An Up-to-date Romance.
by George S. Magnus.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #10 (Jan 1906).
In which the plot of a short story is enacted in real life—with what success will be learnt by reading these pages.
Wanted, a careful Chauffeur. Write to The Towers, Bexingham, inclosing references.
It was the address that attracted my attention. Three years before this story opens, The Towers, Bexingham, had belonged to me. Having been ruined by my rascally lawyer, however, I had, in order to pay my debts (I take no credit for it—it was not a matter of choice) sold the place to Sir John Maxwell, who had died six months after taking possession. It was his widow, evidently, who was in need of the "careful Chauffeur."
Since the smash I had taken to writing as a means of existence. Before it, on the principle, I suppose, of to him who hath, &c., I had found no difficulty in placing my literary wares. Writing for a living was like a one-sided game of fives—editors being the hard stone wall, my different MSS. the ball, and His Majesty's post the force to insure quick delivery and return. So that, when this advertisement caught my eye, it was not only my desire to see the old place again that decided me to apply for the post, but also a hankering after a decent meal.
Fortunately, I knew all about the inner workings of motor-cars, and, more fortunate still, had on one occasion, in order to obtain "copy" for a short story, procured through influence an engagement as chauffeur to a certain Lord Alton. As I recalled the experience, I unearthed the man's rather flattering testimonial. Then, having shaved my moustache by way of disguise, I caught the twelve-thirty train to Bexingham, and in due course found myself outside the imposing gates of my one-time home.
I gave my name to the footman, and presently, to my surprise and gratification, was ushered into a daintily-furnished boudoir.
Reclining on a settee, behind a clump of palms, was the graceful figure of a woman. She held a magazine in her hands, but she appeared too bored to read. As I entered she looked up languidly.
I noted that her mouth, a crimson bow against the milky whiteness of her skin, curled disdainfully at the corners. Her eyes were dark and languorous. There was an air of ennui about the exquisitely chiselled face that quite marred its beauty. In fact, she looked as if a shaking would have done her good.
"There has been some mistake," she said slowly. "You are not the Mr. Fenton I know."
"I feared your servant had misunderstood me," said I. "I have called in answer to an advertisement for a chauffeur."
A puzzled look came into her eyes.
"You mean," she suggested, "that you have a careful chauffeur you can recommend?"
"Yes," said I; "myself."
"You!". Then overcoming her surprise: "But my advertisement said distinctly--" She paused, while I, noting the "my" and being familiar with the late Sir John's portrait, wondered. "Have you a reference?" she asked abruptly.
"Ycs, from Lord Alton. He lives near here."
She started perceptibly, and a short silence ensued. It was a strange thing that broke it—no less a thing than the entry of Lord Alton himself.
"I fear I am intruding, Lady Maxwell?" he said, glaring at me.
I moved towards the door, and the tall, well-proportioned caller came into the room.
"You may leave your address with the footman," said Lady Maxwell.
I withdrew in haste—the ludicrous expression on his lordship's face necessitated it; then, having availed myself of the gracious permission, I returned to the said address, where in due course an answer reached me.
To my surprise, it ran as follows:
"The reference proving satisfactory, Lady Maxwell will be glad if Mr. Fenton will take up his duties at once."
I took up my "duties at once." I blossomed forth in Lady Maxwell's livery. I changed my name to that of all Lady Maxwell's chauffeurs—Parker. I drove Lady Maxwell and her companion (a pretty girl, who treated me to much unsolicited cackle) daily with monotonous regularity, either in the electric brougham or the Panhard, according to the weather. I suffered Lady Maxwell's haughty, almost contemptuous, treatment with blind urbanity. For literary aspirants, like beggars, cannot be choosers.
And after all I had a very good time. Comfortable and private quarters, wholesome food, wages paid promptly. What more does a man want?
Moreover, I had plenty of leisure to devote to the "weary writing"; and now that I was not dependent on it (this, of course, could have been the only reason), my labours had met with some appreciation. At least, so I gathered one afternoon, a week or so after the publication of my last story, from my mistress.
