The Princess Passes Volume 56 by Alice Muriel Williamson, Charles Norris Williamson (book recommendations .TXT) 📖

Chapter 1 (Woman Disposes) Pg 1

    "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

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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

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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.

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"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