CHRISTOPHER
The engine of the great car hesitated, sighed and then rested from its labour.
With a faint frown, its driver threw out the clutch and, using the slight gradient, coasted to the side of the road to berth her charge beneath the shadow of a convenient oak. Then she applied the hand-brake and opened her door.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Trelawney, “tell me the worst. Have you done this on purpose? Or is it force majeure?”
“I’m afraid it’s stopped on its own,” said Audrey de Lisle. “But don’t worry yet, Aunt Lettice. I——”
“I shouldn’t think of worrying,” said Mrs. Trelawney. “I’m much too fat. Besides, the prospect of being able to say ‘I told you so’ is most agreeable. Finally, what a charming spot! I always think I should like to be buried beneath an elm, but I suppose the roots would get in the way.”
Audrey laughed.
“There’s nobody like you,” she said.
“Don’t be absurd,” said her aunt. “I’m a most ordinary type.”
Audrey shook her sweet head.
“Most people,” she said, “would have been off. I admit it isn’t yet time; it’s quite on the cards that I can put the trouble right. Still, the motor’s stopped on its own, and we, against your advice, are alone in the car. That would have been enough—for most people.”
“My dear,” said her aunt, “it’s all a question of girth. Besides, you’re a sweet, pretty child. If all priests were as fat as I and all sinners as charming as you, Purgatory would close down.” Audrey stepped to the bonnet. “Now, don’t go and get oil on your fingers. They’re much too dainty.”
“I believe it’s a question of fuel,” said Audrey, laughing. “I may be wrong, but I think we’ve gone dry. Any way, I’ve got my gloves on.”
She opened the bonnet and sought to flood the carburettor. No petrol, however, appeared.
“That’s right,” said Audrey. “We’re dry. But this is easy because we’ve a can on the step.”
Mrs. Trelawney sighed.
“These technical terms,” she said, “are entirely beyond me. My impulse is to express surprise that ‘we have a can on the step.’ Why hasn’t it fallen off?”
“It’s a can of gasolene—petrol,” said her niece, bubbling. “It’s kept there on purpose in case any time we run out. What I don’t understand is that Budge assured me last night that the tank was full. I suppose the gauge has stuck. Still . . .”
She passed to the rear of the car.
A glance at the dial showed that the gauge was working. The arrow was pointing to ‘empty.’
Audrey unscrewed the cap of the petrol-tank and peered at its depths. These were certainly dry. What was more to the point, a tiny rent in the metal was admitting daylight. . . .
After digesting this phenomenon, Audrey screwed on the cap and returned to Mrs. Trelawney.
“Aunt Lettice, darling,” she said, “I’ve let you down. We’re helpless. Our tank’s been holed. Even if Budge were here, we couldn’t move.”
“Then how,” demanded her aunt, “have you let me down?”
“You’re very generous,” said Audrey. “But if he were here, at least he could go and get help. Now I shall have to go and leave you alone.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Trelawney, “I’m fifty-six, I’m sleepy and I have my tea-basket. To go further, the weather’s superb, and I’m under an elm. Any woman who cannot in such circumstances face an hour of solitude must be unnaturally made. You go, my dear, and prosper. I’ve no fears for you. The first farmer you smile at will put a team at your service.”
“I’m afraid we mayn’t get to Salisbury,” said Miss de Lisle.
“Then we’ll stay at a village inn and forget the world. I love an adventurous life. You go and smile at your farmer, and I’ll take care of the car. If anyone comes and asks if we want any help, what shall I say?”
“Say we want to be towed,” said Audrey, “as far as—— Wait a minute.” Hastily she consulted a map. “As far as Sundial. That’s the nearest village now. I know it was Pullaway Brow where we met the sheep, because I saw the Post Office; and the next is Sundial.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Trelawney, “you know far more about England than I do. I once had a footman who came from Pullaway Brow, but I’d not the faintest idea that I’d ever been there. Never mind.” She stifled a yawn. “I had to send him away because he would hiss at table—a pleasant but disconcerting shibboleth.”
“I only know England,” said Audrey, “because I look at the map,” and with that she took off her hat and threw up her head luxuriously.
“You’re enterprising,” said her aunt. “All Americans are. We’ve got the pretty garden, but you enjoy it. What’s so pleasant is when you make us enjoy it too.”
“Wait till to-night,” said Audrey, and blew her a kiss.
A moment later she was padding along the lane with silent foot—a slim, beautiful figure, lithe, natural. When she came to a bend she turned and waved her hat.
Mrs. Trelawney waved back—tearfully.
“She has no business,” she said, “to be so exquisite.”
