entered the charmed, magic circle of the giant plinths, a procession of
other motor-cars poured up to the gates. Droves of chauffeurs, and
bevies of pretty ladies in motor hats swarmed like living anachronisms
among the monuments of the past. Of course, _we_ didn't seem to
ourselves to be anachronisms, because what is horrid in other people is
always quite different and excusable, or even piquant, in oneself; and I
hastily argued that _our_ motor, Apollo, the Sun God, was really
appropriate in this place of fire worship. Even the Druids couldn't have
objected to _him_, although they would probably have sacrificed all of
_us_ in a bunch, unless we could have hastily proved that we were a new
kind of god and goddess, driving chariots of fire. (Anyhow, motor-cars
are making history just as much as the Druids did, so they ought to be
welcome anywhere, in any scene, and they seem to have more right to be
at Stonehenge than patronizing little Pepys.)
You remember Rolde, in Holland, don't you, with its miniature
Stonehenge? Well, it might have been made for Druids' children to play
dolls with, compared to this.
If the Phoenicians raised Stonehenge in worship of their fiery god,
they had good reason to flatter themselves that it would attract his
attention. And I do think it was sensible to choose the sun for a god.
Next to our own true religion, that seems the most comforting. There was
your deity, in full sight, looking after one side or the other of his
world, all through the twenty-four hours.
I never felt more awe-stricken than I did passing under the shadow of
those great sentinel plinths, guarding their sunken altar, hiding their
own impenetrable mysteries. The winds seemed to blow more chill, and to
whisper strangely, as if trying to tell secrets we could never
understand. I love the legend of the Friar's Heel, but, after all, it's
only a mediæval legend, and it's more interesting to think that, from
the middle of the sacrificial altar, the priest could see the sun rise
(at the summer solstice) just above that stupendous stone. I stood
there, imagining a white-robed Druid looking up, his knife suspended
over a fair girl victim, waiting to strike until his eye should meet the
red eye of the sun. Oh, I shall have bad dreams about Stonehenge, I
know! But I shan't mind, if I can dream about the Duke of Buckingham
digging for treasure there at midnight. And if I were like Du Maurier's
dear Peter Ibbetson, I could "dream back," and see at what far distance
the builders of Stonehenge got their mysterious syenite, and that one
black sandstone so different from the rest. I could dream who were the
builders; whether Phoenicians, or mourning Britons of Arthur's day--as
Geoffrey of Monmouth tells.
Sir Lionel and I like to think it was the Britons, for that gives him a
family feeling for the place, since he read out of a book Warton's
sonnet:
"Thou noblest monument of Albion's Isle,
Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore
To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore,
Huge frame of giants' hands, the mighty pile
To entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile,
Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore,
Taught 'mid the massy maze their mystic lore."
Next time, I want to see Stonehenge from an airship, or, at a pinch, a
balloon, because I can judge better of the original form, the two
circles and the two ellipses, which the handsomest policeman I ever saw
out of a Christmas Annual explained to me, pacing the rough grass. He
lives at Stonehenge all day, with a dog, and they are both guardians. I
asked him if he had not beautiful thoughts, but he said, not in winter,
Miss, it was too cold to think then, except about hot soup. Stonehenge
is very becoming to this young man, especially at sunset. And, dearest,
you can hardly imagine the glory of those piled stones as you look back
at them, going slowly, slowly away, and seeing them purple-black against
a crimson streak of sunset like a smoking torch.
[Illustration: "_The policeman explained to me_"]
We got lost, trying to find the river road, going home, and had great
fun, straying into meadows, and onto ploughed ground, which poor Apollo
resented. The way was beautiful, past some lovely old houses and
exquisite cottages; and the Avon was idyllic in its pretty windings. But
the villages of Wiltshire I don't find as poetical as those in Surrey
and Sussex or Hampshire.
You would never guess what I'm going to do to-morrow morning? I'm not
sure you'd let me, if you knew. But a ward doesn't need a chaperon with
a guardian. He plays both parts. I'm to get up early--before the sun is
awake--and Sir Lionel is to motor me out to Stonehenge, so that I can
see it by sunrise as well as sunset. It is a beautiful idea, and the
handsome policeman has promised to be there and let us in.
Seeing a sunrise is like a glorified Private View, I think. I expect to
feel as Louis of Bavaria must have felt when he had a Wagner opera all
to himself.
