You _ought_ to have seen Aunt Mary's face! But we didn't give her time
to speak, and gasps are more effectual as punctuations than
interruptions.
Her Duke was too much moved to pause for them. He hurried to say that he
hoped I hadn't misunderstood him. The last thought in his mind had been
to "make a deal." Of course, if I really contemplated buying a car, I
must see a great many different kinds before deciding. But as it seemed
I had never had a ride on an automobile (_your_ fault, Dad--your only
one!), he would be delighted to take us a little spin in his car.
Before Aunt Mary could get in a word I had accepted; for I _did_ want to
go. And what is Aunt Mary for if not to make all the things I want to do
and otherwise couldn't, strictly proper?
Anyhow, we went, and it was heavenly. I know how a bird feels now, only
more so. You know, Dad, how quickly I make up my mind. I take that from
you, and in our spin through beautiful lanes to a delightful hotel
called--just think of it!--the "Hautboy and Fiddle," at the village of
Ockham, I'd had quite time enough to determine that I wanted the Duke's
car, if it could be got.
I said so; he objected. You've no idea how delicate he was about it, so
afraid it might seem that he had taken advantage. I assured him that, if
anything, it was the other way round, and at last he yielded. The car
really is a beauty. You can put a big trunk on behind, and there are
places for tools and books and lunch, and no end of little things, in a
box under the cushions we sit on, and even under the floor. You never
saw anything so convenient. He showed me everything, and explained the
machinery, but that part I forgot as fast as he talked, so I can't tell
you now exactly on what principle the engine works. When it came to a
talk about price I thought he would say two thousand five hundred
dollars at least (that's five hundred pounds, isn't it?) for such a
splendid chariot. I know Jimmy Payne gave nearly twice that for the one
he brought over to New York last year, and it wasn't half as handsome;
but--would you believe it?--the man seemed quite shy at naming one
thousand five hundred dollars. It was a second-hand car now, he
insisted, though he had only had it three months, and he wouldn't think
of charging more. I felt as if I were playing the poor fellow a real
Yankee trick when I cried "Done!"
Well, now, Dad, there's my confession. That's all up to date, except
that the Duke, who isn't a duke, but plain Mr. Reginald Cecil-Lanstown
("plain" seems hardly the word for all that, does it?) is to bring _my_
car, late his, to Claridge's on Monday, and I'm to pay. You dear, to
have given me such an unlimited letter of credit! He's got to get me a
_chauffeur_ who can speak French and knows the Continent, and Aunt Mary
and I will do the rest of our London shopping on an automobile--my own,
if you please. Then, when we are ready to cross the Channel, we'll drive
to Newhaven, ship the car to Dieppe, and after that I hope we shan't so
much as _see_ a railroad train, except from a long distance. Automobiles
for ever, say I, mine in particular.
I'm writing this after we have come back to Cobham, and while we wait
for the fly which is to take us to the station. Aunt Mary says I am mad.
She is quite "off" her Duke now, and thinks he is a fraud. By the way,
when that photo is developed I'll send it to you, so that you can see
your daughter's new gee-gee. Here comes the cab, so good-bye, you old
saint. From
Your sinner,
Molly.
Carlton Hotel, London,
_November 14_.
Dearest,
I've got it; it's mine; bought and paid for. It's so handsome that even
Aunt Mary is mollified. (I didn't mean that for a _pun_, but let it
pass.) Mr. Cecil-Lanstown has told me everything I ought to know (about
motor-cars, I mean), and now, after having tea with us, looking dukier
than ever, he has departed with a roll of your hard-earned money in his
pocket. It's lucky I met him when I did, and secured the car, for he has
been called out of England on business, is going to-morrow, and seems
not to know when he'll be able to get back. But he says we may meet in
France when he has his big racing automobile.
The only drawback to my new toy is the _chauffeur_. Why "_chauffeur_,"
by the way, I wonder? He doesn't heat anything. On the contrary, if I
understand the matter, it's apparently his duty to keep things cool,
including his own head. This one looks as if he had had his head on ice
for years. He is the gloomiest man I ever saw, gives you the feeling
that he may burst into tears any minute; but Mr. Cecil-Lanstown says he
is one of the best _chauffeurs_ in England, and thoroughly understands
this particular make of car, which is German.