Audrey de Lisle would have been equally at home among a herd of deer or at a State Banquet. What is more, she would have graced either company. Her dark hair was framing features which would have done credit to the coin of any realm. Her hands and her little feet were lovely things. In movement, as in repose, she was the pink of easy gracefulness. Three things, however, especially distinguished her. They were the light in her soft brown eyes, the colour springing in her cheeks and the eager smile that flashed to her little red mouth. Having seen but one of these things, a man might count himself rich; having seen two, he would certainly become meditative; but the man who had seen all three she could, if she pleased, twist round her delicate finger. That such was her power never occurred to Audrey. She was as natural as the dawn. Indeed, this and other things natural—the spring and the wind and the manner of falling water, were in the girl’s blood. Her father’s town house had been in Boston, but the country had been her home. Not until three years ago had she tasted a city life. Rich as the fare had been, it was not to her liking. The death of her parents, however, had kept her in town. Sweet and twenty cannot rule a country estate; moreover, she must conform to the ways of her world—see and be seen, stand in the marriage-market, eat of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. . . . Audrey de Lisle was no fool, took things as they came, found Life a most excellent thing, hoped deep in her heart to find it still more excellent—one day.
With the scent of hay in her nostrils, treading the curling lane that led to Sundial, Audrey snuffed an earnest of that rare excellence to come. . . .
The lane rose a little to an old oak stile on the left; the scent of hay grew stronger: voices and the jingle of harness came to the girl’s ears.
Audrey quickened her steps. Here was her team.
That two magnificent greys were there is beyond question; and, further, a mighty roan in the shafts of a waggon of hay. A man was up on the top, piling the load, while two others were pitching him bottles with shining forks. On the ground, by the horses’ heads, sat a little boy, eating an apple, to which first one and then the other of the greys would advance an expectant muzzle. The child pushed them away nonchalantly. The meadow, now nearly clear, was flanked by a great beech-wood, which, with the sun behind, made a broad strip of shade down all its length. This was insisting upon the heat of the day, for the rest of the field was ablaze, and the sky cloudless.
Audrey was wondering how to make known her need, when the taller of the two pitchers planted his fork in the ground and mopped his face. Then he turned towards her and made for the stile.
As he approached, it appeared that, workman or no, he was not of the labouring class.
His shirt was open at the neck, and his sleeves rolled to the elbow; loose grey flannel trousers and brogues seemed to complete his attire, save for a soft grey hat on the back of his head. His face and arms were burned to a deep brown, his fair moustache brushed clear of a well-shaped mouth. His eye was grey and clear; his features, clean-cut; his hands, cared for. He walked slowly, as a man healthily tired, but his carriage was upright and his shoulders square.
Head in air, he passed in front of Audrey and came to the ditch. There was a stone jar. . . .
The stranger was about to drink, when Miss de Lisle lifted up her voice.
“Are you a farmer?” she said.
The other turned.
Then he lowered his glass and took off his hat.
“Not yet,” he said. “But I live in hopes. At present I’m half a land-agent—and your servant, of course. I became the latter about five seconds ago.”
Audrey smiled very charmingly.
“Thank you very much,” she said. “And now please put on your hat and drink your beer.”
“Your very good health,” said the stranger, and emptied his glass. “If I had another tumbler I’d offer you some. And now—must it be a farmer? Or can half a land-agent help?”
“I want a horse,” said Audrey. “It sounds like a fairy-tale, but that’s as it should be. This corner of England is full of nursery rhymes.”
“There’s one,” said the stranger, “beginning, ‘Where are you going to, my——’ ”
“I want a horse,” said Audrey hastily. “I’ve a car in the lane and an aunt in the car, but my tank’s holed and I can’t move.”
“There we are,” said the stranger. “Horse, horse, bite aunt; Aunt won’t push car; Car won’t take the road; And I shan’t get home to-night.”
Audrey bowed before a little gale of laughter.
At length—
“Listen,” she said. “If we could be towed to Sundial——”
“Is that as far,” said the stranger, “as you want to go?”
“If we can put up at the inn.”
The man appeared to consider.
“There’s nothing the matter with The Doublet,” he said slowly. “In fact, the parlour was made to eat bread and honey in. It’s panelled with old beech boards. And then there are hives in the garden, and they bake their own bread. They’re very proud of their bathroom.”
“It sounds too good to be true,” said Audrey de Lisle.
“It is—very nearly; only, it’s rather rough. Primitive, I mean. They’re a simple crowd at Sundial; they’ll speak of you as ‘the quality,’ and you’ll certainly have to show them how to do those pretty white shoes.”
“I’ve done them myself the last two days,” said Audrey. She drew her skirt close and regarded her little feet. “Don’t you think they’re rather good?”
“They’re sweet,” said the stranger, gazing. “I didn’t know they made them so small. Never mind. Where’s the car?”
“About quarter ’f a mile—that way.” She pointed a rosy finger. “How far is Sundial?”
“Less than a mile from here. If you’ll let me dispose of this waggon, I’ll come back and help. If you’ve got a spare can, I don’t think we’ll need a horse.”
