Berry Scene

by Dornford Yates

  “Well, I learned my lesson all right and from that day to this I’ve kept my beliefs to myself. From that day to this…”

  Toby leaned forward.

  “This morning I came down as usual at five to eight. But not to family prayers. These had been cancelled. Instead, the butler desires me to go to the drawing-room. There are Aunt Ira and Congreve, looking like blocks of black ice. When I asked what the trouble was, they spoke of shame and horror, of vulgar outrage and gross effrontery. ‘Monstrous’ and ‘abominable’ were among their epithets. In a word, it seemed very clear that I had given offence.

  “Well, of course I’m used to Aunt Ira. She’s old and she’s built that way. Thorns to burn, but she’s been a good rose to me. But Congreve had no right to speak to me as he did. So I took him on. I said that he was a lawyer, and I was not; but that I’d always understood that it was a principle of law that, before a bloke was convicted, he should be informed of the charge. That shook him, I think, for he looked at me very hard. And then he stated his case.

  “At half-past ten last night he retired – to the Arras Room. About half-past one this morning he woke, to find his feet cold. This was not surprising, because they were not covered up. The bed-clothes – sheet and blankets – had been untucked and turned back from the foot of the bed. Well, he thought that was very queer, but supposed that in his sleep he’d loosened and kicked them off. So he wraps up his toes again and goes back to sleep. At two o’clock he wakes up, to find the clothes going away – being drawn off his body and over the foot of the bed. He seizes the sheet and holds it with all his might: but the blankets go on – he feels them sliding away. And his sheet’s being pulled. He calls out, but nobody answers: and nobody hears him, of course, ’cause he’s too far off. There’s no electric light, so he gets a knee on the sheet and feels for a match. As he finds the box, the sheet goes away, and, when he can light his candle, there are the clothes on the floor at the foot of the bed. As he looks round the room, the candle goes out; and when he lights it again, there’s nobody there.

  “That is Congreve’s tale; and I’ve not the slightest doubt that it’s perfectly true. That blasted room is haunted and always was; and some damned ghost or other was doing his stuff last night. But the point is they think it was me. Neither Aunt Ira nor Congreve can accept the supernatural: you might as well ask them to believe in a well-read giraffe. They are, therefore, forced to the conclusion that the outrage was committed by me. The servants, of course, are washed out – they’re all too old. But Captain Toby Rage… If history may be believed, some fifty years ago the practical joke was the vogue, and its most faithful exponent was the dashing young Guardsman. And Aunt Ira the Good and Congreve still live in seventy-five.

  “Net result – Congreve is ‘inexpressibly pained and never would have believed’; Aunt Ira is ‘horrified and filled with the utmost disgust’ – and so incensed that she can hardly sit still; Toby is sunk. You see, it’s a matter of deduction. If it wasn’t a ghost, it was Toby: and as ghosts don’t exist, then it must have been me. And I went to bed at eleven, and never woke up till Sarah brought me my tea. Incidentally, you wouldn’t get me into the Arras Room after dark for any money.”

  There was a little silence.

  Then—

  “Has Congreve gone?” said Berry.

  “You bet,” said Toby. “He had an appointment in Town at twelve o’clock. Besides, he’s a Will to alter. What do I do?”

  “You go back and take your leave – very respectfully, of course. You feel that you cannot stay any longer in a house in which your solemn word is disbelieved. Even your aunt’s house. If ever she should have occasion to vary the unhappy conclusion to which she has come, nothing will give you greater pleasure than to return.”

  “She won’t,” said Toby. “Why should she? You know, I don’t blame the old girl. She doesn’t want to think that I have insulted her guest, but her outlook leaves her no alternative. If someone could shake her conviction that ghosts do not exist—”

  “I hope they will,” said Berry, “almost at once.” We all regarded him. “Tomorrow two eminent men are coming to lunch with us. One is a distinguished art-critic: the other is Wrotham, the well-known architect. Wrotham we know – slightly; and a very nice fellow he is. But we don’t know Basing at all, except by repute. For all that, here and now, I’m going to ring him up. You see, he’s not only a critic. He is also the president of some society or other that believes in and investigates the activities of what are called ghosts.”

