And Berry Came Too

by Dornford Yates

  “Well, what if they would?” said Jill. “Baboons don’t count. They’re simply idiotic.”

  “Worse,” said Berry, mournfully. “Baboons – particularly the B-B B’s – are actively imbecile. Not only is their outlook, if any, beneath contempt, but their utter inability to concentrate is aggravated by a distracting irrelevance which is sometimes, I grieve to say, characterized by vulgarity.” He sighed again. “That, of course, is inexcusable.”

  “Then why,” began Jill…

  “Don’t,” said Daphne. “You’ll only play into his hands. I admit I can’t see the catch, but I know it’s there.”

  “There’s no deception,” said Berry. “I can’t put it more plainly than I have.”

  A pregnant silence succeeded these highly equivocal words. We looked from one to the other, each of us seeking guidance and finding none. The deadly insult had not been levelled at us. Of course, if we chose to appropriate it… As though awaiting our decision, the author of our vexation gazed at the chandelier with the artless, dreaming air of a little child. To corroborate this conceit, he began to illustrate the alphabet.

  “A is for Argument – battle of wits,

  B for Baboon who is blue where he sits,

  C is for Character, noble and wise,

  D for Deception which far from us flies…”

  His delivery was so faithful to the traditions of childhood that I surveyed my surroundings – rather than catch Jill’s eye.

  The dining-room was pleasantly cool and quick with the lively splendour of indirect sun. This swelled in through the windows after the manner of music, organ-made. Without, the world was blazing: the turf was brilliant: flowers glowed like jewels in their beds: the very foliage glanced, and already the haze of heat was masking the face of Distance with a shimmer that teased the sight.

  I found myself hoping very hard that weather like this would smile upon Perdita Boyte. The latter was due at White Ladies in four days’ time.

  My sister returned to the charge.

  “Why,” she demanded, “why shouldn’t we go to the sale?”

  “Because we’ve no money to spend, but already more furniture than we can conveniently house.”

  “But I don’t want to buy anything.”

  “I know,” said Berry. “I know. This is where the baboons come in. You don’t want to buy anything: yet you want to rush fifty miles across country to go to a sale. Now if those two facts were communicated to our parti-coloured friends, what gesture do you think they would make?”

  There was another silence.

  Only the night before I had happened to read in The Times that the contents of Hammercloth Hall were being sold. The announcement was common enough: had we not stayed at the house, it might not have caught my eye: as it was, we were more than interested. We knew ‘the contents,’ and when we saw them described as ‘one of the finest private collections of Jacobean furniture,’ we knew that the description was just.

  Grey-eyed Jill pushed back her chair.

  “Of course we must go,” she said. “If that table’s not too expensive…”

  “Ah,” said Berry, quietly – and left it there.

  The lovely refectory table had stood in our hearts for three years. Massive, yet elegant; perfectly proportioned and preserved; laid with a gorgeous patina which Time had taken three hundred years to spread, it was one of the most glorious survivals that we had ever known. More. The moment you saw it, it called up the spirit of its age: the men that had made it and used it rose up about its oak: it was as though something of their natures had entered into the wood. Imagination, if you will: but the table inspired imagination, presenting, to eyes that could see, the manners of vanished days. But that was not all. It might have been made for White Ladies, our Hampshire home. Panelling, sideboard and chairs – we had the rest: but for us there was only one table, and that was at Hammercloth Hall, some fifty miles off. For all that, we had never dared hope that the object of our desire would ever be sold. Its owner, Geoffrey Majoribanks, was very rich and clearly enjoyed the collection which he and his father had made. But now, for some reason or other, his heart was changed.

  In a way, our chance was at hand…

  My sister threw down the mask.

  “It may go for nothing,” she said.

  Her husband wrinkled his brow.

  “It may,” he said. “I don’t quite see why it should, but you never know. At the critical moment those present might lose the power of speech. And movement. But unless they do, it should make six hundred pounds. Or more.”