“But how——”
“If we fill up the vacuum tank,” said the stranger, “that should get us a mile.”
Miss de Lisle reflected.
“Now why,” she said, “didn’t I think of that?”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“Perhaps an appreciative Providence didn’t want you to spoil your fingers. Perhaps . . .”
“My name’s de Lisle,” said Audrey suddenly. “Audrey de Lisle.”
“I’m known as John,” said the other. “Christopher John. You know. Wot ‘went to bed with his breeches on.’ ”
“Do be careful,” bubbled Audrey. “In a minute I shall really believe that I have stumbled into fairy-land, and—and try to live up to it.”
“That should come easy to you,” said Christopher John. “I haven’t placed you yet, but you’re in The Book. And now I must go to my labour. I shall be through in ten minutes’ time. Please don’t start without me. Spanners are slippery things.”
“I’ll wait for you here,” said Audrey.
As he walked back to the waggon she took her seat on the stile. . . .
Presently a whip cracked, and amid creak of wheels and cries of men the waggon lumbered out of the meadow and swayed down the lane towards Sundial, its load paying toll as it passed, till the green walls were hung with sweet-smelling wisps and the road laid with a carpet fit for a king.
At last the rumble faded, and a tall figure came stepping along the sunflecked corridor.
As he drew near to Audrey—
“I’ve got it,” he cried. “You’re ‘the maiden all forlorn, That drove the car with a crumpled horn.’ ”
Audrey laughed delightedly.
“You’re determined to work me in,” she said. “But I’m afraid I’m too modern.”
“Whatever,” said Christopher John, “makes you think that? Why, you were before the hills.”
“I feel an onlooker. I’ve strayed into a fascinating world, to which I don’t belong. I’m—I’m a visitor to the kingdom, and you’re going to show me round.”
“In forty-eight hours,” said John, “you’ll be the Queen. You mark my words. If you stay two days at Sundial, at the end of that time you’ll be ‘Miss Audrey’ to every soul in the place. They’re like the frogs in the fable; they want a sovereign—an idol. . . . Well, you’ve been sent.”
Audrey slid down from the stile and into the lane.
“Any way, you’re a wonderful courtier,” she said, smiling. “And now let’s come down to earth and find the car. You’ll love Aunt Lettice.”
“ ‘Lettice,’ ” said Christopher thoughtfully. “It’s a sweet, pretty name. But I like ‘Audrey’ best.”
“Oh, shame,” cried Miss de Lisle. “ ‘Lettice’ is incomparable.”
“You can have it,” said Christopher John. “Give me ‘Audrey.’ ”
“That,” said Miss de Lisle, “is because some time or other you’ve known a girl called ‘Audrey’ you rather liked.”
The man nodded.
“No doubt that’s the explanation,” he said gravely. “She was certainly dazzling. I always associate her with King Richard the Third.”
“For Heaven’s sake,” said Audrey. “But why with him?”
“Because, my lady,” said Christopher, “if Shakespeare may be believed, upon a certain occasion he demanded a horse.”
As Christopher John had foretold, so it fell out.
Audrey was Queen of Sundial within the week.
At the moment when she rounded Mow Corner and saw her heritage—at that moment she lost her heart.
Thatch, brick-nogging and lattice; the greys knee-deep in a pool, raising dripping muzzles to stare at the car; hollyhocks gay in a garden against a black and white wall; the cheerful ring of an anvil and the rush of a sluice; lichened stocks on a greensward and a grey lych-gate beyond; the great yews in the churchyard and an apple-cheeked swain in a smock; the blessed scent of jasmine and the flash of the setting sun upon bottle-glass panes—these and other treasures took her by storm. She worshipped the place openly—and was found worshipful.
The frogs wanted a king. The Manor House was vacant; the Vicar, a celibate recluse; Minever Park was for sale. Niche after niche was empty. And Sundial was of the old world and loathed the nakedness. The village was all agog to have a great lady.
Audrey slid into the position naturally enough.
The Doublet ceased to be an inn and became ‘her lodging.’ Men went quietly until she was awake; the first-fruits were brought to her board; on Sunday she and her aunt were led to the Manor House pew—a tremendous affair, with a fireplace and a private door in the wall, leading out of the miniature chancel and commanding the church.
The throne was waiting; that Audrey sat it so well she owed to herself. Proffering friendship, seeking friendship in return, she received devotion. The village life was simple, unspoiled: Audrey entered into it with a whole heart. Forge, stable, dairy—she was at home in them all. Eager, appreciative, swift, the freedom of Sundial was hers: she revelled in its possession: Sundial found her revelry gracious indeed.