  Toby went down on his knees.

  I shall always consider that Berry did very well.

  He spoke to Thomas Basing and shortly told him the facts. Then he asked him to visit Congreve without delay. “Much will depend,” he told him, “on how you handle this man, for Congreve alone can procure you admission to Rokesby Hall. If you shake Congreve, he will shake Mrs Medallion – enough to make her receive you and hear what you say. Then, after lunching with us, you can drive over to Rokesby and see the Arras Room. Perhaps she will let you sleep there, if that should be your desire.”

  Basing was greatly excited and promised to act at once. And so he must have done, for that afternoon he rang up, to say that he had seen Congreve, who was returning to Rokesby the following day. “Mrs Medallion will receive me at four o’clock. Whether I can convince her, I do not know. But Congreve is clearly shaken and dreads that a grave injustice may have been done.”

  Toby Rage had withdrawn to his Club; and there we had undertaken to ring him up. But not until after dinner. In any event it was better that he should keep out of the way.

  Berry glanced at his watch and, using the greatest caution, rose to his feet.

  “The stage,” he declared, “is set. If Mrs Medallion determines to stop her ears, there’s an end of the matter – and Toby, too. Of course she’s a very hard case, and more than once, in the past, our Toby has put a foot wrong. But Basing sounded all right and he’s got some way. That Congreve’s returning to Rokesby is excellent news. And now I’m going to shamble about the lawn. It can’t make my back any worse, and I must have some air.”

  “I’ll come in five minutes,” said Daphne. “I must see Bridget about the laundry-maid.”

  (As her mother before her, Bridget Ightham had risen to be our housekeeper: and, as her mother before her, she had come to command our affection and our respect.)

  Jill and I made our way to the tennis-court…

  “Poor Toby,” said my small cousin. “I do think Mrs Medallion should take his word.”

  “So she should,” said I. “Except to save another, Toby would never lie. The lady is in a cleft stick. If she takes Toby’s word, she must allow that there are such things as ghosts. And that she cannot do. Ghosts are to her as miracles are to us. We don’t believe in miracles. And—”

  “I do,” said Jill simply.

  “I know, my sweet. But then you have a faith that most of us don’t possess.”

  “I can’t see why,” said Jill. “Why we all shouldn’t have it, I mean. I’ve never seen a miracle done, but when you look at the world – and the dawn and the dusk and the seasons…a frosty night without a breath of wind or a cloud in the sky… I know people take them for granted, but those are miracles, Boy. Of course they were done a great many years ago, and I suppose we’ve got used to them. But when you think of putting the sun in the heaven or even of growing an oak from a tiny acorn, the size of my finger-tip – well, it isn’t such a great matter to make a lame man walk.”

  “That’s very true,” said I. “And I’ll give you this – if more people had your faith, I think we should see more miracles done today.”

  “It’s science,” said Jill. “And Mrs Medallion’s like science. She can’t believe a thing, unless she can understand it. And that’s pre-presumptionous. Our brains aren’t big enough. And the silly thing is that she’ll watch a conjurer and say how clever he is; but she’s not the slightest idea how he does his tricks. And it’s just the same wi
th science. When a conjurer does his stuff – a good one, I mean, they say it’s marvellous. They can’t think how he does it, and things like that. But when the dawn comes up, it’s up to them to explain the miracle.”

  It is written, ‘Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings…’

  Before we had finished two games, a screech of pain, that rose from the lawn to rend the evening air, suggested that Berry had had another attack: but when the screech was succeeded by roars for help, we left the court and ran as fast as we could.

  Berry was down on all fours, in the midst of the lawn: and The Bold and Nobby were barking and leaping about him in heathenish ecstasy. As we arrived, The Bold contrived to scramble upon his back – a king-of-the-castle effect, to which Nobby at once subscribed by launching furious assaults. Such massage was too rough and too ready for Berry’s complaint; yet such was the state of his muscles that to disperse his assailants was quite beyond his power. And so he fell back upon his lungs…

  As Daphne, Bridget and Falcon came running out of the house, Jill snatched The Bold from his ‘castle’, and I seized Nobby and put him under my arm. But Berry continued to bellow, crawling about the lawn like an anthropoid ape, till Daphne and Falcon, between them, had got him on to his feet.