The man's name is Rattray. It suits him somehow. If I were the heroine
of a melodrama, I should feel the minute I set eyes on Rattray that he
was the villain of the piece, and I should hang on like grim death to
any marriage certificates or wills that might concern me, for I should
know it would be his aim during at least four acts to get possession of
them. He has enormous blue eyes like Easter eggs, and his ears look
something like cactuses, only, thank goodness, I'm spared their being
green; they wouldn't go with his complexion. I talked to him and put on
scientific airs, but I'm afraid they weren't effective, for he hardly
said anything, only looked gloomy, and as if he read "amateur" written
on my soul or somewhere where it wasn't supposed to show. He's gone now
to make arrangements for keeping _my_ car in a _garage_. He's to bring
it round every morning at ten o'clock, and is to teach me to drive. I
won't seal this letter up till to-morrow then I can tell you how I like
my first lesson.
* * * * *
_November 15._
I _was_ proud of the car when I went out on it yesterday. Aunt Mary
wouldn't go, because she doesn't wish to be the "victim of an
experiment." Rattray drove for a long way, but when we got beyond the
traffic, towards Richmond, I took his place, and my lesson began. It's
harder than I thought it would be, because you have to do so many things
at once. You really ought to have three or four hands with this car,
Rattray says. When I asked him if it was different with other cars, he
didn't seem to hear. Already I've noticed that he's subject to a sort of
spasmodic deafness, but I suppose I must put up with that, as he is such
a fine mechanic. One can't have everything.
With your left hand you have to steer the car by means of a kind of
tiller, and to this is attached the horn to warn creatures of all sorts
that you're coming. I blow this with my right hand, but Rattray says I
ought to learn to do it while steering with the left, as there are
quantities of other things to be done with the right hand. First there
is a funny little handle with which you change speeds whenever you come
to a hill; then there is the "jockey-pulley-lever," which gives the
right tension to the belts (this is _very_ important); the
"throttle-valve-lever," on which you must always keep your hand to
control the speed of the car; and the brake which you jam on when you
want to stop. So there are two things to do with the left hand, and four
things with the right, and often most of these things must be done at
the same time. No wonder I was confused and got my hands a little mixed,
so that I forgot which was which, and things went wrong for a second!
Just then a cart was rude enough to come round a corner. I tried to
steer to the right, but went to the left--and you can't _think_ how many
things can happen with a motor-car in one second.
Now, don't be worried! I wasn't hurt a bit; only we charged on to the
side-walk, and butted into a shop. It was my fault, not a bit the car's.
If it weren't a _splendid_ car it would have been smashed to pieces,
and perhaps we with it, instead of just breaking the front--oh, and the
shop too, a little. I shall have to pay the man something. He's a
"haberdasher," whatever that is, but it _sounds_ like the sort of name
he might have called me if he'd been very angry when I broke his window.
The one bad consequence of my stupidity is that the poor, innocent,
sinned-against car must lie up for repairs. Rattray says they may take
some days. In that case Aunt Mary and I must do our shopping in a hired
brougham--such an anti-climax; but Rattray _promises_ that the dear
thing shall be ready for our start to France on the 19th. Meanwhile, I
shall console myself for my disappointment by buying an outfit for a
trip--a warm coat, and a mask, and a hood, and all sorts of tricky
little things I've marked in a perfectly thrilling catalogue.
Now, if you fuss, I shall be sorry I've told you the truth. Remember the
axiom about the bad penny. That's
Your
Molly
The Horrible Restaurant of the Boule d'Or, Suresnes, Near Paris,
_November 28_.
Forgive me, dear, long-suffering-because-you-couldn't-help-yourself-Dad,
for being such a beast about writing. But I did send you three cables,
didn't I? Aunt Mary would have written, only I threatened her with
unspeakable things if she did. I knew so well what she would say, and I
wouldn't have it. Now, however, I'm going to tell you the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth--no varnish. Indeed, there isn't
much varnish left on anything.
I wonder if I can make you comprehend the things I've gone through in
the last two or three days? Why, Dad, I feel old enough to be your
mother. But I'll try and begin at the beginning, though it seems, to
look back, almost before the memory of man, to say nothing of woman. Let
me see, where _is_ the beginning, when I was still young and happy?
Perhaps it's in our outfit for the trip. I can dwell upon that with
comparative calmness.
