Chapter IV: Part 4

In October 1918 she was still at school. Three months later she had left Philadelphia for ever and was dancing at London night-clubs five nights of the week. Such a _début_ at such a moment into such a world would have demoralized nine girls out of ten. The fair American was not demoralized: but she would not have been human if she had even attempted to swim against the stream.

After all, if we may believe Sir Toby Belch, Feste, the Clown, had ‘a contagious breath.’

_What is love? ’tis not hereafter;_
_Present mirth hath present laughter;_
_What’s to come is still unsure. . . ._

She had no money: yet might, I think, have married anyone. But rank and riches to Jean meant nothing at all. She married Oliver Pauncefote because she liked the man, found him a gentleman, firmly believed that he would not let her down.

Herein she was right.

Pauncefote had been through the War and was out to forget. With eighty thousand pounds behind him, he began to forget very well. Feste’s doctrine suited him down to the ground.

_In delay there lies no plenty;_
_Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,_
_Youth’s a stuff will not endure._

But he never forgot that he was a gentleman.

The two were lovely and pleasant in their lives.

Tall, straight, limber, Jean’s form was superb. Her beautiful features, her fearless grey eyes, her magnificent golden hair and her exquisite skin were straight from Malory. Her mouth was proud. Her charm of manner was notable. Jean had a quick brain and a gay heart. She made a wonderful waster, adorning even that sumptuous, flashing world in which she moved. That it was not her setting is rather painfully clear. If a fountain must run with wine, there are just as good-looking liquors as old Falernian.

Oliver Pauncefote looked what in fact he was—a soldier taking his ease. Tall, fair, fresh-faced, his was a lazy air. The man might well have been handsome; but Achilles with his feet up would not have made an Iliad. The strength was there in his face, but it was always off duty. An easy smile sat on his fine mouth; his clear eyes were half veiled; he spoke with a drawl. His manners were delightful. At his worst, he was easy-going; at his best, debonair. And that was a pity. A head that can carry a casque should not wear nothing but a bycocket.

Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote lived soft.

Finding their income insufficient, they spent their capital freely, proposing by happy speculation to replenish their hoard. The deal which Oliver was just completing was, of course, a coup phenomenal. To do him justice, it would not have been so phenomenal if it had not been so daring. Fortunes are not made at chuck-farthing. They are won by pitching fortunes upon the table.

So also are they lost.

When, seated at breakfast in their _salon_ some seven hours after Jean had burst into tears, Oliver read in the paper that _Plaisir et Cie_, Bankers, had suspended payment, he put a hand to his head. . . .

For a full minute he sat, staring. . . .

Then the door was opened, and Jean came into the room.

Oliver laid down the paper and buttered some bread.

“Well, old lady,” he said, “what’s the programme to-day?”

“Lunch with the Bostocks,” said Jean, selecting a roll. “Then to Molyneux with Maisie. Dinner with Pat Lafone. It’s his birthday, he says, and he swears we’ll light such a candle——”

“Let’s call it off,” said Pauncefote, “an’ keep the day to ourselves.”

Jean lifted her beautiful head.

“For Heaven’s sake—why?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said her husband. “Only—only it’s our weddin’-day”—Jean frowned—“and I think perhaps we might mark it. You know. Just draw in our horns.”

“‘In loving memory’?”

“If you like,” said Pauncefote. “Let’s—let’s go for a walk in the _Bois_.”

Jean gave a little shriek of laughter.

“My dear Oliver,” she said, “your efforts to play the mug are too good to be true. Now eat your bread-and-butter like a good little boy and tell me what won the Church Congress—I mean, the Two Thousand. Where was Fire Guard?”

“Don’t know,” said her husband shortly. “But I mean what I say. I want to talk things over.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Jean. “I had my bust last night—my final bust. The incident’s closed. Besides, in the cold light of day——”

“I’m afraid it isn’t,” said Pauncefote.

His wife’s eyes flashed.

“Oliver,” she said, “we’ve never yet had a row—a proper row. But if you’re going to rake up the muck we picked over last night, we shall break our record with a bang. Now listen to me. Women are not like men. They may be as tough as teak, but once in a while they crumple—for half an hour. Something inside gives way. It’s humiliating, but there you are. . . . Well, I crumpled up last night. And you—you saw me. You witnessed my humiliation. Are you going to take advantage of what you saw?”

“No,” said Oliver, “I’m not. I’m not that sort of man. But I’ve things to say to you, Jean, that—that don’t concern the Bostocks or—or Pat Lafone.”

Jean raised her eyebrows.

“It’s only ten now,” she said, “and what’s the matter with this room?”

Oliver rose to his feet and pushed back his chair.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly.

The man’s brain was pounding. Jean’s sentences seemed to reach it by a circuitous route. On arrival they had to be parsed . . .

Mechanically he took out his case and lighted a cigarette. Then he continued slowly.