  “What ever happened?” said Daphne.

  “I must have an injection,” said Berry. “You know, when the heart’s very weak, they—”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said his wife.

  “I’m not being a fool,” screamed Berry. “I’ve had a great shock. My pulse is irregular. I can’t find the swine, but it can’t be anything else. A brandy and soda, Falcon: I’m not as good as I was.”

  “At once, sir,” said Falcon, turning towards the house.

  “And a hot-water bottle, Bridget. Not here. In the library.”

  “I wish, sir,” said Bridget, “you’d let me iron your back.”

  Berry stifled a scream.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just the shocking picture the words present. You know. The mere idea of adding hot iron to my flesh – a flesh already tortured beyond belief, is almost more than the mind of man can bear. You see, if you were to scorch me, I should go out of my mind. My cries would be heard in Brooch. Compline would be interrupted, and—”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t do that, sir. The iron wouldn’t be that hot. And it always does father good.”

  “So be it,” said Berry. “I can’t go on like this. What hour will be convenient?”

  “When you’re in bed, sir,” said Bridget. “The very last thing.”

  “You’re very good. Shall we say half-past ten?”

  “Whenever you please, sir. You’ve only to send for me.”

  “Make it half-past ten, if you please.”

  As Bridget withdrew—

  “And now what happened?” said Jill.

  “I dropped the matches,” said Berry. “No more than that. A simple and innocent faux pas which even the Earl of Chesterfield could not condemn. But, such is the malignancy of my tenant, I could not retrieve the box without going down upon my knees. I, therefore, adopted a posture, convenient, but unbecoming and, indeed, reminiscent of the great Nebuchadnezzar, who, if History may be believed, cropped and devoured herbage, even as the beasts that perish, to the great scandal of mankind. Very well. Having, by numbers, assumed this inelegant pose, I was in the very act of seizing the box, when The Bold appeared from nowhere and stole it away. Of course I crawled after the swine – to his great delight, entreating, conjuring and threatening without avail. Looking more like a gargoyle than ever, he bore the box off in his mouth, always just out of range, with his tail mast-high. I tell you, I could have done murder: my condition, however, was precluding common assault. Congestion of the brain was at hand, when Nobby arrived… With that abnormal instinct upon which you all insist with a frequency which is quite sickening, that paragon saw in a flash that The Bold and I were engaged in a gorgeous game. Whimpering with understanding, he flung himself with rapture into the ring, and before I could get my breath, the two were giving points to the priests of Baal. I was the sacrifice. To rise was beyond my power: and, so long as I remained couchant, I was the goods. Protest was unavailing: indeed, the more rabid my abuse, the faster and more furious became the fun. Bear-baiting wasn’t in it. When I sought to grab either sportsman, the gesture served to swell the frolicsome tide. You see, I was pulling my weight. When I missed Nobby’s tail, the two of them squealed with mirth – and then returned pell-mell to avenge the abortive assault. My efforts at self-preservation were read as invitations to quicken the pace: my screams were so many halloos: frenzy inspired frenzy, and if you hadn’t come when you did, I should have been disembowelled before my eyes.”

  As Falcon arrived with a salver, Jill addressed the Sealyham, now lying along the sward.

  “Poor Berry,” she said, pointing. “He’s got a bad back.”

  Nobby is nothing if not sympathetic. In a flash he was up and was leaping, to lick the invalid’s nose. Instinctively Berry recoiled – very slightly, of course, but enough to bring into play the muscles which were in balk. That there might be no doubt about this, he let out a yell which must have been heard for miles, clawed hold of Daphne and began to declaim the notice which he wished to appear in The Times.

  On the twenty-second of August, after incredible suffering and in great agony, BERTRAM, only husband of…

  Whilst Jill detained Nobby, I poured the brandy and soda and put the glass into his hand.

