Berry Scene

by Dornford Yates

Lady Touchstone inspected her wrist.

  “I’m pretending my watch is misleading. All the same, another ten minutes, and I must go. I’m sure I don’t have to say I’ve enjoyed myself. The fact must stand out.”

  Sir Anthony smiled.

  “You speak for us all, Harriet. But, by the way, what a beautiful dancer you are.”

  “That’s because I’m fat,” said Lady Touchstone. “I was never bad, but now that I’ve put on weight, I’m extremely good. The fatter I grow, the better I seem to perform. In another five years, I shall be giving exhibitions. After that, I suppose it’ll be the circus. You’ll have to come with me, Tony. D’you still carry bulls about?”

  In the prime of life, Sir Anthony had been fabulously strong.

  “Not quite. But if you go, I will. I can still lift a chair by its leg, and that’s quite good enough.”

  “Good,” said Lady Touchstone. “And the Judge shall be our showman. And after the show, we’ll all have supper together in my caravan. Crab and stout. Oh, ‘Motley’s the only wear’.”

  His lordship looked round.

  “When I think,” he said, “that all next week I must go robed in scarlet and ride in a coach, the prospect of sleeping off crab and stout in a tent is most alluring.”

  Lady Touchstone leaned forward.

  “I’m lunching at Brooch on Thursday. May I come and sit on the Bench for half an hour?”

  “God forbid,” said the Judge. “I’m sure I should catch your eye. Besides, you’re not a nice woman.”

  It was nearly one o’clock when our guests were sped.

  We have always been proud of the village cricket ground. for the timber that rises about it – elm and lime and chestnut – is beautiful stuff, and the little, old church and its yard, to the north of the handsome meadow, make up as English a picture as any that Constable saw. But, indeed, the very spirit of England was living and moving about the sward that day – that pride of fellowship, precious to high and low, that knows no condescension or disrespect, that no other country on earth can so much as understand. Old Lord Udal of Rosewood had come to cheer Cleric on and had brought a groom and a gardener to play their part on the green. And Mrs de Lisle was there – I heard her charging her butler before the game began. ‘Now do be careful, Worsted, until you get set. Remember what happened at Dovetail. Play yourself in.’ Colonel Buckshot had given the Curate a seat in his car; and Admiral Foley, driving his four-wheeled dog-cart, had brought the baker’s assistant and one of the saddler’s sons. And, of course, the Bagots were there: and so were the Ighthams and Lady Elizabeth Veil. So much for the opening of play. But after lunch, two-thirds of the village were present and many came over from Cleric to watch the match.

  Two tents had been pitched beside the changing-room, and garden seats and chairs had been collected and set in the shade of the trees. With the help of the Scouts, Peters and Furness, the grocer, had done this cheerful duty; and now they were busy attending to everyone’s comfort and making all things smooth.

  “Just beside the big chestnut, my lord. You’ll see very well from there. Come up close to the trunk, Jim, and then bring them round very sharp. Yes, my lord, there’s stabling reserved at The Rose. Good morning, Sir Giles. Will you follow his lordship’s carriage? Stop anywhere there, sir. Your groom can take the mare, and we can manhandle the dog-cart wherever you please. Well, Arthur, you’re looking fit. Is Dolly coming along to see us cut you down? Good morning, madam. We’re putting the cars over there. Just to the right of that elm, if that’ll suit you. Jump on the step, Billy, and show the chauffeur where we’re putting the cars. An’ don’t forget to open the door…”

  Cleric won the toss and batted first.

  Bilberry started well, for four good wickets were down for thirty-two runs: but then the smith and Worsted stopped the rot, and the hundred went up before the latter was bowled. At lunch the score was a hundred and twelve for six, and, when we went in to bat, at five minutes to three, we faced a total of a hundred and fifty-eight.

  Berry was inconsolable.

  “And to think I dropped Fred Able before he had scored!”

  Fred Able was the blacksmith. After his ‘life’ he had hit up forty-two.

  “These things happen,” said I.

