Courts of Idleness

by Dornford Yates

  “One of the small ones,” said that worthy.

  “Small ones,” said Berry contemptuously. “If I gave you what I call a small one, you’d think it was lemonade. You fishing crowd. For myself, as a matter of fact, I’m not really drinking at all nowadays.”

  Jonah sat up.

  “If you ate and drank, and talked a little less–” he began.

  “Talking of golf,” said Daphne, “what do you think I picked up this morning?”

  “I know,” said Berry; “a taxi. I did, too. I wonder who they belong to.”

  “Idiot! On the links.”

  “Probably a ball,” said I. “Other than your own, if I know you.”

  “A gold watch,” said Daphne.

  “Gent’s gold timepiece?” said her husband.

  “Lady’s,” said my sister. “Such a pretty one, with a blue enamel back and a diamond in the middle.”

  “Jewelled in one hole,” said Berry. “How much did you get on it?”

  “It’s with the secretary. But it’s given me an idea. Daffodil’s got four wrist-watches, but she’s always wanted one to – to pin on. You and I can give her one like this – on a brooch.”

  “You seem to forget I’m going to forbid the banns.”

  “Don’t forbid the wrong ones,” said I. “They give out stacks sometimes.”

  “Trust me,” said Berry. “‘A tall, well-dressed man, whose features proclaimed him to be one of the aristocracy, rose and in clear, bell-like tones (what did I say?) said, “I forbid the last banns but two.”’”

  Daphne sighed.

  “Well, well,” she said. “I think we’ll buy one all the same. If Daffodil doesn’t have it, it’ll do for Jilly, won’t it, dear?”

  The shot went home. Berry glared at his wife. Then:

  “You made me love you,” he said defiantly. “I didn’t want to do it.”

  Daphne blew him a kiss.

  “Have another drink, old chap,” said I.

  Berry emptied his glass and handed it to me.

  “At least,” he said, “I have one friend left.”

  “As a matter of fact, he’s not drinking at all nowadays,” said Jonah.

  Tye Gordon lies close in a deep park in one of the south-west counties of England. Who knows no more than its whereabouts might search for a month and never find it, unless he were told the way. In summertime especially. Then, most of all, the rolling country keeps the old place secret, wrapping it about with the greenwood, folding it in her fresh young arms, so that even the sudden storms of summer deal with Tye gently perforce, and the spent wind buffets its ancient gables with feeble fury.

  I and the car found it, but then I had been shown the trick of the ways. Even so, it was past three when I stopped at the grey lodge-gates. I had hoped to be there by two. I was on business bent. Pleasant business, perhaps, but still business. In fact, I was bound for Tye Gordon in my capacity of best man.

  A week before, Peter had started the hare. It seemed that years ago Daffodil had seen Tye Gordon. She had been staying with friends somewhere in the county – a child of twelve then – and had been driven over to lunch with an old, old gentleman whose name she could not remember. He had been kind to her and her fellows, shown them the beauties of the old house, and let them play through its chambers and run happily in the sun-shot park. That was ten years ago. Long ago the friends had left England, and there had been nothing to take her again to the neighbourhood. But she had never forgotten Tye. And often thereafter her memory would leap back to the summer afternoon, the low, grey building and the fair lawns, the curling avenue and the bracken springing under the oaks, and everywhere the great belt of woodland ringing the place about, keeping it out of the world, saving it from the march of time. More than once Peter had heard her speak of the spot with rapture, wondering if she would ever see it again. And now, quite by chance, it had come to his ears that a place of that name was coming into the market.

  “No?” said I.

  “Fact,” said Peter. He mentioned the name of a firm. “It’s in their hands. Get an order-to-view, old chap, and have a look at it. I’d go myself, only I don’t want Daffodil to know.” I stared at him.

  “You don’t mean–” I began.

  “Yes, I do,” he said, grinning. “If it’s all right, and the owners don’t want the earth, I’ll buy it at once and give her the title-deeds for a wedding present.”