  “At least, we can go and—”

  “No, we can’t,” said Berry. “I’ll tell you why. Once we set eyes on that table, the awful lust for possession will take command. We shall simply have to have it…at any price. The result will be what an auctioneer calls ‘a fight,’ and whether we win or lose, we shall purchase the brand of trouble which comes to stay. If we win, we shall beggar ourselves: if we lose, we shall be for ever tormented by the thought that we might have won, if only we’d kept our nerve and sprung another ten pounds.”

  Jonathan Mansel looked up.

  “May be all over,” he said. “The sale began yesterday.”

  I shook my head.

  “Yesterday, household stuff: furniture, today and tomorrow: silver on Thursday.”

  Here a pressure upon my left thigh remembered the Knave, and I turned to regard the Alsatian we all adored. For a moment his brown eyes held mine, then he lifted his lovely head to stare at the toast. All the time, his great tail was swaying…

  Such address was that of a courtly, forgotten age.

  “Sir, It will give me great pleasure if you can see your way to oblige, Your most obedient servant.”

  As I stretched out my hand to the rack, I touched my breakfast-cup with the cuff of my coat…

  Upon such incidents do the fates of nations depend. Together, Jill and I proceeded to deal with the mess in the time-honoured way – by lifting the edge of the cloth and thrusting a plate between the stain and the wood. This simple operation exposed the table itself – the nice-looking board which had served us for twenty years.

  My cousin ran her slim fingers along the edge of the oak. Then she looked up.

  “What should we do with this one? We couldn’t possibly sell it. It’s part of our home.”

  “I agree,” said Daphne. “The old fellow’s done us too well. He’d go very well in the hall where the coffer is now.”

  “That’s right,” said I. “And the coffer at the head of the stairs.”

  “With the Kneller above it,” said Jonah. “Then we can put the tallboy where the Kneller is now and hang the Morland where it always ought to have hung.”

  “That’s an idea,” cried Daphne…

  So we entered the broad, smooth road that was leading to Hammercloth Hall and the sale-by-auction of a table which we could not afford to buy. Our descent of this pleasant way was easy enough. We perceived a whole chain of improvements which our purchase of the piece would begin: reviewing these charming effects, we saw that upon its acquisition was depending the condition of our home: we began to style it ‘a godsend’: an eager anticipation subdued the qualms of conscience in unfair fight; and we hugged our guilty intention with the ardour which only mischief can ever inspire.

  I am bound to say, in his favour, that Berry hung back, but at length he threw in his hand and joined in the rout.

  “But for God’s sake,” he said, “don’t let’s make fools of ourselves.”

  “We’re doing that by going,” said Jonah.

  “I know,” said Berry. “I know. The baboons wouldn’t go. Not even the B-B B’s. But it’s too late now. We’ve visualized possession: we’ve eaten the apples of desire. But don’t let’s magnify our folly. If the dealers go after that table, we’ve got to withdraw.”

  “Let’s be clear about this,” said Daphne. “How far d’you think we can go?”

  “My conscience,” replied her husband, “suggests ab
out twelve and six. But I’m not going to listen to that. If Jonah and Boy will come in, I’ll let my tailor wait and scratch up a hundred pounds.”

  “Three hundred, then?” said Jonah.

  After a painful calculation, I nodded assent.

  “Of course that’s hopeless,” said Daphne. “Three hundred pounds!”

  “Well, sell your sables,” said Berry, “and call it three hundred and ten.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said his wife. “You said yourself it would fetch six hundred or more.”

  “So it will,” said Berry.

  “Then, what’s the good of our going?”

  “No good at all,” said Berry. “It’s about the most futile thing that we’ve ever done. I tell you, the baboons wouldn’t go. They may be feeble-minded, but they wouldn’t drive fifty miles to pick up a stomach-ache.”

