writing reflection

Molly Randolph gets an automobile

THE LIGHTNING CONDUCTOR

MOLLY RANDOLPH TO HER FATHER

In the Oak Room, the “White Lion,” Cobham, Surrey, November 12.

Dear Shiny-headed Angel,

I hope you won’t mind, but I’ve changed all my plans. I’ve bought an automobile, or a motor-car, as they call it over here; and while I’m writing to you, Aunt Mary is having nervous prostration on a sofa in a corner at least a hundred years old—I mean the sofa, not the corner, which is a good deal more. But perhaps I’d better explain.

[...]

Following the advice of a couple that they met “on the steamer,” Molly and Aunt Mary go to see “a thoroughly characteristic English village,” Cobham . There, they find several automobiles.

[...] There were several automobiles starting off, and I can tell you I felt small— just as if I were Miss Noah getting out of the ark. [...]

[2]

One of the automobiles was different from any I’ve ever seen on our side or this. It was high and dignified, like a chariot, and looked over the heads of the others as the archdeaconess used to look over mine till she heard whose daughter I was. A chauffeur was sitting on the front seat, and a gorgeous man had jumped down and was giving him directions. He wasn’t looking my way, so I seized the opportunity to snapshot him, as a souvenir of English scenery; but that tactless Kodak of mine gave the loudest “click” you ever heard, and he turned his head in time to suspect what had been happening. I swept past with my most “haughty Lady Gwendolen” air, talking to Aunt Mary, and hoped I shouldn’t see him again. But we’d hardly got seated for lunch in a beautiful old room, panelled from floor to ceiling with ancient oak, when he came into the room, and Aunt Mary, who has a sneaking weakness for titles (I suppose it’s the effect of the English climate), murmured that there was her ideal of a duke.

The Gorgeous Man strolled up and took a place at our table. He passed Aunt Mary some things which she didn’t want, and then began to throw out a few conversational feelers. If you’re a girl, and want fun in England, it’s no end of a pull being American; for if you do anything that people think queer, they just sigh, and say, “Poor creature! she’s one of those mad Americans,” and put you down as harmless. I don’t know whether an English girl would have talked or not, but I did; and he knew lots of our friends, especially in Paris, and it was easy to see [3] he was a raving, tearing “ swell ,” even if he wasn’t exactly a duke. I can’t remember how it began, but really it was Aunt Mary and not I who chattered about our trip, and how we were abroad for the first time, and were going to “do” Europe as soon as we had “done” England.

The Gorgeous Man had lived in France (he seems to have lived nearly everywhere, and to know everybody and everything worth knowing), and, said he, “What a pity we couldn’t do our tour on a motor-car!” At that I became flippant, and inquired which, in his opinion, would be more suitable as chauffeur—Aunt Mary or I; whereupon he announced that he was not joking, but serious. We ought to have a motor-car and a chauffeur. Then we might say, like Monte Cristo , “The world is mine.”

He went on to tell of the wonderful journeys he’d made in his car, “which we might have noticed outside.” It seemed it was better than any other sort of car in the world; in fact there was no other exactly like it, as it had been made especially for him. You simply couldn’t break it, it was so strong; the engine would outlast two of any other kind; and one of the advantages was that it had belts and a marvellous arrangement called a “ jockey pulley ” to regulate the speed: consequently it ran more “sweetly” (that was the word he used) than gear-driven cars, which, according to him, jerk, and are noisy, break easily, and do all sorts of disagreeable things.

By the time we were half through lunch I was envying him his car, and feeling as if life wasn’t [4] worth living, because I couldn’t have it to play with. I asked if I could buy one like it, but he was very discouraging. He had had his fitted up with lots of expensive improvements, and it didn’t pay the firm to make cars like that for the public, so I would have to order one specially, and it might be months before it could be delivered. I was thinking it rather inconsiderate in him to work me up to such a pitch, just to cast me down again, when he mentioned, in an incidental way, that he intended to sell his car, because he had ordered a racer of forty horse-power.

I jumped at that and said, “Why not sell it to me?’’

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 de- [5] lightful 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” [6] 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 chauffeurwho 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.

The first chauffeur

[7]

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.

[8]

The man’s name is Rattray. [...]

Molly learns how to drive the car

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. [...]

[9]

[...]

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 thinkhow 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 sidewalk, 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 [10] 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.

Mechanical issues — Molly meets Jack Winston

[11]

The Horrible Restaurant of the Boule d’Or, Suresnes, near Paris,

November 28.

[...]

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 [12] gravely which were most becoming. Thank Heaven that I’ve inherited your sense of humor! [...]

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, [13] owing to the car not being ready until the night before our start, so Rattray set in front alone, Aunt Mary and I together behind.

[...]

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 pluperfect music; better than eating when you’re awfully hungry; better than holding out your hands to afire 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 unprophetic soul!

[14]

Summary of the missing pages: The car stops with a broken belt, and it takes half an hour of hard work to have it repaired by the driver. Then the trip resumes.

[...] 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 [15] misadventures, and feel joyously hopeful that you will never have any more.

[...]

Summary of the missing pages: After lunch, the driver takes a long time to restart the car. Later, the car stops by the side of the road again, with a broken chain. The driver repairs the car, and they keep going until the evening. They put the car on a “cargo boat,” and cross the Channel to get to Dieppe, France. From there they drive through Normandy. After another breakdown, having to do with the “aspiration pipe,” they reach Forges les Eaux , and after lunch they proceed in the direction of Paris. The chain breaks off again.

[22]

[...]

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 [23] 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.

Summary of the missing pages: The car that was driving by, a Napier , stops, and one of the men on board offers to help. However Molly refuses the offer, confident that her driver and the three blacksmiths will be sufficient. After “uncountable belt-breakings and heart-achings” (24) they finally arrive in Paris, where they spend a full week while the car is being repaired. At the hotel where they stay, Molly and Aunt Mary are introduced to an English woman, Lady Brighthelmstone, a “viscountess” (25), who is planning to go to the French Riviera. There she will meet with her son, John Winston, who is “touring now on his motor-car” (25). After they leave the hotel, the car suffers another breakdown (this time it’s the crank-head). The driver asks Molly for some money to get a new part, while Molly and her aunt have lunch in “a little third-class restaurant” (28). However, the driver abandons the car and disappears with the money. The same two men who had offered to help earlier, whom Molly believed to be “master and chauffeur*” (28), drive by again. They quickly discover that Molly’s driver is gone. They also arrange to have Molly’s car repaired at a nearby garage.*

[31]

I clapped my hands at this; then I could feel my face fall. (Funny expression, isn’t it?—almost as absurd as I “dropped my eyes”; but I think I did that too.) “How lovely!” said I. And then, “But what good if I can’t get a chauffeur?”

The man’s face grew red—not a bricky, ugly red; but as he was very brown already, it only turned a nice mahogany colour, and made him look quite engaging. “If you would take me,” he said, “I am at your service.”

I never was more astonished in my life, and I just sat and stared at him. I was sure he must be making fun.

“Of course you’ll think it strange,” he went on in a hurry; “but the fact is, I’m out of a job——”

“Why, are you a real chauffeur—a mechanic?” I couldn’t help breaking in on him. I almost blurted out that I had taken him for the master, which would have been horrid, of course, and suddenly I was ashamed of myself, for I had been treating him exactly like an equal; and perhaps I was silly enough to be a tiny bit disappointed too, for I’ll confess to you, Dad, that I’d had visions of his being someone rather grand, which would have spread a little jam of romance over the stale, dry bread of this disagreeable experience. Anyhow, this man was much better looking than his companion, whom I knew now was the master. He wasn’t a gorgeous person, like Mr. Cecil-Lanstown, but I’d certainly thought he had rather a distinguished air. However, these Englishmen, even the peasants, are sometimes such splendid types—clear-cut features, brave, keen [32] eyes, and all that, you know, as if their ancestors might have been Vikings.

While I was thinking, he was telling me that he was a chauffeur, sure enough, and that this was the last day of his engagement with his master, who didn’t wish to take a mechanic any farther. His name, he said, was James Brown. He had had a good deal of experience with several kinds of cars—my sort was the first he’d ever driven; he knew it well, and if I cared to try him, he could get me a very good reference from his master, Mr. Winston.

“Mr. Winston! ” I repeated. “Is your master the Honourable John Winston?”

“That is his name,” he answered, though he looked so odd when he said it that I thought it wise to mention that I knew Mr. Winston’s mother, so he would have a sort of warning if he weren’t speaking the truth. But he didn’t look like a man who would tell fibs, and to cut a long story short, he brought out a letter which the Honourable John Winston had already given him. It was very short, as if it had been written in a hurry, but nothing could have been more satisfactory. Brown, as I suppose I must call him, said that he would be able to start with us as soon as the car was ready, and when I mentioned where I wanted to go he remarked that he had been all through the chateau country several times on a motor-car. One can see from the way he talks that he’s an intelligent, competent young man (he can’t be more than twenty-eight or nine) and knows his business thoroughly. I think I’m very lucky to get him, don’t you?

