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Princess Passes
Williamson, Charles Norris
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Princess Passes
Williamson, Charles Norris
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Woman Disposes Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs, To the silent wilderness. - PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. To your happiness, I said, lifting my glass, and looking the girl in the eyes. She had the grace to blush, which was the least that she could do, for a moment ago she had jilted me.
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ClassicsCHAPTER I
Woman Disposes "Away, away, from men and towns, To
the wild wood and the downs, To the silent wilderness." – PERCY
BYSSHE SHELLEY. "To your happiness," I said, lifting my glass, and
looking the girl in the eyes. She had the grace to blush, which was
the least that she could do, for a moment ago she had jilted
me.
The way of it was this.
I had met her and her mother the winter before at
Davos, where I had been sent after South Africa, and a spell of
playing fast and loose with my health – a possession usually
treated as we treat the poor, whom we expect to have always with
us. Helen Blantock had been the success of her season in London,
had paid for her triumphs with a breakdown, and we had stopped at
the same hotel.
The girl's reputation as a beauty had marched before
her, blowing trumpets. She was the prettiest girl in Davos, as she
had been the prettiest in London; and I shared with other normal,
self-respecting men the amiable weakness of wishing to monopolise
the woman most wanted by others. During the process I fell in love,
and Helen was kind.
Lady Blantock, a matron of comfortable rotundity of
figure and a placid way of folding plump, white hands, had,
however, a contradictorily cold and watchful eye, which I had
feared at first; but it had softened for me, and I accepted the
omen. In the spring, when my London tyrant had pronounced me "sound
as a bell," I had proposed to Helen. The girl said neither yes nor
no, but she had eyes and a smile which needed no translation, so I
kissed her (it was in a conservatory at a dance) and was happy –
for a fortnight.
Then came this bidding to dinner. Lady Blantock
wrote the invitation, of course, but it was natural to suppose that
she did it to please her daughter. It happened to be my birthday,
and I fancied that Helen had kept the date in mind. Besides, the
selection of the guests had apparently been made with an eye to my
pleasure.
There was Jack Winston, who had lately married an
American heiress, not because she was an heiress, but because she
was adorable; there was the heiress herself, née Molly
Randolph, whom I had known through Winston's letters before I saw
her lovely, laughing face; there was Sir Horace Jerveyson, the
richest grocer in the world, whom I suspected Lady Blantock of
actually regarding as a human being, and a suitable successor to
the late Sir James. Besides these, there was only myself, Montagu
Lane; and I believed that the dinner had been arranged with a view
to my claims as leading man in the love drama of which Helen
Blantock was leading lady, the other characters in the scene merely
being "on" as our "support." If this idea argued conceit, I was
punished.
It was with the entrée that the blow fell,
and I had a curious, impersonal sort of feeling that on every night
to come, should I live for a hundred years, each future
entrée of each future dinner would recall the sensation of
this moment. Something inside me, that was myself yet not myself,
chuckled at the thought, and made a note to avoid
entrées.
We had been asking each others' plans for August.
Molly and Jack had said that they were going to Switzerland to try
the new Mercédès, which had been given as a wedding present to the
girl by a school friend of that name, and of many dollars.
Then, solely to be civil, not because I wanted to
know, I asked Sir Horace Jerveyson what he meant to do. Hardly did
I even expect to hear his answer, for I was looking at Helen, and
she was in great beauty. But the man's words jumped to my ears.
"Miss Blantock and I are going to Scotland," answered the grocer,
in his fat voice, which might have been oiled with his own bacon. I
stared incredulously. "Together," he informatively added.
Lady Blantock laughed nervously. "I suppose we might
as well let this pass for an announcement?" she twittered. "Nell
and Sir Horace have been engaged a whole day. It will be in the
Morning Post to-morrow. Really, it has been so sudden that I
feel quite dazed."
It was at this point that I drank to the girl's
happiness, looking straight into her eyes.
I have a dim impression that the grocer, who no
doubt mistook her blush for maiden pride of conquest, essayed to
make a speech, and was tactfully suppressed by the future
mother-in-law. I am sure, though, that it was Helen who presently
asked, in pink-and-white confusion, if I, too, were bound for
Scotland. "But, of course you are," she added. "No," I said. "I've
been planning to take a walking tour as soon as this tiresome
season is over. I shall run across to France and wander for a
while. Eventually, I shall end up at Monte Carlo. A friend whom I
rather want to meet, will arrive there, at her villa, in
October."
I knew that Jack Winston would understand, for he
had not been the only one last winter who had written letters. But
Jack was of no importance to me at the instant. I was talking at
Helen, and she, too, would understand. I hoped that, in
understanding, she would suffer a pang, a small, insignificant,
poor relation of the pang inflicted upon me.