Now I am going down to post this, so that it can leave for London by the
last train, and start for Switzerland in the morning--of my birthday. I
shall count the sunrise a birthday present from heaven if it's fine; and
if it isn't I shall know, what I suspect already, that I don't deserve
one.
Your loving Changeling,
Audrie.
XII
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_Compton Arms, Stony Cross, New Forest_,
_July 25th_
Little Star-Mother: It's very late to-night, or early
to-morrow, but I did want to write you on my birthday; and besides, I am
in a hurry to tell you about the fairylike experience I have had. I am
in fairyland even here and now; but I have been to the heart of it. I
shall never forget.
Oh, but first--the sunrise, my birthday sunrise. It was wonderful, and
made me think how much time I have wasted, hardly ever accepting its
invitations. I believe I will turn over a new leaf. I shall get up very,
very early every day, and go to bed very, very late, so as to squeeze
all the juice out of the orange, and wring every minute out of my youth.
I feel so alive, I don't want to lose the "morning glory." When I'm old
I shall do differently. I'll go to bed directly after dinner and sleep
late, so that age may be short, following a long youth. Isn't that a
good plan to make on my twenty-first birthday?
Sir Lionel hadn't forgotten, and wished me many happy returns of the
day; but he didn't give me a present, so I hoped he had changed his
mind. We got back to Salisbury about the time Mrs. Norton and Mrs.
Senter were having their breakfasts in bed (they hadn't heard of our
expedition, and the word had gone out that we weren't to start for the
New Forest till after luncheon, as it would be a short run), and we had
nearly finished our tea, toast, and eggs, when Dick strolled into the
coffee-room. He seemed decidedly _intrigue_ at sight of us together at a
little table, talking cozily; and that detective look came into his eyes
which cats have when a mouse occurs to them. He laughed merrily, though,
and chaffed us on making "secret plans." Dick hasn't a very nice laugh.
It's too explosive and loud. (Don't you think other animals must
consider the laughter of humans an odd noise, without rhyme or reason?)
Also Dick has a nasty way of saying "thank you" to a waiter; with the
rising inflection, you know, which is nicely calculated to make the
servant feel himself the last of God's creatures.
By two o'clock we had said good-bye to Salisbury ("good-bye" for me, "au
revoir" for the others, perhaps), and were kinematographing in and out
of charming scenery, lovelier perhaps than any we'd seen yet. Under
green gloom of forests, where it seemed a prisoned dryad might be
napping in each tree, and where only a faun could have been a suitable
chauffeur; past heatherland, just lit to rosy fire by the sun's blaze;
through billowy country where grain was gold and silver, meadows were
"flawed emeralds set in copper," and here and there a huge dark blot
meant a prehistoric barrow.
The car played us a trick for the first time, and Young Nick, looking
more like Buddha than ever, got down to have a heart-to-heart talk with
the motor. I think Apollo had swallowed a crumb, or something, for he
coughed and wheezed, and wouldn't move except with gasps, until he had
been patted under the bonnet, and tickled with all sorts of funny
instruments, such as a giant's dentist might use. It was fun, though,
for us irresponsible ones, while Sir Lionel and Nick tried different
things to get the crumb out of Apollo's throat. Other motorists flew by
scornfully, like the Priest and the Levite, or slowed up to ask if they
could help, and looked with some interest at Mrs. Senter and me, sitting
there like mantelpiece ornaments. I didn't even want to slaughter them
for the dust they made, now that I'm a real motorist myself, for "dog
cannot eat dog"; and even cyclists seemed like our poor relations.
One elderly woman bumped by, sitting in a kind of dreadful bath chair
fastened in front of a motor bicycle, spattering noise and petrol. You
couldn't see her features under her expression, which was agonized. The
young man who propelled her was smirking conceitedly, as if to say,
"What a kind chap I am, giving my maiden aunt a good time!"
Presently a small car came limping along that had "We Know It" printed
in large, rough letters on a card, tied to a broken wheel. Wasn't that a
good idea, when they'd got nervous prostration having everybody tell
them?
Cows paused, gazed at us, and sneered; but at last Apollo's crumb was
extracted; Young Nick brushed the dust off his sleeves by rubbing his
arms together, the way flies clean their antennæ, and we were ready to
go on. "It's a wise car that knows its own chauffeur," said Mrs. Senter.
