Part 8

“That’s why you never had them,” he said. “I was afraid . . . they’d seem a travesty . . . because they were—too late.”

Jean put her hand in his.

“You called me ‘your darling wife.’ You. After what I’d said and done. Remembered my rotten birthday—wanted to give me blossoms when you couldn’t afford to smoke.”

“Do I count with you, Jean—now?”

“You always counted, Oliver; but, because it wasn’t the fashion, I covered it up. I broke out that night to see if I counted with you. And when I found I didn’t, I made up my mind to kill my love for you.”

“You did count, dear,” said Oliver. “Down at the bottom of things. But I think I’d rather have died than let it appear. It seems very silly now, but—I was ashamed. When I was alone in the room, I used to kiss your gloves; but when you came in—well, I didn’t so often kiss you. Even that night at the _Rhin_, with all the openings you gave me——”

“You saw them?”

“Yes. But I couldn’t step in. It was Balaam’s ass over again, with Sentiment full in the way with a drawn sword. I think—I believe I could have done it if we’d been in the dark. As it was, I was on the edge. . . . And then you landed me one—a regular stinger. . . . You said you kissed other men, and you mentioned—Pat Lafone.”

Jean nodded.

“I did it to get a rise,” she said quietly. “It—it wasn’t true.”

Oliver’s grasp tightened.

“When we were engaged,” he said, “I heard two women talking—talking of you and me. I cleared out as soon as I’d tumbled, but I’d heard a thing first that stuck. They said there was only one man on earth who could take you away from me . . . and they mentioned . . . his name.”

Jean gave a tremulous laugh.

“Good lord,” she said. “Why, I wouldn’t be seen dead with him.”

“I didn’t know that, Jean. It—it looked the other way. And—and I sort of came unbuttoned at the thought of losing you. I let out, if you remember, about ‘forbidden fruit.’”

“Yes,” said Jean slowly. “I remember. I never got it, of course. I couldn’t see anything except the blinding fact that you didn’t care. And . . . all the time . . . you did.”

Oliver got to his knees and put her hand to his lips.

“I worship you, Jean,” he said. “I always have. I worship your glorious body and I worship your darling ways. I love your laughter and your precious, blessed voice. I love your footfalls and the breath of your parted lips. But that was always . . . Now I’ve got something more, something to kneel to. . . . You’re made of the stuff that queens are made of, Jean. I let you down—most terribly. I know I never meant to, but that’s no defence. You left the finance to me, and I broke up your life. . . . Well, women don’t like their lives being broken up, even by accident. But never once, by word or deed or look, have you so much as hinted that I might have taken more care. . . . More. You’ve never complained, you’ve never murmured once—and it’s been far harder for you. Instead, you’ve stood beside me, quiet, steadfast. If you’ve wept, I’ve never seen it. If you’d liked to make it _your_ trouble, you’d every right. But you wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t even let it be _our_ trouble. _It hasn’t been ‘trouble’ at all._ You’ve charmed it into just an incident . . . an incident in _our_ life. . . .”

Jean stood up and took his face in her hands.

“It’s the ale, my darling,” she said. “The ale I spoke of. So long as we drink it together. . . .”

Oliver rose to his feet and took her in his arms.

“‘And he was her man,’” whispered Jean.

“‘And she was his woman.’”

They looked up to see the postman ten paces away.

“There now,” he said. “I thought this was ’Allatrow ’All. An’ lo! and be’old, if it ain’t the Garden of Eden.”

“Don’t say you’re the serpent,” said Oliver, laughing.

“Oh, shame!” said the postman, producing a letter. “Never min’. ’Ere’s a napple.”

They laughed with him, gave him their letters in exchange and watched him tramp down the avenue under the rook-ridden elms.

“Hullo, it’s for me,” said Oliver. “Oh, I know. It’s from the _Rhin_.”

“The _Rhin_?” said Jean, peering. “How have they got our address?”

“’Member those wires we never paid for? And I was always going to send the porter a cheque? Well, when we got here I remembered, and, as we weren’t so tied up, I sent him five bob.”

He ripped the envelope open, to find another inside.

This had been sent from London some time in May.

“Ancient history,” said Pauncefote, and broke the seal.

_COLD’S BANK LIMITED._ _PALL MALL BRANCH._ _London, S.W._ _May 7th._ _Capt. O. Pauncefote,_ _Hôtel du Rhin,_ _Place Vendôme,_ _Paris._ _Private and Confidential._ _SIR,_

_A week ago you sent us a cheque on Plaisir et Cie for 6,600,000 francs, with instructions to clear at 66 or better and place upon deposit to your account._

_Two days ago the rumour that Plaisir et Cie were in difficulties reached me from a very secret but highly reliable source._

_I at once endeavoured to communicate with you, but found that you were in Paris._

_It was manifest that, if action was to be taken at all, it must be taken instantly, and, believing that, if I could have advised you, you would have told me to clear at any cost, I sold your cheque within the hour for ninety-two thousand pounds._

_Particularly in view of the fact that this is your first transaction with us, I need hardly say that I am greatly relieved to see from the evening papers that our disregard of your instructions was apparently justified._

_I am, Sir,_ _Your obedient servant,_ _E.S. NIELD,_ _Manager._

For a long time neither spoke.

Presently Jean touched Oliver on the arm and pointed to the old grey house.

“It’s for sale, isn’t it?” she faltered.

Oliver nodded. He dared not trust his voice.

“Shall we—— Would you like to live here?”

Oliver’s arms were about her, and his cheek against hers.

“Jean, my darling, my darling.”

“I mean,” said Jean, with a little half-laugh, half-sob, “it seems—a pity—to leave—the Garden of Eden.”

CHRISTOPHER

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.