Jack tells the story from his point of view

[34]

FROM JACK WINSTON TO LORD LANE Orleans,

November 29. My dear Montie,

[...]

[35]

Well, the new car is a stunner. I haven’t so far a fault to find with her. She takes most hills on the third, which is very good; for though we are only two up—Almond and I—I have luggage in the tonneau almost equal to the weight of another passenger. Between Dieppe and Paris she licked up the kilometres as a running flame licks up dry wood. She runs sweetly and with hardly any noise. The ignition seems to work perfectly; she carries water and petrol enough for 150 miles. I think at last in the Napier I have found the ideal car, and you know I have searched long enough. Almond timed her on the level bit at Achères , and it was at the rate of over forty-five miles an hour—not bad for a touring car.

It was between Dieppe and Paris (somewhere between Gisors and Meru) that the adventure began. I was flying up a slope of perhaps one in fifteen, when I became aware of Beauty in Distress. An antediluvian car, which was recognisable by its rearward protuberance as something archaic, was stationary on the hill; two ladies sat on an extraordinarily high seat behind like a throne, and a mechanic was slouching towards a smith’s forge by the roadside. One motorist, of course, must always offer help to another—to pass a stranded car would be like ignoring signals of distress at sea; besides, one of the ladies looked young and seemed to have a charming figure. So, having passed them, I pulled up and went back.

[...]

[38]

[...]

In the first instant there came a complication. I had stopped my car a minute in the Bois to scribble a character for my new self—James Brown, from my old self—John Winston; but as soon as I presented this piece of writing to back up my application for the place, Miss Molly Randolph (I may as well give you her name) exclaimed that she knew my mother. Such is life! It seems they met in Paris. But the die was cast, and she engaged me. I trusted the Napier to Almond, giving him general instructions to keep as near to us as he could, without letting himself be seen, and for the last two days I have been chauffeur, mécanicien, call it what you will, to the most charming girl in this exceedingly satisfactory world.

[...] Your very sincere and excited friend,

Jack Winston.

Jack becomes James Brown, falls in love with Molly

[39]

Hotel de Londres, Amboise,

December 3

My dear Montie,

[...]

[45]

[...]

As I’ve told you, the German horror is phaeton -seated, and for me in front to talk comfortably to any lady behind is not easy. In driving, one can’t take one’s attention much off the road, so Miss Molly has to lean forward and shout over my shoulder. A curious and delightful kind of understanding is growing up between us. You know that the history of this part of France is fairly familiar to me, and I’ve already done the castles twice before. What I’ve forgotten, I’ve studied up in the evenings, so as to be indispensable to Miss Randolph. At first she spoke to me very little, only a kind word now and then such as one throws to a servant; but I could hear much of what she said to her aunt, and her comments on things in general were sprightly and original. She had evidently read a good deal, looked at things freshly, and brought to bear on the old Court history of France her own quaint point of view. Her enthusiasm was ever ready— bubbling, but never gushing, and I eagerly kept an ear to the windward not to miss the murmur of the geographical and historical fountain behind my back.

“Aunt Mary,” on the contrary, has a vague and ordinary mind, being more interested in what she is going to have for luncheon than in what she is going to see. The girl, therefore, is rather thrown back upon herself. I burned to join in the talk, yet I [46] dared not step out of the character I had assumed. [...]

[48]

[...]

We had just finished the crôute au pot, when there came a whirr! outside, upon which Miss Randolph looked questioningly at me. “A little Pieper ,” I said. “How wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Can you really tell different makes of cars just by their sound?” “Anyone can do that,” I informed her, “with practice; you will yourself by the time you get to the end of this journey. Each car has its characteristic note. The De Dion has a kind of screaming whirr; the Benz a pulsing throb; the Panhard a thrumming; a tricycle a noise like a miniature Maxim .”

The driver of the Pieper came in. His get-up was the last outrageous word of automobilism — [49] leather cap with ear-flaps, goggles and mask, a ridiculously shaggy coat of fur, and long boots of skin up to his thighs—a suitable costume for an Arctic explorer, but mighty fantastic in a mild French winter. You know these posing French automobilists. At sight of a beautiful girl, he made haste to take off his hat and goggles, revealing himself as a good-looking fellow with abnormally long eyelashes, which I somehow resented. He preened himself like a bird, twisted up the ends of his black moustache, and prepared for conquest. Catching Miss Randolph’s eye, he smiled; she answered with that delightful American frankness which the Italian and the Frenchman misconstrue, and in a moment they were talking motor-car as hard as they could go. The poor chauffeur was ignored.

It undermines one’s sense of self-importance to find how quickly one can be unclassed. I tasted at this moment the mortification of service. Once in an hotel at Biarritz I gave to the valet de chambre a hat and a couple of coats that I didn’t want any more. They were in good condition, and he was overwhelmed with the value of the gift. “Monsieur is too kind,” the fellow said; “such clothes are too good for me. They are all right for you, but for nous autres!”—the “others,” who neither expect the good things of life nor envy those who have them. The expression implies the belief that the world is divided into two parts—the ones and the other ones.

Now, as I heard my sweet and clever little lady babbling automobilism with all the wisdom of an [50] amateur of six weeks, I felt that I was indeed one of the Others. Though the Frenchman was to me a manifest Worm (in that he was supercilious, puffed up with conceit, taking it for granted that women should fall down and worship him) and a ridiculous braggart, I had to see her receive his open admiration with equanimity and listen to his stories with credulity, my business being to eat in silence and “thank Heaven” (though not “fasting”) that I was allowed in the presence of my betters. Still, I would have gone through more than that to be near her, to hear her talk, and see her smile, for frankly this girl begins to interest me as no other woman has.

“Ah, how I have travelled to-day!” the Frenchman said, throwing his hands wide apart. “I left Paris this morning, to-morrow I shall be in Biarritz. To-day I have killed a dog and three hens. On the front of my car just now I found the bones and feathers of some birds, which miscalculated their distance and could not get away in time.” Miss Randolph gave a little cry, translating for her aunt, who has no French.

“Shocking!” ejaculated Aunt Mary. “A regular juggernaut.”

“Your car does not go as fast as that, mademoiselle?” the Frenchman went on. “A little heavy, I should think; a slow hill-climber?”

“On the contrary,” Miss Randolph fired up. “Though my car has—er— some drawbacks, it goes splendidly uphill, doesn’t it, Brown?”

“That is its strong point,” I answered, grateful for the unexpected and kindly word of recognition [51] thrown to me, one of the Others; but the Frenchman did not deign to notice the chauffeur.

“Capital!” cried he. “ If mademoiselle be willing, and a hill can be found in the neighbourhood, I should like to wager my Pieper against her seven-horsepower German car. I had an odd experience the other day,” he went on. “My motor stopped for want of essence; luckily it was in a village, but there wasn’t a drop of essence to be bought—all the shops were sold out. What do you think I did, mademoiselle? I filled the tank with absinthe from a café, and got home on that. Not many would have thought of it, eh?”

[...]

Summary of the missing pages: The Frenchman, with his Pieper, and Molly, with James (Jack) and Aunt Mary, decide go out for a trip on their automobiles. Molly’s German car cannot be started, and Molly suggests that the vain French (nicknamed Eyelashes) try himself.

[69]

[...]

I could see Eyelashes didn’t like that suggestion a little bit, consequently I welcomed it. It’s very well to dance about and give advice, quite another thing to do the work yourself; but I gleefully stood aside while he grasped the starting-handle. It takes both strength and knack to start that car, and he had neither. At first he couldn’t get the handle round against the compression; then, exerting himself further, there came a terrific back-fire—the handle flew round, knocked him off his feet, and sent him staggering, very pale, into the arms of a white-aproned waiter. I couldn’t help grinning, and I fancy Miss Randolph hid a smile behind her handkerchief.

Eyelashes was furious. “It is a horror, that German machine!” he cried. ‘‘Such a thing has no right to exist. Look at mine!” He darted to his Pieper, gave one twist of the handle, and the motor instantly leaped into life. Everyone murmured approval at this demonstration of the superiority of France, or rather, Belgium, to Germany; but next moment I had got our motor to start. The ladies dubiously took their places, and under the critical dark eyes of Miss Barrow I steered out into the streets of Blois.

[70]

I will spare you the detailed honors of the next few hours. It seemed to me that to keep that car going one must have the agility of a monkey, the strength of a Sandow , and the resourcefulness of a Sherlock Holmes. Almost everything went wrong that could go wrong. Both chains snapped—that was trifling except for the waste of time, but finally the exhaust-valve spring broke. It was getting dusk by this time, and to replace that spring was one of the grisliest of my automobile experiences. To get at it I had to lift off all the upper body of the car and take out both the inlet and the exhaust valves. As darkness came on, Miss Randolph (who took it all splendidly and laughed at our misfortunes) held a lamp while I wrestled with the spring and valves. The Frenchman, who had kept close to us on his irritatingly perfect little Pieper, I simply used as a labourer, ordering him about as I pleased—my one satisfaction. After an hour’s work (much of the time on my back under the car, with green oil dripping into my hair!) I got the new spring on, and we could start again. Then—horror on horror’s head!—we had not gone two miles before I heard a strange clack! clack! and looking behind, saw that one of the back tyres was loose, hanging to the wheel in a kind of festoon, like a fat worm.

