Part 39 (2/2)
The road to Nevers I scarcely saw. I think it was flat; but Bertie's driving made it play cup and ball with the car in a curious way, which a good chauffeur could hardly have managed if he tried. We pa.s.sed Riom, Gannat, Aigueperse, I know; and at Moulins, in the valley of the Allier, we lunched in a hurry. To Nevers we came early, but it was there we were to stop for the night, and there we did stop, in a drizzle of rain which prevented sight-seeing for those who had the wish, and the freedom, to go about. As for me, I was ordered by Lady Turnour to mend Mr. Stokes's socks, he having made peace by offering to ”give her a swagger dinner in town.”
Bertie's cleverness was not confined to ingratiating himself with her ladys.h.i.+p. He contrived adroitly to damage the steering-gear by grazing a wall as he turned the Aigle into the hotel courtyard, and by this feat disposed of the chauffeur's evening, which was spent in hard work at the garage. Such dinner as Jack got, he ate there, in the shape of a furtive sandwich or two, otherwise we should not have been able to leave in the morning at the early hour suggested by Mr. Stokes.
Warned by the incidents of yesterday, Sir Samuel desired his chauffeur to take the wheel again from Nevers to Paris. But--no doubt with the view of keeping us apart, and devising new tortures for his enemy--Bertie elected to play Wolf to Jack's Spartan Boy, and sit beside him. This relegated me to the cage again, with back-ma.s.sage from Sir Samuel's knees.
Before Fontainebleau, I found myself in a familiar land. As far as Montargis I had motored with the Milvaines more than once, conducted by Monsieur Charretier, in a great car which might have been mine if I had accepted it, not ”with a pound of tea,” but with two hundred pounds of millionaire. I knew the lovely valley of the Loing, and the forest which makes the world green and shadowy from Bourrau to Fontainebleau, a world where poetry and history clasp hands. I should have had plenty to say about it all to Jack, if we had been together, but I was still inside the car, and by this time Bertie had induced his stepfather to consent to his driving again. He pleaded that there had been something wrong with the ignition yesterday. That was why the car had not gone well. It had not been his fault at all. Sir Samuel, always inclined to say ”Yes”
rather than ”No” to one he loved, said ”Yes” to Bertie, and had cause to regret it. Close to Fontainebleau Mr. Stokes saw another car, with a pretty girl in it. The car was going faster than ours, as it was higher powered and had a lighter load. Naturally, being himself, it occurred to Bertie that it would be well to show the pretty girl what he could do.
We were going up hill, as it happened, and he changed speed with a quick, fierce crash. The Aigle made a sound as if she were gritting her teeth, s.h.i.+vered, and began to run back. Bertie, losing his head, tried a lower speed, which had no effect, and Lady Turnour had begun to shriek when Jack leaned across and put on the hand-brake. The car stopped, just in time not to run down a pony cart full of children.
No wonder the poor dear Aigle had gritted her teeth! Several of them turned out to be broken in the gear box.
”We're done!” said Jack. ”She'll have to be towed to the nearest garage.
Pity we couldn't have got on to Paris.”
”Can't you put in some false teeth?” suggested Lady Turnour, at which Bertie laughed, and was thereupon reproached for the accident, as he well deserved to be.
Then the question was what should be the next step for the pa.s.sengers. I expected to be trotted reluctantly on to Paris by train, leaving Jack behind to find a ”tow,” and see the dilemma through to an end of some sort, but to my joyful surprise Bertie used all his wiles upon the family to induce them to stop at Fontainebleau. It was a beautiful place, he argued, and they would like it so much, that they would come to think the breakdown a blessing in disguise. In any case, he had intended advising them to pause for tea, and to stay the night if they cared for the place. They would find a good hotel, practically in the forest; and he had an acquaintance who owned a chateau near by, a very important sort of chap, who knew everybody worth knowing in French society. If the Governor and ”Lady T.” liked, he would go dig his friend up, and bring him round to call. Maybe they'd all be invited to the chateau for dinner. The man had a lot of motors and would send one for them, very likely--perhaps would even lend a car to take them on to Paris to-morrow morning.
I listened to these arguments and suggestions with a creepy feeling in the roots of my hair, for I, too, have an ”acquaintance” who owns a chateau near Fontainebleau: a certain Monsieur Charretier. He, also, has a ”lot of motors” and would, I knew, if he were ”in residence” be delighted to lend a car and extend an invitation to dinner, if informed that Lys d'Angely was of the party. Could it be, I thought, that Mr.
Stokes was acquainted with Monsieur Charretier, or that, not being acquainted, he had heard something from the d.u.c.h.esse de Melun, and was making a little experiment with me?
Perhaps I imagined it, but it seemed that he glanced my way triumphantly, when Lady Turnour agreed to stay in the hope of meeting the nameless, but important, friend; and I felt that, whatever happened, I must have a word of advice from Jack.
The discussion had taken place in the road, or rather, at the side of the road, where the combined exertions of Jack and Bertie had pushed the wounded Aigle. The chauffeur, having examined the car and p.r.o.nounced her helpless, walked back to interview a carter we had pa.s.sed not long before, with the view of procuring a tow. Now, just as the discussion was decided in favour of stopping over night at Fontainebleau, he appeared again, in the cart.
We were so near the hotel in the woods that we could be towed there in half an hour, and, ignominious as the situation was, Lady Turnour preferred it to the greater evil of walking. I remained in the car with her, the chauffeur steered, the carter towed, and Sir Samuel and his stepson started on in advance, on foot.
At the hotel Jack was to leave us, and be towed to a garage; but, in desperation, I murmured an appeal as he gave me an armful of rugs. ”I _must_ ask you about something,” I whispered. ”Can you come back in a little less than an hour, and look for me in the woods, somewhere just out of sight of the hotel?”
”Yes,” he said. ”I can and will. You may depend on me.”
That was all, but I was comforted, and the rugs became suddenly light.
Rooms were secured, great stress being laid upon a good sitting-room (in case the important friend should call), and I unpacked as usual. When my work was done, I asked her ladys.h.i.+p's permission to go out for a little while. She looked suspicious, clawed her brains for an excuse to refuse, but, as there wasn't a b.u.t.tonless glove, or a holey stocking among the party, she reluctantly gave me leave. I darted away, plunged into the forest, and did not stop walking until I had got well out of sight of the hotel. Then I sat down on a mossy log under a great tree, and looked about for Jack.
A man was coming. I jumped up eagerly, and went to meet him as he appeared among the trees.
It was Mr. Herbert Stokes.
CHAPTER x.x.x
”I followed you,” he said.
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