Brother of Daphne

by Dornford Yates

  “‘Madam, it is said that I am a harsh man. I am not harsh to every one. Better for me, perhaps, if I were; yet so God made me.’”

  “When do you open?”

  “That’s wrong,” said I. “‘Can you be gentle, then?’ comes after that. Now, however, that you have shattered the atmosphere I had created – of course, I think you’re absolutely beautiful, and, if you’ll wait a second, I’ll get Pomfret’s rug.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, but thanks all the same, and if Pomfret doesn’t mind, this tree is rather grubby.”

  I got the rug and spread it on the fallen trunk for her. She was what the Irish are popularly believed to call ‘a shlip of a ghirl,’ clad in a dark blue riding habit that fitted her slim figure beautifully. No hat covered her thick, blue-black hair, which was parted in the middle and loosely knotted behind. Here and there a wisp of it was in the act of escaping. I watched them greedily. Merry grey eyes and the softest colouring, with a small red mouth, ready to join the eyes in their laughter if its owner listed. She was wearing natty little patent leather boots, and her hunting hat and crop lay on the log by her side. She sat down and began to pull the gloves off a pair of small brown hands.

  “Do you know if cats ever drink water?” she said musingly.

  “From what I remember of last year’s statistics, there was, I believe, a marked decrease in the number of alcoholism cases reported as occurring amongst that species. I’m speaking off-hand, you know.”

  “Never mind that; it’s very good hearing.”

  “I know, and, talking of tight-ropes, Alice, have you seen the March Hare lately?”

  She threw her head back and laughed merrily. Then –

  “We are fools, you know,” she said.

  “Perhaps. Still, a little folly—”

  “Is a dangerous thing. And, now, when do you open?”

  “Tomorrow week. And, owing to the iniquitous provisions of the new Shops Act, foisted by a reckless Government upon a—”

  “You can cut that bit.”

  “Thank you. We close the same night.”

  “Positively for one performance only?”

  “Exactly. And that’s why I shall only just be able to get you a seat.”

  “You needn’t trouble.”

  “What! Don’t you want to come?”

  “Is it going to be very good?”

  “Good? My dear Alice, we shall that night light such a candle as shall never be put out. Electric light is doomed. The knell of acetylene gas has sounded.”

  “You’ve only got a few lines, I suppose?”

  I looked at her sorrowfully.

  “Whose rug is she sitting on?” I said.

  “Pomfret’s.”

  “Pomfret is but the bailee of the rug, Alice.”

  “Oh,” she cried, “he’s going to be a barrister!”

  “Talking of cats,” I said stiffly, “and speaking as counsel of five years’ standing—”

  I stopped, for she was on her feet now, facing me, and standing very close, with her hands behind her and a tilted chin, looking into my eyes.

  “Talking of what, did you say?”

  For a second I hesitated. Then:

  “Gnats,” I said.

  She turned and resumed her place on the fallen tree.

  “Now you’re going on with your rehearsal,” she announced. “I’ll hear you.”

  “Will you read the cues?”

  “Give me the book.”

  I showed her the point I had reached when she entered.

  “You are the Queen,” I said. “It’s rather confusing, because I had thought you were Alice; but it can’t be helped. Besides, you came on just before you did, really, and you’ve spoken twice before you opened your small red mouth.”

  “Is that how it describes the Queen?” This suspiciously.

  “I was really thinking of Alice, but—”

  “But what?”

  “The Queen has got a delicate, white throat. It says so.”

  “How can you tell? I’ve got a stock on.”

  “I said the Queen had. Besides, when you put your face up to mine just now—”

  “Hush! Besides, you were looking me in the eyes all the time, so—”

  “And, if I was, do you blame me?”

  “I’m not in the witness box now, counsel.”

  “No, but you’re sitting on Pomfret’s rug, and Pomfret is but the—”

  She began to laugh helplessly.

  “Come along, Alice,” I said. “‘Yet so God made me.’ Now you say, ‘Can you be gentle, then?’ and give me the glad eye.”

  “It only says ‘archly’ here, in brackets.”

  “Same thing,” said I.

  “‘Can you be gentle, then?’”

  A pause. Then:

  “Go on,” she said.

  “I’m waiting for my cue.”

  “I’ve said it – Hare.”

  “John or March?”

  “March, of course. John is an actor.”

  “Thank you, Alice, dear. I repeat, I await my cue, the which you incontinently withhold. Selah!”

  She tried not to laugh.

  “I’ve given it, you silly man.”

  “My dear, I come in on the eye. It’s most important. You must give it to me, because I’ve got to give it back to you in a second or two.”

  She gave it me exquisitely.

  “‘There are with whom I can be more than gentle, madam.’”

  Here I returned the eye with vigour.

  “‘What manner of men are these you favour?’”

  “‘They are not men, madam. Neither are they favoured of me.’”

  “‘Of whom, then?’”

  “‘Of Heaven, madam, and at birth. I mean fair women.’”

