The Princess Passes Volume 56, Alice Muriel Williamson, Charles Norris Williamson [primary phonics txt] 📗

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."

Chapter 2 (Mercédès To The Rescue) Pg 10

 

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

Chapter 2 (Mercédès To The Rescue) Pg 11

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 Deal

Rather Than Locker Should Suspect Me Of The Mule.

 

It Was Arranged That We Should Leave From Jack's House In Park Lane,

And As We Wanted To Reach Southampton Early, Our Start Was To Be At

Nine O'clock. "In France," Jack Had Said To Me, "We Could Reel Off The

Distance Almost As Quickly As The Train; But In Our Blessed Land, With

Its Twenty Miles An Hour Speed Limit, Its Narrow Winding Roads,

Chiefly Used In Country Places As Children's Playgrounds, And Its

Police Traps, Motoring Isn't The Undiluted Joy It Ought To Be. The

Thing To Prepare For Is The Unexpected."

 

At Half-Past Eight At Jack's Door, I Bade An Almost Affectionate

Farewell To The Last Cabhorse With Which For Many Wild Weeks I Should

Have Business Dealings. The Untrammelled Life Before Me Seemed To Be

Signalised By The Lonely Suit Case Which Was The One Article Of

Luggage I Was Allowed To Carry On The Motor. A Portmanteau Was To

Follow Me Vaguely About The Continent, And I Had Visions Of A Pack To

Supersede The Suit Case, When My Means Of Transport Should Be A Mule.

Sufficient For The Motor Was The Luggage Thereof, However, And When My

Neat Leather Case Was Deposited In Jack's Hall, I Was Rewarded With

Molly's Approving Comment That It Would "Make A Lovely Footstool."

 

We Had Breakfast Together, As Though Nothing Dreadful Were About To

Happen, And I Heartened Myself Up With Strong Coffee. By The Time We

Had Finished, And Molly Had Changed Herself From A Radiant Girl Into A

Cream-Coloured Mushroom, With A Thick, Straight, Pale-Brown Stem, The

Thing Was At The Door--Molly's Idol, The New Goddess, With Its Votive

Priest Pouring Incense Out Of A Long-Nosed Oil Can And Waving A

Polishing Rag For Some Other Mystic Rite.

 

This Servant Of The Car Answered To The Name Of Gotteland, And Having

Learned From Jack That He Had Started Life As A Jockey In Hungary, I

Thought Evil Of Him For Abandoning The Horse For The Machine. He

Evidently Belonged To That Mysterious Race Of Beings Called Suddenly

Into Existence By A Vast New Industry; Mysterious, Because How Or Why

A Man Drifts Or Jumps Into The Occupation Of Chauffeur Is Never

Explained To Those Who See Only The Finished Article. Jack Praised Him

As A Model Of Chauffeury Accomplishments, Among Which Were A Knowledge

Of Seventeen Languages More Or Less, To Say Nothing Of Dialects, And A

Temper Warranted To Stand A Burst Tyre, A Disordered Silencer, An

Uncertain Ignition, And (Incidentally) A Broken Heart--All Occurring

At The Same Time. Despite These Alleged Perfections, I Distrusted The

Cosmopolitan Apostate On Principle, And Was About To Turn Upon His

Leather-Clad Form A Disapproving Gaze, When I Dimly Realised That It

Chapter 2 (Mercédès To The Rescue) Pg 12

Would Be A Case Of The Pot Calling The Kettle Black. Instead, I Smiled

Hypocritically As We "Took A Look" At The Car Before Lending It Our

Lives.

 

"I Hope The Brute Isn't Vicious; Doesn't Blow Up Or Explode, Or Shed

Its Safety Valve, Or Anything," I Remarked With A Facetiousness Which

In The Circumstances Did Me Credit.

 

Gotteland Answered With The Pitying Air Of The Professional For The

Amateur. "The _One_ Thing An Automobile Can't Do, Sir, Is To Blow Up."

 

I Was Glad To Hear This, In Spite Of The Strong Coffee Lately

Swallowed, But On The Other Hand There Were Doubtless A Great Many

Other Equally Disagreeable Things Which It Could Do. Of Course, If It

Were Satisfied With Merely Killing Me, Neatly And Thoroughly, I Still

Felt That I Should Not Mind; Indeed, Would Be Rather Grateful Than

Otherwise. But There Were Objections, Even For A Jilted Lover, To

Being Smeared Along The Ground, And Picked Up, Perhaps, Without A

Nose, Or The Proper Complement Of Legs, Or Vertebræ.

 

"Anyhow, The Beast Has A Certain Meretricious Beauty," I Admitted.

"Those Red Cushions And All That Bright Metal Work Give An Effect Of

Luxury."

 

Gotteland Revenged His Idol With Another Smile. "Amateurs _Do_ Notice

Such Things, Sir," Said He. "Professionals Don't Care Much About The

Body; It's The Motor That Interests Them." He Lifted A Sort Of Lattice

Which Muzzled The Dragon's Mouth, Disclosing Some Bulbous Cylinders

And A Tangle Of Pipes And Wires. "It's The _Dernier Cri_. That Engine

Will Work As Long As There's A Drop Of Essence In The Carburetter,

And Will Carry You At Forty Miles An Hour, Without Feeling A Hill

Which Would Set Many Cars Groaning And Puffing. It Will Do The Work Of

Twenty Horses, And More----"

 

"Yet I Shouldn't Be _Really_ Surprised If One Horse Had To Tow It Some

Day," I Murmured More To Myself Than To Him, But Molly Heard Me,

Through Her Mushroom.

 

"You'll Soon Apologise To Mercédès For Your Doubts Of Her, For Motors

Are Their Own Missionaries," She Said, Her Eyes Laughing Through A

Triangular Talc Window. "You Will Have Learned To Love Her Before You

Know What Has Happened, Just As You Would The Real Mercédès, If You

Could See Her."

 

Curious, I Thought, That Molly, Knowing My State Of Mind, Should Be

Constantly Weaving Into Our Conversation Some Allusion To The Namesake

And Giver Of Her Car. I Had Never In My Life Been Less Interested In

The Subject Of Extraneous Girls, And With All Molly's Tact, It Seemed

Strange That She Should Not Recognise This. However, She Did Not

Appear To Expect An Answer, And We Were Soon Settled In The Car,

Molly, As I Have Said, Looking Like A Graceful Fungus Growth, Jack And

I Like Haggard Goblins.

 

Chapter 2 (Mercédès To The Rescue) Pg 13

Molly