The Princess Passes by Alice Muriel Williamson and Charles Norris Williamson

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THE PRINCESS PASSES

A Romance of a Motor-Car

by

C. N. and A. M. WILLIAMSON

Authors of _The Lightning Conductor_

Illustrated

New York
Henry Holt and Company

1905

[Illustration: "FOOD FOR THE GODS, AND ONLY A BOY TO EAT IT."]

TO

THE DEAR PRINCESS

WHO, EACH YEAR, MAKES THE RIVIERA SUNNIER FOR HER PRESENCE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. WOMAN DISPOSES

II. MERCEDES TO THE RESCUE

III. MY LESSON

IV. POTS, KETTLES, AND OTHER THINGS

V. IN SEARCH OF A MULE

VI. THE WINGS OF THE WIND

VII. AT LAST!

VIII. THE MAKING OF A MYSTERY

IX. THE BRAT

X. THE SCRAPING OF ACQUAINTANCE

XI. A SHADOW OF NIGHT

XII. THE PRINCESS

XIII. AFTERNOON CALLS

XIV. THE PATH OF THE MOON

XV. ENTER THE CONTESSA

XVI. A MAN FROM THE DARK

XVII. THE LITTLE GAME OF FLIRTATION

XVIII. RANK TYRANNY

XIX. THE LITTLE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE

XX. THE GREAT PAOLO

XXI. THE CHALLENGE

XXII. AN AMERICAN CUSTOM

XXIII. THERE IS NO SUCH GIRL

XXIV. THE REVENGE OF THE MOUNTAIN

XXV. THE AMERICANS

XXVI. THE VANISHING OF THE PRINCE

XXVII. THE STRANGE MUSHROOM

XXVIII. THE WORLD WITHOUT THE BOY

XXIX. THE FAIRY PRINCE'S RING

XXX. THE DAY OF SUSPENSE

XXXI. THE BOY'S SISTER

ILLUSTRATIONS

"FOOD FOR THE GODS, AND ONLY A BOY TO EAT IT" (Frontispiece)

"WE REALLY WANT YOU, SAID MOLLY"

"SOMETIMES JACK DROVE, WITH MOLLY BESIDE HIM"

"THE BLUE FLAME OF THE CHAFING-DISH"

"I WAS SUDDENLY CLAPPED UPON THE SHOULDER"

"TREADING THE ROAD BUILT BY NAPOLEON"

"THERE WAS A PANG WHEN I TURNED MY BACK"

"THAT IS THE DEJEUNER OF NAPOLEON"

"DOWN, TURK!" "BE QUIET, JUPITER!"

"ON THE GROUND CROUCHED THE BOY"

"'DO YOU KNOW,' SAID I, 'YOU ARE A VERY QUEER BOY'"

"LOOKING OUT OF THE WINDOW I SAW HIM IN CONVERSATION"

"SITTING WITH MY BACK TO THE HORSES"

"HERE WE WERE AT ANNECY"

"VOILA MONSIEUR!"

"THE ROCK OF MONACO"

CHAPTER 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, _nee_ 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 _entree_ 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 _entree_ 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 _entrees_.

We had been asking each others' plans for August. Molly and Jack had
said that they were going to Switzerland to try the new Mercedes,
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 Mercedes?"

"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 Mercedes 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 Mercedes----"

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.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II

Mercedes 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 paeans 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 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.

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