Even Aunt Mary was happy. You would have had to rush out and take your
"apoplectic medicine," as I used to call it, if you could have seen her
trying different kinds of masks and goggles, and asking gravely which
were most becoming. Thank Heaven that I've inherited your sense of
humour! To that I have owed my sanity during the last _dies irae_. (Is
that the way to spell it?)
I wouldn't have the conventional kind of mask, nor goggles. Seeing Aunt
Mary in her armour saved me from that. I bought what they call a "toilet
mask," which women vainer than I wear at night to preserve their
complexions. This was only for a last resort on very dusty days, to be
hidden from sight by a thin, grey veil, as if I were a modern prophet of
Korassan.
We got dust-grey cloaks, waterproof cloth on the outside, and lined with
fur. Aunt Mary invested in a kind of patent helmet, with curtains that
unfurl on the sides, to cover the ears; and I found myself so fetching
in a hood that I bought one, as well as a toque, to provide for all
weathers. Then we got a fascinating tea-basket, foot-warmers that burn
charcoal, and had two flat trunks made on purpose to fit the back of the
car, with tarpaulin covers to take on and off. Our big luggage we
planned to send to places where we wanted to make a long stay; but we
would have enough with us to make us feel self-contained and
independent.
We did look ship-shape when we started from the "Carlton" on the morning
of November 19th, with our luggage strapped on behind, the foot-warmers
and tea-basket on the floor, our umbrellas in a hanging-basket
contrivance, a fur-lined waterproof rug over Aunt Mary's knees and mine.
I'd taken no more lessons since that first day I wrote you about, owing
to the car not being ready until the night before our start, so Rattray
sat in front alone, Aunt Mary and I together behind.
We meant to have got off about eight, as we had to drive over fifty
miles to Newhaven, where the car was to be shipped that night; but
Rattray had a little difficulty in starting the car, and we were half an
hour late, which was irritating, especially as a good many people were
waiting to see us off. At last, however, we shot away in fine style,
which checked Aunt Mary in the middle of her thirty-second sigh.
All went well for a couple of hours. We were out in the country--lovely
undulating English country. The car, which Mr. Cecil-Lanstown had said
was beyond all others as a hill-climber, was justifying its reputation,
as I had confidently expected it would. The air was cold, but instead of
making one shiver, our blood tingled with exhilaration as we flew along.
You know what a chilly body Aunt Mary is? Even she didn't complain of
the weather, and hardly needed her foot-warmer. "This is life!" said I
to myself. It seemed to me that I'd never known the height of physical
pleasure until I'd driven in a motor-car. It was better than dancing on
a perfect floor with a perfect partner to _plu_perfect music; better
than eating when you're awfully hungry; better than holding out your
hands to a fire when they're numb with cold; better than a bath after a
hot, dusty railway journey. I can't give it higher praise, can I?--and I
_did_ wish for you. I thought you would be converted. Oh, my
_un_prophetic soul!
Suddenly, sailing up a steep hill at about ten miles an hour, the car
stopped, and would have run back if Rattray hadn't put on the brakes.
"What's the matter?" said I, while Aunt Mary convulsively clutched my
arm.
"Only a belt broken, miss," he returned gloomily. "Means twenty minutes'
delay, that's all. Sorry I must trouble you ladies to get up. New belts
and belt-fasteners under your seat. Tools under the floor."
We were relieved to think it was no worse, and reminded ourselves that
we had much to be thankful for, while we disarranged our comfortably
established selves. There were the tea-basket and the foot-warmers to be
lifted from the floor and deposited on Rattray's vacant front seat, the
big rug to be got rid of, our feet to be put up while the floor-board
was lifted, then we had to stand while the cushions were pulled off the
seat and the lid of the box raised. We, or at least I, tried to think it
was part of the fun; but it was a _little_ depressing to hear Rattray
grunting and grumbling to himself as he unstrapped the luggage, hoisted
it off the back of the car so that he could get at the broken belt
inside, and plumped it down viciously on the dusty road.
The delay was nearer half an hour than twenty minutes, and it seemed
extra long because it was a strain entertaining Aunt Mary to keep her
from saying "I told you so!" But we had not gone two miles before our
little annoyance was forgotten. That is the queer part about
automobiling. You're so happy when all's going well that you forget
past misadventures, and feel joyously hopeful that you will never have
any more.
