XXIV
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
The Luttrell Arms, Dunster,
Aug. 18th
Duck of the Universe: Five days since I wrote, and it seems five minutes. But I did telegraph—with my last shilling; and even that would be rightfully Ellaline's, if the labourer weren't worthy of his hire.
You see, after the letter I had from her in Torquay, when she wanted money to go to Scotland with her new friends, the McNamaras, I very reluctantly screwed my courage to the asking point, and got more out of Sir Lionel. If he weren't the most generous man in the world he would have privately dubbed me "Oliver Twist" by this time. Perhaps he has! But I trust not. Anyhow, I shall get on without more requests, I hope, until the next "allowance" day comes round; or until every pin is lost and every hairpin has dropped out.
Because in the telegram I was forced to be economical, and ran only to "All well. Love" ("much" scratched out as an extravagance), I must now go back to the moment of Sir Lionel's unexpected, almost miraculous, appearance at Tintagel.
There I was in the hall, scribbling dolefully about my symptoms. "Teuf, teuf, teuf!" heard outside, between screeches of wind. In bounces Sir Lionel, wet as a merman, dripping rivulets at every step, splashing, swashing in his boots, drops dripping from his eyelashes; glares around, looking ready to bite someone's head off without salt or sauce; sees me; brightens with a watery gleam; comes toward me, rather shy and stiff, yet evidently under the influence of—emotion of some sort. I didn't know whether to expect a scolding or a blessing, so waited speechless.
"What a brute you must think me," was his first remark. I drank it as a thirsty traveller lost on the Sahara would bolt a pint of dew.
"I didn't know what to think," I replied conservatively. "But you are wet, aren't you?"