Courts of Idleness

by Dornford Yates

  “Well?” she said.

  It was all simple enough.

  He had not set eyes upon his sister for seven years. And she had been barely fourteen, and young for her age, when he had been sent straight from Oxford to enter the Indian house of a great English firm.

  “My uncle’s, you see. The idea was, I was to come home after two years. And I would have, too, only the head of the Indian house died a week before I was to have sailed. I had to take control – at twenty-five. There was no one else… I loved it, but it meant another five years. I nearly came home once, but there was trouble in the air, and – I didn’t.”

  He paused, meditatively regarding his cigarette. “Well?” said Fay, this time a note of interest in her voice.

  “Well, now the old chap’s retiring, and I’m home to manage the English house. His sons, my cousins, have taken on my job. They’ve been out there under me for the last three years. And I’ve come a month earlier than I was going to. They never knew at home till I was well on my way, and in Paris I got a letter saying the child was at Rih, so I cleared out to Lisbon right away and took the first boat across. We’ve no people, you know, she and I.”

  “I see,” said Fay gently.

  “When I landed I came straight to the hotel and asked for her. They said she was here all right, and, they thought, in the garden. So I’m just looking.”

  “And making shots?”

  “That’s it. Of course, I ought to have sent her a cable. She’ll have changed, naturally. When I saw her last, she had her hair down. Let’s see, fourteen and seven’s twenty-one. You must be just about her age.”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Grey-eyed, too,” he added musingly, “and the same lovely hair. Oh, I am sorry you’re not her. I’m afraid she won’t be half as beautiful. I only wish—”

  “What?” said Fay, smiling.

  “I wish I hadn’t been so particular. About not waking you, I mean.”

  “That’ll do,” said Fay. “As a matter of fact, I rather think your sister’s gone into Starra, but she’ll be back for lunch.”

  Surrey Fettering opened his mouth suddenly. Then:

  “You know her?” he said. “But how—”

  “Of course, I may be wrong,” said Fay dreamily, gazing with half-closed eyes over the dazzling sea.

  “Which means, you know you’re not,” said the other. “When a woman admits she may be wrong, it means she knows she’s right.”

  A faint smile crept into Fay Broke’s face. Also she raised her eyebrows a little. But she still looked ahead and away over the dancing sea. The man regarded her pleasedly. Then:

  “Yes,” he said, “my name is Fettering.” The smile deepened and the brows went a shade higher. “Of course, you had something to go on, and your instinct made you sure. Wonderful thing, instinct,” he added musingly. “Will you have a cigarette?”

  Instinct. Of that strange subtle sense, which only women have, we are wont to speak over-lightly. It is no mean asset, if you please, this ability to peer, perhaps unconsciously, into a man’s brain. In a war of wits the man knows what he is going to say. Often enough not so the woman. But, what is much more important, she, too, knows what the man is going to say. To tell the truth, he might as well lay his cards upon the table. Nearly always she knows what they are. If they be good ones, steady, relentless play may wear her down, may… And he need not be too sure about his victory even then. As often as not it is a defeat which she has tricked up, till he is deceived altogether. The battle is not always to the strong hand.

  In a silence that was big with laughter, Fay Broke accepted a cigarette. After lighting it for her, Fettering resumed his seat on the low slab built into the curling wall.

  “But don’t you think you ought to begin looking again?” said Fay. “For your sister, I mean.”

  Fettering shook his head.

  “She’ll be back for lunch, you said,” he reminded her. “Besides, my next mistake mightn’t be such a happy one, Grey Eyes. And now,” he added, “tell me about England. Is it the same dear place?”

  “Yes,” said Fay reflectively. “On the whole, it is. Only there are heaps of cars now everywhere, and strikes have come in, and cocktails. I suppose London’s changed in a way, but it’s really rather difficult to remember what it was like seven years ago. It still rains a lot, you know.”

  “I shan’t mind that,” said Fettering. “What about the country? Is that all right? Not spoiled, I mean.”