Summary of the missing pages: The Frenchman volunteers to drive Molly and Mary to a hotel, planning to leave the jealous Jack back with the broken car. However, Molly refuses to go, and she sends Jack to a nearby farmhouse to find some kind of accommodation for the night. During dinner, the Frenchman tries to convince Molly to continue her “tour” of France on his car.

[75]

[...] the farmer and I had pushed the German car inside the gate and left it; but Talleyrand was fussy about getting proper cover for his smart Pieper, and was not satisfied until he had housed it in a dry barn near the house.

After supper I strolled out into the night, trying, with a pipe between my lips, to think out the details of an alluring new plan which had flashed into my mind.

“Flashed” there, do I say? Forced, rammed in, and pounded down expresses it better. Will you believe it, during supper, that fellow—Eyelashes, I mean—had had the audacity to urge upon Miss Randolph that she must now continue the tour on his car!

I was smoking and fuming in the dark, in a corner down by the gateway, when I heard a whisper of silk (I suppose it’s linings; I’d know it at the North Pole as hers, now), and detected a shadow which I knew meant Miss Randolph. She came nearer. I saw her distinctly now, for she was carrying a lantern. At first I thought she was looking for me, but she wasn’t. She went straight to the car and stood glowering at it for a minute, having set down the lantern. Then she took Something out of the folds of her dress and seemed to feel it with her hand. “Oh, you won’t go, won’t you?” she inquired sardonically. “You like to break your belts and go dropping your chains about, just to give Brown all the trouble you can, don’t you, and keep us from [76] getting anywhere? You think it’s enough to be beautiful, and you can be as much of a beast as you like. But you’re not beautiful. You’re horrid, and I hate you! Take that!”

Up went the Something in her hand; it glittered in the yellow light of the lantern. If you will believe it, the girl had got a hatchet and was chopping at the car. Her poor vicious little stroke did no great damage, but she chipped off a big flake of varnish and left a white gash.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, as if it had hurt her and not her great lumbering dragon. “Oh, you deserve it, you know, and a lot more. But—but——” and she gave a little gurgling sigh.

I had been on the point of bursting out with uncontrollable laughter, but suddenly I ceased to find the thing funny. I couldn’t lurk in ambush and hear any more; I couldn’t sneak away—even to spare her feelings—and leave her there to cry, for I ’felt she was going to cry. So I came out into the circle of lantern-light, shaking the tobacco from my pipe.

“Why, Brown, is that you?” she quavered. “I— I didn’t want anyone to see me, and I wasn’t crying about the car, but just Because—because of everything. I found that hatchet, and—I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry now, though. It was mean of me to hit a thing when it’s down, even if it is a Beast. It does deserve to be killed, though. It’s simply no use trying to go on with such a thing—is it? ”

Because of the Plan in my mind I replied gloomily that the prospect was rather discouraging.

Molly’s car is destroyed by a fire

[80]

MOLLY RANDOLPH TO HER FATHER

Amboise,

November Something-or-Other,

Dear old Lamb,

Did you know that you were the papa of a chameleon? An eccentric combination. But Aunt Mary says she has found out that I am one—a chameleon, I mean; but I don’t doubt she thinks me an “eccentric combination’’ too. And, anyway, I don’t see how I can help being changeable. Circumstances and motor-cars rule dispositions.

[...]

Summary of the missing pages: While Molly is sleeping at the farm, Molly’s car catches fire and the Frenchman accuses Jack of arson.

[85]

[...]

Brown faced round too, and at the same instant, the fire having drunk the last drop of petrol, the flame suddenly died down, and there fell a curious silence after the roaring of the fire, which had been like a blast. The woodwork of the car, the hood and the upper part, as well as the wooden wheels, had all disappeared—the flame had swallowed and digested them. Of my varnished and dignified car there remained only a heap of twisted bits of iron, glowing a dull red. In the grey dawn we must have looked like witches at some secret and unholy rite. The going out of the light had an odd effect upon us three. When Monsieur Talleyrand launched his accusation at Brown, he had thrown up his chin, and the light, striking on his eyeballs, made them glow like red sparks. But with the dying of the light, the flash in his eyes died too; and his face changed to a disagreeable, ashy grey. At the same minute, when I turned to Brown, it was his eyes that glowed, but the light seemed to come from inside.

I forget whether I ever told you that Brown is a very good-looking fellow, too good-looking for a mere chauffeur. His face is like his name— [86] brown; his eyes are brown too, and they can almost speak. One can’t help noticing these things, even in one’s chauffeur. If he weren’t a chauffeur, one might certainly take him for a gentleman. Some things really are a pity! But never mind.

Brown looked at Monsieur Talleyrand, and then he said, “You are a liar.” Oh, my goodness, I expected murder!

Monsieur Talleyrand gave a sort of leap.

“Scoundrel, hog, canaille!” he stammered, trembling all over. “To be insulted by an English cad, a common chauffeur, that a gentleman cannot call out, an incendiary——”

But here Brown broke in with a “Silence!” that made me jump. And the funny part was that it was he who looked the gentleman, and Monsieur Talleyrand the cad—quite a little, mean cad, though he is really handsome, with eyelashes you’d have to measure with a tape. That awful “Silence!” seemed to blow his words down his throat like a gust of wind, and while he was getting breath Brown followed up his first shot; but this time it was aimed my way. “Do you believe what that coward says?” he flung at me, without even taking hold of the words with “Miss” for a handle. Between the two men and the excitement, I gasped instead of answering, and perhaps he took silence for consent, though that is such an old-fashioned theory, especially when it concerns girls. Anyway, he seemed to grow three or four inches taller, and his chin got squarer. “ So far from burning your car,” said he (and you could [87] have made a block of ice out of each word), “I have been to Amboise to hire a car for you, and thought I had been lucky in securing my old master’s.

[...]

Summary of the missing pages: Jack explains that he was out all night, as he went to borrow his master’s car to allow Molly to continue her European tour with it. Upon his return to the farm, he found that someone had sabotaged Molly’s car to start the fire. He accuses the Frenchman, and the accusation sounds more credible when the farmer’s mother confirms that from her window she saw him “set fire to the automobile” (89).

[89]

[...]

“Monstrous!” cried Monsieur Talleyrand. “Am I to be accused on the word of a crazy old witch? I advise you to be careful what you say.”

“Here is something else, which speaks for itself,” Brown said. “Look!” and he pointed to the ground not far from the gnawed bones of my car. We looked, and saw some wisps of the stuff he had called cotton-waste, twisted up and saturated with oil. “That was used to fire the petrol,” he went on. “There was none like it on our car, but you carried plenty in yours. I’ve seen you use it, and so, I think, has Miss Randolph.”

For an instant Talleyrand seemed to be taken aback, and he looked so pale in the dim light that I was almost going to be sorry for him, when with a sudden inspiration he struck an attitude before me. He had the air of ignoring the others, forgetting that they existed.

“Mademoiselle,” he said in a low, really beautiful [90] voice, that might have drawn tears from an audience if he had been the leading man cruelly mistaken for a neighbouring villain, “ chère mademoiselle, I did what these canaille accuse me of. Yes, I did it! But they cannot understand why. Only you are high enough to understand. It was—because of my great love for you. All is to be forgiven to such love. Cheerfully, a hundred times over, will I pay for this material damage I have done. I am not poor, except in lacking your love. To gain an opportunity of winning it, to take you from your brutal chauffeur, who is not fit to have delicate ladies trusted to his care, I did what I have done, meaning to lay my car, myself, all that I have and am, figuratively at your feet.”

If he had really, instead of “figuratively,” I’m sure I couldn’t have resisted kicking him, which would have been unladylike. How could I ever have thought he was nice? Ugh! I could have strangled him with his own eyelashes! Brown was right about him, after all. I wonder why it doesn’t please one more to find out that other people are right?

“I don’t want you to pay,” said I. “I only want you to go away.”

I’ve a dim impression that I emphasised these words with a gesture, and that he seized my hand before I could pull it back. I also have a dim impression of exclaiming, “Oh, Brown!” in a frightened voice—just as silly as if I’d been an early-Victorian female. I wished I hadn’t, but it was too late. Brown, evoked, was not so easily revoked. A whirlwind seemed to catch Monsieur Talleyrand up, but it was really Brown. [...] [91] [...]

“About my master’s car, miss,” said he coolly. “Will you have it? He was at Amboise . I’d heard from him there, that if I knew of anyone wanting to hire a car, his was in the market for the next few weeks, as he was suddenly called away, and didn’t want to take it. It’s a good car—the best I ever drove—and he’s willing to let it go cheap, as he trusts me to drive, and it’s an accommodation to him.”