  I always said Peter had more money than brains. However.

  “We can’t push the whole deal through in ten days,” said I. “Besides, it mayn’t even be the right place, or, if it is, it may have changed altogether.”

  “The place she drove over from was called Mills Brayling, so if it’s near there, you’ll know it’s the right place. As to whether it’s changed, you know a nice place when you see one.”

  “Yes, but I’m not going to take the responsibility of landing you for several thousand pounds, when you’ve never even set eyes—”

  “Well, get the order and have a look at the place. There’s a good fellow. If you do, I’ll let you kiss Daffodil in the vestry.”

  “That’s no consideration,” said I. “I’m going to do that, anyway. Still, if you really think she’ll appreciate—”

  There was no doubt about it being the right place. I had passed through Mills Brayling an hour and a quarter before. I looked at the lodge. White curtains in the windows showed that it was inhabited. But the gates were padlocked. Clearly I must leave the car where it was.

  I stopped the engine and sat for a moment looking up the avenue. It promised well, certainly. And it did curl. Of course, if the park and the old house really were as exquisite as Daffodil painted them, it would be nice to… Then I thought of the responsibility and shook my head. A pity. I should have loved to see her eyes light…

  “They won’t let you in,” said a voice.

  “What’ll you bet me?” said I.

  “Unless you’ve got an order.”

  I swung round and looked at the speaker. Then I took off my cap. A slim girl in a fawn-coloured dress leaning against a five-barred gate, her elbows behind her on the top bar, one slight foot on the ground, the other above it on one of the lower bars. Her attitude was easy, reposeful. The open neck of the dress showed her white throat, and under a bébé bonnet I could see the thick brown hair. A nose ever so slightly tilted, and grave brown eyes. So grave. But the mouth was merry and told of gaiety in the air.

  “All fawn,” said I. “Down to her little shoes. I never realized what a becoming colour it was. But it’s rather elusive. You might be a battleship going into action. No one would see you at forty paces; you’d just melt into the road. I suppose that’s why I missed—”

  “Oh, no. You were craning your neck to get a glimpse of Tye. What do you know of the old place?”

  “Nothing, Bébé. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, they won’t—”

  “Complete with order.”

  She sighed. Then:

  “Years ago,” she said, “a girl told me of Tye Gordon. And ever since she told me, I’ve wanted to see it. She never even said where it was, but the name stuck in my head, and I saw it last night, marked on a local map, when we were looking out the way to Mills Brayling. And now I’ve given up a party and walked two miles to be told I haven’t an order-to-view. And I knew that when I started. However.”

  “A girl told her of Tye,” I said musingly.

  She nodded.

  “The best friend I have. And I’m losing her next week.”

  Daffodil.

  “Is she going to be married?” I said carelessly, getting out of the car.

  “Yes” – moodily.

  “I was afraid so from your tone. These marriages.”

  “Run along in with your order,” she said suddenly. “I’ll look after your car. The others aren’t picking me up at Pell Corner till five o’clock, so I’ve nothing to do.”

  I gave her a look. After a long moment the brown eyes fell
.

  “Do I look that sort of man?” I said stiffly.

  “No.” She spoke so low that I could hardly hear her.

  “Then why—”

  “I beg your pardon,” she said simply.

  I handed her the order with a grave smile.

  “I have come far,” I said, “and it is important that I should see Tye today. That is my excuse for asking if I may accompany you.”

  Her eyes flashed.

  “Why whip me?” she said. “I’ve said I’m sorry.”

  For a moment we stood facing each other. Then:

  “Curtain,” said I. “Well, that’s a jolly good scene. If the second act’s half as good…”

  She broke into reluctant laughter. The situation was saved.

  I took off my coat and flung it into the car. Together we walked to the door of the lodge. The keeper, who admitted us, promised to watch the car, and a minute later we were walking down the avenue.

  It was the first real summer’s day we’d had. Right at the end of May. Up to now the weather had been unpleasantly cold. The country was looking wonderful.