  “The real country’s as priceless as ever. Of course, they’re building a bit, making villages into towns, and giving towns suburbs, but, when you get right into the country, it’s all right. Streams and woodland and deep meadows, and—”

  “And the old, old elms, with their green jackets about their trunks. I know. It’ll be very good to see it all again.”

  “It’s just as well you didn’t go straight home,” said Fay. “England was hardly looking her best when we left her, about a week ago.”

  “Unlike yourself, Grey Eyes. At least, I take it you are. I think you must be.”

  “I don’t think any girl can look her best lying in a chair with—”

  “It’s largely a matter of limbs,” asserted Surrey Fettering. “A long chair, like yours, shows them off – all four of them. And if they’re perfect, my lady looks her best in a long chair with her small white feet up. Very well, then.”

  Fay regarded him with a faint smile, something of scorn in it, then:

  “And he’s known me about twenty minutes,” she said slowly. Mention of time made her glance at her wrist-watch. Before he could reply, “A quarter to one,” she announced, sitting upright. “I must go up. I’ll introduce you to your sister, if you like,” she added. “I suppose she’ll believe you.”

  Fettering smiled.

  “When I say I’m her brother? I think so. If the worst came to the worst, I could remind her of a certain summer Sunday morning about eight years ago, when she cantered straight into the Rectory crowd, who were coming home from church across our meadows. When I say that she was riding Blue Boy bareback at the time… I shall never forget the scene. The Rector said it was an outrage, Phyllis said it was pure bad luck, and everyone else said it was just like her – except the second gardener, that is.”

  “What did he say?” said Fay, laughing.

  “Oh, he said that Mrs Rector’s expression would have soured a bucket of cream at fifty yards. Several people thought her face would never go back.”

  Fay got up, took two steps forward, uttered a cry of pain, and sat down suddenly on the stone seat.

  “What on earth–” began Fettering.

  “Sorry,” said Fay, whipping off a small buckskin slipper, “but there’s a nail, or something, hurting like anything. Funny, I never felt it before.” She slipped her fingers into the toe of the shoe. “I’ve got it,” she added. “I say, it is sharp! I don’t wonder—”

  “Let me feel,” said Fettering.

  In silence Fay handed him the slipper – Betty’s, as a matter of fact. Finding her own uncleaned, she had sent for Falcon and borrowed a pair of her cousin’s to wear till luncheon.

  For a moment he felt gropingly, probing the pointed toe with a finger curiously. The next instant he withdrew it with a sharp exclamation of pain. Fay, who had been waiting for this, broke into a peal of merriment.

  “Nail!” said Surrey, regarding his second digit in some dudgeon. “Nail? Barbed wire’s more like it! And don’t hurt yourself, Grey Eyes. Keep some laughter for the blood; it’s just coming.”

  “I can’t help it,” sobbed Fay. “Your face when you—”

  “I know – must have been a scream. But – By Jove!” he added suddenly, turning the shoe upside down. “Look at it. No wonder you couldn’t walk! I fancy a fakir’d think twice before he settled down to four miles an hour on that.”

  “O-oh,” said Fay weakly.

  Firmly embedded in the sole of the slipper was a brass-headed drawing-pin.

  “Bu
t why did I only just feel it?” said Fay, big-eyed.

  “Probably because you’ve only just collected it,” said her companion. “I expect some fool’s been drawing here and dropped it, and you stepped on it as you got out of the chair. Is the foot bleeding, Grey Eyes?”

  “I don’t expect so.”

  Fettering raised his eyebrows. Then:

  “No?” he said.

  With that, he stepped in front of her, stooped down, and put a hand for the white-stockinged foot. The next moment a warm heel was resting in his palm.

  Exactly how it had got there Fay was never quite sure.

  “It is bleeding a little,” said Fettering. “I was afraid it must be.”

  “Is it?” said Fay carelessly.

  By way of answer, the other drew a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it gently against her toes. When he took it away, there was a faint red stain on the cambric.

  “You see?” he said, holding it up.

  “How awful!” said Fay. “D’you think I shall swoon?”

  Surrey set down the small foot tenderly before replying.

  “I hope not,” he said, smiling. “It’s not half as easy to carry a dead weight.”