We got on all right until after lunch, which we ate at a lovely inn
close to George Meredith's house. Then it took half an hour to start the
car again. Rattray looked as if he were going to burst. Just to watch
him turning that handle in vain made me feel as if elephants had walked
over me. He said the trouble was that "the compression was too strong,"
and that there was "back-firing"--whatever that means. Just as I was
giving up hope the engine started off with a rush, and we were on the
way again through the most soothingly pretty country. About four
o'clock, in the midst of a glorious spin, there was a "r-r-r-tch," the
car swerved to one side, Aunt Mary screamed, and we stopped dead. "Chain
broken," snarled Rattray.
Up we had to jump once more: tea-basket, foot-warmers, rugs, ourselves,
everything had to be hustled out of the way for Rattray to get at the
tools and spare chains which we carried in the box under our seats. I
began to think perhaps the car _wasn't_ quite so conveniently arranged
for touring as I had fancied, but I'd have died sooner than say
so--then. I pretended that this was a capital opportunity for tea, so
opened the tea-basket, and we had quite a picnic by the roadside while
Rattray fussed with the chain. It wasn't very cold, and I looked forward
to many similar delightful halts in a warmer climate "by the banks of
the brimming Loire," as I put it jauntily to Aunt Mary. But she only
said, "I'm sure I hope so, my dear," in a tone more chilling than the
weather.
It was at least half an hour before Rattray had the chain properly
fixed, and then there was the usual difficulty in starting. Once the
handle flew round and struck him on the back of the hand. He yelled,
kicked one of the wheels, and went to the grassy side of the road, where
in the dusk I could dimly see him holding his hand to his mouth and
rocking backwards and forwards. He did look so like a distracted goblin
that I could hardly steady my voice to ask if he was much hurt. "Nearly
broke my hand, that's all, miss," he growled. At last he flew at the
terrible handle again, managed to start the motor, and we were off.
Going up a hill in a town that Rattray said was called Lewes, I noticed
that the car didn't seem to travel with its customary springy vigour.
"Loss of power," Rattray jerked at me over his shoulder when I
questioned him as to what was the matter, and there I had to leave it,
wondering vaguely what he meant. I think he lost the way in Lewes (it
was now quite dark, with no stars); anyhow, we made many windings, and
at last came out into a plain between dim, chalky hills, with a shining
river faintly visible. Aunt Mary had relapsed into expressive silence;
the car seemed to crawl like a wounded thing; but at last we got to
Newhaven pier, and had our luggage carried on board the boat. Rattray
was to follow with the car in the cargo-boat. So ended the "lesson for
the first day"--a ten-hour lesson--and I felt sadder as well as wiser
for it.
Aunt Mary went to sleep as soon as we got on the boat; but I was so
excited at the thought of seeing France that I stayed on deck, wrapped
in the warm coat I'd bought for the car. We had a splendid crossing,
and as we got near Dieppe I could see chalk cliffs and a great gaunt
crucifix on the pier leading into the harbour. It seemed as if I were in
a dream when I heard people chattering French quite as a matter of
course to each other, and I liked the _douaniers_, the smart soldiers,
and the railway porters in blue blouses. It was four in the morning when
we landed. Of course, it was the dead season at Dieppe, but we got in at
a hotel close to the sea. It was lovely waking up, rather late, one's
very first day in France, looking out of the window at the bright water
and the little fishing-boats, with their red-brown sails, and smelling a
really heavenly scent of strong coffee and fresh-baked rolls.
Later in the morning I walked round to the harbour to find that the
cargo-boat had arrived, and that Rattray and the car had been landed.
The creature actually greeted me with smiles. Now for the first time he
was a comfort. He did everything, paid the deposit demanded by the
custom-house, and got the necessary papers. Then he drove me back to the
hotel, but as it was about midday I thought that it would be nicer to
start for Paris the next day, when I hoped we could have a long, clear
run. In Paris, of course, Aunt Mary and I wanted to stay for at least a
week. Rattray promised to thoroughly overhaul the car, so that there
need be no "incidents" on the way.