“Oh, I’m delighted to have it,” I answered, not stopping to ask the price, because details didn’t seem to matter at that moment. [...] I don’t know how to thank you enough for everything.” I can’t tell exactly what I meant by that, except that I meant a lot.

“There’s nothing to thank me for, miss,” said Brown, quite respectful again; but a queer little smile lurked in the corners of his mouth. “You must be hungry,” he remarked. “Shall I ask them [92] to have breakfast prepared by the time you’re— ready?”

I believe he was going to say “dressed,” and stopped for fear of hurting my feelings. I only stayed long enough to throw a “Yes, please,” over my shoulder. But when I was upstairs with Aunt Mary, my face feeling rather hot, I didn’t begin to make my toilet; I went and “peeked” out of the window.

That unspeakable Frenchman was shaking himself like a big dog, and sneaking towards the house, with the farmer at his heels. The farmer was a big fellow, and dependable; still, I ran and locked the door. I suppose the Beast finished dressing and packed his bag. I heard nothing; but half an hour later (I’d bathed and dressed like lightning, for once), when we were just sitting down to breakfast, and Brown had come into the room to ask a question, there was a light pattering on the stairs; the front door opened, and somebody went out. Two minutes later came the whirring of a motor, and I jumped up.

“Oh, Brown!” I exclaimed, “if he should have taken your car!”

“No fear of that,” said Brown. “I know the sound just as I know one human voice from another. That’s his Pieper. It’s all right.”

Still I wasn’t at ease. “But he may have done something bad to yours. He’s capable of anything,” I said. “Do let’s go and see.”

Brown flushed up a little. “ I’ll go,” he said. [...]

Summary of the missing pages: Before leaving, the Frenchman slashes the tires of Brown’s new automobile. Jack, Molly and Mary drive the car “on the rims” (93) to the next town, Amboise. Jack explains that their new car was loaned by his master, Mr. John Winston, whose mother, Lady Brighthelmston, they had met in Paris.

[94] [...] Funny, though, that I should have the car of that Mr. John Winston, whose mother —Lady Brighthelmston—I met in Paris, and promised to meet again in Cannes. Fancy Aunt Mary and me lolling luxuriously (I love that word “lolling”) in a snow-white car with scarlet cushions, all the brass-work gleaming like a fireman’s helmet—the rakiest, smartest car imaginable! There are two seats in front and a roomy tonneau behind. The steering and other arrangements are quite different from those in the poor dead Dragon—rest its wicked soul! There’s a steering-wheel, and below it two ducky little handles that do everything. One’s the “advance sparking lever,” the other the “mixture lever.” There are no horrid belts to break themselves—and your heart at the same time, but instead a “change speed gear’’ and a “clutch.” I had my first lesson in driving, sitting by Brown on the way to Amboise. He teaches one awfully well, and I was perfectly happy learning, especially when I found that the faster we went the easier the dear thing is to steer. I was so interested that I didn’t know a bit what the road was like, except that it was good and white and mostly level, so that when Brown suddenly said “There is the Chateau of Amboise,” I was quite startled.

Luckily he was driving again by that time, or I should probably have shot us into the river instead of turning to the bridge; for we were on the other side of the Loire looking across to the castle.

[...]

The Lightning Conductor

[101]

MOLLY RANDOLPH TO HER FATHER

Tours, December 3.

Three days since I wrote, blessed old Thing, but it seems three times three, for all the hours have been as cramfull as you used to fill my stocking at Christmas.

We couldn't get away from Amboise, as we expected, because the tyres didn’t arrive till late in the evening. I knew it must be a long, tedious business fixing them on, so I never dreamed of starting next morning; but when morning came, and with it the chambermaid and my bath, there was a note from Brown, written in a hand a lot nicer than my poor “fist,” announcing that the car was ready, and if I would like a surprise, might he “respectfully suggest” that I should come downstairs as soon as possible. You can imagine that I didn’t “stand on the order of my going.” My hair crinkled with surprise at being done so quickly, and I was in such a hurry that I nearly—but not quite— slid down the balusters.

Brown was at the front door, with the car all politely polished, and seeming to stand upon tiptoe on its big new tyres. But smart as the car was, it was nothing to the chauffeur. He looked like a sort of male Cinderella just after the fairy godmother [102] had waved her wand; only instead of a ball dress she had given him, in place of his black leather, a suit of grey clothes; one of those high, turnover collars I love on a good-looking man; a dark necktie, and what we call a “Derby” hat and the English call a “bowler. ” He was nice! I don’t know if I’m a judge of a man’s clothes, but to me they seemed as good form as any tailor in the world could cut. Perhaps the Honourable John gave them to him. Poor dear! he’s far too fine a fellow really to have to wear another man’s cast-off garments; but I suppose Providence must know best, and, anyhow, I’m sure the H. J. never looked half as nice in the things.

Brown had on also a mysterious air, which seemed to go with the clothes, and he asked if I’d mind taking a short run with him, without knowing beforehand where I was going. I said that, on the contrary, I should like it. That seemed to please him. He helped me in (not that I needed it), the car started with a touch, and we began to thread the streets of the town behind the Château, I wondering what was going to happen. When I had been in this car before, it was to travel “on the rims,” you know. Now, on our four-plump new Michelins from Paris it was like being in a balloon, so easy was the motion even over the badly paved streets.

[...]

[104]

[...]

Oh, that descent! I feel breathless, just remembering it, but it was a glorious kind of breathlessness, like you feel when you go tobogganing —only more so. Brown took it at tremendous speed, but I wasn’t a bit afraid, for I trust him utterly as a driver. If he said he could take me safely over Niagara Falls, and looked straight at me in a way he has when he said it, I believe I’d go—unless, of course, you objected!

I found myself thinking of Poe’s descent of the Maelström , and when I said so to Brown afterwards, it turned out that he’d read it. He had the car perfectly in hand, and steered it to a hair’s breadth. We were down in a moment—or it seemed so; and coming out into the bright little streets was like waking up after a strange dream. In three minutes [105] more we were at the door of our hotel, and I really was asking myself if I had dreamed it.

[...]

[110]

[...] champagne looked so dissipated for two lone females. However, I had decided to have some, to drink the health of the new car, and perhaps—a little—to shock Aunt Mary, when the diamond-eyed one respectfully inquired, in nice Southern French, how we would like to try a “little wine of the country, sparkling Vouvray; quite a ladies’ wine.” So we compromised with Vouvray. It was too ridiculously cheap, but it had a delicious flavour, and Aunt Mary and I, being merely females, agreed that it was more delicate than any champagne we had ever tasted. We drank your health and the car’s, and then I had a sudden inspi- [111] ration. “To the ‘Lightning Conductor’!” said I, raising my glass.

“What lightning conductor? And what do you mean?” inquired Aunt Mary.

“The one and only Lightning Conductor—Brown, ” I explained. “I have just thought of that as a good name for him, now that he has a chance to spin us across the world at such a pace with a new car. ”

[...]

I didn’t expect to like Tours half as much as I do. But we have been here for three days, and though I thought at first there was only one long street, we’ve found something interesting to see every hour of daylight—so I write in the evenings in our cosy sitting-room. Or if I don’t write, I read Balzac . I never appreciated him as I do here, on his “native heath.” I have begged Brown to name his master’s car “Balzac,” because it, too, is a “violent and complicated genius.” [...]

[114]

[...]

That new car is a treasure, and Brown drives as if there were a sort of sympathy between him and it. We go at a thrilling pace sometimes, but that is only when we have a long, straight road, empty as far as the eye can see. He is very considerate to “horse-drivers,” as he calls them, and he says “for the sake of the sport” everyone driving an automobile should be careful of the rights of other persons on the road. He slows down at once, or even stops the car altogether, if we meet a restive horse. Once he got out and pacified a silly beast that was nervous, leading it past the car, and when it was quite quiet the old peasant who was driving exclaimed that if all automobilists were like us there would never be complaints. We managed to make up for lost time, though; and when Brown “lets her out,” as he calls it, until we are going as fast as a quick train, I can tell you it is something worth living for. When the [115] country is very beautiful we drive slowly, and save our “spurts” for the uninteresting parts.

[...]

[122] I went to bed early and slept ten hours. We hadn’t to start immediately, as our drive for the day wasn’t long, so I proposed to Aunt Mary that we should breakfast in our rooms and then go out for a morning walk. The breakfast idea appealed to her; not so the walk, and accordingly I had to go alone. I had no plan except perhaps to buy a souvenir or two; but in the crooked street leading up to the castle I met Brown. He was reading a notice on the great gateway, directing strangers to some excavations lately made. He took off his cap at sight of me, and I asked him if he thought the excavations would be worth seeing. He had heard that they were, and I said that I should be glad if he would show me how to go to the place. I didn’t like wandering about by myself. Everything is so horrid that one does by oneself in a strange country, and then if Brown isn’t useful in one way he always proves to be in another. So he obeyed, of course, walking not too close, as if to let me see that he recognised the distance between us. I’ve often noticed him do that if we have to go anywhere together on foot, and I think it’s rather nice of him, don’t you? Just a little pathetic too, maybe. Anyhow, it seems that way to me, for he really ought to have been a gentleman. It’s such a waste of good material, the Lord using him up for a chauffeur when any common stuff would have done for that.

