Brother of Daphne

by Dornford Yates

  “You are looking after me nicely, Adam,” she said, laying a hand on my shoulder to keep her balance. I straightened my back and looked at her.

  “My dear,” I said, “I – oh, heavens, let’s see what we’ve got for supper.” And I turned hurriedly to the dishes in front of the fire.

  When I looked round, she was lighting the candles.

  “You mustn’t go to bed at once,” I said, pushing back my chair. “It’s bad for the digestion. Sit by the fire a little, as you did before. Wait a moment. I’ll give you a cigarette.”

  I settled her amid cushions, put out the candles, and struck the red fire into flames.

  “But where will you sit, Adam?”

  “I shall lean elegantly against the chimney piece and tell you a fairy story.”

  “I’m all for the story, but I think you’d better be a child and sit on the hearthrug, too. There’s plenty of room.”

  “A child,” said I, sitting down by her side. “My dear, do you realize that I’m as old as the Cotswold Hills.”

  “There now, Adam. And so am I.”

  “No,” I said firmly, “certainly not.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t care. You’re not. Goddesses are immortal and their youth dies not.”

  “I suppose I ought to get up and curtsey.”

  “If you do, I shall have to rise and make you a leg, so please don’t.”

  For a moment she smiled into the fire. Then: “I wonder if two people have ever sat here before, as we’re sitting now?”

  “Many a time,” said I. “Runaway couples, you know. I expect the old wood walls think we’re another pair.”

  “They can’t see, though.”

  “No. Born blind. That’s why they hear so well. And they never forget. These four” – with a sweep of my cigarette – “have long memories of things, some sweet, some stern, some full of tears, and some again so mirthful that they split their panelled sides with merriment whenever they call them to mind.”

  “And here’s another to make them smile.”

  “Smile? Yes. Wise, whimsical, fatherly smiles, especially wise. They think we’re lovers, remember.”

  “I forgot. Well, the sooner they find out their mis—”

  “Hush!” said I. “Walls love lovers. Have pity and don’t undeceive them. It’d break the poor old fellows’ hearts. That one’s looking rather black already.”

  She laughed in spite of herself. Then: “But they haven’t got any hearts to break.”

  “Of course they have. The best in the world, too. Hearts of oak. Now you must make up for it. Come along.” I altered my tone. “Chaste and beautiful one, dost thou realize that at this rate we shall reach Gretna next Tuesday week?”

  “So soon, Jack?” – languishingly.

  “Glorious,” said I; “that is, aye, mistress. Remember, I have six spare axles disguised as golf clubs.”

  “But what of my father? His grey hairs—”

  “When I last saw thine aged sire, pipkin, three postboys were engaged in sawing him out of a window, through which he should never have attempted to climb. The angle of his chaise suggested that one of the hind wheels was, to put it mildly, somewhat out of the true. The fact that, before we started, I myself withdrew its linchpin goes to support this theory.”

  “My poor father! Master Adam, I almost find it in my heart to hate you.”

  “Believe me, fair but haughty, the old fool has taken no hurt. Distant as we were, I could hear his oaths of encouragement, while the postboys sawed as they had never sawed before. From the way they were doing it, I shouldn’t think they ever had.”

  “But they will soon procure a new linchpin. Is that right? And, oh, Adam, they may be here any moment.”

  “Not so, my poppet. To get a linchpin, they must find a smith. All the smiths within a radius of thirty miles are drunk. Yes, me again. A man has to think of all these little things. I say, we’re giving the walls the time of their life, aren’t we? Have another cigarette?”

  “After which I must go to bed.”

  “As you please, Mistress Eve,” said I, reaching for a live coal to give her a light.

  For a little space we sat silent, watching the play of the flames. Then she spoke slowly, half her thoughts elsewhere: “You never told me your fairy-tale, Adam.”