It is a thing unexplained by science why the
miserable hours of our lives should he fifty times the length of
happy hours, though stupid clocks, seeing nothing beyond their own
hands, record both with the same measurement. If we had sat at this
prettily decorated dinner table in the Carlton restaurant (I had
thought it pretty at first, so I give it the benefit of the doubt)
through the night into the next day, while other people ate
breakfast and even luncheon, the moments could not have dragged
more heavily. But when it appeared that we must have reached a ripe
old age – those of us who had been young with the evening – Lady
Blantock thought we might have coffee in the "palm court." We had
it, and by rising at last, sweet Molly Winston saved me from doing
the musicians a mischief. "Lord Lane, you promised to let us drop
you, in the car," she said to me. "Oh, I don't mean to 'drop you'
literally. Our auto has no naughty ways. I hope we are not carrying
you off too soon." [Illustration: "WE REALLY WANT YOU, SAID
MOLLY".]
Too soon! I could have kissed her. "Angel," I
murmured, when we were out of the hotel, for in reality there had
been no engagement. "Thank you – and good-bye." I wrung her hand,
and she gave a funny little squeak, for I had forgotten her rings.
"What! Aren't you coming?" asked Jack. "We really want you," said
Molly. "Please let us take you home with us – to supper." "We've
just finished dinner," I objected weakly. "That makes no
difference. Eating is only an incident of supper. It's a meal which
consists of conversation. Look, here's the car. Isn't she a beauty?
Can you resist her? Such a dear darling of a girl gave her to me, a
girl you would love. Can you resist Mercédès?" "I could resist
anything if I could resist you. But seriously, though you're very
good, I think I'll walk to the Albany, and – and go to bed." "What
nonsense! As if you would. You're quite a clever actor, Lord Lane,
and might deceive a man, but – I'm a woman. Jack and I want to talk
to you about – about that walking tour."
It would have been ungracious to refuse, since she
had set her heart upon a rescue. The chauffeur who had brought
round the motor surrendered his place to Molly, whom Jack had
taught to drive the new car, and I was given the seat of honour
beside her. By this time the streets were comparatively clear of
traffic, and we shot away as if we had been propelled from a
catapult, Molly contriving to combine a rippling flow of words with
intricate tricks of steering, in an extraordinary fashion which I
would defy any male expert to imitate without committing suicide
and murder.
I was a determined enemy of motor cars, as Jack
knew, and thus far had avoided treachery to my favourite animal by
never setting foot in one. But to-night I was past nice
distinctions, and besides, I rather hoped that Molly and her
Mercédès would kill me. My nerves were too numb to tell my brain of
any remarkable sensations in the new experience, but I remember
feeling cheated out of what I had been led to expect, when without
any tragic event Molly stopped the car before their house in Park
Lane – another and bigger wedding present.
It was a brand-new toy bestowed by millionaire
Chauncey Randolph on his one fair daughter. Jack and Molly Winston
had been married in New York in June (when I would have been best
man had it not been for Helen), had spent their honeymoon somewhere
in the bride's native country, and had come "home" to England only
a little more than a fortnight ago. Jack's father, Lord
Brighthelmston, had furnished the house as his gift to the bride,
and as he is a famous connoisseur and collector, his taste,
combined with Lady Brighthelmston's management, had resulted in
perfection. Already I had been taken from cellar to attic and shown
everything, so that to-night there was no need to admire.
We went into the dining-room; why, I do not know,
unless that sitting round a table in the company of friends opens
the heart and loosens the tongue. I have reason to believe that on
the table there were things to eat, and especially to drink, but we
gave them the cut direct, though I recall vaguely the fizz of soda
shooting from the syphon, and afterwards holding a glass in my
hand. "Do you mind my saying what I think of Lady Blantock and her
daughter?" inquired Molly, with the meek sweetness of a coaxing
child. "Perhaps I oughtn't, but it would be a relief to my
feelings." "I wonder if it would to mine?" I remarked impersonally,
addressing the ancient tapestry on an opposite wall. "Let's try,
and see," persisted Molly. "Calculating Cats! There, it's out. I
wouldn't have eaten their old dinner, except to please you. I've
known them only thirteen days, but I could have said the same thing
when I'd known them thirteen minutes. Indeed, I'm not sure I didn't
say it to Jack. Did I, or did I not. Lightning Conductor?" "You
did," replied the person addressed, answering with a smile to the
name which he had earned in playing the part of Molly Randolph's
chauffeur, in the making of their love story. "Women always know
things about each other – the sort of things the others don't want
them to know," Molly went on; "but there's no use in our warning
men who think they are in love with Calculating Cats, because they
would be certain we were jealous. Of course I shouldn't say this to
you, Lord Lane, if you hadn't taken me into your confidence a
little – that night of my first London ball." "It was the night I
proposed to Nell," I said, half to myself. "Sir Horace Jerveyson
was at the ball, too." "Talking to Lady Blantock." "And looking at
Miss Blantock. I noticed, and – I put things together." "Who would
ever have thought of putting those two together?" "I did. I said to
myself and afterwards to Jack – may I tell you what I said?"