  “You shut your face,” said Berry. “That was an oratorical apostrophe. When you hear a lament like that, you should go on your knees. Comment is indecent. ‘Fell sorrow’s tooth doth never rankle more, Than when it b-bites, but lanceth not the sore.’”

  “Darling,” said Daphne, “the sun was in your eyes.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Berry. “It was in the small of my back. Except that ‘the leathery duke’ was rough with these delicate palms, I have no excuse. O Hanwell, Hanwell, had I but served my side as you shall serve my turn – No, that’s wrong.”

  “I thought you had it,” said Jonah.

  “So,” said Berry, “did I. I was just going to throw it up, as they do at Lords. And then it fell on to my foot.”

  “I once did worse,” said the Judge. “I ran our best batsman out, when he’d just got set. And that was at Lords. I remember praying for an earthquake, as I watched him walk off the ground.”

  “Was that the year, sir,” I said, “when you took nine wickets and hit the stumps eight times?”

  “It was. And that’s my point. Your brother-in-law will more than repair his mistake. I’ve seen it happen so often.”

  Derry Bagot came up, smiling.

  With his hand upon Berry’s shoulder—

  “Allow me,” he said, “to offer you this consolation. In the changing-room just now, Ted Halsey spoke for us all. ‘He can drop what catches he likes – Mas’r Berry can. He’s done his bit this season by laying The Butcher out.’ Didn’t you hear the applause?”

  I fear the scoring was slow, but Cleric’s saddler’s son kept a beautiful length. At five o’clock, the outlook was none too good, for five of our wickets were down for eighty-nine. And stumps would be drawn at six. Seventy runs to make, and an hour to go.

  As Berry came by, to join me—

  “Now’s your chance,” said I. “Beat the ball into the sky.”

  “You bet,” said my brother-in-law.

  He was as good as his word.

  At once he went for the bowling and hit the saddler’s son all over the field. The village roared its delight, and the Judge was waving his hat on the end of his stick. In half an hour we had put on forty-five runs. And then I was caught in the slips. Still, things were looking much better. Twenty-five runs to make, and twenty-eight minutes to go. But Worsted was bowling his best.

  Berry was joined by William, our second groom. Together they put on six, before William was bowled.

  “Oh, I can’t bear it,” said Daphne. “It isn’t fair. If we’re to beat Cleric, we’ve got to beat the clock.”

  With an eye on the church-tower—

  “Nineteen to get,” said I, “and fourteen minutes to go. It has been done.”

  Ted Halsey came hastening out…

  He survived the rest of the over, but made no runs. Then Berry faced the baker’s assistant, who knew how to pitch them up.

  We waited breathlessly…

  Then Berry slammed a ball past mid-off.

  “Come on,” he roared… “And again” – and bolted back down the pitch.

  “Oh, he’s done,” shrieked Janet.

  “How’s that?” howled Cleric.

  But Berry was home by inches, and the umpire shook his head.

  The next ball he let alone.

  His next two strokes were boundaries, and the village yelled itself hoarse.

  Then Berry hit a one very nicely, and ‘Over’ was called.

  “Eight runs to make,” breathed Jill, with her eyes on the clock. “Is this the last over, Boy?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said I. “Hullo, they’re taking off Worsted. The Curate’s going on.”

  The Curate’s leg-breaks were famous; but Berry was taking no risks.r />
  He ran out and met the first one…

  Six runs to make, and just five minutes to go.

  The second ball Berry mis-hit, but one run was scored.

  Ted Halsey was palpably nervous: but he had learned of Berry and kept his head. He ran out to meet the next ball and left it in the midst of the pitch… Before a fielder could reach it, Berry was back and was facing the Curate again.

  I never remember such a silence.

  Then the Curate sent down a full toss – and Berry squared his shoulders and hit it out of the ground.

