you fifteen minutes' grace, but after that she was determined to start. Of course, she didn't know that an accident had happened. She thought you were simply dawdling, and wanted Sir Samuel to arrange for you to drive down with the newly arrived German tourists. Sir Samuel and I objected to this, and later it was settled for the Turnours to do what her ladyship planned for you, without the company of the tourists. Lady Turnour resents lèse-majesté."
"It's a miracle she consented to leave the car," I said.
"She couldn't use it without a chauffeur, and naturally I refused to go without knowing what had happened to you."
"You refused!" I stammered.
"Of course. That was where the row came in. We had a few words, and eventually I was deputed to look you up."
"Deputed!" I echoed, desperately. "They never 'deputed' you to do it, I'm sure."
"They jolly well couldn't help themselves. You can't make a man drive a car if he won't. So they went off in the Germans' carriage, and the Germans were enchanted."
"Oh!" I exclaimed, so miserable now that anger leaked out of my heart like water through a sieve. "It's all my fault. Did they discharge you?"
"I didn't give them the chance. After a few little things her ladyship said, I felt rather hot in the collar, and discharged myself. That is, I gave them notice that I would go as soon as they could get another chauffeur. It would have been bad form to leave them in the lurch, without anyone, on tour."
The tears came to my eyes, and I was thinking so little about myself that I let them roll down without bothering to wipe them away. "Do, do forgive me," I implored. "But you never can, of course. All through my foolishness you're out of an engagement. And you depended upon it, I know, from what you said."
"There's nothing to forgive, my dear little sister," he said. "It's you who must forgive me, if I've distressed you by telling the story in a clumsy way. It wasn't your fault. I couldn't stand that bounderess's cruel tongue, so I have myself to blame, if anyone. And it's sure to turn out right in the end."
"You refused to drive their car because you would stay behind and find me—"
"Any decent chap would do that—even a chauffeur." He spoke lightly to comfort me. "Besides, I wanted to stop. You're the only sister I ever had."
"You must hate me," I moaned.
"I don't. Please don't cry. I shall faint if you do."
I was obliged to laugh a little through my tears.
"Come," he said, gently. "Let me take you down. Just a word with the guide about those gipsies, and—"
"Oh, leave the wretched gipsies alone!" I begged. "Who cares, now? If you say anything, they may call us as witnesses at St. Remy or some town where we don't want to stop. Let them go."
"I suppose we might as well," he said, "for we can't prove anything worth proving. Come, then." He slipped some money into the guide's hand, and thanked him for his courtesy and kindness. But another pang shot through my remorseful heart. More money spent by this man for me, when he had so little, and had lost the engagement which, though unworthy his rank in life, was the only present means he had of earning a livelihood. I came, obeying in forlorn silence, and could not answer when he tried to cheer me up as we walked down to the Hotel Monte Carlo. There stood the Aigle in charge of a youth from the inn, and there was more money to be paid to him. I wanted to give it, but saw that if I insisted Mr. Dane would be vexed.
He suggested putting me inside, as the air was now very cold, with the chill that falls after sunset; but I refused. "I want to sit by you!" I implored, and he said no more. With the glass cage behind us empty, and the great acetylene lamps alight, the Aigle turned and flew down the hill.
Chapter XVI
For some time we did not speak, but my thoughts moved more quickly than the beating of the engine. At last I said meekly, "Of course, I may as well consider myself discharged, too. And even if I weren't, I should go."
"I've been thinking about that," Mr. Dane answered. "It was the first thought that came into my head when the row began. It isn't likely she'll want you to leave, because she won't like getting on without a maid. I think, in the circumstances, unless she is brutal, you'd better stay with her till your friends can receive you. Someone must come forward and help you now."
"I wouldn't ask anyone but Pamela, who's gone to America," I protested. "Besides, I can't stand Lady Turnour after what's happened—with you gone."
(As I said this, I remembered again how I had dreaded to associate with the chauffeur, and planned to avoid him. It was rather funny, as it had turned out; but somehow I didn't feel like laughing.)
"Of course you won't mind," I went on. "It's different for a man. If you were left and I going, it wouldn't matter, because you'd have the car. But I've nothing—except Lady Turnour's 'transformation.' Luckily, she won't want me to stop."
"I think she will," he said, "because your only fault was in having an accident. You weren't impudent, as she thinks I was in refusing to drive the car. Also in letting her see that I thought her willingness to leave a young girl in a place like this, alone for hours (she did propose to let me drive back for you) was the most brutal thing I'd ever heard of."
"Oh, how good you were, to sacrifice yourself like that for me!" I exclaimed.
"It wasn't entirely for you," he said. "One owes some things to oneself. But when we get to Avignon, and it's settled between you and Lady Turnour, promise to let me know what you mean to do and give me a chance to advise you."
I promised. But I was so melancholy as to the future and so ashamed of myself for the trouble brought upon my only friend, that his efforts to cheer me were hopeless as an attempt to let off wet fireworks. Mine were soaked; and instead of admiring the moonlight, which soon flooded the wild landscape, it made me the more dismal.
The drive by day had seemed short, but now it was long, for I was in haste to begin the expected battle.
"Courage! and be wise," said Mr. Dane, as he helped me out of the car in front of the Hotel de l'Europe. "I shall bring up your dinner again—it's no use saying you don't want anything—and we'll exchange news."
When lions have to be faced, my theory is that the best thing is to open the cage door and walk in boldly, not crawl in on your knees, saying: "Please don't eat me."
I expected Lady Turnour to have a fine appetite for any martyrs lying about loose, but to my surprise a faint "Come in!" answered my dauntless knock, and I beheld her prostrate in bed.
She said that I had nearly killed her, and that she would probably not be able to move for a week; but the story of my adventures with the gipsy interested her somewhat, and she brightened when she heard of the old coins found in a hole in the rock. There was not a word about sending me away, and I suspected that a scene with Sir Samuel had crushed the lady. Even a worm will turn, and Sir Samuel may be one of those mild men who, when once roused, are capable of surprising those who know them best. Quite meekly she desired that I would show her the coins, and having seen them, she said that she would buy them off me. Not that they were of any intrinsic value, but they might be "lucky," and she would give me a sovereign for the three.
Then an idea came and whispered in my ear. I thanked Lady Turnour politely, but said I thought I had better keep the coins and show them to an antiquary. They might be more valuable than we supposed, and I should need all the money, as well as all the luck possible, now that I was leaving her ladyship's service.
"Leaving!" she echoed. "But as you had an accident I've made up my mind to excuse you this time, and not discharge you as I intended. You don't know your business too well, but any maid is better than no maid on a tour like this, as Sir Samuel pointed out to me."
"But,