"Please do. If it hurts, it will be a counter-irritant." "Well,
Jack had told me such heaps about you, you know, and he'd hinted
that, while we were having our great romance on a motor car, you
were having one on toboggans and skates at Davos, so I was
interested. Then I saw her at the ball, and we were introduced. She
was pretty, but – a prize white Persian kitten is pretty; also it
has little claws. She liked you, of course, because you're young
and good-looking. Besides, her father was knighted only because he
discovered a new microbe or something, while you're a 'hearl,' as
my new maid says." "A penniless 'hearl,'" I laughed. "You must have
plenty of pennies, for you seem to have everything a man can want;
but that is different from what a woman can want. I'm sure Helen
Blantock and her mother had an understanding. I can hear Lady
Blantock saying, 'Nell, dear, you may give Lord Lane encouragement
up to a certain point, for it would be nice to be a countess; but
don't let him propose yet. Who knows what may happen?' Then what
did happen was Sir Horace Jerveyson, who has more pounds than you
have pennies. Helen would console herself with the thought that the
wife of a knight is as much 'Lady So-and-So' as a countess. I hate
that grocerman, and as for Helen, you ought to thank heaven fasting
for your escape." "Perhaps I shall some day, but that day is not
yet," I answered. "However, there is still Monte Carlo." "Shall you
drown your sorrows in roulette?" asked Molly, looking horrified.
"Who knows?" "Don't let her misjudge you," cut in Jack. "Have you
forgotten what I told you about the Italian Countess, Molly?" "Oh,
the Countess with whom Lord Lane used to flirt at Davos before he
met Miss Blantock? Now I see. You said that you were going to Monte
Carlo, on purpose to make Helen Blantock jealous." "I'm afraid some
spiteful idea of the sort was in my mind," I admitted. "But the
Countess is fascinating, and if she would be kind, Monte Carlo
might effect a cure of the heart, as Davos did of the lungs." "I
believe you're capable of marrying for pique. Oh, if I could prove
to you that you aren't, and never have been, in love with Helen!"
"It would be difficult." "I'll engage to do it, if you'll take my
prescription." "What is that?" "Cheerful society and amusement. In
other words, Jack's and my society, and a tour on our motor car."
"What, make a discord in the music of your duet?" "Dear old boy, we
want you," said Jack.
I was grateful. "I can't tell how much I thank you,"
I answered. "But I'm in no mood for companionship. The fact is, I'm
stunned for the moment, but I fancy that presently I shall find out
I'm rather hard hit." "No, you won't, unless you mope," broke in
Molly. "On the contrary, you'll feel it less every day." "Time will
show," said I. "Anyhow, I must dree my own weird – whatever that
means. I don't know, and never heard of anyone who did, but it
sounds appropriate. I should like to do a walking tour alone in the
desert, if it were not for the annoying necessity to eat and drink.
I want to get away from all the people I ever knew or heard of –
with the exceptions named." "One would think you were the only
person disappointed in love!" exclaimed Molly. "Why, I have a
friend who has really suffered. Dear little Mercédès – – "
Mrs. Winston stopped suddenly, drawing in her
breath. She looked startled, as if she had been on the point of
betraying a state secret; then her eyes brightened; she began
abstractedly to trace a leaf on the damask tablecloth. "I have
thought of just the thing for you," she said, apparently apropos of
nothing. "Why don't you buy or hire a mule to carry your luggage,
and walk from Switzerland down into Italy, not over the high roads,
but do a pass or two, and for the rest, keep to the footpaths among
the mountains, which would suit your mood?" "The mule isn't a bad
scheme," I replied. "A dirty man is an independent animal, but a
clean man, or one whose aim is to be clean, is more or less
helpless. If he has a weakness for a sponge bag, a clean shirt or
two, and evening things to change into after a long tramp, he must
go hampered by a caravan of beasts." "One beast would do," said
Molly practically, "unless you count the muleteer, and that depends
upon his disposition." "I suppose muleteers have dispositions," I
reflected aloud. "Mules have. I've met them in America. But if you
think my idea a bright one, reward it by going with Jack and me as
far as Lucerne. There you can pick up your mule and your mule-man."
"'A picker-up of unconsidered trifles,'" I quoted dreamily. "Well,
if you and Jack are willing to tool me out on your motor car as far
as Lucerne, I should be an ungrateful brute to refuse. But the
difficulty is, I want to turn a sulky back on my kind at once,
while you two – – " "We're starting on the first," said Jack.