  “If you think I’m going to let you carry me up,” said Fay, “you’re wrong.”

  Surrey Fettering stood upright and looked at her.

  “Well, you can’t walk up barefoot,” he said. “The most zealous penitent would shy at these paths. Besides, with that wound in your foot—”

  “It is an ugly gash, isn’t it?” said Fay cheerfully. “Think they’ll be able to stitch it up all right? I admit the situation’s pretty desperate,” she went on thoughtfully. “But, as a last resort, don’t you think we might take the pin out of the shoe?”

  “How stupid of me!” said Fettering, sitting down and picking up the slipper. “I apologize. Will you shake it out, or shall I?”

  “Idiot!” said Fay, laughing in spite of herself. “Haven’t you got a knife, or anything?”

  Fettering shook his head.

  “Not in these trousers.”

  They wasted another five minutes endeavouring to press the drawing-pin out with a coin, but all their efforts to dislodge it proved unavailing.

  When he had pricked himself for the third time Surrey Fettering raised his eyes to heaven, swore and rose to his feet.

  “What are you going to do?” wailed Fay, weak with laughter.

  “Take it to the nearest forge,” he said bitterly. “This is a blacksmith’s job. I don’t suppose they’ve got any anvils at the hotel.”

  “Not in every room, anyway,” rejoined Fay, pulling herself together. “But if you ask at the office, they’ll probably give you a pair of scissors.”

  Surrey stood reflectively drumming with his fingertips upon the slipper’s sole.

  “And all this comes of having small pink feet the size of a baby’s,” he said dreamily. “If I’d been able to get more than one finger at a time into the toe, I could have got it out.” He paused to lick the blood off his forefinger. “Grey Eyes, I have bled for you. How will you ever repay me?”

  “If you’re very quick,” said Fay darkly, “I will hold my tongue.”

  While the girls in the office were searching for a pair of scissors, Fettering seized the opportunity of changing a five-pound note at the bureau on the other side of the entrance to the hotel. Just when he was in the throes of his first struggle to reduce pounds to reis, and trying literally to think in thousands, Bill Fairie and Betty entered the ball. Even if they had not stopped to inquire for letters, they could hardly have missed the shoe, which was reposing in solitary state on the mahogany before the office window. Betty looked at it curiously, remarking that it was of the same shape as her own. Then she looked at it closely, exclaimed, and picked it up.

  “What are you doing?” said Bill. “Put it down, Bet – it’s not your shoe!”

  “But it is,” said Betty, staring round the hall. “I know it by this scrape on the leather. Besides, no one else—”

  “Where?” said her husband, taking it out of her hand, “Are you sure?” he added, examining the graze.

  “Positive. But who on earth—”

  “Ask them here, in the office,” replied her husband. “Perhaps Falcon—”

  “Excuse me,” said a quiet voice behind them, “but that’s – er – my shoe.”

  They swung round to find Surrey Fettering standing with outstretched hand.

  Instinctively, Fairie made as though he would hand it over. Then he hesitated.

  “I’m sure you’ll forgive me,” he said courteously. “But – er – are you quite sure? I mean—”

  “Perfectly,” replied Fettering. “I’ve only just laid it down.”

  “But it’s mine!” cried Betty.

  “Yours?” said Fettering. “But that’s impossible. I’ve only just—”

  “I’m sure you have, if you say so,” said Fairie. “But that doesn’t make it yours. And my wife has identified it as her own. If you would say how you came by it,” he added civilly, “I’m sure the misunderstanding—”

  “I can only ask you to hand it to me at once,” said Fettering stiffly. “I have to return it to a lady.”

  “But it isn’t hers,” said Betty indignantly, turning to her husband. “I tell you it’s mine.”

  “I must insist on your giving it to me at once,” said Fettering firmly. “The lady to whom it belongs—”

  “Why, Surrey!” said a gentle voice at his elbow.

  Fettering started and swung round.

  “Phyllis!”

  Brother and sister embraced there and then in the sunlit hall. Robin Broke and the Fairies looked on open-mouthed. At length:

  “Support me, somebody,” said Fairie. “Support me at once. My breath is bated.”

