Brother of Daphne

by Dornford Yates

  “You know,” I said, “the Folkestone dogs.”

  “At last,” said Berry, as the car swung into line in Kensington Gore, about a furlong from the doors of the Albert Hall. “A short hour and a quarter, and we shall be there. Can anyone tell me why I consented to come?”

  “To please yourself,” said Daphne shortly.

  “Wrong,” said her husband. “The correct answer will appear in our next issue. Five million consolation prizes will be awarded to those who, in the opinion of—”

  “Have you got the tickets?” said his wife.

  “Tickets!” said Berry contemptuously. “I’ve had to put my handkerchief in my shoe, and my cigarette-case has lodged slightly to the right and six inches below my heart. You’ll have to make a ring round me, if I want to smoke.”

  “Have you got the tickets?” said Daphne.

  “My dear, I distinctly remember giving them to—”

  A perfect shriek went up from Daphne and Jill. The footman slipped onto the step and opened the door.

  “Did you call, madam?”

  “Yes,” said Berry. “Give Mrs Pleydell the tickets.”

  Our party was an undoubted success. Jonah looked wonderful, Daphne and Jill priceless. With her magnificent hair unbound, her simple boy’s dress, her little rough shoes at the foot of legs bare to the knee, my sister was a glorious sight. And an exquisite Jill, in green and white and gold, ruffled it with the daintiest air and a light in her grey eyes that shamed her jewellery. Berry was simply immense. A brilliant make up, coupled with the riotous extravagance of his dress, carried him halfway. But the pomp of carriage, the circumstance of gait which he assumed, the manner of the man beggar description. Cervantes would have wept with delight, could he have witnessed it. The Squire of the Wood passed.

  And did little else. And that somewhat listlessly, till he saw my lady. That was just after supper, and she was sitting on the edge of a box, scanning her programme. All lovely, dressed as Potpourri.

  “You were right,” said I. “The world is small.” We floated into the music. “So is your waist. But, then I learned that this morning. So. When you were upset.”

  “Do you like my dress?”

  “Love it. Where did it come from?”

  She mentioned a French firm.

  “Ah!” said I. “Give me the judgement of Paris.”

  6: Which to Adore

  “I suppose you think I’m going to swear,” said Berry defiantly.

  Jill and Daphne clasped one another and shrieked with laughter. Berry stopped addressing the ball and gazed at them.

  “Go on!” he said, nodding sardonic approval. “Provoke me to violence. Goad me in the direction of insanity.”

  His caddie sniggered audibly. Berry turned to him.

  “That’s right, my boy. Make the most of your time. For you I have already devised a lingering death.”

  “Look here, old chap,” said I, “there’s some mistake. I said I’d give you a stroke a hole, not a divot a stroke.”

  Jonah strolled up.

  “Hullo!” he said, “making a new bunker, old man? Good idea. Only a cleek’s no good. Send the boy for a turf-cutter. Quicker in the long run.”

  My brother-in-law regarded us scornfully. Then: “What I want to know,” he said, “is how the Punch office can spare you both at the same time.”

  Daphne, Berry and I were playing a three ball match, while Jill and Jonah – who had sprained his wrist – were walking round with us. Berry is rather good really, but just now he was wearing a patch over one eye, which made him hopeless.

  It was glorious spring weather on the coast of Devon. A little village is Feth. Over and round about it the wind blows always, but the cluster of white cottages and the old brown inn themselves lie close in a hollow of the moorland, flanked by the great cliffs. Only the grey church, set up on the heights, half a mile distant, endures the tempests. The wind passes over Feth and is gone. A busy fellow, the wind. He has no time to stop. Not so the sunshine. That lingers with Feth all day, decking the place gloriously. It is good to be a pet of the sun. So are the gardens of Feth bright with flowers, the white walls dazzling, the stream, that scrambles over brown pebbles to the little bay, merry water.