  “I expect you know it,” said I. “It’s all about the princess a fellow found in the snow, and how he took her to his home for shelter, and set her on her way in the morning, and then spent his poor life trying to find her again. Anyway, one doesn’t tell fairy-tales to fairies, and – and I’d rather you watched the fire. He’ll tell you a finer story than ever I could. At least—”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, he’s a bold fellow, the fire. He’ll say things that I can’t, Eve. He’ll praise, thank, bless you all in a flash. See what he says for a moment. Remember he’s speaking for me.”

  “Praise, thank, bless,” she repeated dreamily. “Does he ever ask anything in return?”

  “Never,” said I.

  For a full moment she sat gazing into the flames. Then she flung her cigarette into the grate and jumped to her feet before I had time to help her.

  “Bedtime,” she cried. “Mine, at any rate.”

  “I’ll see you to your room,” said I, lighting one of the candles. Then I picked up her grey fur coat and laid it over my arm.

  “Adam,” said Eve.

  I looked up and across at her, standing straight by the other side of the hearth, the leaping flames lighting her tumbled hair. One foot was on the kerb, and her left hand hitching her dress in the front a little, as women do. The other she held, palm downwards to the blaze, warming it. I marked the red glow between its slight fingers, making them rosy. Her eyes still gazed into the fire.

  “Yes,” said I.

  “If Jill were here, Adam, would you kiss her goodnight?”

  The next morning, with the help of the high collar and a little strategy, my companion’s incognito was preserved, and by half past eleven we had breakfasted and were once more in the car.

  It was another brilliant day, and at five minutes past twelve we ran into Steeple Abbas. Eve was sitting in front by my side this time. As we turned into the main street, I slowed down. Outside ‘The Three Bulls’ stood the limousine, weather-beaten a little and its nickel work dull, but seemingly all right. In the middle of the road stood a chauffeur, his cap pushed back and a hand to his head. As we approached, he looked away from the little writing block and stared up at the signboard of the inn. When he heard the car approaching, he made for the pavement, turning a puzzled face in our direction.

  At that moment I heard Jill’s voice.

  “Berry, Berry, I can hear a car coming. I expect it’s Boy.”

  There was not a moment to lose. Quick as a flash I drew alongside the limousine, which stood on our left between us and the hotel. Then I stopped, stood up, leaned across my companion and opened the big car’s door.

  “Goodbye, dear,” I said.

  The next moment she had changed cars. To thrust her rug and dressing-case after her was the work of a second. For a moment I held her hand to my lips. Then I shut the door, slipped back into my seat, and drove on and in to the kerb.

  As I pulled up, Jill came running down the steps of the inn.

  “Then you got home all right, Boy?”

  Before I had time to answer, Berry appeared in the doorway.

  “Aha,” said he, “the bravo’s return! Skaul! You are late, but never mind. Skaul again, my pathfinder. I thought of you when I was going to bed. Was the snow hut comfortable? I hope you didn’t find that coat too much? It isn’t really cold, you know. Now, when I was in Patagonia—”

  “Are you all ready?” said I. “I’m just coming in to warm my hands.”

  I followed Jill up the steps. In the doorway I turned and took off my hat. The chauffeur was starting up the limousine. And Eve was leaning forward, looking out of the open window. As I smiled, she ki
ssed her hand to me.

  Ten minutes later we left ‘The Three Bulls.’

  I had thrown my gauntlets on to the front seat before I entered the inn. As I drew on the right one, I felt a sheet of paper in its cuff. I plucked it out, wondering. It had been torn from the writing block, and bore the message I had written for Falcon the night before. The signature was Evelyn Fairie, and underneath had been added, “Castle Charing, Somerset. With my love.”

  I slipped it into my pocket and started the car.

  “And how did Jilly get on?” I said abstractedly, as we rolled down the street.

  “Oh, Boy,” she cried, “it was so funny. I’m sure they took me for somebody else. There was a lovely big room all ready and everybody kept bowing and calling me ‘my lady.’ They couldn’t understand my connection with the others at first and when they asked about the car, and I said it had gone back to Fallow, they nearly fainted. They were going to make out my bill separately, too, only Berry—”

  “And you didn’t enlighten them?”

  “I couldn’t make out what was wrong till I was undressing.”