For the first time in six months I was driving her in the Panhard, alone—due, doubtless, to the fact that her companion had been summarily dismissed the previous evening. The cause of dismissal never transpired. To indirectly connect Lady Maxwell's opening remark—the first, I believe, she had ever addressed to me—with it would be the height of absurdity.
"Have you any complaints to make, Parker?" she asked abruptly, turning round in her seat and facing me.
I must have looked my bewilderment.
"I learnt from Perkins this morning," she added solemnly, "that you were—'like a bear with a sore head!'"
"A pleasant spirit of rivalry exists between Perkins and myself," said I, with a smile of understanding.
"Well?"—impatiently.
"I had a novel that I have written returned this morning," I explained.
She broke out into a sudden laugh, the rich fulness of which annoyed me more than her usual manner.
"I am pleased to afford you amusement!" I exclaimed.
Her dark eyes rested for a moment on my face, and she flushed slightly.
"So you write?" she said, as if thinking aloud.
A reply seemed unnecessary.
"I read a short story a little while ago," she went on, "about a chauffeur and a proud, beautiful woman, who wanted shaking. It is very impossible, but it is considered the best love story of the year."
She was now looking away across the swiftly-passing fields. I felt grateful. When one at last succeeds, in no matter how small a degree, it is difficult to disguise the fact just at first.
"Might I ask the name of the author, my lady?"
"A Richard Fenton."
"I don't seem to know the name."
There was a short pause.
"It is supposed to be a woman," she said at length. "But I do seem to know the name." Then, glancing at me from under her long lashes—"Why don't you write short stories?"
"I have tried," said I. "And—here I am."
She laughed again.
"Is a chauffeur's life so very hard?"
"Not s hard as trying to live by one's pen," said I.
For some time the only sound that broke the silence was the whirr of the machinery as we sped along. Then Lady Maxwell spoke, and what she said surprised me even more than her first remark.
"In that story I mentioned, the chauffeur has tea with the proud woman—who wanted shaking. Do you see that little thatched cottage in the distance? Stop there, Parker."
I drew up with nice precision at the gate. Lady Maxwell disappeared up the path, and when she returned it was with the quiet suggestion that "Parker had better have a cup of tea."
"Will the car be safe, my lady?"
"Who is going to run away with it?" she asked, walking towards the cottage.
It was not my car, and I jumped down to follow her. As I did so the sound of approaching horse's hoofs made me look round. Some people make a habit of turning up at the wrong moment. The rider was Lord Alton.
I shall never forget the expression on his white face as he passed. If ever eyes flashed murder his did. Could he look upon a chauffeur in the light of a possible rival? The idea was so absurd that I broke out into sudden laughter.
I overtook Lady Maxwell at the ivy-covered porch. She had her daintily gloved hand on the knob, but before opening the door, she gave me a quick glance. There was a question in her expressive eyes.
"Lord Alton has just passed," said I. "With your permission, I will—look after the car."
There was a slight pause. Then, drawing herself up defiantly, she said: "I have ordered tea for two, Parker," and entered the cottage.
But I turned and walked quickly down the path. Before reaching the gate I had made two discoveries: one, the necessity for leaving The Towers that very night, the other—well, that I had been a fool to have stayed there so long.
While I sat in the car my thoughts returned to—"the best love story of the year!" What had possessed me to write it? What had I not put into it? I might have known that she would read it—I might, indeed, considering how often I had seen her previously with the magazine in which it was published. Later I might also have known that her tiny foot could never crunch gravel, and so have saved my stupid start when the rosy-cheeked dame from the cottage addressed me.
"Please, sir, the lady says that tea is waitin', and she thinks the motey-car can be left, sir."
"Oh—er—thank you. I—I—I'll come, then."
"Yes, it 'ud be a sin to spoil such tea, I'm sure, sir."
Lady Maxwell had just poured out my cup when I entered the little sitting-room.
"Do you take sugar?" she asked, without looking up.
I repeated my messenger's theory in answer, much to that good dame's gratification.
"Don't 'esitate to knock when you want more," she admonished from the doorway.
"I won't," said Lady Maxwell gravely.