[...]

The Goddess

[125]

JACK WINSTON TO LORD LANE

Biarritz, December 11.

My dear Montie,

I have let you rest a good long time without a letter (not that I’ve been taking a rest myself), and now I should think you are opening your eyes with astonishment at the picture on my paper of a hotel at beautiful, blowy Biarritz . Thereby hangs a tale of adventure and misadventure.

[...]

[128]

[...]

The Goddess (alias Miss Randolph) is staying with her aunt at the “Angleterre.” I have slunk off here, having arranged matters with the hall porter at the other place, who will, if my mistress wants me, send a messenger post-haste. Meanwhile the car reposes in a garage, where it is kept clean and in running order without any trouble to me. [...]

[133]

Beyond Couhé-Verac we had our first dog accident. Dogs, you know, are as great a nuisance to automobiles as they are to cycles, and they charge at one’s car with such vehemence that their impetus almost carries them under the wheels. Sometimes they show their strength by galloping alongside the car for a couple of hundred yards, barking so furiously the while that their bodies are contorted by the violence of the effort. I was driving at a moderate pace (something under thirty miles an hour) when a beautiful collie which had been standing by the roadside walked quietly out and planted himself with his back to me in front of the car. The fact was that he saw his master coming along the road, and had gone forward to greet him. The whole thing happened in an instant, so that I had no time to stop. I think the dog must have been deaf not to hear the noise of the car. I shouted, but he took no notice. To swerve violently to one side was to risk upsetting the car; besides, there was no room to do this as another vehicle happened to be passing. If there had been only the car to sacrifice, I would have sacrificed it to save that collie; but I couldn’t sacrifice Miss Randolph. There was nothing for it but to drive over the dog. With a sickening wrench of the heart, I saw the nice beast disappear under the front of the car. Instantly slowing down, I looked behind me expecting to see a mangled corpse. But there was the dog rolling over and over on the road. Clearly some under part of the car had struck him and sent him spinning. The noise, the unexpected blow, the fierce, hot blast of the poisonous exhaust [134] pouring into his face, must have made the poor fellow think that he had struck a travelling earthquake. But happily he was unhurt. As I looked he got on to his feet, and with his tail between his legs, ran to his master for consolation. Our last glimpse showed us that comedy had followed tragedy, for the master was beating the dog with a cane for getting in our way. I was afraid Miss Randolph would scream or faint, but she did neither, only turned white as marble, and never looked prettier in her life. Aunt Mary yelled, of course, but more in fear for ourselves than for the collie, I think. She says she would like dogs better “if their bark could be extracted.”

[...]

[136]

[...]

A romantically beautiful road lay before us. For more than thirty miles it runs straight and smooth through high aromatic pines, springing from a carpet of bracken. Miss Randolph, I must tell you, has become an expert driver, and at sight of the long, straight road said she would take the wheel. So I [137] stopped a moment, and we changed places. She put the car at its highest speed, and we flew along the infinite perspective of the never-ending avenue. This vast pine forest is a desert, and we passed only through small and scattered villages. That flight through the pins forest of the Landes will always be to me an ineffaceable memory. None of us spoke; two of us felt, I think, that we were close to Nature’s heart. The heady, balsamic odour of the pines exhilarated us, and the wind, playing melancholy music on the Eolian harps of their branches, seemed like a deep accompaniment to the humming throb of the tireless motor. As often as I dared I stole a look sideways at Miss Randolph’s profile. She sat erect, her little gauntletted hands resting light as thistledown upon the wheel, but her fingers and her wrist nervous and alert as a jockey riding a thoroughbred, her eyes intent on the long, straight road before her, and a look almost of rapture upon her face.

We had raced silently through the forest for nearly an hour, when, mingling with the balsam of the pines there came a pungent odour of ozone floating from open blue spaces beyond the sombre girdle of the pines. Miss Randolph threw at me a questioning glance. “It must be the sea,” I answered, and in a few moments more, after passing through the ancient town of La Teste, we came out upon the edge of a vast lagoon, semicircular, the distant shores almost lost in an indistinct blue haze. “The Bassin d’Arca-chon. I said” Still, no town was visible, only the great expanse of landlocked sea, its shore dotted [138] with the brown wooden cabins of the oyster fishers. It seemed like coming to the end of the world.

[144]

[...]

At last, when the feeling was strong upon us that the ocean of pines had engulphed us, like Pharaoh’s chariot in the Red Sea, we came upon a rambling village, called Parentis. As if to announce the arrival of the first motor car ever seen in the dim, forgotten Landes, the off front tire began to hiss. “I told you so!” said Aunt Mary. My eyes and Miss Randolph’s met, and we both burst out laughing. It was a great liberty in me, and though I couldn’t have helped it to save my neck, and became preternaturally solemn afterwards as a penance, I don’t believe that the lady I should like to have for an aunt-in-law will ever forgive me. She ought, however, as this was our first accident with the Napier, while with poor little Miss Randolph’s late esteemed Dragon, one breakfasted, lunched, dined, and supped on horrors. Besides, the Dragon invariably schemed to do its worst, far from human aid, while my long-suffering Napier had brought us to the very courtyard of the village inn before (as Miss Randolph expressed it) “sitting down to rest.”

Inside this convenient courtyard I set about doing the repairs, jacking up the car, taking off the tyre, patching it, and getting it on again in twenty minutes; [145] not bad for an amateur mécanicien. All the people of the inn and many of the villagers gathered round to see the great sight, and Aunt Mary consoled herself by showing off her somewhat eccentric French to the landlady and her family.

There were three generations in this group, I took time to notice. A bowed and wrinkled old dame; her daughter, a strong, sad-faced woman in black; and a golden-haired granddaughter, about the prettiest creature I ever saw — bar one. And it was charming to see my Goddess laying herself out to be nice to the trio. Her personality (which is the last word in well-groomed, high-strung, vivacious American girlhood) contrasted strikingly with these countrywomen, who had perhaps never been outside their own forest. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she has the most extraordinary way of always hitting on the right thing to please and interest people, without departing from truth or descending to flattery. All three gazed at her with delight and admiration, the little beauty of the Landes with deepening colour and wistful eyes. No Frenchwoman, no Englishwoman, no woman save an American of the best type, could have exactly that manner, which is indescribable to one who doesn’t know. Strange for a vision like that to flash into these quiet lives, then flash away, never to be seen again—only remembered.

[...]

Molly is happy

[149]

MOLLY RANDOLPH TO HER FATHER

Hotel Gassion, Pau,

December 14.

Dear Universal Provider of Love and Cheques,

Thank you a thousand times for both, which have just been forwarded along the route of this “wild-goose chase,” as you call it. Well, if it is one, I don’t know who the goose is, unless Aunt Mary. She is rather like that sometimes, poor dear; but we get on splendidly. Oh, I would get on splendidly with five Aunt Marys (which Heaven forbid!), for I’m so happy, Dad! I’m having such a good time— the time of my life, or it would be if you were in it.

[...]

Jack’s real identity is about to be uncovered

[160]

FROM JACK WINSTON TO LORD LANE

Pau, December 15.

Dear Safety Valve,

After the recent budget from Biarritz I had no intention of inflicting another upon you—at least, until we should reach Nice. But—there’s as much virtue in “but” as in “if”—you will be thinking in Davos that it never rains but it pours letters; I am thinking in Pau that it never rains but it pours young men—Miss Randolph’s young men. We’ve got another one now, in his way as objectionable as the first; and though I don’t regard this specimen as an active menace to the car, nor do I believe he will resort to ripping up the tyres, he has his knife into me.

Well, we arrived in Pau , which I know of old, and in which I’ve had some rather jolly times, as Miss Randolph would put it. Pau is the sort of place where you meet your friends, and I scented danger, but we were booked for only two days, and luck had befriended me so well thus far that I trusted it once more. I came to a hotel at some distance from the Goddess’s. Between two evils I chose the less, and put my name down as “J. Winston,” hoping that if anyone knew me they wouldn’t know Miss [161] Randolph, or vice versâ. [...]

Summary of the missing pages: While Molly spends some time in Pau with some American friends, Jack occupies his time by going to play golf. There he meets “a very rich American, named Payne, a great amateur automobilist” (164), who knows his old friend Montie and who has already noticed Molly. Payne is planning to drive around France with her, trying to seduce her. Payne recognizes Jack, and wonders what he, a simple chauffeur , is doing in such an elitist place. Jack gets out of the difficult situation by threatening Payne to reveal that he was lying to his friend earlier, when he was bragging about his escapades and triumphs on the automobile.