  Except for the natives, we had the place to ourselves. But then Feth sees few visitors at any season. Sixteen miles from a station is its salvation. True, there is Mote Abbey hard by – a fine old place with an ancient deer-park and deep, rolling woods. Ruins, too, we had heard. A roofless quire, a few grass-grown yards of cloister and the like. Only the Abbot’s kitchen was at all preserved. There’s irony for you. We were going to see them before we left. We were told that in summer at the house itself parties assembled. But the family was away now.

  The round of golf proceeded.

  “How many is that?” said Berry, as he sliced into the sea.

  “Seven,” said I. “Not seven into the sea, you know. Seven strokes. You’ve only hit three into the sea altogether.”

  “Isn’t he clever with his sums? Here, give me another ball. Where’s Henry?” I handed him the last named – a favourite cleek. The caddie had gone to collect the flotsam. “Now then. Ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission I shall now proceed to beat the sphere into the sky.”

  It was a tremendous shot, and we could see that it must have reached the green; but when we came up and found the ball in the hole nobody was more surprised than Berry. Of course, he didn’t show it. Berry doesn’t give things away.

  “Ah!” he said pleasantly. “That’s better. I’m beginning to get used to playing with one eye. You know, all the time I – er – seem to see two balls.”

  “Nonsense,” said Daphne.

  “If you said you’d been seeing two holes all day, I could believe it,” said Jonah. “Anyone might think so from the way you’ve been playing.”

  Berry smiled ecstatically.

  “My recent – er – chef d’œuvre – (note the Parisian accent) – has ipso facto – (Latin of the Augustan Age) – placed me beyond the pricks of criticism. The venom, brother, which you would squirt upon me, bespatters but yourself. Boy, place me the globe upon yon pinnacle of sand. So. Now indicate to me the distant pin. Thank you. Do I see it? No. Natheless (obsolete, but pure), I say nameless it beckons me. And now give me – yes, give me Douglas.”

  The caddie handed him a brassie. He had caddied for Berry before.

  “Don’t breathe for a moment, anyone,” said Daphne.

  Her husband frowned and silently sliced into the sea.

  “How many balls did you see that time?” said Jonah.

  “Three,” said I. “That’s why he’s going to pawn his clubs.”

  “The aftermath of gluttony.”

  I spoke disgustedly. It was after luncheon, and Daphne was already asleep. Jill and Jonah drooped comfortably in huge chairs. Berry sprawled upon a sofa.

  “I suppose we outrage what you call your sense of decency,” murmured the latter.

  “You do. Incidentally, you also irritate me, because I shall have to go round alone.”

  “Friend, your foul egoism leaves me unmoved. Go forth and harry your balls. I am about to slumber like a little child. Do you think I shall dream, brother?”

  “Probably,” said I. “About fried fish shops.”

  Jill shuddered in her chair, and Berry sat up.

  “After that most offensive allusion,” he said pompously, “I have no option but to ask you to withdraw. The touts’ room is downstairs. Before leaving you may give me what cigarettes you have in your case.”

  I smiled grimly. Then: “I’m afraid I don’t approve of – ah– children smoking,” I said, moving towards the door. “Besides, a little exercise ’ll do you good. There is a box in my room – you know where that is?”

  “Where?” snarled my brother-in-law.

  I put my head round the door and looked at him.

  “Immediately above the touts’,” said I.

  The breeze of the morning had die
d away, and though the month was the month of April, it might have been a midsummer afternoon. I started on my solitary round, well enough pleased, really, to be alone. The weather was excellent company. My clubs I carried myself.

  The fourth hole lies in a little valley, under the lee of a steep, rock-studded hill, whose other side falls sheer into the tumbling waves. On an idle impulse I left my clubs at the fifth tee and scrambled on up the green slope to gaze upon and over the sea below. I have a weakness for high places on the edges of England. I cannot match the dignity of them. Where yellow sands invite, these do not even stoop to challenge. They are superb, demigods, the Royalty of the coast.

  As I breasted the summit, I heard a child’s voice reading aloud.

  “And the people told him of all the splendid things which were in the city, and about the King, and what a pretty Princess the King’s daughter was.