As for Mrs. Trelawney, she was entirely content to play the dowager. The dressing-gown of Dignity was a precious change of raiment which she had never known. To be thought resplendent daily in her most comfortable hat. . . . Her pleasant quarters at The Doublet, the simple, abundant fare, the fragrant garden, suited her down to the ground. Besides, her darling was happy as the days were long.
Salisbury was forgotten, the tour abandoned. A new tank arrived from London, but the great car seldom went forth from the coach-house where it was bestowed. If ever it did, it was sure to return before the sun was down.
As for Christopher John, he watched his mistress’ progress with love in his eyes. . . .
That the two saw each other most days was natural enough.
If the man worked long, she found his work engaging, delighted to learn of him and study husbandry with him for husbandman. His leisure she shared naturally, as children do. He had installed her at Sundial. Besides . . .
So much for Audrey.
For the man—well, the love in his eyes had to be served.
Often enough they repaired to Domesday Mill—a place of memories. The great wheel is silent, and the house tumbling. Ivy has run riot over the gabled roof, and the proud water, once so troubled but now unearthly still, has come to mirror the passing of the glory which it begot. But chestnut and ash and lime have come to cherish Domesday, keep it against the weather, ring it against the wind. Year by year they draw closer, put out more sheltering arms. Even now the mill lies snug in its bower as a hare in her form. True offspring of Nature, Nature is taking it back. Domesday Mill will not die; it is being translated.
Audrey de Lisle was quite silly about the spot. That Christopher John had made her aware of its existence goes without saying.
Thither the two had strolled one July evening, exactly a fortnight after the car had broken down.
“And how,” said Christopher John, filling a pipe, “how do you like your kingdom?”
“I love it,” said Miss de Lisle. “Why is everyone so nice?”
“Because they love you. And they love you because you fit into their nursery rhyme.”
Audrey took off her hat and shook her head.
“I don’t even pretend to,” she said. “I never could. I’m pure 1930—and American. You can’t turn that into verse.”
“You’re Audrey de Lisle,” said John. “And Audrey de Lisle might have sat for most of the sonnets I know.”
Audrey tilted her chin.
“Sonnets aren’t nursery rhymes.”
“Or rhymes, either. Hang it, my dear, if you’re 1930, so’s Sundial. Don’t forget that. I don’t say it looks it, but then—neither do you.”
Audrey plucked at her dress.
“This came from Paris,” she said, “six weeks ago. I hardly think Bo-Peep was so extravagant. And then I sleep in pyjamas and use bath-salts and smoke. And I powder my nose and drive a high-powered car. You won’t find that sort of stuff in a nursery rhyme.”
“ ‘The Queen was in the parlour,’ ” said Christopher John. “It doesn’t say how she was dressed, but I imagine she did herself just as well as she could. I don’t know about the pyjamas, and I’m sure her stockings weren’t in the same street as yours, but I’ve always sort of believed that the—the contents were. And that’s the point. One reads of queens and fine ladies and maidens and all, and then one day, if one’s lucky, one comes across you. And there’s the original of the lot.”
Audrey lay back on the turf and stared at the trembling green and the blue beyond.
“That’s very charming of you, but——”
“It isn’t at all,” said John. “It’s the unvarnished truth. And if you want any further argument, always remember this. When you came to Sundial you went straight up to the throne. Well, once you’re there, pyjamas and such things don’t count. The Queen can do no wrong.”
Miss de Lisle laughed.
“Listen to the Queen-maker,” she said. “Well, be it so. I’m up on the throne of Sundial—Heaven knows why. The trouble is I’ve only a pasteboard crown.”
“What do you mean?” said Christopher, lighting his pipe.
“I’ve no power,” said Audrey. “At best, I’m only a doll.”
“I should have said you were omnipotent. You’ve only to breathe to——”
“Real power,” said Audrey. “I can’t put anything right. I can smile and say ‘Never mind,’ but that’s where I get off. Now, the Lord of the Manor’s got power. He’s a real king—worse luck.”
“ ‘The Lord of the Manor’? Who’s been talking of him?”
“My subjects, of course,” said Audrey, crossing her ankles. “They hate him like anything. But what can I do? I’ve only a pasteboard crown.”
“Why do they hate him?” said John.
“Because he’s a sweep,” said Audrey. “He doesn’t play the game. He shoves up the rents, he never does any repairs, he makes them pay for grazing on Mesne Holms, he stopped a funeral going by Witchery Drive, and worst of all, he never comes near the place. I know you’re his agent’s pupil, but that doesn’t alter the facts.”
“I’ve only been here a month,” said Christopher John, “and the agent in question has left me to shift for myself. At the moment I think he’s——”
“He’s with his master,” said Audrey, “trying to temper the wind. Everyone says he’s all right. He does his best, but the Lord of the Manor’s a sweep. He won’t hear a word. Warthog’s sick and tired of doing his dirty work—says so openly.”
Christopher frowned.