"Is this huge dish of bread and jam provided for me?" I inquired, when the generous soul had closed the door.
Lady Maxwell laughed—a trifle nervously. How perfectly beautiful she was then; how truly lovable. And in a few short hours—
"I have nothing to eat, Mr. Fenton!"
"I beg your pardon?" and I held the dish for her.
While she cut a slice of bread and butter, she looked up suddenly, and our eyes met. That moment I shall never forget. For somehow, before the envious lashes fell, her eyes had shown me that she knew what I longed to, yet could not, tell her.
There was a long silence, broken by someone banging the garden gate. A strange foreboding of evil coming over me, I sprang to the little window and looked out.
Lord Alton was striding up the path.
"Will you see what is the matter?" asked Lady Maxwell at my elbow.
I threw open the front door, just in time to save his lordship the trouble of knocking.
"I have prevented your mistress' car from being stolen!" he exclaimed breathlessly, his eyes shining with excitement. "I stopped it some way down the road. If you are sharp you may catch the rascal."
Like a fool, instead of waiting to think, I started in pursuit. Outside, Lord Alton's magnificent motor was drawn up. Three or four hundred yards away, where the road curved, was the Panhard, with one side in the ditch.
I had sprinted three-quarters of the distance, hoping to catch sight of the would-be thief round the bend, when a woman's stifled scream rang out behind me. With every nerve quivering, I wheeled round. At the same moment the cottage gate was kicked open and Lord Alton staggered out.
In his arms, her face covered with a cloth, was Lady Maxwell!
I dashed towards them like a man possessed. But Alton, placing his unconscious burden on the floor of the car, sprang in, and while I had still another hundred yards to go, started off at full speed.
Pursuit on foot was worse than useless. The Panhard was my only hope, and back to it I rushed—to find both the front tyres flat!
The sight took all the life out of me. It was only for an instant, though; the next, remembering that the tyres were guaranteed "unpuncturable," I was down on my knees examining the valves.
They had been unscrewed—there was a chance yet!
I snatched up the pump. A few minutes of awful suspense, then—"Thank Heaven! They hold!" and with a whirr, a jerk, and a great, throbbing bound, the race began.
Alton had too much start, however, and for miles I tore along without so much as a glimpse of him. Then, to add to my despair, I came to cross-roads.
Which had he taken?
Pulling up, I jumped out; but spotting the mark of his tyres on the road to the right, was off again like the wind, and presently, on rounding a corner, all my doubts were set at rest.
Barely a mile away was the white car!
Moreover, at the pace I was going, I should soon overtake it. Producing a revolver, which, since a previous motor outrage in the neighbourhood, my mistress had insisted on my carrying, I placed it in readiness by my side.
The next moment, as ill-luck would have it, Alton chanced to look round, and I saw his hand move towards the speed regulator. In answer, he drew rapidly ahead; then, with startling suddenness, the car disappeared. The road had been rising for some time, and now an equalising descent had been reached. I knew the hill well. What is more, I felt pretty certain that Alton would negotiate it carefully—he was not the man to risk his precious neck for however great a prize. In a flash I determined to rush it at full speed, and catch him by the tremendous impetus so gained.
It was a desperate venture, no doubt; but it was my last and only chance of victory, and the fate of a helpless woman was at stake.
I whizzed past the big red danger-board; then came a sickening drop. The road seemed to fly up and strike me, while the force of the air, like the roar of a furnace in my ears, almost tore me from my seat. Gripping the steering-wheel as in a vice, I leant well forward, and, with eyes half blinded, peered ahead.
Three-quarters of the way down was a turn!
Could it be taken at such a break-neck speed? If my nerve failed me, if I crashed into the bank, what would become of Lady Maxwell? It was this thought that kept my eye steady and my hand like steel during that terrible rush.
The turn was fifty, thirty, now but twenty yards ahead. This was the crucial moment. Quick as lightning I gave the steering-wheel a twist. Too much—I was into the bank! No, right up to it! For a never-to-be-forgotten moment the car was flying through the air on two wheels. Then, with a great thud, I was round, rushing on, on And in the near distance—almost stationary it seemed—was a quivering blotch of white!