  “So she’s to be married next week,” said I; “your friend.”

  The girl nodded.

  “Shall you attend the obsequies?”

  “As bridesmaid. The only one, too. Oh!” She caught at my arm. “Isn’t that lovely?”

  It was. At a bend of the avenue the house had come into view. It stood fair on the slope of a hill, long and low, its grey stone mellowed by many a summer sun, wisteria drooping about its lattices, a broad flagged terrace running along its front. From the terrace wide steps of living turf led to a great greensward, which stretched on one side to the avenue and on the other to the fringe of the park itself. The timber was a great glory, oaks and elms and beeches of grave antiquity. On the sward itself towered a magnificent cedar. In the distance, rising and falling, the line of the famous woods stood up against the sky. The afternoon sun was striking the old place slantwise, making the windows flame and the trees fling long shadows across the grass.

  “Glorious!” I exclaimed. “I wonder which room Queen Elizabeth had.”

  “What a shame!” she said, laughing. “It’s much too sweet to make fun of. Just faery.”

  “Well kept, too. That sward’s perfect. And look at those grass steps.”

  “The practical man,” said Bébé. “I wonder where they keep the lawn-mower.”

  “Not at all,” said I. “Gardeners came in long before Tye Gordon was raised. What about ‘Richard Two,’ where the gardener says, ‘Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks, which, like–’” I hesitated.

  “Go on.”

  “‘Unruly children,’” said I. “You would have it, wouldn’t you, Bébé?”

  She looked at me critically. Then:

  “Your hair’s very untidy,” she said.

  “I know. But then the pleasure of meeting you was unexpected. Besides, you can’t talk. Your eyes are all over the place.”

  “You know you’re an impossible person,” she said, smiling.

  “On the contrary,” said I, “I am extremely probable. Put your money on little Archibald. And now let’s go to the house. Perhaps the caretaker will lend me a comb.”

  The entrance lay at the west side of the building. Here the avenue led to a wide paved court, from which a flight of handsome stone stairs rose to the front door. About the balustrade sat pigeons, sleeking themselves in the hot sun. But for them the place was deserted. For a minute we stood watching them. Then came the quick barking of a dog and a moment later a man’s deep voice.

  Round the corner of the house stepped a coachman, a Bedlington at his heels. A real coachman, spruce in his undress livery and bright jack boots, placid, pink-faced, well-liking. He welcomed us respectfully, glanced at the order and asked us to excuse him while he went back to the house. Then he would admit us by the front door. A minute or two later there was the noise of drawn bolts, and the door creaked on it hinges. Slowly we ascended the steps…

  It was at the far end of an echoing gallery that Bébé put a hand to her head and swayed. I was just in time to catch her before she fell.

  “Faint, sir?” said the coachman quickly.

  “Looks like it,” said I. “We’d better take her outside. The air’ll pull her round. D’you think you could find some cushions and bring them down to the lawn. I’ll carry her down. And some water.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll set the front door open for you as I go. You can find your way, sir?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  He hurried away, his boots clattering over the bare boards and down the great staircase. I followed with the girl in my arms. Half way across the hall she stirred and opened the grave eyes. Then she started and put a hand on my arm, as if she would sit up.

  “It’s all right, Bébé,” said I. “Lie still.”

  She flung a bare arm across her eyes, turning her face to my shoulder. I saw the colour surge into the white face.

  Under the shadow of the great cedar I set her down, but she was on her feet in an instant.

  “I’m a fool,” she said passionately. “A fool. But I’m all right now. I don’t know when I’ve done such a silly—”

  “If you don’t sit down at once,” I said, “I’ll pick you up in my arms again.”

  “But I’m all—”

  I picked her up again. She was so light.

  “After all,” I said encouragingly, “it’s the right place for a Bébé, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll sit down,” she said with a half-laugh. Once more I lowered her to the lawn. Then the coachman appeared, soft cushions and a great rug in his arms. Also he brought water.