  “‘Such as–’”

  “‘Such as you, madam.’”

  The way she said ‘Hush!’ at that was a flash of genius. It was indescribably eloquent. She forbade and invited in the same breath. It was wonderful, and it made me Buckingham. And Buckingham it brought to her feet. Little wonder. It would have brought a cardinal. In the passionate rhetoric of my lines I wooed her, sitting there on the tree trunk, her head thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted, and always the faint smile that sends a man mad. I never had to tell her to rise. To the line she swayed towards me. To the line she slipped into my arms. She even raised her lips to mine at the last. Then, as I stooped for the kiss, she placed her two small hands firmly on my face and pushed me away.

  “Very nice, indeed,” she said. “You know your lines well, and you know how to speak them. Hare, I think you’re going to be rather good.”

  I wiped the perspiration off my forehead.

  “You made me good, then. I shall never give such a show again.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “Never! Never, Alice! But you – you’re wonderful. Good Heavens, lass, this might be the two hundredth night you’d played the part. Are you some great one I’ve not recognized? And will you sign a picture postcard for our second housemaid – the one who saw ‘Buzz-Buzz’ eighteen times?”

  “What! Not the one with fair hair?”

  “And flat feet? The very one. Junket, her name is. By Curds out of Season. My mistake. I was thinking of our beagle. Don’t think I’m quite mad. I’m only drunk. You’re the wine.”

  “The Queen is, you mean.”

  “No, no – you, Alice.”

  She looked at her wrist-watch.

  “Oh, all right,” I said. “The Queen’s the wine, the play’s the thing. Anything you like. Only I’m tired of play acting, and I only want to talk to Alice. Come and let me introduce Pomfret.”

  “He hasn’t been here all the time?”

  “Waiting in the road.”

  “Oh, he’s a horse.”

  I laughed by way of answer, and we walked to where Pomfret stood, patient, immobile. I introduced him elaborately. My lady swept him a curtsey.

  “I have to thank you for lendin
g me your rug, Pomfret,” she said.

  I replied for the little chap: “It’s not my rug; I am but the bail—”

  “That’s all right. Is your master nice to you?”

  “But yes, lady. Don’t you like him?”

  “He seems to mean well.”

  “Isn’t that rather unkind?” said Pomfret.

  “I’m not in the witness box now.”

  “Then there’s no reason why you shouldn’t tell the truth.”

  “Really, Pomfret!”

  “Forgive me, Alice. I’m only a young car, and sometimes, when the petrol gets into my tank—”

  “I hope you don’t take more than you should.”

  “I’m sober enough to see you’ve got a fine pair of headlights.”

  “I’m afraid you’re of rather a coming-on disposition, Pomfret.”

  “Oh, I can do my thirty-five. His licence will show you that.”

  “Oh, Pomfret, did you get it endorsed?”

  “It was his own fault. Kept egging me on all the time, and then, when we were stopped, tells the police that it’s a physical impossibility for me to do more than fifteen. And I had to stand there and hear him say it! He told me afterwards that it was only a façon de parler, but I was angry. I simply shook with anger, the radiator was boiling, too, and one of the tyres burst with rage.”

  “And I suppose the petrol pipe was choked with emotion.”

  “And the engine almost throttled in consequence. But that is another story. And now, won’t you let me take you for a little run? My clutch is not at all fierce.”

  My companion leaned against Pomfret’s hood and laughed.

  “He’s a bit of a nut, isn’t he?” said I.

  “Do you think he’s quite safe?”

  “Rather! Besides, I shall be with you.”

  “That’s not saying much.”

  “Thank you. And talking of gurnats—”

  “Where will you take me?”

  “Whithersoever she listeth.”

  “Is it far from here to Tendon Harrow?”

  “About sixteen miles.”

  “Would you mind, Hare?”

  “You know I’d love it.”

  I started up Pomfret, and we settled ourselves in the car. As luck would have it, I had a second coat with me, and she said she was quite warm and comfortable. Presently she told me all that had happened. In the morning she had ridden alone to hounds. The meet had been at Will Cross. The mare was keen, and for a few miles all went well. Then the hounds had split. Most of the field had followed the master, but she and a few others had followed the huntsman. After a while she had dropped a little behind. Then there had been a check. She had seized upon the opportunity it afforded her to slip off and tighten her girths.

  “Wasn’t there any man there to—”

  “Wait. The next second the hounds picked up the scent again, and, before I knew where I was, the mare had jerked the bridle out of my hand and was halfway across the first field.”

  “And didn’t anyone catch her?”

  “The man who caught her is a brute. He would have wanted to tighten my girths for me, and that’s why I dropped behind. I felt it would be him, so I slid out of sight behind a hedge, and when I saw it was him coming back with her, I didn’t want his smile, so I just ran into the woods and started to walk home.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “No. He may be there still, for all I know.”

  “He must have been having a roaring time leading the mare about all day.”

  “I hope it’ll teach him not to pester a girl again.”