“Perhaps, if he came to Sundial——”
“But he won’t,” said Audrey, sitting up and smacking the turf with her palm. “Warthog’s implored him to come time and again. He says he believes it’s because he hasn’t the face.”
Christopher sighed.
“Well, well,” he said. “There’s nothing like a fool in his folly. Fancy owning Sundial, an’ letting it rip. . . . An’ a pew like a loose-box. . . . Still, it’s an ill wind. If he’s such a sweep, we’re better without the gent. Would you like to see the house—‘that Jack built’?”
“The Manor House? Rather.”
“I’m going to-morrow—officially, at ten o’ the clock.”
“I’ll be there,” said Audrey, pulling the grass by her side. “But I wish I could do something,” she added wistfully.
“Don’t get embroiled in politics, my pretty maid.”
Miss de Lisle frowned.
“I’ve a jolly good mind,” she said, “to write to him.”
“You don’t even know his name,” said Christopher John.
“Yes, I do. Pendragon. And you can get his address.”
Christopher swallowed.
“I’m sure you’d be asking for trouble,” he said uneasily. “Why not let sleeping dogs lie? You can’t believe all the gossip that——”
“I can and do,” said Audrey. “I don’t say I’m going to write, but I’d like his address. I shall expect it at ten to-morrow morning.”
“Very good, m’lady,” said John, and pulled his forelock.
“Here, I’m not a Queen to you,” said Audrey de Lisle.
“You give me orders, and reject my advice.”
“That’s not a royal prerogative. Every woman does that. But I won’t accept homage from you—not even in jest. I don’t like it.”
“You called me a courtier once,” said Christopher John.
“I take it back,” said Audrey. “I didn’t know you then.”
“Too late,” said Christopher mournfully, shaking his head. “The damage is done. You ought to be more careful. If you didn’t want my, er, homage, you should have stayed away. You came: I saw: you conquered. Now I’m your thrall. Of course I’m familiar—rather like an old nurse. I grin when I see you coming, I call you ‘Audrey’—at least, I’m going to in future—and I criticize your clothes. I also make personal remarks. I’m not sure we oughtn’t to kiss one another. For all that, I’m your thrall—Audrey.”
Audrey put a hand to her temples.
“This is terrible,” she said. “I’d no idea I was so—so compelling . . . Christopher dear.”
“Look in your glass,” said John. “The pier-glass, I mean. Not that the other won’t do, but the pier-glass’ll hit harder. What colour are the pyjamas?”
“Periwinkle blue,” gurgled Audrey.
“Oh, I can’t bear it,” cried Christopher, covering his eyes. “Never mind. Look in the blinkin’ glass. . . . That’ll give you an idea. Of course, it won’t be the same. You’ve a way—a carelessness of pose and gesture that takes a man by the throat. It’s a sort of assault—a precious battery. Sitting up on that stile, just as if you’d alighted—dropped out of the sky, swinging your sweet, pretty leg, with a hand on your hip and a maddening smile on your mouth, ‘all on a summer’s day’—well, I give you my word, I almost expected you to say ‘He’s pinched the lot.’ ”
In a shaking voice—
“I’m sure,” said Audrey, “Bo-Peep would never have——”
Christopher rose to his feet and knocked out his pipe.
“Who’s talkin’ about Bo-Peep?” he said contemptuously. “The lady I saw was H.M. The Queen of Hearts.”
At five minutes to ten the next morning Audrey was leaning against the Manor House gates. These were of wrought iron and great beauty.
As Christopher John approached—
“Have you got his address?” she demanded.
Christopher mentioned a Club.
“That’s all I can find,” he said. “But why——”
“Warthog’s been sacked,” said Audrey with blazing eyes. “That’s why.”
“The devil he has,” said Christopher. “What about me?”
“What about Sundial?” said Audrey. “The village has lost its shepherd—its only friend.”
“It’s still got its Queen,” said John. “I can see that.”
Audrey stamped her foot.
“Don’t laugh,” she said. “I’m in earnest. I’m going to write to the brute.”
“Audrey, I beg you——”
“Show me the house,” said Audrey. “As soon as I’ve seen it, I’m going straight back to write.”
Christopher took out a key and unfastened the padlock.
With the chain in his hand, he looked at her.
“I know every woman does it,” he said gently, “but they don’t all do it like you.”
Audrey said nothing at all.
In silence they passed up the avenue. . . .
So they came to an archway with a coat of arms cut in the grey stone. This admitted to a courtyard, silent and sunlit.
For a moment they stood gazing. Then a touch on his arm made Christopher John look round.
A grave-eyed maiden was looking him in the face.
“I beg your pardon,” she said in a low voice. “I had no right. It was very”—her eyes fell, and she blushed exquisitely—“very rotten of me to take it out upon you.”
She was in his arms, and his face three inches away.