  With a squeal of delight, Jill flung her arms round my neck. The clock must have chimed and struck, but nobody present heard it, because of the cheers. Sir Anthony was standing on a chair and roaring like any bull, and the Judge had his hands to his mouth and was shouting ‘Well done’: Mrs de Lisle was waving her parasol, and Lady Elizabeth had hold of Daphne’s hands: Derry Bagot and Peters were fussing over Berry and bringing him in, and Admiral Foley stopped them, to shake his hand. ‘There are some victories, my boy, that the vanquished cannot grudge. Come across and see old Udal, before he goes.’ I think that he spoke for Cleric, for I never saw a defeat that was taken so well. And the old Earl was very cordial. ‘Your match, Pleydell, your match. Off your own bat, you won it – and won it well. Haven’t enjoyed myself so much for twenty years. And here’s the Judge. Judge, I say it’s his match – and you’ll bear me out.’ And we all made much of Ted Halsey; and Ightham and Mrs Ightham were waiting to say how happy they were; and Fergus led the cheers, when at last Berry made his way to the changing-room.

  Four hours had gone by. Dinner was over and done, and we were all at our ease about the library fire. A slow wood fire, just to take the chill off the chamber; for great old rooms can be cool on a summer’s night. I left my seat by Daphne, to search the shelves for some book, and, when I turned to come back, with the book in my hand, I stood quite still for a moment, regarding what might be called ‘a conversation piece’.

  Two stout, oak logs were slowly growing rose-red upon the hearth – stately, comfortable embers, soon to go grey: now and again a baby flame would leap from behind the wood, to flare and fret for a moment, before it died. In a recess to the right, the crimson casement-curtains hung still as death – except for two, that trembled and swayed now and then, to speak to the air beyond. Daphne, deep in her chair, with her feet to the hearth, was lifting her lovely profile, to dwell upon the canvas by Herring that, ever since I can remember, has hung on the panels above the mantelpiece. On the opposite side sat Berry, his comely features outlined against the spines of books: chin down, legs crossed, he was lazily drafting a letter upon a writing-block. From time to time he drew upon his cigar. As I watched, he picked up his brandy glass and, finding it empty, raised his eyes to heaven and put it down. Jonah was sitting to a table upon the arm of a chair. Pipe in mouth, as always, his keen and handsome face was bent to a map of Europe. Now and again, he would thoughtfully measure a distance, using, because he was Jonah, a pair of compasses. And side by side on the sofa, Jill and Sir William Granite were sharing with murmured rapture a volume of reproductions of Holbein the Younger’s work. The two themselves made a picture which many a master, I think, would have wished to paint. My little cousin still looked but a beautiful child – that is playing at being an adult by piling her golden hair on the top of her head. Her eager air was compelling: her artlessness, not of this world. Jill is made of a stuff which will not go into words. And the fine, old head beside hers was that of a man whose school is now extinct. Breeding, wisdom and strength were declared by those splendid features, then sixty-seven years old. I had seen them grave so often; but now they were gay – intent upon Jill’s pink finger, picking some exquisite detail out of the gorgeous page.

  I shall never know why I stopped to value these things. But now I remember them gladly, because they belong to the last night I spent at White Ladies before the outbreak of war.

  Berry let his block fall and got to his feet.

  “I know no fate more foul than to be a conscientious trustee. I’m perfectly sure that Sir William will bear me out.”

  “That I will,” said the Judge warmly. “I’ve suffered enough myself. But you should be above trusteeship on such a day.”

  “I am, sir,” said Berry. “But I cannot escape my conscience. I ought to have written that letter two days ago.”

  “I’ll keep your conscience till Monday. May I go to Church tomorrow – to Matins?”

  “Of course,” said Daphne. “Unless you would rather walk, Boy or Jonah will drive us up in the car.”

  “I’ll walk, if you please, my dear. Do you have the Vicar to lunch?”

  “He’s a standing invitation.”

  “In that case, I’ll bring him back. After lunch I must read depositions which I should have read before. You five have corrupted me. You’ve pointed the path of pleasure and urged me down.” Here the Judge took out his eye-glass and wiped it carefully. Then he looked up and round. “I haven’t been so happy for many years.”

  “Isn’t that fun?” said Jill. And when she bade him good night, she put up her face to be kissed.

  It was upon the following evening, when the Judge and I were at dinner in the Judge’s Lodging at Brooch, that a servant brought in a note from Colonel Lake.