  “‘Where can one get to see her?’ asked the soldier.

  “‘She is not to be seen at all,’ said they, all together, ‘she lives in a great copper castle, with a great many walls and towers round about it; no one but the King may go in and out there, for it has been prophesied that she shall marry a common soldier, and the King can’t bear that.’

  “‘I should like to see her,’ thought the soldier…”

  The reading came from beyond and below me. I fell on my knees, crawled forward, and peered over the top of a slab of rock. On the warm grass, twenty paces from the edge of the cliff, sat a little boy, his brown knees propping a book. By his side, facing the sea, lay a girl of nineteen or twenty years, her hands clasped behind her head. Her eyes were closed. She seemed to be asleep. The reading continued.

  “And all his friends knew him again, and cared very much for him indeed.

  “Once he thought to himself, ‘It is a very strange thing that one cannot get to see the Princess. They all say she is very beautiful; but what is the use of that, if she has always to sit in the great copper castle with the many towers? Can I not get to see her at all? Where is my tinder-box?’ And so he struck a light, and whisk! came the dog with eyes as big as teacups.

  “‘It is midnight, certainly,’ said the soldier; ‘but I should very much like to see the Princess, only for one little moment.’”

  Here the child shaded his eyes and looked down at the sands of a creek, quarter of a mile away.

  “There they are,” he exclaimed, dropping the book and scrambling to his feet. He waved delightedly to two specks on the sands below. Then: “Goodbye, Cousin Lallie,” he cried. “I’ll be home by six,” and tore away down the green slope like a mad thing. But his cousin never waked. I watched her meditatively.

  A skirt of grey blue tweed, and the fresh white of a blouse beneath a smart coat to match. Her small grey hat lay on the grass by her side. Her slim legs were crossed comfortably, and the bright sun lighted a face at once strong and gentle, clear-cut under its thick black hair, which was parted in the middle and hung low over each temple. Her brows were straight, and on the red mouth was a faint smile.

  I looked away over the glittering waves. Then I came quietly down, picked up ‘Hans Andersen,’ and took my seat by her side. I found the place and continued the story aloud:

  “And the dog was outside the door directly, and, before the soldier thought it, came back with the Princess. She sat upon the dog’s back and slept; and every one could see she was a real Princess, for she was so lovely. The soldier could not refrain from kissing her, for he was a thorough soldier…”

  Here the girl stirred, opened her eyes, saw me, and sat up.

  “Who on earth–” she began.

  “It’s all right,” said I. “It’s only a fairy tale. Besides, I’m not a soldier, although I don’t see—”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Only just begun,” said I. “Listen.

  “Then the dog ran back with the Princess. But when morning came—”

  “Where’s Roy?”

  “He had to go and join his friends,” said I. “Fortunately I happened to be here to take his place. He asked me to say he should be home not later than six. Where were we? Oh, I know.

  “But when morning came—”

  She raised a slim hand for me to stop. Then she clasped her knees and regarded me with her head on one side.

  “A bad end,” she said laconically.

  “A good beginning, anyway,” said I.

  “I might be a sorceress.”

  “I believe you are.”

  “Or an adventuress, for all you know.”

  “Or a Princess,” said I.

  “What made you do this?”

  “I’ll tell you,” said I. “Whilst you were asleep, a little smile was playing round your lips. And this smile told me that he had two twin sisters who dwelt in your eyes. And, like the soldier, I wanted to see them, Princess.”

  “Well, you have now, haven’t you?”

  I looked at her critically.

  “I’m afraid they must be out,” said I. In spite of herself she laughed. “No, there they are. Besides—”

  “What?”

  “The little smile said he had a big brother living in your heart.”

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “Yes. And that made me very brave, Princess. Otherwise I should never have dared. Honestly, it was all the little smile’s fault, bless him. Isn’t it glorious here?”

  The bright eyes swept the horizon.

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “it is. In fact, every prospect pleases.”

  “And only golf is vile.”

  “Byron never said that.”