There was a crowd round us next morning--a friendly, good-natured little
crowd--when we were getting ready to start in the stable-yard of the
hotel. Our landlady was there, a duck of a woman; the hotel porters in
green baize aprons stood and stared; some women washing clothes at a
trough in the corner stopped their work; and a lot of funny, wee
schoolboys, with short cropped hair and black blouses with leather
belts, buzzed round, gesticulating and trying to explain the mechanism
of the car to each other. Rattray bustled about with an oil-can in his
hand, then loaded up our luggage, and all was ready. With more dignity
than confidence I mounted to the high seat beside Aunt Mary. This time,
with one turn of the handle, the motor started, so contrary is this
strange beast, the automobile. One day you toil at the starting-handle
half an hour, the next the thing comes to life with a touch, and nobody
can explain why. Bowing to madame and the hotel people, we sailed
gracefully out of the hotel yard, Rattray too-tooing a fanfaronade on
the horn. It was a splendid start!
The streets of Dieppe are of those horrid uneven stones that the French
call _pave_, and our car jolted over them with as much noise and clatter
as if we'd had a cargo of dishes. You see the car's very solidly built
and heavy--that, said Mr. Cecil-Lanstown, is one of its merits. It is of
oak, an inch thick, and you can't break it. Another thing in its favour
is that it has solid tyres, and not those horrid pneumatics, which are
always bursting and puncturing, and give no end of trouble. "With solid
tyres you are always safe," said Mr. Cecil-Lanstown. I can't help
thinking, though, that on roads like these of Dieppe it would be
soothing to have "pneus," as they call them. Jingle, jingle! scrunch,
scrunch! goes the machinery inside, and all the loose parts of the car.
It did get on my nerves.
But soon we were out of the town and on one of the smoothest roads you
ever saw. Rattray said it was a "route nationale," and that they are the
best roads in the world. The car bounded along as if it were on a
billiard-table. Even Aunt Mary said, "Now, if it were always like
_this_----" My spirits went up, up. I proudly smiled and bowed to the
peasants in their orchards by the roadsides. I was even inclined to pat
Rattray on the shoulder of his black leather coat. This, _this_ was
life! The sun shone, the fresh air sang in our ears, the car ran as if
it had the strength of a giant. I felt as independent as a gipsy in his
caravan, only we were travelling at many times his speed. The country
seemed to unfold just like a panorama. At each turn I looked for an
adventure.
We skimmed through a delicious green country given up to enormous
orchards which, Aunt Mary read out of a guide-book, yield the famous
_cidre de Normandie_. I thought of the lovely pink dress this land would
wear by-and-by, and then suddenly we came out from a small road on to a
broad, winding one, and there was a wide view over waving country, with
a white town like a butterfly that had fluttered into a bird's nest.
Rattray let the car go down this long road towards the valley at
something like thirty miles an hour, and Aunt Mary's hand had nervously
grasped the rail when there came a kind of sigh inside the car, and it
paused to rest.
Rattray jumped off and made puzzled inspection. "Can't see anything
wrong, miss; must take off the luggage and look inside." It is a
peculiarity that every working part is hidden modestly under the body of
the car. This protects them from wet and dust, Mr. Cecil-Lanstown told
me; but it seems a little inconvenient to have to haul off _all_ the
luggage every time you want to examine the machinery. It didn't take
long to find out what was the matter. The "aspiration pipe," Rattray
said, had worked loose (no doubt through the jolting over the Dieppe
_pave_) and the "vapour couldn't get from the carburetter to the
explosion chamber."
I only partly understood, but I felt that the poor car wasn't to blame.
How could it be expected to go on without aspirating? There was "no
spanner to fit the union," and Rattray darkly hinted at further trouble.
Three little French boys with a go-cart had come to stare. I Kodaked
them and send you their picture in this letter as a sort of punctuation
to my complaints.
Well, when Rattray had screwed up the "union" as well as he could (isn't
that what our statesmen did after the confederate war?), off we started
again, bustled through the town in the valley (which I found from Murray
was Neufchatel-en-Bray), and had a consoling run through beautiful
country until, at noon, we shot into the market-place of Forges les
Eaux. It was market-day, and we drove at a walking pace through the
crowded _place_, all alive with booths, the cackling of turkeys, and the
lowing of cows. There seemed to be only one decent inn, and the _salle
a manger_ was full of loud-talking peasants, with shrewd, brown,
wrinkled faces like masks, who "ate out loud," as I used to say.