Just because this happened, and because a tire presently burst in sheer
sympathy, we travelled in the beginning of sunset, which was divine. The
scene swam in rose-coloured light, so pink it seemed as if you could
bottle it, and it would still be pink. The tree trunks were cased in
ruddy gold, like the gold leaf wrapped round royal mummies. Making up
for lost time, the white road smoked beneath our tires, and we were soon
in the New Forest--the old, old New Forest, perfumed like the fore-court
of heaven.
We came to this pretty little hotel, in the midst of heathery spaces
like a cutting in the aromatic forest. I like my room, but I didn't want
to stop in it and begin dressing for dinner. Looking out of my window, I
saw a little white moon, curved like a baby's arm, cushioned among banks
of sky azaleas, so I felt I must go out and drink the sunset. I had left
too much of that rose-red wine in the bottom of the silver goblet. I
must have the last drop!
So I ran downstairs; and I warn you, now comes the experience which I
liked so much, but of which you won't approve.
The landlord stood in the hall, and I asked him if there were anything
wonderful I could go and see in a few minutes. He smiled, and said it
wouldn't take me very long to find Rufus's Stone, but he would not
advise me to do it. I replied that I wouldn't ask him to advise, if he'd
point out the road, and probably I should only venture a little way. He
was a nice man, so he went out in front of the hotel to point, and lent
me a puppy as a companion.
The puppy was no respecter of persons. All he cared for was a walk, so
he kindly consented to take me with him, gambolling ahead as if he knew
where I wanted to go. That tempted me on, and the way wasn't hard to
find, for the puppy or for me. We played into each other's paws, and
when I was lost he found me, or vice versa. The first thing I knew,
there was the Stone. Nobody could mistake it, even from a distance; and
going down to it from the top of a hill, it was still light enough to
read the inscription.
This was my first entrance into the heart of fairyland.
William Rufus couldn't have chosen a more ideal spot to die in, if he'd
picked it out himself from a list of a hundred others; and the evening
silence under the great, gray beeches seemed as if it had lasted a
thousand years, always the same, old and wise as Mother Earth. Then,
suddenly, it was broken by the rustle and stir of a cock pheasant, which
appeared from somewhere as if by magic, and stood for an instant all
kingly, his breast blazing with jewelled orders in the sunset. Me he
regarded with the haughty defiance of a Norman prince, and screamed with
rage at the puppy, all his theories upset, because he had been so
positive the world was entirely his. So it was, if he'd only stopped to
let me assure him that he owned all the best things in it; but he
whirred and soared; and thus I realized instantly that he was a fairy in
disguise. How stupid of me not to have guessed while he was there!
[Illustration: "_William Rufus couldn't have chosen a more ideal spot to
die in_"]
You know, the New Forest is haunted with fairies, good and bad. There
are the "malfays" that came because of William the Conqueror's cruelty
in driving away the peasants to make the great deer-forest for his
hunting; and there are the good fays that help the cottage housewives,
and the "tricksies" that frighten the wild ponies and pinch the cattle.
I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that that pheasant was Puck
himself, for no doubt Puck has a hunting-lodge somewhere in the New
Forest.
I meant to sit by the Stone only five minutes, but the fairies put a
spell upon my five minutes, and the first thing I knew, the sun was
gone. So was the puppy, which was even more serious, for I was
handicapped by not knowing his name, and no self-respecting canine thing
would respond to shouts of "dog," or "here, pup, pup, pup!"
However, I tried both, running about to look for him, here and there,
among the enchanted bracken that rustled with elf-life, while the
shadows came alive, and the rosy light died.
"Puppy, puppy!" I implored, helplessly drifting; and then, to my
surprise--can you "find" that you've lost a thing? Well, I don't know
how else to express it. I found that I'd lost the path. If I'd only been
able to remember whether the hotel were north or south, or east or west
of Rufus's Stone, maybe it would have been all right; but does any
normal girl ever give thought to points of the compass? I yelled a
little more, hoping the puppy would be gentleman enough to come back to
a lady in distress, and luckily Sir Lionel heard my howls. He'd come out
to look for me, on learning from the landlord that I'd gone to Rufus's
Stone, with the puppy, and he had met it--not the stone, but the
puppy--looking sneaky and ashamed. Just then, my voice gave him an idea
of my whereabouts, otherwise we should probably have missed; and if we
had, I don't know what I _should_ have done, so you mustn't scold at
what happened next. Remember the New Forest is not a French pension full
of old maids, but fairyland--fairyland.