"What! No Cowes?" "We wouldn't give a day on the car for a cycle of
Cowes."
And so the plan of my consolation tour was settled,
in the supreme court beyond which there is no appeal. But man can
do no more than propose; and woman – even American woman – cannot
invariably "dispose" to the extent of remaking the whole world of
mules and men according to her whim.
CHAPTER II
Mercédès to the Rescue "What is more intellectually exhilarating to the mind, and even to the senses, than . . . looking down the vista of some great road . . . and to wonder through what strange places, by what towns and castles, by what rivers and streams, by what mountains and valleys it will take him ere he reaches his destination?" – The Spectator.
That Locker should have come in at the moment when I was trying on my new automobile get-up was more than a pin-prick to my already ruffled sensibilities – it was a knife-thrust. "What on earth are you laughing at, man?" I demanded, whipping off the goggles that made me look like a senile owl, and facing him angrily, as he had a sudden need to cover his mouth with a decorous palm. "I beg pardon, me lord," he said. "It was coming on you sudden in them things. I never thought to see you, me lord, in hotomobeel clothes – you who always was so down on the 'orrid machines." "Well, help me out of them," I answered, feeling the justice of Locker's implied rebuke. I twisted my wrists free of the elastic wind-cuffs, and shed the unpleasantly heavy coat that Winston had insisted I should buy. "And you such a friend of the 'orse too, me lord," added Locker, aware that he had me at a disadvantage.
I winced, and felt the need of self-justification. "You're right," I said. "I never thought I should come to it. But all men fall sooner or later, and I have held out longer than most. Don't be afraid, though, that I am going to have a machine of my own: I haven't quite sunk to that; if everybody else I know has. I'm only going across France on Mr. Winston's car. He has a new one – the latest make. He tells me that when he 'lets her out' she does seventy an hour." "Wot – miles, me lord?" Locker almost dropped the coat of which he had disencumbered me. "Kilometres. It's the speed of a good quick train."
It was strange; but until the night of that hateful dinner at the Carlton, I had never been in a motor car. Half my friends had them, or meant to have them; but in a kind of lofty obstinacy I had refused to be a "tooled down" to Brighton or elsewhere. Fancying myself considerably as a whip, and being an enthusiastic lover of horses, I had taken up an attitude of hostility to their mechanical rivals, and chuckled with malice whenever I saw in the papers that any acquaintance had been hauled up for going beyond the "legal limit."
But on the night of the Carlton dinner, when Molly Winston whirled me from Pall Mall to Park Lane, that part of me which was not frozen by the grocer (the part the psychologists call the "unconscious secondary self") told me that I was having another startling experience apart from being jilted.
Winston is my oldest friend, and when his letters were mere pæans in praise of automobilism, I looked upon his fad with compassionate indulgence. Then we met in London after his marriage, and between the confidences which we had exchanged, he managed to sandwich in something about motor cars. But I ruthlessly swept aside the interpolation as unworthy of notice. When he suggested a drive in the new car, I called up all my tact to evade the invitation. If the active part of me had not been stunned on the night when Helen threw me over, I believe I should have kept bright the jewel of consistency. But the kindness of Molly in circumstances the opposite of kind, had undone me. Here I was, pledged to get myself up like a figure of Fun, and sit glued for days to the seat of a noisy, jolting, ill-smelling machine which I hated, feeling (and looking), in my goggles and hairy coat, like a circus monkey or a circus dragon.
Nevertheless, I could confess the motor car to my man with comparative calmness. That I should fall was no doubt a disappointment to him. As a conscientious snob and a cherisher of conservative ideals, he could mention it to other valets without a blush. The mules however, towards which the motor was to lead, was a different thing; and while poor Locker excavated me from the motor coat, my mind was busily devising means to keep the horrid secret of the mule hidden from him forever.
There was but one way to do this. "I suppose, me lord, I'm to travel with the 'eavy luggage, and take rooms at the end of the journey," he suggested.
The crucial moment had come. If a man can support existence without the girl he loves, thought I, surely it must be possible for him to live without a valet. "No, Locker," I said firmly. "I am to be Mr. and Mrs. Winston's guest, and we – er – shall have no fixed destination. I shall be obliged to leave you behind." "Very good, me lord," returned Locker in a meek voice. "Very good, me lord; has you will. I do 'ope you won't suffer from dust, with no one to keep you in proper repair, as you might say. But no doubt it will be only for a short time."
Knowing that days, weeks, and even months might pass while I consorted with motors and mules, far from valets and civilisation, I was nevertheless toward enough to hint that Locker must be prepared for a wire at any time. I had often derived a quaint pleasure from the consciousness that he despised my bookish habits and certain unconventionalities not suited to a 'hearl'; but one must draw the line somewhere, and I drew it at the mule. I would give a good...