Jack saves the day

[172]

FROM JACK WINSTON TO LORD LANE

Toulouse, December 16.

Dear Montie,

I can’t let you alone, you see. I must unburden myself, or something will happen—something apoplectic. If I have sinned, I am punished; and so far as I can see the worst still stretches before me in a long vista. It was good of you to scrawl off that second letter, at midnight, as an afterthought. It was forwarded, and has just reached me here, by grand good luck.

You say I would do better to make a clean breast of it; but that’s easier said than done. You’re not here, and you can’t see the “lie of the land” as I can. I’ll explain the position to you, from my point of view, for I think you don’t quite understand it.

Not to mince matters, I am a Fraud, and Miss Randolph is the sort of girl to resent being imposed upon. If this Payne, who rejoices in the name of Jimmy, should find out the truth about me and tell her to-morrow, she would be exceedingly angry, as she would have a right to be, and would, I think, find it hard to forgive me. [...]

Summary of the missing pages: Jack has to drive the car around, with Molly sitting next to Payne (Jimmy), and Aunt Mary. He even has to let Jimmy drive his car.

[178]

[...]

Payne is a rank amateur. I doubt if he ever drove a Napier before, and would bet something he depended for his success to-day (such as it was) on keen observation of everything Miss Randolph did before he took the helm. He knows how to steer a moderately straight course and to change speeds— that’s about all; and I wouldn’t trust his nerve in an emergency. However, we bowled along without incident through Tarbes and Tournay, thanks more to the fine car than the driver; but when mounting a long stretch of steep road beyond a place called Lanespède, where a great railway viaduct crosses the valley, Payne missed his change, and then completely lost his head, failing to put on the brakes to prevent us running down the hill backwards. Luckily I was sitting on the brake side, and reaching out of the tonneau, I seized the lever of the hand-brake and jammed it on. Next instant (to make quite sure) I jumped out, ran to the front, and lowered the sprag. I don’t think any of them knew what a [179] narrow escape we’d had, and Payne covered himself by abusing the car. We started up again on the second, and came out on an undulating plain overlooking a little watering-place called Capvern-les-Bains, lying far below in a dimple of the Pyrenean foothills.

There was no other incident till we came to Montréjeau, where my road-book showed that there was an uncommonly steep hill. So I ventured to say over Payne’s shoulder, ‘‘Better look out here, sir; a bad hill.” The cad had not the civility to notice my warning, but charged through the long street of the town till he came to the verge of a dangerous descent, dipping steeply and suddenly for a little way, then turning abruptly to the left. He was taking the hill at a reckless pace, not because he was plucky, but because he knew no better; and half-way down, seeing a lumbering station-omnibus climbing slowly up, not leaving much room, he began to get wild in his steering. Again I hung out, and gently but firmly put on the hand-brake, steadying the car. The idiot didn’t even see how I had saved him, for when we got safely down he said to Miss Randolph, “Took that hill flying, didn’t I?” I can tell you I was glad when we pulled up for luncheon at St. Gaudens, knowing that the road here turns away from the Pyrenees to cross the great plain of Languedoc.

Blessed plain of Languedoc, which has been abused by some travellers for its monotony! Sitting silently in the tonneauwith Aunt Mary, I revelled in the long, straight level of wide, poplar-fringed road that [180] stretched as far as the eye could reach, running up to a point in the distant perspective. “Here, at any rate,” I reflected, “the duffer at the wheel can’t do us much harm.” It was a beautiful scene, had I been in tune to enjoy it, for the Pyrenees showed their blue outlines on the far horizon, and the Garonne gave us many pictures near at hand. There was in particular one sweet sylvan “bit” at a place called St. Martory, which, though it was but a fleeting glimpse, framed itself in my mind with all the precision of a stereoscopic view.

It was a relief to me, when this evening, we ran into Toulouse; its many buildings of brick lying along the bank of the broad and peaceful Garonne, looking curiously rose-hued in the level rays of the declining sun.

But poor car! when I set to work at cleaning it after its ill-treatment it seemed to reproach me for disloyalty. Its very lamps were like mournful, misunderstood eyes. And this is only the first day of many. How long, O friend, how long? I don’t quite see what is to become of your unfortunate

Jack Winston.

[...]

Summary of the missing pages: During the next few days, Jack goes out for more rides with Jimmy, Molly, Mary and Miss Kedison. Jimmy’s reckless driving style puts the passengers of the car in grave danger.

[184]

[...]

We swept away from the hotel with a curve, which isn’t a line of beauty for a motor-car, and as we left the town Jimmy’s conception of his part as driver became so eccentric that Miss Randolph looked worried—that is, her pretty shoulders stiffened themselves; I couldn’t often see her face—and Aunt Mary more than once gave vent to a frightened squeak. Once, in her extremity as we shaved the wheel of a passing cart, she unbent so far as to throw an appealing glance at me. But I sat in stony silence with crossed arms, looking oblivious to all that went on and somewhat resembling, I flattered myself, portraits of Napoleon beholding the burning of Moscow.

On the high road Jimmy began to recover his form —if it be worth the name—but, as if to show that he was all right, and never had been otherwise, he put the car at its quickest pace, which was so far from safe on a road dotted with carts that I began to expect trouble; and if it hadn’t been for Miss Randolph, to see my expectation fulfilled would have pleased the baser part of me. Once or twice a cartload of peasants scowled savagely at us as we rushed [185] past on our headlong career, and at length I had the satisfaction of hearing Miss Randolph rather stiffly suggest that Jimmy should moderate the pace. He obeyed with a laugh, which he meant to be recklessly brave, yet indulgent to the weaknesses of women; but in my ears it only sounded silly. At this moment a two-wheeled cart with five peasants in it—three men and two women—came in sight.

[...]

Summary of the missing pages: Jimmy, driving the car at a dangerous speed, has an accident with “a two-wheeled cart with five peasants in it—three men and two women” (185). Payne initially doesn’t stop, however Molly orders him to go back, and they have to face an angry mob. The man on the cart, who was hurt, demands a handsome payment. Jack steps in, to prevent this crisis from escalating. Then he manages to drive away from the crowd that had surrounded the car, without hurting anyone else. Jimmy feels humiliated, as Molly acknowledges that Jack has “saved the situation” (192). To escape from the police, sent after them by the angry peasants, Jack has the drive after sunset without lighting the car’s “lamps” (197), and sneaks silently past the toll gate, after lubricating the mechanical parts of the car to reduce creaks and squeaks. Molly is in awe (198).

[198]

[...] The car, which had been going extremely fast, dashed on, coasting past the little lighted house by its own impetus. Not a sound, not a creak of a wheel, not the grating of a chain.

On we sped for full forty yards past the octroi before we lost speed, and I had to slip in the clutch.

“Oh, Brown!” breathed my Goddess ecstatically. Just that, and no more. But if I had been Jack Winston and asked her to marry me at this moment, I believe she would have said “yes,” in sheer exuberance of grateful bliss.

[...]

The racecar

[209]

JACK WINSTON TO LORD LANE

Hotel du Louvre, Marseilles,

December 18.

My dear Montie,

We have just been passing through some of the most interesting parts of France, therefore in the world, and I have derived a certain rarefied enjoyment from it all, as I should have been only half a man not to do. But Brown stock has gone down a little since Carcassonne, why, I know not, though I suspect; and there is depression, if not panic in the market. Jimmy, having made his peace and promised caution, has again been promoted to the post of driver, and from the Jehu point of view I must confess that during a large part of the journey he has covered himself with as much credit as dust. This is saying a good deal, for, owing to the slight rainfalls in these southern departments, the roads are often buried inches deep under a coating of grey, pungent dust, enveloping all passing vehicles in a noisome cloud. [...]

[214]

Across this vast plain we raced towards Salon, along a road straight as if drawn by a ruler, and bordered by small poplars standing shoulder to shoulder like trees in a child’s box of toys. We met no other vehicles; we seemed to have the world to ourselves; but once, far along the road, we spied a black dot which seemed to come towards us with incredible speed, growing larger as it came. In less time than it takes to write we saw that it was an enormous racing automobile, probably undergoing a test of speed. We were running at our own highest pace, perhaps forty-five miles an hour; the thing approaching us was coming at seventy or more. You may imagine the rush of air as we passed each other. One glimpse we had of a masked automobilist like a figure of death in an Albert Dürer cartoon, or the familiar of a Vehmgericht , and then we were gasping in the vortex of air caused by the speed of the gigantic car. Almost before we could turn our heads it was a black dot again on the horizon. Perhaps it was the great Fournier himself.

[...]

Molly and Jack have dinner together

[216]

MOLLY RANDOLPH TO HER FATHER

Grand Hotel, Toulon,

December 20.

My Wingless Angel,

It’s lucky your poor dear hair is getting conspicuous by its absence, or it would stand up on end, I don’t doubt, when you read a few lines farther. So, you see, even baldness is a blessing in disguise.