  “That’ll help you up,” I said.

  Berry took a long draught. Then—

  “Oblige me,” he said, “by removing these adorable dogs. Lock them up in a cupboard or something, till horse-play’s once more in my line. Of course—”

  “Not that one, you don’t,” said a voice. “I’ve just come here to get him. That’s my dog.”

  As we all swung round, except Berry—

  “Good God, more Cokers,” said the latter. “Lock them up, too.”

  A fat man, in plus-fours, was standing six feet away. At rest in the drive was a very large limousine. We had not observed his approach nor that of his car, because, of course, of the flurry to which we had just subscribed.

  For a moment we stared upon him.

  Then—

  “You’ve made a mistake,” I said.

  “Not likely,” said the other.

  “Which dog do you mean?” said Daphne.

  “The Peke, in course,” said the stranger. “My wife recognized him, she did. Drivin’ past in the car, we were; an’ she says, ‘There ’e is.’”

  I turned to look at the road, at least ninety paces away.

  “Your wife,” I said, “must have astonishing sight.”

  “She ’as,” said the other, shortly. “Come ’ere, Lychee.”

  Thus addressed, The Bold surveyed him with great contempt.

  Berry was speaking.

  “He doesn’t seem to know you,” he said. “May I ask when you lost him?”

  That a great deal hung upon the answer, I need not say. That the Chinaman, now in jail, had stolen the dog, I found it hard to believe. Still, if it came to a show-down, to say that the dice would be loaded is putting it low.

  “Ten days ago,” said the stranger. We breathed again. “I’d know him anywhere.”

  “Then you’ve made a mistake,” said Berry. “We’re taking care of that dog, and he’s been with us for a month. I think that settles the matter. Good afternoon.”

  “Don’t talk silly,” said the other. “My wife don’t make mistakes. That there’s her dog, an’—”

  Jill let fly.

  “How can it be her dog? It was here for twenty days before her dog was lost.”

  “It may ’ave been more than ten days.”

  “That won’t do,” said Berry. “Your wife has made a mistake, and you’d better withdraw.”

  “Wot, without the dog? ’Ere, Lychee.”

  The Bold stared at the speaker, as though he were filt
h. As the man took a step towards him, Nobby let out a growl.

  A woman’s voice came from the car.

  “Don’t stand there arguin’, Walter. I want my dog.”

  Walter turned and lumbered back to the car. After a violent discussion, he turned again. As he came up—

  “It’s her dog all right,” he said. “An’ she wants him back. Can’t be sure when he went missing. Maybe three weeks.”

  Berry expired. Then—

  “It is very easy,” he said, “to say that a dog is yours. Lots of blackguards do it, because it’s an easy way of getting something for nothing, at somebody else’s expense.”

  “If you think—”

  “The dog cannot deny it, because he cannot speak. But, if the present owner denies what you say, then you must prove what you say before you can take the dog. You can prove nothing. The dog does not know you, nor does he know his name. When asked when you lost him, at first you say ten days and then three weeks. I can prove that this dog has been here a month. Of your capacity for mathematics, I know nothing: but your standard must be deplorably low if you are unable to deduce that the dog which your wife has lost was not yet lost when this dog was put in my charge.”

  “Can’ ’elp that,” said the other. “That’s my wife’s dog, an’ I’m goin’ to take it away.”

  “Quite sure?” said Berry.

  “You bet.”

  “And you’re neither deaf nor insane?”

  “I ’eard.”

  Berry turned to Falcon.

  “Ring up the police. Say that I’m being molested. They’ll know what to do.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  As the butler withdrew—

  “Did you say ‘molested’?” said Walter.

  “I did,” said Berry. “Are you familiar with the word?”

  “In course,” said the other, “there’s somethin’ comin’ to you.”

  “What fun,” said Berry. “D’you think it’ll wear blue, too?” He turned to Daphne. “Come, my dear. The gorgonzolas are waiting. It’s past their feeding time. Falcon will let us know when the van arrives.”