  “I know he didn’t,” said I. “Nor, in fact, did Heber. He said ‘man.’ All the same, I’m not vile. I’m rather nice, really. At least, so one of the smaller birds told me.”

  “Not really?”

  “I mean it.”

  “Perhaps it was a skylark.”

  “As a matter of fact,” I said stiffly, “it was an owl. A breed famous for its wisdom.”

  “Ah, but you shouldn’t believe everything you’re told.”

  “It isn’t a question of what I believe, but of what other people believe,” said I.

  “But if you don’t believe it yourself, how can you expect—”

  “I never said I didn’t believe it myself. Besides, I don’t want to argue. I want to watch the smiles playing ‘Here we go round the mulberry bush.’”

  The girl broke into peals of silvery laughter. “Is my nose as bad as all that?” she said presently.

  “Your nose is the nose of dainty Columbine,” said I. “Dream noses, they call them. And you know that mulberry bushes don’t figure in that game any more than the bells of St Clement Danes are ever used by children playing ‘Oranges and lemons.’”

  “Admit it was a floater on your part, and I’ll let you play a round with me.”

  “I – er – confess, upon consideration, that the allusion—”

  “That’ll do,” she said, laughing.

  I rose. She put out a hand, and I drew her to her feet.

  “My clubs are just by that rock there. Do you think you can manage Hans Andersen?”

  “Every time,” said I, picking up the book. I shouldered her clubs and together we scrambled over the rise and down towards the fifth tee.

  “Oh, I told you I adored you, didn’t I?” I said suddenly.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Surely I did. Perhaps you were asleep.”

  “Asleep!” she said scornfully. “I was awake all the time. I nearly died when you began to read.”

  I stopped short and looked at her. “You are a deceitful witch.” I said.

  “A what witch?”

  “The which to adore,” said I.

  After the fourth hole the course lies inland. For the next ten holes you play directly away from the sea. Then the fifteenth takes a sharp turn to the left, skirting the deer park of Mote Abbey, while the sixteenth bears to the left again, heading straight for the clu
b-house and the coast once more.

  My lady was a pretty player. I gave her two strokes a hole and led till the fourteenth, but on that green she holed a ten foot putt which made us all square.

  If she hadn’t sliced her drive from the fifteenth tee, it would have been a beautiful shot. We watched it curl over the grey wall into the sunshot park.

  “Out of bounds, I suppose,” said I. “What a pity, pretty Princess.”

  “Not at all,” she replied. “It was a lovely shot. You can’t do better than follow that line.”

  “Into the deer park?”

  “Why not? It’s much prettier.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said I. “But what of that? Unless somebody’s moved it since this morning, the green’s about a hundred and twenty yards away from the wall on this side. To say nothing of the fact that the park’s private property, while there’s a notice board about three feet square, beginning ‘Golfers are requested to remember,’ at the one place where a giant might effect an entrance.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly, “I got brother to put that board there. We tried to make it polite. The caddies used to frighten the deer so.”

  I just stood and looked at her. The three smiles blazed back at me. In silence I turned and teed up. Then I drove after her ball into the fair park.

  When we reached the place where the board was posted, she touched my hand and pointed to her little brown shoe. For an instant she rested on my palm. The next moment she was on the top of the wall. She smiled her thanks before disappearing. I followed with the clubs. There was a ladder on the other side. She was awaiting my descent. In silence we walked forward together. Presently I touched her arm and stood still. She turned and looked at me, the sun making all manner of exquisite lights in her glorious hair.

  “If I had a hat on,” I said simply, “I should uncover.”

  The little bow she gave me would have launched another “thousand ships.” In the slight action all the charm of her was voiced exquisitely. Grace, sweetness and dignity – all in a bow. So it was always. Helen’s features would not have fired a sheepcote: the charm that lighted them blotted out a city. Cleopatra’s form would not have spoiled a slave: the magnetism of her ruined Marc Antony. Elizabeth’s speech would not have sunk a coracle: the personality behind it smashed an Armada.