I won’t keep you in suspense. The worst shall come first; after all that’s happened I don’t mind such a little thing as an anticlimax in writing to my indulgent and uncritical Dad.

Now for it.

I have deserted Aunt Mary and Jimmy Payne in a gorge. I am alone in a hotel—with Brown. Yet I ask you to suspend judgment; I have not exactly eloped.

It is all Jimmy Payne’s fault.

[...]

Summary of the missing pages: Molly writes to her father that, at the behest of Aunt Mary, she had invited Jimmy to drive with them to the French Riviera, even though she feels that this “would be a big mistake” (216). She recounts the episode of the incident with the peasants, and how eventually they arrived in Marseilles. There, while “Jimmy was driving along a paved street, slimy with fresh mud” (220), surrounded by electric streetcars, they have another accident.

[220]

[...]

Jimmy was driving along a paved street, slimy with fresh mud, and confusing with the dash and clash of electric street cars, which Jimmy is English enough to call “trams.” He tried to pass one on the off side, but just as he was getting ahead of it another huge car came whizzing along from the opposite direction. I didn’t say a word. I just “sat tight,” but I had the queerest feeling in my feet as if I wanted to jump or do something. It looked as if we were going to be pinched right between the two, and I’d have given a good deal if Brown had been at the helm, for I would have been sure that somehow he’d contrive to get us through all right. But Jimmy lost his head—and indeed there are only a few men who wouldn’t, for the drivers of both cars were furiously clanging their bells, and the whole world seemed to be nothing but noise, noise, and great moving things coming every way at once. He jammed on the brakes suddenly, which was just what Brown in the tonneau was trying to warn him not to do, and before I knew what had happened our automobile waltzed round on the road with a slippery sort of slide, the way your foot does when you step on ice under snow.

I thought we were finished, and I’m afraid I shut my eyes. “Just like a girl!” O yes, thank you; I know that; but I didn’t know it or anything else at that minute. There was loud shouting and swearing, [221] then a bump, a noise of splintering wood, another bump, and we were still alive and unhurt, with a buzz of voices round us—quite unkind voices some of them, though I never felt more as if I wanted kindness. It occurred to me to open my eyes, and I found that we had brought up against the curbstone, while one of our mud-guards had been smashed by the iron rail of the electric street car, now stationary. Our Napier had turned completely round. The conductor of the tram was scrutinising his scratched rail and saying things; but Brown, who had jumped out to examine into our damage, slyly slipped something that looked like a five-franc piece into his hand. This reminds me, I must pay Brown back; he can’t refuse such a thing as that, though it seems he has taken a sort of pledge against accepting tips in his professional career. Funny, isn’t it? “For a touch of new paint,’’ I heard him murmur to the conductor in his nice French, and that man must have been in a great hurry to try the effect of the “touch,” for no sooner did the coin change hands than he stopped scolding, and away buzzed the big electric bumblebee.

“For mercy's sake, what was it that happened?” gasped Aunt Mary.

“Side-slip, miss,” said Brown in a tone dry enough to turn the mud to dust, “from putting on the brakes too quickly. A driver can’t be too careful on a surface like this.” Which was one for Jimmy.

The poor fellow took it with outward meekness, though I saw his eyes give a flash—and, do you know, our blond Jimmy can look quite malevolent!

[...]

Summary of the missing pages: After leaving the city at such a low speed that even Aunt Mary complains about it, as soon as they reach the hills, Jimmy speeds up again until they find, around a curve, “a great, unlighted waggon lumbering up the hill we were descending, and on the wrong side of the road” (223).

[223]

[...]

We were close on to it, and oh, Dad, that was a bad moment! It was made up of lightning-quick impressions and feelings, no reasoning at all. Jimmy was frantically blowing the horn, though it was too late to be of much good. I had a vision of a startled Jack-in-the-box man appearing from the bottom of the waggon to snatch wildly at the reins; the next instant our car waltzed round just as it had in Marseilles, twisted off the road, and, with a loud shriek from Aunt Mary, who had clutched me by the arm, we all pitched headlong into darkness.

It felt as if we were falling for ever so long, just as it does in a dream before you wake up with a great start; but I suppose it really wasn’t more than a second. The next thing I knew, I was on my hands and knees among some stones; and evidently I’m vainer than I fancied, for among other thoughts coming one on top of the other, I was glad my face wasn’t hurt. I’ve always imagined that it must be terrible for a girl to come to herself after an accident and find she had no face.

I scrambled to my feet and began calling to the others. I think I called Brown first, because, you see, he is so quick in emergencies, and he would be [224] ready to look after the others. But he didn’t speak, and the most awful cold, sick feeling settled down on my heart. “Oh, Brown, Brown!” I heard myself crying, just as you hear yourself in a nightmare, and it hardly seemed more real than that. Into the midst of my calling Aunt Mary’s voice mingled, and I was thankful, for it didn’t sound as if she were much hurt.

Our lamps had gone out, and it was almost pitch dark now, for clouds covered the moon. But there came a glimmer, which kept growing brighter; and looking up I saw a man standing with a lantern held over his head, peering down a steep bank with a look of horror. The same glimmer showed me something else—Brown’s face on the ground, white as a stone, his eyes wide open with an unseeing stare. I ran to him, and found that I was pushing Aunt Mary back, as she was trying to get up from somewhere close at hand. She caught at me, and wouldn’t let me go by. “Oh dear, oh dear!” she was sobbing, and I begged her to tell me if she were hurt.

“No, thank Heaven! I fell on Brown,” she said, “and that saved me.”

I could have boxed her ears. One would have thought, to hear her, that he was a sort of fire-escape. I snatched my dress out of her hands, and knelt down beside poor Brown, who was perhaps dead, all through my fault—for I saw now that I ought never to have let Jimmy Payne drive the car. By this time the man with the lantern (it was the carter who had made the trouble for us) had slid down the steep bank, and come straight to where I was kneeling. [225] “Ah, mademoiselle, il est mort!” he exclaimed. How I did hate him! I screamed out, “He isn’t, he isn’t! ” but it was only to make myself believe it wasn’t true, and I couldn’t help crying — big hot tears that splashed right down into Brown’s eyes. And I suppose it was their being so hot that woke him up, for he did wake up, and looked straight at me, dazed at first, then sensibly—such a queer effect, the intelligence and brightness taking the place of that frightened stare. The first thing he said was, “Are you hurt?” And I said “No”; and then I discovered that I was holding his hand as fast as ever I could—only think, holding your chauffeur’s hand!—but such a brave, faithful chauffeur, never thinking of his own face, as I had of mine, but of me.

That made me laugh and draw back, and we both said something about being glad. And I wanted to help him, but he didn’t need any help, and was up like an arrow the next second. And then, for the first time, I saw the car, standing upright with Jimmy Payne, sitting in it, hanging on like grim death to the steering-post, which he was embracing as if he were a monkey on a stick.

I did laugh at that—one does laugh more when something dreadful has nearly happened, but not quite, than at any other time, I think—though into the midst of my laugh came a sudden little pain. It was in my left wrist, and it ached hard, one quick throb after another, as if they were in a hurry to get their chance to hurt. [...]

Summary of the missing pages: Jack’s car survives the 12-foot jump with relatively minor damage. However, it needs a new rod before it can go again. They walk to the nearest village, looking for a doctor to check Molly’s wrist, which she fears might be broken. The village is too small to have a doctor, though, and there are no vehicles to be borrowed there, not even a bicycle (227). Aunt Mary remains there with Jimmy, while Molly and Jack (who is carrying their luggage) go to the next town by themselves. The wrist is not broken, it’s just a sprain. Jack and Molly stay at a hotel and have dinner together. Jack is dressed like a proper gentleman.

[232]

[...]

If I’d known in time, perhaps I should have stayed ignominiously in my bedroom, but I wouldn’t make a change then; it seemed such a tempest in a teapot. So when I was ready I went down as if nothing had happened, and looked around for Brown where I’d told him to meet me at half-past eight, in the hall. My goodness! I was surprised when I saw him in evening dress—a jolly dinner-jacket and a black tie. He might have been a prince. I wouldn’t have said a word if I’d stopped to think; but I exclaimed on the impulse, and was dreadfully ashamed of myself, for he got rather red. He said quite humbly that he hadn’t wished to discredit me, since I’d done him the honour of allowing him to serve me in a somewhat different capacity this evening (that was a nice way of putting it, wasn’t it?), so he had decided to wear a suit of clothes which Mr. John Winston had left him; and he hoped I wasn’t displeased.

After all, why should I have been when you come to think of it? So we dined at a little table all to ourselves, with pretty shaded candles and some lovely flowers. [...]

Christmas time

[244]

MOLLY RANDOLPH TO HER FATHER

Hotel Angst, Bordighera,

December 25.

Merry Christmas, my dear Santa Klaus, merry Christmas! This morning I sent you a long cable, expressing my sentiments. It does seem strange to think that by this time you have it. A thousand thousand thanks for your letter and the enclosure at Cannes. You are the dearest Dad!