  “Be quiet,” said Betty. “This—”

  “Be quiet? Beware, you mean. This is a ruse. While the two are embracing, a third steals the shoe. I’ve read about it in Chunks.”

  “Er – this is my brother, Mr Fairie,” said Miss Fettering, flushing furiously. “I haven’t seen him for seven years, and—”

  “What did I say?” said Bill excitedly. “He’s only just out. Clearly a hardened criminal. Very glad to meet you,” he added, shaking Fettering’s hand. “And now, if we promise not to prosecute, you must tell us how in the world you got hold of my wife’s shoe.”

  “Well, to begin with, a girl gave it me,” said Surrey, laughing. “In the garden.”

  “But this is a shoe,” said Fairie, holding up the slipper. “Not an apple.”

  Fay, mounting the cobbled paths delicately, limped round a corner to see The White Hope standing regarding critically the great pink blooms of a magnificent tassel tree. At the sight of her the look of appraisement faded from his face into a vast smile of greeting, which was in turn succeeded by a whimsical expression of surprise, as he observed her shoeless foot.

  “Another harsh dictate of Fashion?” he exclaimed. “Not content with the restriction of the kilt, does she demand—”

  Fay interrupted him to explain. At length:

  “So you see,” she concluded, “when he does come back, I shall be gone. It’s his own fault for being so long.”

  The eminent lawyer smiled.

  “Clearly an affair,” he said. “Three centuries ago it would have been a glove. Today it is a slipper. Your gallant has doubtless fastened it in his hat, and is probably at this moment engaged in murdering such well-intentioned pages and other members of the staff as have innocently presumed to draw his attention to the peculiarity of his headgear. When he has dispatched them, he will rejoin you.”

  “Well, he’ll be too late, anyway,” said Fay, laughing. “And now—”

  She stopped suddenly, and a light of excitement sprang into her grey eyes.

  “What mischief–” began the KC intelligently. Fay laid her hand on his arm and gurgled with delight.

  “Oh, do,” she said rapturously. “Do. It
would he priceless. Just go and take my place where I was sitting. There’s a chair by a seat in the wall, right on the edge of the cliff. And when he comes, he’ll find you, and you can have him on beautifully.”

  She laughed softly in anticipation.

  The lawyer’s eyes twinkled.

  “Show me the way,” he said.

  So she showed him the way, and then, smiling in anticipation of her swain’s discomfiture, proceeded haltingly, by a circuitous route, through the fair garden up to the hotel.

  Later that afternoon, amongst other sets, the Brokes took on the Fetterings, and were handsomely beaten. By the side of the court, shock-absorbing cushions received the weight of the KC gracefully. Through the drifting smoke of his cigar the lawyer followed the ebb and flow of the play with lazy eyes. In the course of one of the games, Fay Broke and Surrey Fettering met for a moment, each in quest of a ball, on opposite sides of the net.

  “I shall never forgive you, Grey Eyes,” said Surrey.

  “You shouldn’t have been so long,” retorted Fay, with a dainty lift of her eyebrows. “And, as you feel like that, it’s a very good thing I didn’t happen to be your sister, isn’t it?”

  Steadily Surrey regarded her. Then:

  “I’m beginning to think it is, Grey Eyes,” he said slowly.

  “Come on, you two,” called Robin, waiting to serve. “Love Thirty, isn’t it?”

  “I wonder,” said The White Hope to himself, watching Fay’s face curiously, as she backed towards her place in the court. “I wonder.” Then he thought of her age, glanced at Fettering, and smiled. “But it’s pretty evident that it’s Love Twenty-three.”

  5: For Better or for Worse

  Bill Fairie leaned wearily against the doorway of the bathroom belonging to the suite.

  “Any woman,” he said, “who occupies the bath for more than thirty-five minutes, in her husband’s teeth, is a desolation.”

  His wife, who had been invisible, made a sudden effort to sit upright. Eighteen inches of water reduced the endeavour to absurdity.

  “I haven’t been here a quarter of an hour yet,” said Betty indignantly. “Have you shaved?”