The Lady in the Car

“Oh, never fear. These people are quite possible. Their wealth hasn’t spoilt them – as far as I can hear.”

“Very well, Charles.” The Prince laughed, tossing his cigarette-end into the grate, and rising. “I’ll make some excuse to speak with them.”

And Charles, on his part, entertained shrewd suspicions that his master, confirmed bachelor that he was, had, at last, been attracted by a girl’s fresh, fair beauty, and that girl an American.

Time hung heavily upon the Prince’s hands. That afternoon he ran over in his car to Worthing, where he dined at Warne’s, and the evening he spent in lonely state in a box at the Brighton Alhambra. Truth to tell, he found himself thinking always of the sweet-faced, rather saucy American girl, whose waist was so neat, whose tiny shoes were so pointed, and whose fair hair was always drawn straight back from her intelligent brow.

Yes. He felt he must know her. The morrow came, and with it an opportunity occurred to speak with her mother.

They were sitting, as it is usual to sit, at the door of the hotel, when a mishap to a dog-cart driven by a well-known actress gave him the desired opportunity, and ten minutes later he had the satisfaction of bowing before Mary Jesup herself.

He strolled with them on to the Pier, chatting so very affably that both mother and daughter could hardly believe that he was the cousin of an Emperor. Then, at his request to be allowed to join them at their table at luncheon, they had their midday meal together.

The girl in white was altogether charming, and so unlike the milk-and-water misses of Germany, or the shy, dark-eyed minxes of France or Italy, so many of whom had designed to become Princess of Hesse-Holstein. Her frank open manner, her slight American twang, and her Americanisms he found all delightful. Mrs Jesup, too, was a sensible woman, although this being the first occasion that either mother or daughter had even met a prince, they used “Your Highness” a trifle too frequently.

Nevertheless, he found this companionship of both women most charming.

“What a splendid motor-car you have!” Mary remarked when, after luncheon, they were taking their coffee in the Palm Court at the back of the hotel.

“I’m very fond of motoring, Miss Jesup. Are you?” was his Highness’s reply.

“I love it. Poppa’s got a car. We brought it over with us and ran around France in it. We left it in Paris till we get back to the Continent in the fall. Then we do Italy,” she said.

“Perhaps you would like to have a run with me and your mother to-morrow,” the Prince suggested. “It’s quite pretty about the neighbourhood.”

“I’m sure you’re very kind, Prince,” responded the elder woman. “We should be charmed. And further, I guess my husband’ll be most delighted to meet you when he gets down here. He’s been in Germany a lot.”

“I shall be very pleased to meet Mr Jesup,” the young patrician responded. “Till he comes, there’s no reason why we should not have a few runs – that is, if you’re agreeable.”

“Oh! it’ll be real lovely!” declared Mary, her pretty face brightening in anticipation of the pleasure of motoring with the man she so admired.

“Then what about running over to Eastbourne to tea to-day?” he suggested.

Mother and daughter exchanged glances. “Well,” replied Mrs Jesup, “we don’t wish to put you out in the least, Prince. I’m sure – ”

“Good! You’ll both come. I’ll order the car for three o’clock.”

The Prince ascended the stairs much gratified. He had made a very creditable commencement. The hundred or so of other girls of various nations who had been presented to him with matrimonial intent could not compare with her, either for beauty, for charm, or for intelligence.

It was a pity, he reflected, that she was not of royal, or even noble birth.

Charles helped him on with a light motor-coat, and, as he did so, asked:

“If the Parson calls, what am I to say?”

“Say what you like, only send him back to London. Tell him he is better off in Bayswater than in Brighton. He’ll understand.”

“He may want some money. He wrote to you yesterday, remember.”

“Then give him fifty pounds, and tell him that when I want to see him I’ll wire. I want to be alone just now, Charles,” he added a trifle impatiently. “You’ve got the key of my despatch-box, eh?”

“Yes, your Highness.”

Below, he found the big cream-coloured car in waiting. Some of the guests were admiring it, for it had an extra long wheelbase and a big touring body and hood – a car that was the last word in all that was comfort in automobilism.

The English chauffeur, Garrett, in drab livery faced with scarlet, and with the princely cipher and crown upon his buttons, raised his hat on the appearance of his master. And again when a moment later the two ladies, in smart motor-coats, white caps, and champagne-coloured veils, emerged and entered the car, being covered carefully by the fine otter-skin rug.

The bystanders at the door of the hotel regarded mother and daughter with envy, especially when the Prince got in at the girl’s side, and, with a light laugh, gave the order to start.

A few moments later they were gliding along the King’s Road eastward, in the direction of Lewes and Eastbourne.

“You motor a great deal, I suppose?” she asked him, as they turned the corner by the Aquarium.

“A good deal. It helps to pass the time away, you know,” he laughed. “When I have no guests I usually drive myself. Quite recently I’ve been making a tour up in Scotland.”

“We’re going up there this autumn. To the Trossachs. They say they’re fine! And we’re going to see Scott’s country, and Edinburgh. I’m dying to see Melrose Abbey. It must be lovely from the pictures.”

“You ought to get your father to have his car over,” the Prince suggested. “It’s a magnificent run up north from London.”

The millionaire’s wife was carefully examining the Prince with covert glances. His Highness was unaware that the maternal gaze was so searching, otherwise he would probably have acted somewhat differently.

A splendid run brought them to Lewes, the old-world Sussex capital. There, with a long blast of the electric siren, they shot down the hill and out again upon the Eastbourne Road, never pulling up until they were in the small garden before the Queen’s.

Mary Jesup stepped out, full of girlish enthusiasm. Her only regret was that the people idling in the hall of the hotel could not be told that their companion was a real live Prince.

They took tea under an awning overlooking the sea, and his Highness was particularly gracious towards Mrs Jesup, until both mother and daughter were filled with delight at his pleasant companionship. He treated both women as equals; his manner, as they afterwards put it, being devoid of any side, and yet he was every inch a prince.

That run was the first of many they had together.

Robert K. Jesup had been suddenly summoned by cable to Paris on business connected with his mining interests, therefore his wife and daughter remained in Brighton. And on account of their presence the Prince lingered there through another fortnight. Mostly he spent his days walking or motoring with Mrs Jesup and her daughter, and sometimes – on very rare occasions – he contrived to walk with Mary alone.

One morning, when he had been with her along the pier listening to the band, he returned to luncheon to find in his own room a rather tall, clean-shaven, middle-aged clergyman, whose round face and ruddy complexion gave him rather the air of a bon vivant.

Sight of his unexpected visitor caused the Prince to hold his breath for a second. It was the Parson.

“Sorry I was out,” his Highness exclaimed. “Charles told you where I was, I suppose?”

“Yes, Prince,” replied the cleric. “I helped myself to a whisky and soda. Hope you won’t mind. It was a nice morning in town, so I thought I’d run down to see you.”

“You want another fifty, I suppose – eh?” asked his Highness sharply. “Some other work of charity – eh?”

“My dear Prince, you’ve guessed it at once. You are, indeed, very good.”

His Highness rang the bell, and when the valet appeared, gave him orders to go and get fifty pounds, which he handed to the clergyman.

Then the pair had luncheon brought up to the room, and as they sat together their conversation was mostly about mutual friends. For a cleric the Reverend Thomas Clayton was an extremely easy-going man, a thorough sportsman of a type now alas! dying out in England.

It was plain to see that they were old friends, and plainer still when, on parting a couple of hours later, the Prince said: