The Princess Passes Volume 56 by Alice Muriel Williamson, Charles Norris Williamson (great book club books .txt) 📕

Horse Was Badly Hurt, And Then Sped On Again, With A Certain Respect

For The Motor Rankling In My Reluctant Heart. Comparing Its Behaviour

With That Of An Automobile, Hansom's Ironically Named "Patent Safety"

Had Not A Wheel To Stand Upon.

When We Were Clear Of Kingston, And Winging Lightly Along The Familiar

Portsmouth Road, With Its Dark Pines And Purple Gleams Of Heather, I

Began To Feel An Exhilaration Scarcely Short Of Treacherous To My

Principles. We Were Now Putting On Speed, And Running As Fast As Most

Trains On The South-Western, Yet The Sensation Was Far Removed From

Any I Had Experienced In Travelling By Rail, Even On Famous Lines,

Which Give Glorious Views If One Does Not Mind Cinders In The Eye Or

The Chance Of Having One's Head Knocked Off Like A Ripe Apple. I

Seemed To Be Floating In A Great Opaline Sea Of Pure, Fresh Air; For

Such Dust As We Raised Was Beaten Down From The Tonneau By The Screen,

And It Did Not Trouble Us. Our Speed Appeared To Turn The Country Into

A Panorama Flying By For Our Amusement; And Yet, Fast As We Went, To

My Surprise I Was Able To Appreciate Every Feature, Every Incident Of

The Road. Each Separate Beauty Of The Way Was Threaded Like A Bead On

A Rosary.

Here Was Sandown Park, Which I Had Regarded As The Goal Of A

Respectable Drive From Town, With Horses; But We Were Taking It, So To

Speak, In Our First Stride. Esher Was No Sooner Left Behind Than

Quaint Old Sleepy Cobham Came To View; Between There And Ripley Was

But A Gliding Step Over A Road Which Slipped Like Velvet Under Our

Wheels. Then A Fringe Of Trees Netted Across A Blue, Distant Sea Of

Billowing Hills, And A Few Minutes Later We Were Sailing Under

Guildford's Suspended Clock.

It Was Somewhere Near The Hour Of One When Molly Brought The Car

Gently To A Standstill By The Roadside, And Announced That She Would

Not Go A Yard Further Without Lunch. The Chauffeur Successfully Took

Up The Part Of Butler At A Moment's Notice, Busying Himself With The

Baskets, Spreading A Picnic Cloth Under A Shady Tree, And Putting A

Bottle Of Graves To Cool In A Neighbouring Brook. Meanwhile Molly Was

Doing Mysterious Things With Her Chafing-Dish And Several Little China

Jars. By The Time Jack And I Had With Awkward Alacrity Bestowed

Plates, Glasses, Knives, And Forks On The Most Hummocky Portions Of

The Cloth, White And Rosy Flakes Of Lobster _À La_ Newburg Were

Simmering Appetisingly In A Creamy Froth.

I Was Deeply Interested In This Cult Of The Chafing-Dish, Which Could,

In An Incredibly Short Time, Serve Up By The Wayside A Little Feast

Fit For A King--Who Had Not Got Dyspepsia.

"Can't You Imagine The Programme If We Had Gone To An Inn?" Asked

Jack, Proud Of His Bride's Handiwork. "We Should Have Walked Into A

Dingy Dining-Room, With Brown Wallpaper And Four Steel Engravings Of

Bloodthirsty Scenes From The Old Testament. A Sleepy Head Waiter Would

Have Looked At Me With A Polite But Puzzled Expression, As If At A

Loss To Know Why On Earth We Had Come. I Should Have Enquired

Deprecatingly: 'What Can You Give Us For Lunch?' What Would He Have

Replied?"

"There's Only One Possible Answer To That Conundrum, And It Doesn't

Take Any Guessing," Said I. "The Reply Would Have Been: 'Cold 'Am Or

Beef, Sir; Chops, If You Choose To Wait.' Those Words Are Probably Now

Being Spoken To Some Hundreds Of Sad Travellers Less Fortunate Than

Our Favoured And Sylvan Selves."

"If You Would Like To Have A Chafing-Dish In Your Family," Remarked

Jack, "You'll Have To Marry An American Girl."

"I'm No Duke," Said I.

"Earls Aren't To Be Despised, If There Are No Dukes Handy," Said

Molly. "Besides, It's Getting A Little Obvious To Marry A Duke."

"Which Is The Reason You Took Up With A Chauffeur," Retorted Jack.

"You Call Yourself A 'Penniless Hearl,'" Went On Molly, "And I

Suppose, Of Course, You Are 'Belted.' All Earls Are, In Poetry And

Serials, Which Must Be Convenient When You're _Really_ Very Poor,

Because If You're Hungry, You Can Always Take A Reef In Your Belt,

While Mere Plain Men Have No Such Resource. Have You Got Yours On

Now?"

"It's In Pawn," Said I. "It's No Joke About Being Penniless. Jack

Will Tell You I'm Obliged To Let My Dear Old House In Oxfordshire, And

The Only Luxuries I Can Afford Are A Few Horses And A Few Books. I

Prefer Them To Necessities--Since I Can't Have Both."

I Thought That Molly Might Laugh, But Instead She Looked Abnormally

Grave. "Jack Told Me," She Said, "How, When You And He Came Over To

America, Six Or Seven Years Ago, To Shoot Big Game, You Avoided Girls,

For Fear People Might Suppose Your Alleged Bear Hunt Was Really An

Heiress Hunt. I Forgive Jack, Because That Was In The Dark Ages,

Before He Knew There Was A Me. But Why Should A Girl Be Shunned By

Nice Men Solely Because She's An Heiress? Can't She Be As Pretty And

Lovable In Herself As A Poor Girl?"