  The rug spread, she slipped on to it and sat sideways, the cushions piled under an elbow. She drank the water gratefully.

  “Better?” said I.

  She nodded. Then she turned to the coachman and thanked him charmingly. Again I filled her glass. Then:

  “I think you should rest,” said I. “If you are really better, I’m going to leave you alone for a little. Quite alone. If you call, I shall hear you. Otherwise I shall not come for a quarter of an hour.”

  Grave eyes thanked me, and the mouth smiled.

  I turned to the coachman.

  “I should like to see the stabling,” I said.

  When he had shown me the stables, I asked him of many things. All information he gave me readily. At the last:

  “They won’t sell me with the place, sir,” he said sadly. “I only wish they would. I was born there, over the coach-house, forty-six years ago. Tye Gordon’s the only home I have. They’ll have their cars, sir, them that takes the old place. I know that. But if, likin’ the stables, they had some thought of keepin’ an old trap for luggage or errands, and if you an’ me lady didn’t happen to have a man in view…

  His voice tailed off pathetically.

  “If the price isn’t too high,” I said, “I think a friend of mine will buy the place. If he does, I shall advise him to take you into his service. The lady will also ask him. And I think he will do it.”

  “You’re very good, sir.”

  I left him and passed round to the great lawn.

  My lady lay at full length, the cushions behind her head. I came and stood at her feet.

  “How is she now?” said I.

  “Please don’t talk about it. There’s nothing the matter now. Will you help me up?”

  She stretched out a slim hand, and I pulled her to her feet. Together we strolled over the sward.

  “He’s a good fellow,” I said meditatively. “The coachman, I mean. Of course, I am, too, but—”

  “I think he’s a dear,” said Bébé. “The coachman, I mean. So attentive.”

  I stopped still. Then:

  “Shall I go and fetch him?” I said.

  Bébé burst out laughing and slipped her arm through mine.

  “That’s better,” said I. “And now, my dear, as to the house. Shall we have it or not? Of course
the one we saw yesterday had four box-rooms, and the bicycle-shed was a dream, but the view from the servants’ bathroom—”

  “Was very poor. I know. But d’you think we should get the piano into this drawing-room? The door’s very low-pitched, while the key—”

  “You forget it’s only a bébé grand, my love. And the what-not would go on the second landing wonderfully. I measured it whilst you were stepping the housemaid’s sink. Besides, there’s a lovely stillroom here, if you want to be quiet.”

  “That’s nice,” she said reflectively, stooping to regard a small foot, “and of course I like the sundial, but doesn’t it seem rather a shame to turn the old place into a private asylum?”

  “I see your point,” said I. “But then we’re not certified. So no one would ever know. Besides, we might get all right again some day. However, if we don’t take Tye, I expect Peter will.”

  “Peter?” – surprisedly.

  “Yes, for Daffodil. You know, your best friend. Only don’t you say so. It’s to be a complete surprise – if it comes off.”

  She slipped her arm out of mine and stared at me.

  “What do you know of Daffodil?” she said.

  “Not very much, Bébé. I know she’s the youngest of the three beautiful daughters of—”

  “But how—”

  I explained. I told her of my friendship with Peter and why I had come to Tye Gordon. I did not tell her that I was to be the best man.

  When I had finished:

  “I do hope they won’t want too much for the old place,” she said. “Dilly would love it so.”

  “If I told him you said that, I don’t think Peter would worry about the price.”

  “Then do.”

  I pondered.

  “I’m not sure I ought to,” I said. “If Dilly’s your friend, Peter’s mine, and I oughtn’t to let him be rushed, just because he’s in love.”

  “But he wants to give it her, doesn’t he?”

  “Exactly. If somebody told him they’d heard she wanted Covent Garden or the Bakerloo Tube, he’d try to buy them before lunch. That’s the state he’s in.”

  “But they’d be much more expensive, and they’re not half as nice.”