I gave a hoarse, triumphant yell.
A few seconds later and I was tearing along the level, overhauling Alton at every yard. I had crept to within twelve paces of him, when—just as I thought I had won the space between us began to increase.
I was losing ground!
Suddenly I remembered the revolver. I snatched it up, took careful aim, and three puffs of smoke flew back in my face. I fired twice more—and missed! One bullet between the woman I loved, and— With a fierce prayer, I fired my last shot.
Hit!
Alton's right tyre had flattened, and was now in ribbons. The car gave a violent lurch as the naked rim bit into the road, and following his lordship's example, I jammed on the brakes.
We leapt out almost simultaneously. But I was afire to be at him, and before he appeared to realise the fact, I had got home a smashing blow with my left. He went down like a log.
"Get up!" I said. "I haven't finished with you yet."
With an oath he scrambled to his feet, and, whipping out a revolver, pointed it at my head. I sprang forward and hit up his arm. The pistol fell several yards away, and Alton made towards it—just as I caught him round the waist.
For some moments we swayed backwards and forwards in an ever-tightening embrace. Then we fell and rolled over and over in the road. Here Alton's weight told more than his extra height, and I could do nothing but cling on to him.
With a gasp of triumph, he eventually shook me off. In despair, I made a grab at his foot. My fingers closed over his ankle, and he staggered and fell headlong. Instantly I was up, and darting towards the revolver, while Alton scrambled towards it on his hands and knees.
He reached it in time to look down the barrel as I covered him.
For a moment he hesitated; then, realising that the game was up, leapt to his feet, and, breaking through the hedge, made off across the fields.
Lady Maxwell was lying in a huddled heap on the floor of the car. A tumult of emotion raging within me, I raised her gently, and carried her towards the Panhard. As I held her in my arms an irresistible longing to kiss her took possession of me. She would never know.
My head bent swiftly, my mouth was pressed to hers. Then a strange thing happened. Her sweet lips parted with a little joyous sigh; I fancied they returned the pressure of mine.
When I laid my precious burden down, Lady Maxwell returned to consciousness.
"Where am I?" she murmured. "What has happened?"
"Lord Alton," I answered, starting the car on its homeward journey.
She sat up with a shudder.
"And you?" she asked presently.
"I gave chase."
There was a long pause.
"How white you look?" she exclaimed suddenly, as the car breasted the hill that had saved her. "What have you done to —him?"
"He made off."
"Not without a struggle!" she suggested.
"He is not the man to give in without a fight. Did you fight, Mr. Fenton?"
"We did."
"You are trembling!" she flashed. "Are you hurt?"
"No, not at all."
With an impulsive movement she placed her soft, little hand over mine.
"Feel, I am trembling, too. Why is it? Tell me."
I said nothing; there was nothing to say. But the touch of her hand, the tone of her voice, the light in her beautiful eyes sent the hot blood coursing madly through my veins.
"Can you remember," she asked abruptly, "whether in that love story the proud woman ever dreamt that her chauffeur so far forgot himself as to—as to kiss her, Parker?"
"No, that would have been too impossible, my lady. But I believe the fellow left without notice, and I regret to say I have decided to do the same—and to-night."
"Isn't—isn't this rather sudden?"
"It is imperative, my lady. But—some day—if I could hope for—another engagement—"
Lady Maxwell laughed—the same low laugh with which she had greeted the news that my novel had been returned; then stiffened suddenly.
"I do not understand," she said. "Of course I shall have to engage someone else. But why this sudden decision to leave? Is it because I was rash enough to—to give you tea and bread and jam—as in the story? Or is it because—of my dream?"
"Your dream?"
"Yes, it might be time to leave if that were true," she murmured thoughtfully. "But surely not before first receiving notice?"
"Without waiting for that, my lady."
"Oh, you tire me, Parker!"
As if in proof of the statement, her head drooped until it finally came to rest—upon my shoulder!
"I wonder if I could repeat my dream?" she whispered.
Did she? Perhaps.