  “And the real one never turned up?”

  “I don’t think she can have. The landlord stammered something about ‘your ladyship,’ as I said ‘Goodbye.’”

  “How strange,” said I.

  Jill chattered on all the way to Fallow. Fortunately I remembered to tell her about the new chambermaid. I was rather uneasy about the girl, as a matter of fact. She must have seen Eve properly. But my luck was holding, for on our arrival we found that Susan had returned.

  The following day, January the second, after breakfast, a wire for Jonah arrived. When he had read it:

  “That’s curious,” he said. “I wonder how he knew we were here?”

  “Who’s it from?” said Jill.

  “Harry Fairie, the man I met at Pau last Easter. Wants us to go over to his place in Somerset before we go back to town.”

  “All of us?”

  “Apparently. ‘You and party,’ the wire says.”

  “I believe I met his sister once,” said I.

  “You wouldn’t forget her if you had,” said Jonah. “She’s a wonderful creature. Eyes like stars.”

  “Where did you meet her?” said Daphne.

  “I seem to associate her with winter sports.”

  “Switzerland?” said my sister. “What year? Nineteen-twelve?”

  I walked to the door and opened it.

  “If I told you,” I said, “you wouldn’t believe me.” Then I went out.

  5: The Judgement of Paris

  “I suppose,” said Daphne, “I suppose you think you’re funny.”

  Her husband regarded his cigarette with a frown. “Not at all,” he replied. “Only there’s nothing doing. That’s all. My mind is made up. This correspondence must now cease. For myself, as breadwinner and—”

  “Never did a day’s work in your life,” said Jonah.

  “And one of the world’s workers (so you’re wrong, you see)—”

  “Of course he’s going,” said I, looking up. “Only what as?”

  “Why not himself?” said Jill.

  “’M, no,” said I. “We must find something out of the common. A mountebank’s too ordinary. I want our party to be one of the features of the ball.”

  “Would it be asking you too much to shut your face?” said Berry. “Nobody spoke to you. Nobody wants to speak to you. I will go further. Nobody—”

  “Could he go as a cook, d’you think?” said Daphne. “A chef thing, I mean. They had cooks, of course. Or a wine butler? They must have had—”

  “Or a birthright?” said Berry. “We know they had birthrights. And I’d sooner be a birthright than a wine-cooler any day. Besides, Jonah could go as a mess of pottage. There’s an idea for you. Talk about originality!”

  “Originality!” said his wife contemptuously. “Studied imbecility, you mean. Anyone can originate drivel.”

  “It’s in the blood,” said Jonah. “One of his uncles was a Master in Lunacy.”

  I laid down my pen and leaned back in my chair.

  “It comes to this,” said I. “Whatever he goes as, he’ll play the fool. Am I right, sir?”

  “Yes,” said everyone.

  “(A voice, ‘Shame’),” said Berry.

  “Consequently he must be given a part which he can clown without queering the whole scene.”

  “Exactly,” said Daphne.

  “What d’you mean, talking about parts and scenes?” said Berry. “I thought it was going to be a ball.”

  “So it is,” said his wife. “But people are taking parties, and every party’s going to represent some tale or picture or play or a bit of it. I’ve told you all this once.”

  “Twice,” corrected her husband. “Once last night with éclat, and once this morning with your mouth full, Jilly’s told me three times, and the others once each. That’s seven altogether. Eight, with this. I’m beginning to get the hang of the thing. Tell me again.” His voice subsided into the incoherent muttering, which immediately precedes slumber.

  This was too much. In silence Jonah handed Daphne his cigarette. By stretching out an arm, as she lay on the sofa, my sister was just able to apply the burning tobacco to the lobe of her husband’s ear. With a yell the latter flung his feet from the club-kerb and sat up in his chair. When he turned, Jonah was placidly smoking in the distance, while Daphne met her victim’s accusing eye with a disdainful stare, her hands empty in her lap. The table, at which I was writing, shook with Jill’s suppressed merriment.