“Audrey, my sweet, my darling. . . .”
“No, no! Not that! Not that! I mean . . .”
The man let her go instantly.
For a moment Audrey stood, with her hand to her heart, breathing uncertainly.
Then—
“What a beautiful courtyard,” she said. “Will you go and unfasten the door? And I’ll come on.”
A week toiled by, during which the two met hardly at all.
Then one morning a sweet-smelling note arrived at Christopher’s lodging before he was up. . . .
That evening found them both on the sward before Domesday Mill.
“The Lord of the Manor,” said Audrey, “has a pretty wit.”
“Yes?” said Christopher John.
Audrey produced a letter.
“Read that,” she said.
Dear Miss de Lisle,
I know you well by repute, and I am satisfied that, when one so correct as yourself is impelled to take up the cudgels upon my tenants’ behalf, only a high sense of duty can have created that impulse. I therefore accept your letter as that of a cousin, and as such I answer it.
You and I are plainly of different schools. You believe in the snaffle, and I believe in the curb. I do not suggest that you are wrong or argue that I am right, but what I have I will hold—in my own way. Call me hard, if you please, and say that I gather where I have not strawed. My withers are unwrung. I am of the other school. While I am Lord of the Manor, I will sell none of my land nor will I alter my ways. Horses are meant to be ridden, and, while I am in the saddle, I will ride Sundial on the curb.
I say ‘while I am in the saddle.’
Your letter was unusual enough to interest anyone. Coming from you, it interested me very much. I therefore sent for Mr. John, the pupil to my late agent, and, as I expected, he was able to tell me as much as I wanted to know. I have requested him, should you desire it, so far as he can, to do you the same office. Ask him, and he will tell you what manner of man I am.
You will wonder why I should take pains to put such information at your disposal. It is because I am willing to strike a bargain with you.
If you will become my wife, I will give to you absolutely all my title-deeds (including, of course, those of the Manor House) and assign to you every manorial right that I possess. In a word, I will make you the Lady of the Manor.
Yours faithfully,
Charles Pendragon.
“Why, the man’s mad,” cried Christopher. “Stark, staring. He’s got his dates wrong. This is the sort of deal they did in the Stone Age.”
“It sounds,” said Audrey, “as though he meant what he said. I suppose, in your innocence, you gave me a pretty good chit.”
“He asked what you were like, and I told him the truth. I never dreamed——”
“Of course you didn’t,” said Audrey. “He took jolly good care of that. I know just what he’s like. He’s a brilliant, blasé Gallio—with a pretty wit. He might have done anything: in point of fact, he’s done nothing. When he plays, he plays high: and whether he wins or loses he doesn’t care—with the result that he usually wins. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about Sundial: he doesn’t care about me: we’re pawns. He’d sell his birthright, not for a mess of pottage, but for a cup of spice. That letter’s typical—because it’s a masterpiece. Think what the man who wrote that could have done as a diplomat.”
“I don’t see that it’s anything wonderful,” said Christopher John. “It’s a piece of damned impertinence, but——”
“Think,” said Audrey. “In effect he says, ‘Your interference was bad form: the only possible excuse for it was a sense of duty too strong to be withstood. Whether you were really so actuated remains to be seen.’ ”
Christopher shrugged his shoulders.
“You would write,” he said.
“I had to, Christopher. I couldn’t sit still and have everyone so sweet and not raise a finger to help.”
The other sighed.
“Well, it’s done now,” he said. “I suppose you won’t let me take it up with the brute.”
“Take what up?” said Audrey.
“This letter, of course.”
“But it’s unexceptionable,” said Audrey. “That’s what’s so clever. He stepped out and met me on my own ground. It may be out of bounds, but I can’t curse him for that. I chose it. . . . Besides, if it comes to that, he may be bluffing: but if I like to call his bluff, I’ll bet he pays. And he stands to lose a bit.”
“‘Lose’?” screamed Christopher. “Oh, the girl’s mad. ‘Lose’?”
“It’s a sporting offer,” said Audrey. “You can’t get away from that. And that’s the strongest card in a very strong hand, my friend. If I turn it down——”
“ ‘If,’ ” cried Christopher John. “You don’t mean to say you’re even contemplating doing anything else?”
“It’s been done before,” said Audrey. “Lady Godiva was a sport.”
“Yes, but hers was a two-hour stunt. This is a lifer. You can’t chuck away your life so that half a dozen clowns can shove their rotten sheep on to Mesne Holms.”
“They’re not rotten sheep,” said Audrey. “Besides, I mightn’t be chucking it away. I might get to like him very much. You never know. What sort of eyes has he got?”
“Watery ones,” said Christopher. “Looks as if he drank.”
Miss de Lisle frowned.
“How old is he?” she demanded.
“I believe he’s about thirty-five. He’s a proper waster, you know.”