He was in evening dress, without a hat, and I _was_ pleased to see him,
because I was beginning to be the tiniest bit afraid; and he did look so
nice; and I was _so_ glad he wasn't Dick Burden. But don't worry! I
didn't tell him that.
It seems he came downstairs rather early for dinner, and the landlord
mentioned that I'd gone out, so he strolled along, thinking to meet me
after walking a few yards. When he didn't, he thought he'd better keep
on, because it was too late for me to be out of doors alone.
I was apologetic, and afraid it must be long past dinner-time; but he
said I needn't mind that, as he had left word for the others not to wait
after eight-fifteen.
Then in a few minutes I began to realize that we might have an
adventure, because when I called, and Sir Lionel hurried on in quest of
me, he'd forgotten to notice the landmarks. It did seem ridiculous to
have trouble in finding the way, so short a distance from the hotel; but
you can't conceive how misleading it is in the New Forest. It's like a
part of the enchantment; and if we had been in the maze of the Minotaur,
without Ariadne's clue, we couldn't have been more bewildered than we
soon found ourselves, tangled in the veil of twilight.
"I wonder if birds will cover us with leaves?" I said, laughing, when we
had made up our minds that we were lost. But it seemed more likely that,
if any creature paid us this thoughtful attention, it would be bats. As
night fell in the Forest, they unhooked themselves from their mysterious
trapezes, and whirred past our faces with a soft flap, flap of velvet
wings. I don't know what I should have done if one had made a
halfway-house of my hair!
"Are you hungry?" Sir Lionel wanted to know.
I said that I was, but wouldn't harrow him up by explaining that I was
ravenous.
He didn't appear even to _want_ to scold, though it would have been easy
to hint politely that it would be my own fault if we didn't get any
dinner that night--or, perhaps, breakfast next morning. Instead of being
cross with me, he blamed himself for being stupid enough to lose me. I
exonerated him, and we were extremely nice to each other; but as we
walked on and on, round and round, seeing no lights anywhere, or hearing
anything except that wonderful sound of a great silence, I began to grow
tired. I didn't mean, though, that he should see it. _I_ had enough to
be ashamed of, without that, but he knew by instinct, and took my hand
to draw it through his arm, telling me to lean as heavily as I liked. I
held back at first, saying it wasn't necessary; and insisting, as I
pulled away, his hand closed down on mine tightly. It was only for a
second or two, because I gave up at once, and let him lay my hand on his
arm as he wished. But, do you know, mother, I think I ought to tell you
it felt quite differently from any other hand that ever touched mine.
Of course I haven't even shaken hands with many men since I've been
grown up, though if you'd let me be a singer I shouldn't have thought
any more about it than if I were President of the United States. One
reads in novels of "the electricity in a touch," and all that; but
there it generally means that you're falling in love. And I can't
possibly be falling in love with Ellaline's Dragon, can I? I don't
suppose that can be. It would be too stupid, and forward, and altogether
unspeakable. But really, I do feel differently about him from any way I
ever felt before toward anybody. I have always said that I'd rather be
alone with myself than with anyone else except you, for any length of
time, because I'm such good chums with myself, and enjoy thinking my own
thoughts. But I _do_ like being with Sir Lionel. I feel excited and
eager at the thought of being with him. And his fingers on mine--and my
hand on his arm--and the touch of his sleeve--and a faint little, almost
imperceptible scent of Egyptian cigarettes mixing with the woodsy smell
of the night--oh, I don't know how to describe it to myself. So now you
know as much as I do. But wouldn't it be dreadful if I should go and
fall in love with Sir Lionel Pendragon of all other men in the world? In
a few more weeks I shall be slipping out of his life forever; and not
only that, but I shall be leaving a very evil memory behind. He will
despise me. I shall have proved myself exactly the sort of person he
abominates.
I didn't think all that, however, as he put my hand on his arm. I just
felt the thrill of it; but instead of worrying, I was happy, and didn't
care how tired and hungry I was, or whether we ever got anywhere or not.
As for him, he was too polite to let me know he was bored, and all the
time we were looking for the hotel the night was so beautiful, so
wonderful, that we couldn't help talking of exquisite things, telling
each other thoughts neither of us would have spoken aloud in daylight.
