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.