“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.’”