“He would like to hear his mediator, wouldn’t he?”
“I never undertook to plead his cause.”
“You’ve broken his bread,” said Audrey.
“I wish I’d broken his neck,” growled Christopher John.
Audrey threw back her head and fell into silvery laughter. Then she drew out a letter and put it into his hand.
“I think I’ve teased you enough,” she said.
Dear Mr. Pendragon,
It is indeed plain that you and I are of different schools. I should not, for instance, have ‘pumped’ a gentleman who, had he dreamed of the use to which his information was to be put, would have seen you dead before he had opened his mouth.
I refuse your offer because I do not think there is a poor man in Sundial who would not rather go hungry, with you for lord, than that I should pay so dear to become his lady.
One thing more.
Unless I hear from you by return of post that you will immediately—
(a) reinstate Mr. Warthog,
(b) throw open Mesne Holms,
(c) let me the Manor House for a term of seven years at a rent not exceeding twice that which a reputable firm of house-agents shall consider just,
I shall hand a copy of this correspondence to the local Press.
Yours faithfully,
Audrey de Lisle.
“D’you think that’ll fix him?” said Audrey.
“It’ll certainly shake him up,” said Christopher John.
The Lord of the Manor replied with commendable dispatch.
Dear Miss de Lisle,
I beg that you will include a copy of this letter in the dossier which you hand to the Press.
I shall not reinstate Warthog.
I dismissed him because upon a belated investigation of his stewardship many things became apparent. Of these I will mention three only:—
(a) he has for three years robbed me right and left:
(b) the better to line his pockets, he has consistently represented me to be a harsh and unconscionable landlord, to whom money was a god:
(c) the respective epidemics of smallpox and diphtheria, by reports of which he deterred me from visiting Sundial, never prevailed.
I have not the power to throw open Mesne Holms. It is common land, and if grazing fees have been paid for its use, they have been appropriated by Warthog.
I will not let you the Manor House, because I propose quite shortly to reside there myself.
Yours faithfully,
Charles Pendragon.
So did Audrey de Lisle.
Dear Christopher John,
Thank you very much for your letter. I’m sorry I called you a ‘sweep’ and I’m sorry that I believed all the gossip I heard. That comes of going outside my nursery rhyme. I won’t do it again.
I never knew you were Pendragon till I saw that the Arms on the archway were the same as those on your ring. I ought to have realized then that you knew your job, but the dismissal of Warthog stuck in my throat. It never occurred to me that he was a rogue.
Your self-indignation the other evening was priceless. I loved it. I had to join in, of course, but I didn’t mean all I said.
Please may I see the Manor House again? Last time I was rather preoccupied. Will you take me there this evening, and tell me if I may tell Sundial the truth and say that the Lord of the Manor will be in his family pew on Sunday morning?
Audrey.
It was the quiet hour.
The sun had just gone down, and the broad terrace was flushed with a rosy pride: the aged giants upon the lawn stood up like gentlemen-at-arms, majestic monuments of silence; the sweet air was breathless. Somewhere a wood-pigeon was chanting the ritual of Peace.
“May I tell Sundial?” said Audrey.
“Yes.”
“And will you be in your pew on Sunday morning?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” said Audrey.
The Lord of the Manor smiled.
“You made a most excellent Queen. If I had said who I was, it would have cramped your style.”
“You let me sit in your pew, find favour by calling you names, order you about your own business. . . . Why did you do that, Christopher?”
The Lord of the Manor stared at the plumes of the cedars against the blue of the sky.
“You know why,” he said.
There was a silence.
At length—
“The end had to come,” said Audrey: “the end of the fairy-tale. We came for a night and we’ve stayed for nearly a month. It was very nice of you to let it go on so long.”
“If I’d had my way,” said Pendragon, “it would be still running. But the Queen wandered out of the parlour and into the counting-house.”
“A most undignified act,” said Audrey de Lisle. “If she’d stuck to her bread and honey, all would have been well.”
“It wasn’t undignified at all,” said the Lord of the Manor. “It was purely feminine.”
“The truth is,” said Audrey, “you can take a maiden all forlorn and put a crown on her head: but that doesn’t make her a Queen.”
“And a Queen,” said Christopher John, “can put off her crown and call herself over the coals and say the fairy-tale’s over and get into her car and drive out of the nursery rhyme: but that doesn’t alter the fact that she’s a fine lady. ‘She shall have music wherever she goes.’ ”
Perched upon the broad balustrade, her little hands folded in her lap, Audrey stared upon the flags.
“Why,” she said, “did the Lord of the Manor make the proposal he did? Surely he never thought that I should accept it.”
“There was no reason why you shouldn’t. Sundial means everything to you. I didn’t imagine you’d wire back ‘Every time,’ but I thought you’d negotiate.”
“Christopher!”
