Brother of Daphne

by Dornford Yates

  There was no sound at all. It was the dead of night indeed. I glanced over the balustrade at the car. Her headlights burned steadily, making the moonlit road ahead more bright.

  “I can hear nothing,” I said, coming back into the boudoir.

  “Look,” said Silvia, pointing over my shoulder.

  As I turned, something struck me on the cheek. I stooped and picked it up. A piece of flexible cord about five inches long. I swung round and looked at the girl. On the table a pair of scissors lay by her side.

  “Why have you done this?” I demanded.

  She raised her eyebrows by way of answer and reached for a cigarette. As she lighted it, I saw that her hand was trembling.

  “Silvia, dear, surely you don’t think—”

  “Must you go?”

  “It was a poor joke of mine, I know; but—”

  “It was. I don’t think a count or a baron would have said such a rotten thing.”

  Her eyes flashed and she was trembling all over. From being pretty, she had become beautiful.

  “Perhaps not,” said I steadily. “But if they had, they would have meant it, Silvia.”

  “As you did.”

  I coiled the flexible cord about a finger, loosed it and thrust it into my pocket.

  “I’ll go now,” I said, “as I came.”

  “Like a thief.”

  “Like a thief. You have been wonderfully kind, and I – I have spoiled everything. Let’s try and forget this evening. For you, a car passed in the night, the hum of its engine swelling up, only to fade again into the silence. For me, I lingered to listen to the words of a song, and when it was done, sped on into the shadows. I wish you hadn’t cut that bell, lass.”

  “Why?”

  I walked out on to the balcony and swung myself over the coping.

  “Because then I should have asked if I might kiss you.”

  When I had lowered myself on to the seat of the car, I unbuckled the strap and started to pull it down. But the buckle caught on the baluster, and I had to stand on my old perch to reach and loosen it. I did so, balancing myself with one hand on the balcony’s door. As the strap slipped free, there was a burning pain in my fingers. With a cry I tore them away, lost my balance, and fell sideways into the car on to the back of the front seat. I stood up unsteadily. It hurt me to breathe rather, and there was a stabbing pain in my right side.

  “Are you hurt?” said a quick voice above me.

  Dazedly I raised my head. Silvia was leaning over the balcony, one hand to her white throat. I could hear her quick-coming breath.

  “No,” I said slowly, “I’m not. But until you tell me that you know I did not mean what I said, I will not believe that you did not mean to stand upon my fingers.”

  “Are you hurt, lad?”

  “No. Did you hear what I said?”

  Silvia stood up, her hands before her on the coping.

  “You know I didn’t.”

  Without a word I stepped carefully out of the car. The pain was intense. It was as if my side was being seared with a hot iron. How I started the car I shall never know. The effort brought me to my knees. Somehow I crept into my seat, took out the clutch and put in the first speed. I was moving. Mechanically I changed into second, third, and top. We were going now, but the trees by the wayside seemed to be closing in on me. The road was really ridiculously narrow. I could see a corner coming. The pain was awful. My head began to swim, and I felt the near wheel rise on the bank. I wrenched the car round, took out the clutch and dragged the lever into neutral. As I jammed on the handbrake, I seemed to see many lights. Then came the noise of a horn, cries, and the sound of tyres tearing at the road. I fell forward and fainted.

  I could smell Daphne. Somewhere at hand was my sister’s faint perfume: I opened my eyes.

  “Hullo, Boy!” said Jill, her small, cool hand on my forehead.

  “Better, darling?” said Daphne, brushing my cheek with soft lips.

  “I’m all right,” I said, raising myself on my left elbow. Still the stabbing pain in my right side. “Where are we?”

  “In the hall at St Martin, dear. How did it all happen?”

  “How did I get here?” I asked. “And you – I don’t understand.”

  “We nearly ran you down, old chap.” Berry’s voice. “About a quarter of a mile from here, towards Fladstadt. But why were you driving away?”

  I stared at him.

  “Driving away?” I said slowly. “Then—”

  There were quick steps and the rustling of a dress. Then Silvia spoke.

  “What is it, Bill? Tell me. Who’s hurt?”