It was quite dark now, except for a kind of rosy quivering of light
along the horizon, and the stars that had come out like a bright army of
fairies, with millions of scintillating spears.
I knew then, dearest, that he was no dragon, no matter what
circumstantial evidence may have been handed down to Ellaline as a
legacy from her dead mother. That is something to have divined by the
magic of the forest, isn't it, after I've been puzzling so long? There
is now not the least doubt in my mind. So if I should be silly and
sentimental enough to fancy myself in love, it can't do any harm, except
to make me a little sorry and sad after I've come home to you. It won't
be anything to be _ashamed_ of, to have cared about a man like Sir
Lionel; because I assure you I shan't behave foolishly, no matter how I
may eventually feel. You can trust your Audrie for that.
It was too dark to tell the time by a watch, but we remarked to each
other that they must have finished dinner long ago; and Sir Lionel hoped
this wouldn't spoil the memory of my birthday for me.
"Oh, no," said I, before I thought, "it will make it better. I shall
never, never forget this."
"Nor I," said he, in a pleasant, quiet tone.
Then he went on to tell me that he had a little birthday remembrance
which all day he'd been wanting to give me. It was a ruby ring, because
the ruby was July's stone, but I needn't wear it unless I liked. He
hoped I wouldn't mind his having disobeyed me when I said I wanted
nothing, because he wished very much to give it to me. And having lived
alone, and ordered his own and other people's affairs for so long, had
accustomed him to having his own way. Would I be kind to him, and accept
his present?
I couldn't say no, under those stars and in that enchantment. So I
answered that I would take the ring--knowing all the while I must soon
hand it over to Ellaline.
"Shall I give it to you now?" he asked, "or will you wait till
to-morrow?"
I did want to see it, though it was to be only borrowed! "Now," said I.
Then he took a ring from some pocket, and tried to slip it over a finger
of the hand on his arm.
"Oh, but that's the engaged finger," I burst out.
Silly of me! I might have let him put it on, and changed it afterward.
"I beg your pardon," said he, almost as if he were startled. "That will
be a younger man's privilege some day, and then you will be taken away
from me."
"You will be glad to get rid of me, I should think," I hurried to say,
stretching out my other hand, and letting him slip the ring on the third
finger.
"Should you think so?" he echoed. "I suppose you have the right to feel
that, after the past. But don't feel it. Don't, child."
That was all, and I didn't answer. I couldn't; for what he had said was
for Ellaline, not for me. Yet it made my heart beat, his voice was so
sincere, and fuller of emotion than I'd ever heard it yet.
Just then, into our darkness a light seemed to flash. We both saw it
together. I thought it might be the hotel, but Sir Lionel said he feared
it was more probably the window of some remote cottage or charcoal-burner's
hut.
We walked toward it, and that was what it was: a charcoal-burner's hut.
Sir Lionel must have been disappointed, because he wanted to get me
home, but _I_ wasn't. I was in such a mood that I was not ready for the
adventure to come to an end.
The next bit of the adventure was exactly suited to the New Forest, and
we couldn't have experienced it anywhere else.
The hut was a tiny, wattled shed, and the light we'd seen came through
the low, open doorway. It was the light of a fire and a candle; and
there was a delicious aromatic smell of wood smoke in the air. Sir
Lionel explained, as we walked up to the place, that some of these huts
were hundreds of years old, remnants of the time when debtors and
robbers and criminals of all sorts used to hide in the forest under the
protection of the malfays. As he spoke, we almost stumbled over some
obstacle in the dark, and he said that very likely it was the hearth of
a vanished cottage. People had the right to leave the hearth if their
house were torn down, to establish "cottage rights"; and there were a
good many such, still scattered through the forest, even in the gardens
of modern houses; for no one dared take them away.
The charcoal-burner was "at home," and receiving. He was engaged in
cooking eggs and bacon for his supper, and if you could only guess how
good they smelled! Nothing smells as nice as eggs and bacon when you are
hungry, and we were ravenous.
Most things as old as that charcoal-burner are in museums; and his eyes
were so close together it seemed as if they might run into one when he
winked. Also, he was deaf, so we had to roar to him, before he could
understand what had happened. When he did understand, though, he was a
thorough trump, and said we could have his supper if we "would be
pleased to eat it." Bread and cheese would do for him. And we might have
tea, if we could take it without milk.