Our first Christmas apart! and may it be the last. Christmas isn’t Christmas without you and a stocking to hang up, and I’m awfully homesick. Still, if one can’t be spirited away home on a magic carpet, this is the sweetest place to spend Christmas in you can imagine.

[...]

[246]

[...]

Of course, after that horrid affair the other side of Toulon I couldn’t let Jimmy drive any more. He realised that I distrusted him and rather sulkily-resigned the wheel, blaming the car for the accident and declaring that it could not have happened to his Panhard , which, of course, is silly. So Brown took the helm again, and Jimmy sat in the tonneau with Aunt Mary, where they whispered and chuckled a good deal together, appearing to have a real live mystery up their sleeves, which I suppose had something to do with the promised surprise at Cannes.

It was quite late in the day before the steering-gear was mended and we could take the road again, and then we all thought it a pity to run through the dark to Cannes, so we decided to stay a second night in Toulon, at the same hotel where I had dinner with Brown; he, poor fellow, being this time banished to some invisible lower region, or another hotel, for Aunt Mary and Jimmy would have had fits if I had proposed that he should make a fourth at our table. I thought the people of the hotel and the head waiter looked curiously at me; for one night they saw me dine with a gentleman who the next night drives to the door as my chauffeur (I assure you, [247] Dad, it’s no stretch of language to speak of Brown as a “gentleman,” and you really must get him a gentleman’s berth, even if it’s way off in Klondyke).

Early next morning we started for what proved to be the most beautiful drive we have yet had, as warm as summer, and sparkling with sunshine. We bowled along at a gentle pace through a fairyland of flowers and rivers, with billowy blue mountains rising into the sky, and showing here and there a distant ethereal peak of snow. Very soon we passed through Hyères, which Brown called the gate of the Riviera, and I should have liked to turn aside for a peep at Costebelle, which Brown thinks one of the loveliest places of all. But Aunt Mary and Jimmy both opposed me, saying that we ought to get on as soon as possible to Cannes—“to Cannes” was their constant cry.

Beyond Hyères the road became more and more superb. We were travelling now along the mountains of the Moors, gliding through groves of oak and woods of shimmering grey-green olives, with glimpses of the glittering sea on our right hand. Presently the way dipped to the verge of the sea as far as Frejus, from which place it rose again to wind up and up into the heart of the Esterels. Though we mounted many hundreds of feet, the road was so well engineered that gradients were not very trying. Our agreeable Napier, at any rate, made nothing of them, but simply flew up at twelve or fourteen miles an hour. And the descent on the other side! My heart comes into my mouth when I think of it. “It’s quite safe,” said Brown; but it [248] looked the most breakneck thing in the world, and my very toes seemed to curl up, not with fear, but with a kind of awful joy. I think when a bird takes its great swoops through the air it must feel like we felt that day. The car bounded down the long lengths of looped road, slowed up a little at the turns (where we all had to throw our bodies sideways, like sailors hanging over the gunwale of a racing yacht), bounded forward again so that the wind rushed by our ears like a hurricane, slowed up once more, and so by a series of these magnificent bird-like swoops reached the level ground. It was a fine piece of driving on Brown’s part, needing nerve, judgment, and a perfect knowledge of the capabilities of his car. I had scarcely recovered from the tingling joy of this wild mountain descent when we were in Cannes, driving up an avenue to our hotel.

[...]

In Italy: the microbe of automobilism

[272]

MOLLY RANDOLPH TO HER FATHER

Hotel de Russie, Rome,

January 2.

Darling Dad,

Forgive me for that inadequate little note written yesterday to wish you a Happy New Year; but short as it was, there was enough love in it to make the letter double postage. We have been working so hard at pleasure since that I haven’t had time for anything except the various cables which from day to day I have flung to you from our chariot of fire as we sped half-way down the long leg of Italy —that’s pink on my schoolroom map at home. Somehow, I’ve always thought of Italy as being pink, ever since I first hunted it out on the map; and it is still gloriously couleur de rose to the eyes of my body and mind.

[...]

[273]

[...]

I’m intoxicated with all I have seen and am seeing—which must excuse the harangue. And I’m intoxicated with the joy of driving the car. Lately I have been rivalling the Lightning Conductor, for my wrist is quite well again. The microbe of automobilism has entered into my blood. Yes, I’m speaking literally; I’m sure there’s such a microbe, and that he’s a brave beast. I should like to see him in your big microscope. Perhaps I’ll bring him home for the purpose.

It has become the greatest joy I have ever known to get all I possibly can out of noble Balzac; to urge Balzac uphill as fast as I can; to drive Balzac downhill as fast as I dare; to manoeuvre Balzac in and out of traffic with all my skill and nerve. But you mustn’t be a bit uneasy about me. Brown is always at my elbow to “warn, to comfort, to command,” and I know that he won’t let me do anything I oughtn’t or let any harm come of it if I did. The worst of driving an automobile yourself, when you’ve really got that microbe in your blood, is that you don’t see quite as much of the country as you would otherwise, and that you hate to stop, even when there are wonderful things to see. But then it [274] used to be almost the same in both ways when one lived, breathed, and moved for bicycles. Do you remember how I would talk of nothing else, and made “bike slang” answer for all human nature’s daily needs? You were annoyed one night when I took your arm as we were walking together, and told you you were “geared too high for me.”

If my life depended now on giving accurate details of the country through which we’ve been driving, I should have to resign myself to die. I only know that I’ve never been so happy, or seen half so much that was beautiful and (as that Mrs. Bennett, who wanted to marry you so badly, was always saying) “soul-satisfying.”

[...]

[287]

[...]

Dad, we drove in the automobile along the Appian Way. It sounds shocking, but it wasn’t; it was glorious. There is never anything jarring (I don’t mean that for a pun) about going into the midst of old and wonderful things on a motor-car, for itis wonderful too, and it has a dignity of its own—the dignity of fine and perfect mechanism which seems alive, like a splendid Pegasus or an obedient unicorn, or some other strange legendary animal which you are obliged to respect and marvel at.

And Brown took me into the Colosseum last night —late—when the moon was rising out of tom black clouds.

But I said I wasn’t going to write about Rome, and I won’t—I vow I won’t, not even about St. Peter’s. I think one ought to stop here ten days, and see things all day long—just things you want to see, not things you ought to see; or else linger for months, and let everything soak into your soul. I can’t do the latter, this time, with the Napier waiting —waiting; and so I’m making the best of the first.

Your reincarnated Roman Princess,

Molly.

The conclusion

Summary of the missing pages: Molly’s father shows up unannounced in Sicily, almost at the same time that Jack’s mother gets there. Molly discovers that Jack is not really a humble driver, he is actually an English aristocrat. She forgives him for deceiving her, and the two get engaged.

[336]

MOLLY RANDOLPH TO HERSELF

January 28, Hotel San Domenico, Taormina.

I’m going to write it all down just as it happened, and see how it looks in black and white. Then perhaps I can judge better whether I’ve been very weak and undignified, and a lot of other things which I’ve always been sure I never would be, under any provocation; or whether I’ve done what no normal girl could help doing.

It’s the sort of thing one couldn’t possibly tell anybody, not even one’s dearest school-friend. I did promise Elise Astley that if I ever got engaged, she should be told exactly what He said, and what I said, but then I didn’t know how differently one would feel about it afterwards; besides, I’m not engaged. I only—no, this isn’t the way I meant to begin. I am afraid I’m getting a good deal mixed. I must be—more concise.

Note 1. If I think when I come to read this over that I have not demeaned myself like a self-respecting, patriotic American girl, I will tear this up and write a letter to—a Certain Person.

Note 2. If, on the contrary, I decide, on mature deliberation, that I could not have acted otherwise, I will keep this always in the secret drawer of my [337] writing-desk, where I can take it out and look at it at least once every year until I am an old woman— ever so much older than Aunt Mary.

When Jimmy Payne suddenly hurled himself at me out of a cab (just as Aunt Mary and I and a donkey were trailing disconsolately down from Mola) and exploded into fireworks calculated to blow my poor Lightning Conductor into fragments, I threw cold water on his Roman candles and rockets.

All the same, though, I felt as if I had been dipped first into boiling hot, then freezing cold water myself. I couldn’t, wouldn’t and shouldn’t believe any of Jimmy’s sensational accusations of Brown, and I defended him whenever Jimmy would let me get in a word edgewise. But when he told me that Dad had come half across the world from New York to Sicily on the strength of his statements, I was wild—partly with anger and partly with anxiety to see my dear old Angel “immediately if not sooner.”

[...]

[344]

[...]

That is the reason why I still have the thing in my own hands. If I read this over, as I am now going to do, and disapprove of myself, it is not too late to change my mind.

P.S. I have read it. And I have thought things over.

Molly Randolph, if you hadn’t forgiven Brown, you would have been a detestable little wretch, and you would never have forgiven yourself, for he is the best ever—except Dad.

It will be delicious to let myself love him as much as ever I like, at last—my Lightning Conductor!

THE END