  A master of the art of provocation, my brother-in-law’s delight is to sow the wind. As the whirlwind subsided—

  “The point is this,” said Jonah. “The saleroom is full of surprises. Sales are not governed by the law of supply and demand. The bids are ruled by private calculations which no one on earth can divine. That table might go for two hundred – just because, for private reasons, nobody present considered it worth his while to pay any more.” He glanced at his watch. “If I am to drive, I must have an hour and a half. And the sale begins at midday. If we start in a quarter of an hour, we ought to get there on time.”

  As we fled from table—

  “But what about lunch?” screamed Berry. “I’m not going to…

  Ten minutes later we pushed him into the Rolls.

  The way to Hammercloth ran through the lively pageant which only an English June can ever present. It had rained the night before, and now the grateful sunshine was clothing a world refreshed in a magic of green and silver that filled the eye. The pale-blue sky was cloudless, the cool, still air was charged with the lovely odour of English earth, and the brown roads were printed with shadows of the lovely creations which another summer had designed for the wayside trees.

  As we ran through the village of Broomstick, the church clock told us the hour – eleven o’clock. With twenty miles behind us, we had a bare thirty to go.

  I was sitting with Jonah, and Berry was seated behind, between Daphne and Jill. At their feet the Knave lay couched, as a good dog should.

  My sister addressed her husband.

  “Have you got your chequebook?” she said.

  “A good moment to ask,” said Berry. “We’re very near half-way there. If you’d asked me as we were leaving—”

  “Well, I’ve only just thought of it.”

  “That’s my point,” said Berry. “Now If I had forgotten the thing, I should be abused and reviled till I couldn’t think straight. Yet you yourself have let twenty-one miles go by before—”

  “Have you got it?” demanded Daphne.

  “I decline to answer,” said Berry, “until you admit your fault. What about the tickets last week? Nobody gave them a thought till we got to the theatre steps – but I had to stand the racket. Talk about execration… I might have been Titus Oates.”

  “Oh, be a sport,” purred Daphne. “Just for my peace of mind.”

  “Confess your fault,” said her husband.

  “All right. I confess. I ought to have asked you before.”

  “Then we’re both to blame,” said Berry, “because I’ve left it behind.”

  The explosion of dismay which greeted this shocking announcement may be better imagined than set down. Daphne and Jill recoiled from the delinquent – two lovely Furies, bristling with horror and wrath: voicing his indignation, my cousin set a foot on the brake: I flung round in my seat, fiercely demanding confirmation of a fact which I could not accept; and the Knave, from whom nothing was hid, leaped from his place to plant his forepaws upon Berry and bark like a fiend possessed.

  As the storm died down—

  “If we go back,” said Jonah, “we shall not get to the sale before a quarter to one. That may not matter at all. The table may not come up till this afternoon. But of course it may come up at a quarter past twelve.”

  “We’d better go on,” said I. “They’ll probably waive the deposit if we can give them a card.”

  “Have you got a card?” said Daphne.

  “No,” said Berry, “I haven’t. I’ve three pounds ten in notes and a snapshot of you at Biarritz in ’94. Perhaps if we showed them that—”

  “Who’s got a card?” – violently.

  There was a painful silence – nobody had a card.

  “I did get it out,” murmured Berry. “It’s on the library table, south of the blotting pad. I can see it now.” He turned to his wife. “I can’t think how we forgot it,” he added reproachfully.

  Before Daphne could find her tongue—

  “Who’s doing the sale?” said Jonah. “If it’s a firm that knows us—”

  “That’s an idea,” said Berry. “What luck if it’s Bamptons. We owe them two hundred pounds.”

  As luck would have it, I had the day’s Times by my side. With no time to read it at home, I had brought it along.

  Together my cousin and I examined its sheets…

  For a while the announcement escaped us, and the others, including the Knave, stood up in the car and added their eyes to the quest.

  Then Jill’s pink finger stabbed at the foot of a page.

  “Hammercloth – there it is, Boy.”

  As I followed her indication, a cry of anguish from Berry rang in my ear.

  “Who said it began at midday?”

  With his words I found the legend: Today, Tuesday, June 16th, precisely at half past ten…

  There was a ghastly silence. Then—

  “Deposit be damned,” said Jonah, and let in the clutch.