  “The stake’s upstairs,” said Berry bitterly. “Or would you rather gouge out my eyes? Will you flay me alive? Because if so, I’ll go and get the knives and things. What about after tea? Or would you rather get it over?”

  “You shouldn’t be so tiresome,” said Daphne.

  Berry shook his head sorrowfully.

  “Listen,” he said. “The noise you hear is not the bath running away. No, no. My heart is bleeding, sister.”

  “Better sear that, too,” said his wife, reaching for Jonah’s cigarette.

  It was just then that my eyes, wandering round the library, lighted on a copy of ‘Don Quixote.’

  “The very thing,” said I suddenly.

  “What?” said Jill.

  “Berry can go as Sancho Panza.”

  The others stared at me. Berry turned to his wife.

  “You and Jill run along, dear, and pad the boxroom. Jonah and I’ll humour him till you’re ready.”

  “Sancho Panza?” said Daphne. “But we’re going to do The Caliph’s Wedding out of the Arabian Nights.”

  “Let’s drop the Eastern touch,” I said, getting up from the table. “It’s sure to be overdone. Give them a page of Cervantes instead. Jonah can be Don Quixote. You’ll make a priceless Dorothea in boy’s clothes, with your hair down your back. Jilly can be – Wait a minute.”

  I stepped to the shelf and picked out the old quarto. After a moment’s search:

  “Here you are,” said I. “Daughter of Don Diego. Sancho Panza strikes her when he’s going the rounds at night. ‘She was beautiful as a thousand pearls, with her hair inclosed under a net of gold and green silk.’ And I can be the Squire of the Wood, complete with false nose.”

  “I rather like the idea,” said Daphne, “only—”

  “Wait till I find the description of Dorothea,” said I, turning over the pages. “Here it is. Read that, my dear,” and I handed her the book.

  In silence my sister read the famous lines. Then she laid the book down, and slipped an arm round my neck.

  “Boy,” she said, “you flatter me, but I can sit on my hair.”

  Then and there it was decided to illustrate Cervantes.

  “And Sancho can wear his governor’s dress,” said Jill.

  “Quarter of an hour back,” said Berry, “I told you that it was no good ordering the wild horses, because nothing would induce me to go. Since then my left ear has been burned, as
with a hot iron. Under the circumstances it is hardly likely that—”

  “Oh dear,” said Daphne wearily.

  I reached for the telephone and picked up the receiver.

  “Number, please.”

  “Exchange,” I said, “there is here a fat swab.”

  “What?”

  “Swab,” said I. “I’ll spell it. S for soldier, W, A for apple, B for Baldwin.”

  “Have you a complaint to make?”

  “That’s it,” said I: “About this swab. You see, he won’t go to the ball. His ticket has been bought, his rôle chosen, his face passed over. And yet—”

  “Mayfair supervisor,” said a voice.

  “That’s done it,” said I. “I mean – er – Supervisor.”

  “Speaking.”

  “I want to complain about our swab here.”

  “Oh yes. Can you tell me what’s wrong with it?”

  “I think its liver must be out of order.”

  “Very well. I’ll report it to the engineers. They’ll send a man down tomorrow.”

  “Thanks awfully.”

  “Goodbye.”

  I replaced the receiver and crossed to where Berry was sitting, nursing his wounded ear.

  “They’re going to report you to the engineers,” I said shortly. “A man will be down tomorrow.”

  “As for you,” said my brother-in-law, “I take it your solicitors will accept service. For the others, what shall I say? Just because I hesitate to put off my mantle of dignity and abase this noble intellect by associating with a herd of revellers and – er—”

  “Libertines?” said Jonah.

  “Toss-pots, my ears are to be burned and foul aspersions cast upon a liver, till then spotless. Am I discouraged? No. Emboldened rather. In short, I will attend the rout.”

  “At last,” sighed Daphne.

  “My dear. I ordered the supper yesterday. We’re sharing a table with the Scarlets. But you needn’t have burned my ear.”

  “Only means someone was talking about you,” said Daphne. “Why did you say you weren’t going?”

  “A passion for perversity,” said I.