  I sighed. “Some of us are brutes, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  A pause. Then:

  “But some men have been very nice to me.”

  “The devil they have!” said I.

  Here, as certain of our own writers say and have said, a gurgle of delight escaped her. I leaned forward and grabbed at something, caught and handed it to her. She stared at my empty palm.

  “Your gurgle, I think.”

  “Oh,” she said, laughing, “you are mad. But I like you. Now, why is that?”

  “Personal charm,” said I. “The palmist who sits where the draughts are in the Brown Park Hotel, West Central, said I had a magnetism of my own.”

  “There you are. I never believed in palmistry.”

  “She also told me to beware of lifts, and a fellow trod on one of my spats in the one at Dover Street the very next morning. Hullo!”

  Pomfret slowed gradually down and stopped. I turned to the girl.

  “This is what we pay the boy sixteen shillings a week for.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Petrol’s run out. I’m awfully sorry. The silly serf must have forgotten to fill up before I started.”

  “My dear Hare, what shall we do?”

  I made a rapid calculation.

  “We can’t be more than a quarter of a mile from Fell. In fact, I’m almost sure it’s at the foot of the next hill. Yes, I know it is. And if we can get Pomfret to the crest of this rise, it’s all downhill from there to the village. Shall we try, Alice?”

  “Rather!”

  She got out, and I followed. Fortunately the slope was a gentle one, and, without much of the harder labour, we managed to top the rise. Then we got in again, and began to descend the hill. When the brakes failed, one after another, I was, if possible, more pained than surprised. I rebuked Pomfret and turned to my companion:

  “Do you mind making ready to die?” I said. “I’m sorry, but if we don’t take the next corner, I’m afraid we shall be what is called ‘found later’.”

  We took it on two wheels, and I then ran Pomfret’s near front wheel on to the low bank by the side of the road.

  “Put your arms round my neck,” I cried.

  She did so, and the next moment we plunged into the bushes. I heard a wing snap, and the car seemed to mount a little into the air; then we stopped at a nasty angle, for the off-hind wheel was yet in the channel. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then, still grasping the wheel, I looked down at my left shoulder.

  “I love Harris tweeds,” said the girl quietly. “It’s just as well, isn’t it?”

  All things considered, it was. Her nose was embedded in the cloth about two inches above my left breast pocket. In silence I kissed her hair four times. Then:

  “I confess,” I said, “that the real blue-black hair has always been a weakness of mine.”

  At that she struggled to rise, but the angle was against her, and, honestly, I couldn’t do much. The next minute she had found the edge of the windscreen – fortunately open at the time of the accident – and had pulled herself off me.

  “My hair must have been—”

  “Almost in my mouth,” I said. “Exactly. I have been—”

  “What?”

  “Licking it, my dear. It’s awfully good for hair, you know – imparts a gloss-like and silky appearance. Besides, since—”

  “Idiot!”

  I climbed gingerly out of the car, and then helped her into the bushes.

  “Are you suffering from shock, Alice? I’m really devilish sorry.”

  “Not a bit. It wasn’t your fault. Between you and me, Hare, I think you managed it wonderfully.”

  “Thank you, Alice. That’s very sweet of you.”

  “I hope Pomfret isn’t much hurt.”

  “The little brute. Only a wing, I think. Look here, if we walk into the village, you can have some lunch – you must want it – at the inn, while I get some help to get him out.”

  Just at the foot of the hill we came upon ‘The Old Drum,’ its timbered walls showing white behind the red screen of its Virginia creeper. When I had escorted my lady into the little parlour, I sought the kitchen. I could hardly believe my ears when the comfortable mistress of the house told me that at that very moment a toothsome duck was roasting, and that it would and should be placed before us in a quarter of an hour. Without waiting to inquire whom we
were about to deprive of their succulent dish, I hastened with the good news to my companion.

  “Splendid!” she said.

  “You don’t mind waiting?”

  “I should have waited for you, anyway. Now go and retrieve Pomfret; you’ve just got time.”

  To the two husbandmen I found in the bar, the idea of earning twopence a minute for a quarter of an hour appealed so strongly that they did not wait to finish the ale I had ordered for them, and the feats of strength they performed in persuading Pomfret to return to the path from which he had strayed made me ache all over. The result was that the car was in the yard before the duck had left the oven, and I was able to have a wash at the pump before luncheon was served. Pomfret had come off very lightly, on the whole. Except for the broken wing, a fair complement of scratches, and the total wreck of one of the lamps, he seemed to have taken no hurt.

  So it happened that Alice and I lunched together. I think we were both glad of the food. When it was over, I lighted her cigarette, and drew her attention to the oleograph, which pictured Gideon’s astonishment at the condition of what, on examination, proved to be a large fleece. Out of perspective in the background a youth staggered under a pile of first fruits.

  “No wayside inn parlour is complete without one such picture,” said I. “As a rule, we are misled about Moses. This, however, is of a later school. Besides, this is really something out of the common.”

  “Why?”