"She Can," I Replied, Emphasising My Words With A Look In Molly's

Face. "No Doubt She Often Is. But I Do Wish Some American Girls Who

Marry Men From Our Side Of The Water Wouldn't Let The Papers Advertise

Their Weddings As 'Functions' (Sounds Like Obscure Workings Of

Physical Organs), Attended By The Families Of Their Exclusive

Acquaintance, Worth, When Lumped Together, A Billion Of Dollars Or

So."

"I Know. It's As If They Were Prize Pigs At A Fair, And Were Of No

Importance Except For Their Dollars," Sighed Molly. "And Then, The

Detectives To Watch The Presents! It's Disgusting. But Some Of Our

Newspapers Are Like Mr. Hyde. Poor Dr. Jekyll Can't Do Anything With

Him; And Anyhow, You Needn't Think We're All Like That. I Have A

Friend Who Is One Of The Greatest Heiresses In America, But She Hates

Her Money. It Has Made Her Very Unhappy, Though She's Only Twenty-One

Years Old. If You Could See Mercédès, With Her Lovely, Strange Sad

Face, And Big, Wistful Eyes----"

"I Can Think Of Mercédès Only With A Shiny Grey Body, Upholstered

Crimson; And For Eyes, Huge Acetylene Lamps," I Was Rude Enough To

Break In; For I Fancied That I Saw What Mistress Molly Would Fain Be

Up To, And My Heart Was Not Of The Rubber-Ball Description, To Be

Caught In The Rebound. If Molly Cherished A Secret Intention Of

Springing Her Peerless Friend Mercédès Upon Me, During This Tour Which

She Had Organised, It Seemed Better For Everyone Concerned That The

Hope Should Be Nipped In The Bud. It Was With Unwonted Meekness That

She Yielded To Being Suppressed, And I Suffered Immediate Pangs Of

Remorse. To Atone, I Did My Best To Be Agreeable. All The Way To

Southampton I Praised Automobiles In General And Hers In Particular;

Admitted That In Half A Day I Had Become Half A Convert; And Soon I

Had The Pleasure Of Believing That The Divine Molly Had Forgotten My

Sin.

    "The Broad Road That Stretches."

                    --R.L. Stevenson.

Forty-Eight Hours Later We Drove Out Of Havre, Bound For Paris And

Lucerne, Where I Was To "Pick Up" That Mule, And Become A Lone

Wanderer On The Face Of The Earth. Gotteland Had Seen To The Shipping

Of The Car From Southampton, While We Spent A Day On The Crowded Sands

Of Trouville, Where I Was So Lucky As To Meet No One I Knew.

It Was Only Now, Winston Said, That I Should Realise To The Full The

Joys Of Motoring, Impossible To Taste Under Present Conditions In

England. Our Way Was To Lie Along The Seine To Paris, And Jack

Recalled To Us Napoleon's Saying That "Paris, Rouen, And Havre Form

Only One City, Of Which The Seine Is The Highway."

Last Year, These Two Had Seen The Country Of The Loire Together, Under

Curious And Romantic Conditions, And Now Molly Was To Be Shown Another

Great River In France. We Changed Places In The Car, Like Players In

The Old Game Of "Stage Coach." Sometimes Molly Had The Reins, And I

The Seat Of Honour By Her Side. Sometimes Jack Drove, With Molly

Beside Him, I In The Tonneau; Then I Knew That They Were Perfectly

Happy, Though Gotteland And I Could Hear Every Word They Said, And

Their Talk Was Generally Of What We Passed By The Way, Occasionally

Interspersed By A "Do You Remember?"

Now, If There Is An Insufferable Companion Under The Sun, It Is The

Average "Well-Informed Person" Who Continually Dins Into Your Ears

Things You Were Born Knowing. This I Resent, For I Flatter Myself That

I Was Born Knowing A Good Many Exceptionally Interesting And Exciting

Things Which Can't Be Learned By Studying History, Geography, Or Even

_Tit-Bits_. Jack Winston, However, Though He Has Actually Taken The

Trouble To House In His Memory An Enormous Number Of Facts,--"Those

Brute Beasts Of The Language,"--Has So Tamed And Idealised The

Creatures As To Make Them Not Only Tolerable But Attractive. I Can

Even Hear Him Tell Things Which I Myself Don't Know Or Have Forgotten,

Without Instantly Wishing To Throw A Jug Of Water At His Good-Looking

Head; Indeed, I Egg Him On And Have Been Tempted To Jot Down An Item

Of Information On My Shirt Cuff, With A View Of Fixing It In My Mind,

And Eventually Getting It Off As My Own.

Whenever Molly Or I Admired Any Object, Natural Or Artificial, It

Seemed That Jack Knew All About It. She Showed A Flattering Interest

In Everything He Said, And, Fired By Her Compliments, He Suddenly

Exclaimed: "Look Here, Molly, Suppose We Don't Hurry On, The Way We've

Been Planning To Do? Last Year We Had That Wonderful Chain Of Feudal

Châteaux In Touraine, To Show Us What Kingly And Noble Life Was In Dim

Old Days. Now, All Along The Seine And Near It, We Shall Have Some

Splendid Churches Instead Of Castles. We Can Hold A Revel, Almost An

Orgie, Of Magnificent Ecclesiastical Architecture If We Like To Spend

The Time. I've Got Ferguson's Book And Parker's, Anyhow, And Why

Shouldn't We Run Off The Beaten Track----"

"No, Dearest," Said His Wife Gently, But Firmly, And I Could Have

Hugged Her. My Bump Of Reverence For The Gothic In All