for a couple of hours! He
never dreamt of the old man’s hungry heart--how, at times, life seemed
empty and hopeless--and he had nothing to look forward to but the
grave.
The narrow escape of his nephew had brought home to him that he was
really fond of the scapegrace now confronting him; even in a holland
coat and chauffeur’s cap, what a handsome, well-set-up young fellow!
And there was something different in this Owen: a look of decision,
manliness, and independence in his face; a strain of confidence in
his speech; even if he were not the future Sir Owen Wynyard, this
individual was undeniably capable of “hoeing his own row.”
He felt proud of this nephew, who seemed to be years older than the
Owen of the Red Hussars or Owen of the ranch--here was a full-grown
man! As a boy, Owen had never been afraid to look him squarely in the
face, but now his nephew’s eyes seemed to dominate him altogether. Was
it the younger generation knocking at the door?
“Mind you, if we meet Mrs. Brune, and you are in her car, she will run
you in for a Joy rider!” said his nephew, with a grin.
“Well, perhaps you’d better go alone. I was only thinking of backing
you up when she tackles you.”
“Awfully good of you. I’ll get you to back me up in earnest in another
direction.”
“As long as it’s not a bill!” and Sir Richard actually laughed.
“No, no; I’ve lots of money for a chauffeur--here’s the car, a 45 h.p.
Panhard--isn’t she a beauty?” he said, as they arrived at the station
entrance. “I’ll get it over as soon as I can, and bring my traps to the
Station Hotel.”
“Yes, I dine at eight sharp--good luck to you!” and he waved his hand
to his nephew, and then stood watching him as he steered through the
traffic with admirable judgment, and presently sped out of sight.
Then Sir Richard collected his luggage, engaged rooms at the hotel,
ordered a special reconciliation dinner, and wired to Lady Kesters,
“Have seen Owen--all is square. Expect us to-morrow.”
At eight o’clock uncle and nephew, in glossy shirts and evening-dress,
sat down _tête-à-tête_, to enjoy their oysters.
“And what about Mrs. Buckingham Brune?” inquired Sir Richard.
“She took it better than I expected. At first I thought she was going
to strike me, and I was in for a bad time; but when she heard that
Wantage was no pauper, and that his maternal uncle was a duke, she
calmed down, and I expect after a little time they will be all right.
She actually got the _Peerage_ and looked him up on the spot--my word
did not count! However, we parted friends; and she sent me over in the
car and offered me a splendid reference.”
“Oh, so you got round her! And what are your own plans, my boy?”
“The agency--and Wynyard--and----”
“Oh, that’s of course,” he interrupted; “but I mean now--to-morrow?”
“To-morrow I’d like to run up to Lossiemouth.”
“For golf--yes; but why not Berwick? It’s much handier!”
“Well, you see, Uncle Dick, I’m not specially interested in any one in
Berwick; but there’s a girl up north that interests me more than any
one in the world.”
“_Ah!_” hastily emptying his champagne glass, and putting it down with
a jerk.
“Now I’m no longer in service, and have some prospects, I want to find
out if she will marry me!”
“So it’s got as far as that, has it?”
“No, it has not even started. Last time we met, she would not speak to
me.”
“And what are you going on, then?”
“A mere chance. I believe there was a--a--misunderstanding, so a
friend told me; anyway, she’s the only girl I could ever care for.”
Sir Richard became more and more interested. Could it be possible that
Owen had inherited such loyal devotion from himself?
“Who is she?” he asked.
“She is Miss Morven, daughter of the Rector at Ottinge and the
Parretts’ niece. She sometimes came out in the motor, and I used to see
her in the garden.”
“And how did you make love to her--language of flowers, hey?”
“No; I never was anything but the chauffeur. I see by the _Scotsman_
she is up at Lossiemouth with her uncle, General Morven.”
“What--old Charlie Morven! Why, I know him. I’ll go up there with you
and see you through--and take him out of your way.”
“Do--it will be awfully decent of you; but Miss Morven may not have
anything to do with _me_!”
“What! not marry my nephew with Wynyard at his back and a fine fat
fortune! Nonsense, nonsense! Here, waiter, just fetch me a _Bradshaw_.”
Then to his companion, “I’ll wire for rooms to-night, and we will make
a start for Lossiemouth first thing to-morrow morning.”