The place was so thronged that Rattray had to sit at the same table with
us, and though as a good democrat I oughtn't to have minded, I did
squirm a little, for his manners--well, "they're better not to dwell
on." But the luncheon _was_ good, so French and so cheap. We hurried
over it, but it took Rattray half an hour to replenish the tanks of the
car with water (of course he had to lift down the luggage to do this)
and to oil the bearings. We sailed out of Forges les Eaux so bravely
that my hopes went up. It seemed certain we should be in Paris quite in
good time, but almost as soon as we had got out of the town one of the
chains glided gracefully off on to the road.
You'd think it the simplest thing in the world to slip it on again, but
that was just what it wasn't. Rattray worked over it half an hour
(everything takes half an hour to do on this car, I notice, when it
doesn't take more), saying things under his breath which Aunt Mary was
too deaf and I too dignified to hear. Finally I was driven to remark
waspishly, "You'd be a bad soldier; a good soldier makes the best of
things, and bears them like a man. You make the worst."
"That's all very well, miss," retorted my gloomy goblin; "but soldiers
have to fight _men_, not _beasts_."
"They get killed sometimes," said I.
"There's things makes a man _want_ to die," groaned he. And that
silenced me, even though I heard a ceaseless mumbling about "every
bloomin' screw being loose; that he'd engaged as a mechanic, not a
car-maker; that if he _was_ a car-maker, he was hanged if he'd disgrace
himself making one of _this_ sort, anyhow."
You'll think I'm exaggerating, but I vow we had not gone more than ten
miles further before that chain broke again. This time I believe Rattray
shed tears. As for Aunt Mary, her attitude was that of cold, Christian
resignation. She had sacrificed herself to me, and would continue to do
so, since such was her Duty, with a capital D; indeed, she had expected
this, and from the first she had told me, etc., etc. At last the chain
was forced on again and fastened with a new bolt. We sped forward for a
few deceitful moments, but--detail is growing monotonous. After that
something happened to the car, on the average, every hour. Chains
snapped or came off; if belts didn't break, they were too short or too
long. Mysterious squeaks made themselves heard; the crank-head got hot
(what head wouldn't?), and we had to wait until it thought fit to cool,
a process which could scarcely be accelerated by Rattray's language. He
now announced that this make of car, and my specimen in particular, was
_the_ vilest in the automobile world. If a worse _could_ be made, it did
not yet exist! When I ventured to inquire why he had not expressed this
opinion before leaving London, he announced that it was not his business
to express opinions, but to drive such vehicles as he was engaged to
drive. I hoped that there must be something wrong with the automobile
which Rattray didn't understand; that in Paris I could have it put
right, and that even yet all might go well. For a few miles we went with
reasonable speed, and no mishaps; but half-way up a long, long hill the
mystic "power" vanished once more, and there we were stranded nearly
opposite a forge, from which strolled three huge, black-faced men,
adorned with pitying smiles.
"Hire them to push," I said despairingly to Rattray, and as he turned a
sulky back to obey, I heard a whirring sound, and an automobile flew
past us up the steep hill, going about fifteen miles an hour. That did
seem the last straw; and with hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness
in my breast, I was shaking my fist after the thing, when it stopped
politely.
There were two men in it, both in leather caps and coats--I noticed that
half unconsciously. Now one of them jumped out and came walking back to
us. Taking off his cap, he asked me with his eyes and Aunt Mary with his
voice--in English--if there was anything he could do. He was very
good-looking, and spoke nicely, like a gentleman, but he seemed so
successful that I couldn't help hating him and wishing he would go away.
The only thing I wanted was that he and the other man and their car
should be specks in the distance when Rattray came back with his
blacksmiths to push us up the hill; so I thanked him hurriedly, and said
we didn't need help. Perhaps I said it rather stiffly, I was so wild to
have him gone. He stood for a minute as if he would have liked to say
something else, but didn't know how, then bowed, and went back to his
car. In a minute it was shooting up hill again, and I never was gladder
at anything in my life than when I saw it disappear over the top--only
just in time too, for it wasn't out of sight when our three blacksmiths
had their shoulders to the task.
"_There's_ a good car, if you like, miss," said that fiend Rattray.
"It's a Napier. Some pleasure in driving _that_."