  “It’s all right, m’dear,” said the man’s voice. “Mrs Pleydell’s brother’s met with an accident. We found him in the road. Don’t make a noise. This is my sister, Mrs Pleydell.”

  “How d’you do?” said Daphne. “My brother seems—”

  “I’m all right,” I said suddenly. “I’d lost my way, see? And one of the tyres went, just as I was passing a big white house on the left. I stopped under a balcony, I think.”

  “That’s right,” said Bill Bairling. “Balcony of Silvia’s room.”

  “I never knew it was St Martin, though. I must have cut across country somehow. Still. Well, there was no jack on the car so I couldn’t do anything. Just as I was getting in again, I heard a noise above me and turned. My foot slipped on the step, and I fell on my side. Couple of ribs gone, I think. I tried to get on to Fladstadt. Is the car all right?”

  “And you said you weren’t hurt,” cried Silvia, sinking on her knees by Jill.

  “Was it you who asked me?” I spoke steadily, looking her full in the eyes.

  “Yes,” said Silvia.

  “I know I did. But then, you know, I don’t always mean what I say.”

  Then the pain surged up once more, and I fainted.

  “Is she kind as she is fair?

  For beauty lives with kindness.

  Love doth to her eyes repair

  To help him of his blindness,

  And, being helped, inhabits there.”

  The singing was very gentle. Overnight the song had floated into the air, rich, full, vibrant; but now a tender note had crept into the rendering, giving the melody a rare sweetness. I listened pleasedly. My side was very sore and stiff. Also my head ached rather.

  “Priceless voice that little girl’s got,” said Berry in a low voice.

  “Isn’t she a dear, too?” said Daphne. “Fancy giving up her own bedroom, so that we could have the salon next door.”

  “I know. But I wish she wouldn’t keep on reproaching herself so. If a girl likes to step on to her own balcony, it’s not her fault if some fellow underneath falls over himself and breaks a couple of ribs. However. When’s the comic leech coming back?”

  “This afternoon,” said my sister. “But he’ll wake before then. I don’t expect he’ll remember much about last night. I’m so thankful it’s not more serious.”

  “How soon did he say he’d be up?”

  “Inside a week. It’s a clean fracture. Of course, he’ll be strapped up for some time. Fancy his going on, though.”

  “Must have been temporarily deranged,” said my brother-in-law airily. “Shock of the fall, I expect.”

  “Rubbish!” said his wife. “Just because you’d have lain there, giving directions about your funeral and saying you forgave people, you think anybody’s mad for trying to get on. Boy has courage.”

  “Only that of his convictions,” said Berry. “You forget I’ve got a clean sheet. My discharge from the Navy was marked ‘Amazing’. The only stain upon my character is my marriage. As for my escutcheon, I’ve shaved in it for years.”

  “Fool!” said his wife.

  “I shall turn my face to the wall if you’re not careful.”

  “Don’t,” said Daphne. “Remember, it’s not our house.”

  There was a tap at the door. Then:

  “May I come in?” said Silvia.

  “Of cour
se you may, dear. No. He’s still asleep.”

  “It’s nearly twelve,” said Silvia. “Won’t you go and rest a little, and let me stay here? You must be so tired. I’ll call you the moment he wakes.”

  Daphne hesitated. “It’s awfully good of you—”

  “But it isn’t. I’d love to.”

  “The truth is, she’s afraid to trust you, Miss Bairling,” said Berry. “She thinks you’re going to steal his sock-suspenders.”

  “Will you leave the room?” said my sister.

  “After you, beloved.”

  I could hear Silvia’s gentle laughter. Then:

  “I shall come back about one, dear, if you don’t send for me before,” said Daphne.

  The next moment I heard the door close, and Silvia seated herself on my left by the side of the bed.

  I opened my off eye.

  I lay in a fair, grey-papered chamber, darkened, for the green shutters were drawn close about the open windows. Some of their slides were ajar, letting the bright sunshine slant into the room.

  “There was once,” I said, “a fool.” A smothered exclamation close to my left ear. “A fool, who did everything wrong. He lost his way, his heart, his head, and, last of all, his balance. In that order. Yet he was proud. But then he was only a fool.”