  The Judge broke the seal and read it and passed it to me.

  Dear Judge.

  While the Assistant Commissioner is not prepared to inconvenience you to the extent of asking for your Marshal to be released, he would like him to stand by for a summons at any time. If I may see you for five minutes after your Charge to the Grand Jury tomorrow morning, I can be more explicit.

  In great haste.

  Yours very truly,

  Jasper Lake.

  “Is the bearer waiting?” said the Judge.

  “Yes, Sir William.”

  “Then bring me a writing-pad.”

  Two minutes later his answer went off.

  Dear Colonel,

  Certainly. Be in my room at the Castle at a quarter-past ten.

  Yours sincerely,

  W Granite.

  His lordship was ‘churched’ the next morning; but I was not there, for I had to be at the Castle, before he arrived.

  I had done what I had to do and was on my way to the gateway, to meet the coach, when I ran into Colonel Lake.

  As he opened his mouth, I heard the fanfare of trumpets which meant that the coach was there.

  “Wait in his room,” I cried, and took to my heels.

  I was just in time to receive the Judge on his entry and take my place in the little procession formed.

  One minute later we were upon the Bench.

  The Grand Jury was in its box, some twelve feet above the floor. The Judge bowed to them, as usual, before he took his seat. Then the Clerk of Assize called their names. When he had done, I rose and looked at the Foreman. He looked at me, too nervous to find his voice.

  I raised my own.

  “I think, sir, you have a request you would like to make.”

  “Er, yes. We – that is, the Grand Jury would be glad if they could be sworn in the old-fashioned way.”

  (It was at my instance that this request was made. The old-fashioned way was more simple and took less time.)

  I glanced at the Judge.

  “Certainly, gentlemen.”

  I raised my eyes to the box and began to administer the oath.

  “You, sir, as Foreman of this Grand Inquest—”

  And there I stopped dead.

  To the left and the rear of the Foreman was standing my blind man. I had no shadow of doubt. His face was square and grim and was faintly suggesting a skull. He had no eyebrows. If proof were needed, the fellow was staring at me, as though my head were that of Medusa herself.

  The Judge was speaking under his breath.

  “What is it, Pleydell? What is it?”

  “It’s Y,” I breathed. “He’s standing there, looking at me.” />
  “Leave the Bench and see Lake. He’ll know what to do. And then come back.”

  As I turned, I heard him speaking.

  “I must apologize for this delay, gentlemen. The Marshal will swear you in a minute or two. Until you are sworn, no one will leave the box.”

  As I entered the Judge’s room, the Chief Constable rose to his feet.

  “Y,” I cried. “He’s sitting on the Grand Jury. He’s wearing a black tie, with a pearl pin – the only one, I think. And a red button-hole.”

  “Name?”

  “I don’t know. But he can’t escape, if you put a man on the door.”

  “Certain, Boy?”

  “Certain. And I saw him recognize me.”

  Lake ran out of the room and I returned to the Bench.

  “All right?” said the Judge.

  “All right, sir.”

  “Then carry on.”

  I raised my eyes to the box.

  “You, sir, as Foreman of this Grand Inquest…”

  Four minutes later I swore a German spy.

  It was while we were sitting at lunch in the Judge’s room that the Chief Constable opened the door and put in his head.

  “All over,” he said. “He took poison ten minutes ago. He knew the game was up, when we gave them each a paper to read and sign. Finger-prints. Details later, sir, I’ve got to get in touch with the Yard.”

  Two days later we had the truth in our hands.

  Dear Judge,

  Y was — Esq., of Ploughboys, some twenty-two miles from Brooch. His true name was Veishner and he was German by birth. He was naturalized in 1902. His role of a respectable country gentleman, with a leaning to botany, was very well played. He was actually elected to the Travellers’ in 1908.

  Papers of the utmost value have been found at his house. These show that he has been in constant touch with the German Embassy for the last ten years and that, in the event of war, he was to be in charge of a system of espionage which I can only describe as formidable.

  Please convey my warmest congratulations to Pleydell on his recognition of this enemy. The Assistant Commissioner is writing to him, himself.