“Why not? The offer was honourable—the sort of offer that’s made by a King to a Queen.”
“Perhaps,” said Audrey slowly, “perhaps that’s why I didn’t take it. Being only a maiden all forlorn, my tastes are more simple. Besides, what makes you say that Sundial means everything to me?”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“I’d like you to know,” he said, “that, if you’d negotiated, you would have won hands down. The deeds would have been yours—with nothing to pay.”
“What makes you say that Sundial means everything to me?”
Pendragon stared into the distance with eyes that saw nothing.
“A fool finds out things,” he said, “when a fool’s in love . . . I fell in love with you. But then you know that. I loved you the moment I saw you standing there by the stile. And you were so very nice that, idiotically enough, I began to think that perhaps I meant something. It was great presumption, of course—but I did. I thought perhaps I figured in the nursery rhyme. . . . The trouble was that you were a Queen, while I—well, I wasn’t a King. . . . And then one day you came right down from your throne and kneeled at my feet—that morning, in the courtyard. . . . Well, we both know what happened then. Late as it is, my lady, I beg your pardon. But that’s by the way. The point is, it opened my eyes. It showed me that Sundial without me was still Sundial, but that I without Sundial was less than nothing at all—in a word, that I did not figure in the nursery rhyme.”
Audrey raised her straight eyebrows, and a faint smile played about her beautiful mouth.
“You know,” she said dreamily, “it’s a shame about you.” The man started. “You’re a King really, but you choose to masquerade as a ‘man all tattered and torn.’ One day you find a ‘maiden all forlorn’ and put a crown on her head. Then you’re all upset because you want to kiss her—stay where you are, please—but you can’t do that because she’s a Queen. So you sit all still and gloomy and listen to her railing against the King. Then, having worked her anger against the King up to fever heat, you tell her that you’re the King and try to kiss her. . . . Well, whatever do you expect the poor girl to do?”
“May I move now?”
“Certainly not. Besides, how many times d’you think the man all tattered and torn tried to kiss the maiden all forlorn before she let him do it?”
“Once,” said Pendragon, putting his arms about her and drawing her on to her feet.
As she slid down from the stone—
“I never said you could move,” said Audrey de Lisle.
“You shouldn’t ’ve made me a King,” shouted her squire, and with that he kissed her.
“I wanted you to do that the very first day,” whispered the girl. “But if you had I’d never have stayed at Sundial.” She slid an arm round his neck. “And you say you didn’t figure . . .” She threw up her glorious head and smiled into his eyes. “Why, my blessed, you made it. It’s not been a nursery rhyme—it’s been my love-story.”
“Audrey, Audrey, my darling. . . .”
“When I saw the Arms that morning, I nearly fainted. Then I went all cold, to think that you—my Prince Charming—were really the wicked lord. . . . The moment you let me go I saw my mistake. In a flash I realized that you were playing some game. Then I got all mad to think that you’d kept it from me—so I started in too. . . . But I nearly gave it away that evening at Domesday Mill, when you said he had watery eyes. It—it was so libellous, Christopher. . . .”
Pendragon smiled.
“My beautiful lady,” he said, “that came to me out of the blue. There never was, I believe, such a fairy-tale. I was afraid to kiss you for fear of breaking things up. You know. The Sleeping Beauty. If I waked you with a kiss, you might kiss me back: but then, again, you mightn’t. And then in the end I did . . . and the worst happened.”
“But you didn’t, dear,” said Audrey. “If you had . . .”
Pendragon sighed.
“Of course,” he said, “I shall never understand women.”
Audrey put up her mouth and closed her eyes.
“Real men don’t,” she murmured. “That’s why I love you so.”
Sunday morning came, and the great sun with it. The day was all glorious.
Excitement in Sundial was running high.
All that the village knew was that Warthog was proved a rogue, and that the Lord of the Manor would take his rightful seat that August morning.
The tiny church was packed ten minutes before the hour.
At five minutes to eleven the private door was opened, and amid a breathless silence a well-dressed but familiar figure appeared in the Pendragon pew.
Sundial’s heart stood still.
Then—
“Why, it’s Mister John,” piped an old, tremulous voice.
Pent-up feelings vented themselves in an hysterically explosive ‘Sh-h-h.’
Pendragon rose to his feet and glanced down the church. Then he stepped down from the chancel and passed to Mrs. Trelawney and Miss de Lisle.
A whisper, and the ladies rose and preceded him to his family pew.
The ranks of Sundial ‘could scarce forbear to cheer.’
But when, after the Second Lesson, the Vicar published ‘the Banns of Marriage between Christopher John Charles Pendragon, Bachelor, and Audrey de Lisle, Spinster, both of this Parish,’ the concluding sentences were lost in a spontaneous rendering of Sundial’s favourite hymn.
This was the Old Hundredth.
The villagers of Sundial are simple folk.