  “But he was – English,” she murmured.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And there was another fool,” said Silvia. “A much bigger one, really, because, although she never lost her way or her head or her balance, she lost something much more precious. She lost her temper.”

  “But not her voice,” said I. “And the fools went together to Scotland Yard, and there they found the way and the head and the balance and the temper. But not the heart, Silvia.”

  “–s. Plural,” said Silvia, softly.

  I opened my near eye and turned my head. The first thing I saw was a rosy arm, lying on the edge of my pillow. Within reach.

  “I say,” I whispered. “Is the bell in this room all right?”

  11: The Love Scene

  When I had drawn blood for the third time, I felt that honour was satisfied, so I cleaned the safety razor carefully and put it away.

  Quarter of an hour later I entered the dining-room.

  “I said so,” said Daphne.

  “I know,” said I, frowning.

  “You don’t even know what I said.”

  “I know that some surmise of yours has proved correct, which is enough.”

  We left it there.

  The coffee really was hot. After drinking a little, my smile returned.

  “Tell him,” said Berry.

  “We’ve been thinking it over,” said Daphne, “and we’ve come to the conclusion that you’d better call.”

  “On whom? For what?”

  “Be call-boy.”

  I rose to my feet.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “I have to thank you this day – it is meant for a day, isn’t it? – for the honour you have done me. Although I can scarcely hope to sustain the role in a manner worthy of the best traditions of—”

  “We’d cast you for something else, if it was safe,” said Daphne.

  “You don’t really think I’m going to call, do you?”

  “Why not?”

  “And have to stand in the wings while you all get crowds of cabbages and things. Not much! I’ve been relying on this show ever since Berry trod on the big marrow.”

  “Well, of course, there is Buckingham,” said Berry.

  “Or the soothsayer,” said Jill.

  “You are now talking,” I said. “Soothsaying is one of my fortes– my Martello tower, in fact. Of course, Hurlingham—”

  “Buckingham, stupid!”

  “Well, Buckingham, then, has his points. Whom does he espouse?”

  “He doesn’t espouse anyone.”

  “Whom does he love, then?”

  Berry and Daphne looked uneasily at one another. I turned to Jonah, who was deep in The Sportsman.

  “Who’s Buckingham in love with, Jonah?”

  “Down and four to play. What?” said that worthy. “Oh, Buckingham? He’s hanging round the Queen mostly, I think, but he’s got two or three other irons in the fire.”

  “I will play Hurl – Buckingham,” said I.

  When Berry had finished, I reminded him that he had suggested the part, and that my mind was made up.

  After a lengthy argument, in the course of which Berry drew a stage on the tablecloth to show why it was I couldn’t act:

  “Oh, well, I suppose he’d better play it,” said Daphne; “but I scent trouble.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Let me have a copy of the play.”

  Berry rose and walked towards the door. With his fingers on the handle, he turned.

  “If you don’t know what some of the hard words mean,” he said, “I shall be in the library.”

  “Why in the library?” said Daphne.

  “I’m going to write in another scene.”

  “Another scene?”

  “Well, an epilogue, then.”

  “What’s it going to be?”

  “Buckingham’s murder,” said Berry. “I can see it all. It will be hideously realistic. All women and children will have to leave the theatre.”

  As he went out:

  “I expect the Duke will fight desperately,” said I.

  Berry put his head round the door.

  “No,” he said, “that’s the dastardly part of it. It is from behind that his brains are dashed out with a club.”

  I stretched out my hand for a roll.

  “Do you know how a log falls?” said Berry. “Because, if—”

  I could not get Daphne to see that, if Berry had not withdrawn his head, the roll would not have hit the Sargent. However.

  The good works of which Daphne is sometimes full occasionally overflow and deluge those in her immediate vicinity. Very well, then. A local institution, whose particular function has for the moment escaped me, suddenly required funds. Perhaps I should say that it was suddenly noised abroad that this was the case, for it was one of the kind that is always in this uncomfortable plight. If one day someone were to present it with a million pounds and four billiard tables, next week we should be asked to subscribe to a fund to buy it a bagatelle board. At any rate, in a burst of generosity, Daphne had undertaken that we would get up a show. When she told us of her involving promise, we were appalled.