“You know what you said last night . . . about being tied tight . . . so long as we’d money——”

“One moment,” said Jean coldly, “I don’t seem to have made myself plain. I endeavoured to point out just now that reference to what passed last night would be bad form. And I hinted that I should resent it—most bitterly.”

Oliver passed a hand across his forehead.

“I know,” he said. “I’m not referring——”

“You quoted what you said were my words.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. . . .”

“Well, please pull yourself together, because I mean what I say. This is a question of honour—between the sexes. I broached certain matters last night which we never should have discussed in a thousand years. You know that as well as I do. I never should have broached them if I hadn’t gone to bits. You’d never have heard me broach them if I hadn’t been your wife.”

“I know, I know,” said Pauncefote wearily. “Don’t say it again.” He drew in his breath as one about to make an effort. “Jean.”

“Well?”

“Supposing . . . all of a sudden . . . we—we became poor . . . You know. Lost all we’d got. . . . Supposing——”

He stopped there.

His wife was standing before him, with blazing eyes.

“I shan’t strike you,” she said, “because that’d be coming down to your level. Besides, you’d probably strike me back. But the impulse is there. . . . I knew you were selfish, of course. And a waster. And other things. But I never knew you were trash. . . . Only trash would discuss the whimper of a maudlin girl.”

Pauncefote regarded her steadily.

The lash had recovered his nerve.

“No doubt,” he said dryly, “no doubt. Let’s leave it there, shall we?” The light of attack in Jean’s eyes slid into a stare. “What I was trying to do was to temper the wind. . . . We’re broke, my good lady. Bust. We haven’t a bean. Our hundred thousand’s gone.” Jean started back, and a hand went up to her mouth. “Plaisir and Co. have failed.”

“Oliver!”

“It’s been done before,” said her husband carelessly. He stepped to one side and past her and flung himself into a chair. “But the point I wish to make is that this is where we get off. I’ve about twelve hundred in England, but that won’t pay our debts. We shall get a bit on your pearls and the Rolls and other things, but you’re always stung to glory when you’ve got to realize quick.” He paused to inhale comfortably. “Can you get packed in time for the two o’clock train? It’s no good staying here.”

Jean pulled herself together.

“But, Oliver, what shall we do?”

“I’ve no idea. I must try to get work, of course. If you had money, or I had any to give you, we could each go our own way. As it is, I’m afraid your only immediate hope is to stick to me. What work I can get I don’t know. A soldier’s not much good outside his own job. . . . By the way, I’m extremely sorry I’ve let you down. I should never have put the lot into one concern. I’m afraid you’ll find it pretty thick.”

“What about you?”

Pauncefote shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t imagine I shall like it, but that’s neither here nor there. The first thing we’ve got to do is to fade away. Again, we must be in London. We must be on the spot. We must pay up what we owe, but if I can stop any orders—well, we might be glad of the dust. I ordered three suits at Brandon’s before we came away. I told him he needn’t hurry, so there’s just a chance they’re not cut. An’ Whippy’s makin’ a saddle, an’ Hardy a rod, an’—an’ . . .”

He caught his breath sharply and let the sentence go, sitting still in his chair with fixed, unseeing eyes.

The stabbing thought that never again would he hear the whimper of hounds in the soft, sweet-smelling burthen of a November day ripped and tore at Oliver Pauncefote’s heart. Memories came with a rush to rub salt in the wound—a tremendous day with the Cottesmore—a check at Garter Spinney, when the birches had looked like fountains and Sir Barnaby Shrew had come up and asked him to Stomacher Place—Mandarin’s joyous fly-jumps and the swift tremor of his ears—a burst up Sweeting Valley, when hounds were running mute and Fantasy jumped the Chaffer as though it were a garden-path. . . .

“Oliver! Oliver!”

Jean was beside him on her knees, with an arm round his neck.

Pauncefote put her aside and rose to his feet.

“Don’t let’s pretend,” he said quietly. “It’s hardly worth it. Besides, to tell you the truth, reach-me-down sympathy never cut very much ice with me. Finally, you’ll need all you’ve got for yourself before we’re through. I’ve let you down badly, I know. But God knows I’ve got my punishment. . . . And I’ll do my very best to break your fall.” Jean sat back on her heels and stared at the floor. “When you feel most sore—murderous, please try to remember the intolerable position I’m in. If we meant anything to each other, it would have been less odious. As it is—well, obviously, I’d rather have died by torture than let you down.”

He passed to the door of the _salon_. With his fingers about the handle, he stopped and spoke over his shoulder.

“Can you manage the two o’clock train?”

Jean never moved.

“I’ll—I’ll be ready,” she said.

* * * * *

Three ghastly months had gone by, and Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote were down to seven pounds.

Their liabilities had proved higher than they had feared: their personal effects had fetched even less than they had expected. Cars, jewels, clothing—everything had been sold to pay their debts. The two were determined to keep their memory clean. The mighty had fallen, but at least their stalls should be left swept and garnished. What they owed they paid to the uttermost farthing. By the time the last cheque had been signed, Destitution had crept very close.