  It was five and twenty to twelve when we sighted the chimneys of Hammercloth, rosy against the blue. Two minutes later we swept past the waiting cars and up to the front of the house.

  Doors and windows were open; the broad, white steps bore the print of many feet; but nobody was to be seen. The only sign of life was the clear-cut voice of a man – floating out of a latticed casement, perhaps ten paces away.

  “Two hundred and forty-five pounds. Two hundred and forty-five pounds. Any advance on two hundred and forty-five pounds? A poor bid, gentlemen, for such a magnificent lot. Worth treble that, and you know it. Two hundred and forty-five pounds…”

  For an instant we sat paralysed. Then we all made to leave the Rolls, as though the car was afire.

  I was the first to alight.

  As I tore to the open window, I heard the relentless voice.

  “For the last time any advance on two hundred and forty-five pounds?”

  I thrust my head into the room.

  “Fifty,” I cried.

  The hammer which had been lifted sank to the desk: some seventy heads came round and I found myself the cynosure of every eye in the room.

  The auctioneer smiled and nodded.

  “Two hundred and fifty, thank you. Two hundred and fifty pounds. Any advance on…”

  There was no advance.

  As I entered the hall, Jonah met me to say that I had become the owner of six Jacobean chairs.

  When I explained that I had neither chequebook nor card, the auctioneer’s clerk declared that that did not matter at all.

  “You can pay on delivery, sir. We’ll send them over to you whenever you like.”

  The table had not been sold. It seemed clear that it would not be reached before half past two.

  The village of Hammercloth had but one decent inn, and since this was sure to be crowded with dealers attending the sale, we drove to the neighbouring hamlet of Shepherd’s Pipe. Here the staff of The Woolpack received us with open arms, for Shepherd’s Pipe is retired, and strangers, except upon Sundays, are seldom seen: the garden was put at our disposal, a coach-house at that of the Rolls, and, before we had time to ask, our amiable host had propo
sed that our lunch should be served on the lawn in the shade of an oak. We assented gratefully…

  Berry removed his coat, hung this on the back of a chair, commanded a quart of ale and laid himself down on the grass.

  “You may have observed,” he said, addressing his wife, “that since your dear brother’s coup, I have not opened my mouth. Now, however, I feel disposed to inquire why we are lunching here, instead of at home.”

  “You can’t blame Boy,” said Jill, who was sitting down with the Knave. “Supposing it had been the table.”

  “I decline to suppose,” said Berry. “The facts are pregnant enough. Against my will I’ve been rushed some fifty odd miles in the heat of the day for the privilege of hearing an entirely unauthorized person spend eighty-three pounds six shillings and eightpence of my money on the purchase of some worm-eaten chairs. I may be peculiar, but a little of that sort of excitement lasts me a very long time. I feel that I want to go home – and get under the spare-room bed. I mean, I’m mentally sick. Anyone would be.”

  “I acted for the best,” said I. “I know I took a chance in a million, but no one’s more sorry than I that it didn’t come off.”

  “Don’t think I blame you,” said Berry. “I blame myself. If I like to go about with a maniac, I must expect to be involved in transactions like this. But that doesn’t mean I enjoy them.” He sat up and looked about him. “I suppose it is real, isn’t it? It isn’t a hideous dream? Or haven’t we been to Hammercloth?”

  “In and out,” said Jonah. “We got out of the car for two minutes and then got back.”

  My brother-in-law shuddered.

  “We must try,” he said hoarsely, “and keep it from the baboons. I mean, they’d laugh themselves sick. We risk our lives for that table by doing a mile a minute for half an hour upon highly dangerous roads: we arrive with three hours to spare, but before we’ve been there ten seconds, we sink five-sixths of our money on something we do not want and have never seen. I mean, can you beat it?”

  “I shall always maintain,” said Daphne, “that Boy did right. If it had been the table and he hadn’t bid as he did, we’d have lost it for good and all.”