  “A show?” gasped Jonah.

  “Yes,” said Berry. “You know, a show – display. We are to exhibit us to a horrified assembly.”

  “But, Daphne darling,” said Jill. “What have you done?”

  “It’s all right,” said my sister. “We can do a play. A little one, you know, and the Merrows will help.”

  “Of course,” said Berry. “Some telling trifle or other. Can’t we dramatize ‘The Inchcape Rock’?”

  “Excellent,” said I. “I should like to play the abbot. It would be rather suitable, too. If you remember, ‘they blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.’”

  “Why not?” said Berry. “We could have a very fervent little scene with them all blessing you.”

  “And perhaps Heath Robinson would paint the scenery.”

  And so on.

  In the end, Berry and Jonah had constructed quite a passable little drama, by dint of drawing largely on Dumas in the first place, and their own imagination in the second. There were one or two strong situations, relieved by some quite creditable light comedy, and all the ‘curtains’ were good. The village hall, complete with alleged stage, was engaged, and half the county were blackmailed into taking tickets. There were only twelve characters, of which we accounted for five, and it was arranged that we should all twelve foregather four days beforehand, to rehearse properly. The other seven artists were to stay with us at White Ladies for the rehearsals and performance, and generally till the affair had blown over.

  It was ten days before the date of the product
ion that I was cast for Buckingham. Six days to become word perfect. When three of them had gone, I explained to the others that, for all their jealousy, they would find that I should succeed in getting into the skin of the part, and that, as it was impossible to polish my study of George Villiers in the teeth of interference which refused to respect the privacy even of my own bedroom, I should go apart with Pomfret, and perfect my rendering in the shelter of the countryside.

  “Have pity upon our animal life!” cried Berry, when I made known my intention. “Consider the flora and fauna of our happy shire!”

  “Hush, brother,” said I. “You know not what you say. I shall not seek the fields. Rather—”

  “That’s something. We don’t want you hauled up for sheep-worrying just now.”

  “–shall I repair to some sequestered grove. There, when I shall commune with myself, Nature will go astray. Springtime will come again. Trees will break forth into blossom, meadows will blow anew, and the voice of the turtle—”

  “If you don’t ring off,” said Berry. “I’ll set George at you.”

  George is our gorgonzola, which brings me back to Pomfret. Pomfret is a little two-seater. I got him because I thought he’d be so useful just to run to and fro when the car was out. And he is. We made friends at Olympia, and I took to him at once. A fortnight later, Jill was driving him delightedly round and round in front of the house. After watching her for a while, Berry got in and sat down by her side.

  “Not that I want a drive,” he explained carefully; “but I want to see if my dressing-case will be able to stand it as far as the station.”

  “If you think–” I began, but the next moment Jill had turned down the drive, and I watched the three go curling out of sight.

  When they returned, half an hour later, Berry unreservedly withdrew his remark about the dressing-case, and the next day, when Daphne suggested that Pomfret should bear a small basket of grapes to the vicarage, he told her she ought to be ashamed of herself.

  From that day Pomfret was one of us.

  And now, with three days left to learn my words, and a copy of the play in my pocket, I drove forth into the countryside. When I had idly covered about twenty miles, I turned down a little lane and pulled up by the side of a still wood. I stopped the engine and listened. Not a sound. I left the road and strolled in among the trees till I came to where one lay felled, making a little space. It was a sunshiny morning in October, and summer was dying hard. For the most part, the soft colourings of autumn were absent, and, as if loyal to their old mistress, the woods yet wore the dear green livery, faded a little, perhaps, but the more grateful because it should so soon be laid aside. The pleasant place suited my purpose well, and for twenty minutes I wrestled with the powerful little scene Jonah had written between the Queen and Buckingham. By the end of that time I knew it fairly well, so I left it for a while and stealthily entered the old oak chamber – Act III, Scene 1 – by the secret door behind the arras. After bringing down the curtain with two ugly looks, four steps, and a sneer, I sat down on the fallen beech tree, lighted a cigarette, and wondered why I had rejected the post of call-boy. Then I started on the love scene again.