_Plaisir et Cie_ had paid nothing. Whether they would ever pay anything seemed doubtful indeed. That they would never pay anything to Pauncefote was painfully clear. The man was powerless. He was out of touch. To employ a Parisian lawyer was beyond his means. Remembering a recent threat to transfer his deposit account, his English Bank wagged familiar forefingers and ‘advised’ him to lodge his claim and ‘wait and see.’ Pauncefote did so, as well as he could, and received no reply.

The two lived in rooms in a mean street and boarded themselves. Pauncefote went from pillar to post, seeking work ceaselessly and finding none. Jean raked the newspapers, cursed her own uselessness and watched the grey creep into her husband’s hair. She also found that food was far cheaper at stalls than it was in shops. . . . Neither complained of their lot. They walked a good deal together, avoiding familiar neighbourhoods, breaking new and unlovely ground. They never referred to the old days. Their relations were desperately strained, but the strain was always masked. They laughed little, hid their misery somehow, respected each other’s reserve as a sacred thing. Under it all, their hearts yearned upon each other. . . .

With infinite precaution against detection, each sought by hook or by crook to smooth the other’s path. So often as he was abroad, Oliver went without food—and swore he had lunched at Lyons’ and done himself well. Jean crept to the basement and cleaned her husband’s shoes—and let him commend the slut that stole their food. Awakened one night by pain in a game knee, the man lay still till daylight for fear of disturbing her rest. Jean bargained for hot shaving-water—and got it too. It cost her one set of exquisite underclothes every month. They came to cherish each other as they had never cherished themselves. . . .

And now—three months had gone by, and Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote were down to seven pounds.

There was no work in London.

Wondering whether there was a God in Heaven, the Pauncefotes went to the registry office from which six months ago their servants had come.

They asked for the head of the firm, and, when they were ushered in, recalled who they were and offered themselves as caretakers—with tightened lips.

As luck would have it, the man was gentle. He knew them at once, and the grievous Saturnalia hit him between the eyes. He saw no reason to exult. He perceived a clear occasion for delicate courtesy—for serving two patrons in distress far more diligently than he had served them in prosperity. He spared them spoken sympathy. It was not his place.

“We ought to have come in by the Servants’ Entrance,” said Jean gaily. “But we thought, as we knew you——”

“There is only one entrance for you, madam, so long as this office is here.”

He sent for the registers, scanned them, turned up his nose.

Then he took their address and begged them to be of good cheer.

“I shall do all I can at once, madam. In two or three days, perhaps. . . .”

“What—what about references?” said Pauncefote. “I suppose——”

“I’ll get over that, sir.”

They rose to their feet.

Jean stammered something about a booking-fee.

The man inclined his head.

“There is nothing to pay, madam.”

He came with them to the door and bowed them out.

The two passed down the blazing pavement, unable to speak. . . .

Two days later a messenger brought them a letter and waited for a reply.

_For two months certain . . . a country house in Wiltshire . . .
one mile from the village . . . servants’ hall and bathroom
. . . wages—three guineas a week, fuel and light . . . sole
charge. . . ._

The note concluded—

_As is usual in such cases, I beg to enclose five pounds to
defray expenses, to be repaid from salary at your convenience._

The Pauncefotes left for Wiltshire the following day.

* * * * *

Supine on the turf beneath a chestnut, Oliver laid down his pipe and praised God. By his side, Jean, looking years younger, sat clasping her knees and regarding a peerless avenue of aged elms. Behind them, Hallatrow Hall, grey and long and low, basked in the evening sunshine like an old hound.

It was the quiet hour.

The Pauncefotes’ work was over for the day.

The house had been thoroughly aired, two rooms had been cleaned, their quarters had been put in order, a report had been written, letters had been re-addressed. The latter lay in a pile upon the turf, awaiting the postman.

“Jean,” said Oliver suddenly, “we’ve much to be thankful for.”

“Yes,” said his wife, “we have.”

“We had much more once,” said Pauncefote. “But it never occurred to us then.”

Jean shook her beautiful head.

“We never had more,” she said, “to be thankful for. We never had half so much. Still, we might have been grateful.”

“We had more, really,” said Oliver, “but we didn’t appreciate it. Now that we’ve been through the mill——”

“I never had more,” said Jean.

There was a silence.

At length—

“What do you mean?” said Oliver.

“I mean I’ve got down to the ale.”

There was another silence.

“I’m afraid it’s been rather bitter, dear,” said Oliver.

“Ale is bitter sometimes, but it warms the blood. I think I count with you now. Why, I don’t know, but you talked in your sleep once. . . .”

“What did I say?”

“It was the night of my birthday—six weeks ago. You seemed worried to death. ‘I want her to have some flowers,’ you kept on saying. ‘I want her to have some flowers—my . . . darling . . . wife.’ And then you said, ‘It’s too late now’—over and over again. And then you laughed terribly and said, ‘A present from Eden.’”

Oliver sat upright and put out his hand.

“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.

“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._