Brother of Daphne Read online

  “I don’t look as if I’d got any money, do I?”

  “Well, you don’t look anything just now, as it’s too dark to see; but you sound like a wristwatch and a chain purse.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Intuition,” I said carelessly. “You see I’m a boy-scout.”

  “Feel.”

  She laid a slim, warm wrist against my cheek. I distinctly felt the cold round glass of a wristwatch.

  “And I’ve got a chain purse in my bag.”

  “Ah!”

  “Go on, boy-scout. Tell me what I look like in the daytime.”

  “You have ear-rings and your face is rather cold. About the kind of ear-rings I am not certain.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I found that out, when – er – when we went up the bank.”

  “Oh!”

  “Yes,” I went on hurriedly, “and—”

  “Am I dark or fair?”

  I looked hopelessly at where I knew my companion was sitting. Then: “Dark,” I said, after a minute. “Dark, with long eyelashes and two brown eyes.”

  “Two!”

  “Yes, I think so. You sound extravagant.”

  “Dimples?”

  “I think not.”

  “Nose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, please, teacher.”

  “Nonsense. What did you mean by ‘yes’?”

  “Sorry. I thought you were asking me if you’d got a nose, and I think you have. That’s all. Sorry if I’m wrong, but when you’re in the dark—”

  “Yes, but what sort of nose?”

  Here I got the near wheel up the bank again with great effect. When we had sorted ourselves: “If you do that again,” she said severely, “I’II leave you in the road—”

  “In the what?”

  “In the road to find your own way home as best you can.”

  “You have a hard nose,” I said doggedly. I was almost sure that the ear-rings were pearl ear-rings.

  There was a pause. The cold was making us silent. My fingers were getting numbed, but I dared not chafe them. I was afraid of the rug.

  “You’re not doing much for your drive,” she said presently. “Do say something.”

  “You want to converse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well, then. I didn’t see you at Blackpool this year.”

  “That’s curious.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? What’s your recreation? Forgive my seeming inquisitiveness, but I’ve just joined the staff of Who’s Who.”

  “What?”

  “No, who?”

  “Recreation?”

  “Yes. Hobby, amusement. Don’t you collect cats or keep stamps or motorboat or mountebank, I mean mountaineer, or anything?”

  “No.”

  “Never mind. I expect you know Oldham rather well, don’t you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t know it either, and I thought—”

  “What?”

  “Well, you know, we ought to know Oldham – one of us ought to. It was a Unionist gain last time.”

  “Are you a Unionist?”

  “My dear, you see in me – at least you would see in me, if it were not so dark – a high Tory.”

  “I thought you were a boy-scout.”

  “The two are not incompatible. Did you see that thing in Ally Sloper last week?”

  “No, I didn’t. Here’s a gate.”

  I got down and opened it, and she drove carefully through.

  It was the first of seven gates. By the time we had done six, I was becoming good at getting up and down, but rather tired.

  As I resumed my seat for the sixth time, I sighed. For the sixth time she returned me the reins.

  “You don’t take much care of your clothes, boy-scout,” she said. “Nearly all the men I know hitch up their trousers when they sit down.”

  “Perhaps they’re sailors.”

  “No, they aren’t.”

  “My dear girl, I don’t know how you can see I don’t, but I don’t because I haven’t got any on. I mean, I’m wearing breeches.”

  “Would you hitch them up if you had got on trousers?”

  “Let’s see, today’s Thursday. Yes, I should.”

  “Why do men always bother so about their knees?”

  “Take care of the bags, and the coats will take care of themselves,” I observed sententiously.

  “But why–?”

  Here we came upon the seventh gate.

  I groaned.

  “Six gates shalt thou labour, and do all that thou hast to do, but the seventh—”

  “Out you get, boy-scout.”

  I laid a hand on my companion’s shoulder. “Are you an enchantress?” I said. “At least, of course you are. But I mean, is this the way to your castle, Circe? And am I going to be turned into a herd of swine presently? They always have seven gates and a dense forest through which I cut a path with my sword, which, by the way, I have left in the tool shed, unless perchance, maiden, thou hast filched it from my side this last half hour. Note the blank verse again. I may say I am looking at you narrowly.”

  “Fret not for thy sword, Sir Scout,” she replied, “neither flatter thyself that Circe wastes her spells on all who come her way. Those only will she lure who—”

  “I simply love your voice,” I said.

  “Get down and open the gate.”

  I did so, and climbed slowly back.

  “It’s all right,” she said, “We haven’t got much further to go.”

  “I’m sorry for that.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Certainly. I’ve enjoyed this awfully. It’s rather funny, isn’t it? Our meeting in the dark like this and driving all these miles together and not being able to see each other once.”

  “Unique, I should think.”

  “Yes, it’s rather like being in a cell next to some one and talking by rapping against the wall.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, it reminds me awfully of my young days at Brixton.”

  “Were you at school there?”

  “Yes, for five years, before I went to Dartmoor.”

  “Oh, were you at Dartmoor? I had a cousin there a year or two ago. But he’s out now. His name was Taber.”

  “What! Not Billy Taber?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This is very strange, Circe.”

  “Yes, boy-scout. Round to the left here. That’s right. Only three more miles. This is Dilberry Farm.”

  “Dilberry! Why, that’s—”

  “Where you’re staying?

  I gulped, and laid the whip over the mare’s shoulders.

  “No,” I said doggedly, “it’s not.”

  She laid two firm little hands on my left and pulled the mare up.

  “Anything the matter?” said I.

  “Say ‘goodbye’ like a good boy-scout and thank the kind lady for giving you a lift, and then run along home,” she said sweetly.

  “What are we stopping for?” I said. “You can’t get a good view from here today. It’s too hazy.”

  “Go on.”

  “But, Circe—”

  “Be quick. I’m awfully cold.”

  “Won’t you come in and get warm before you go on, or borrow another rug, or—”

  “No, thanks awfully, I must get home.”

  “Mayn’t I see you there? I can easily walk back.”

  “No, thanks awfully, boy-scout.”

  “You mean it?”

  “I do.”

  I gave her the reins and got heavily out of the dog-cart. She moved on to the seat I had vacated and I put the rug carefully round her feet. Suddenly I remembered.

  “Stop,” I said. “Let me get some matches. At least your lamps shall be lighted.”

  Not a bit of it. Said she didn’t want them lighted. Simply wouldn’t h
ave it.

  While I was speaking, my fingers had mechanically strayed to the ticket pocket of my coat, where I sometimes carry my matches loose.

  “By George !” I said.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve just found a bit of a match – with the head on.”

  “Oh, boy-scout, and you’ve had it all the time.”

  “Yes, but it wouldn’t be enough to light the lamps with.”

  “Oh!”

  “Not the lamps.”

  “What would it be enough for?”

  “A face, Circe.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Stop, Circe. Two faces.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I’ll strike it on the tire, and then hold it between us.

  “All right.”

  “It’ll only last a second – it’s not a quarter of an inch long. You’ll have to bend down.”

  “Go on.”

  “Nerve yourself for the shock, Circe. Think you can stand it?”

  “I’ll try. Keep your back to the mare.”

  “Thank you.”

  I heard her lean over and struck the match on the tire. I raised it cautiously, sheltering it with my hands. Just as I was about to raise my eyes: “Thank you,” she said, very softly, and blew it out.

  I laid my hands on her shoulders.

  “I won’t say ‘damn,’” I said. “I’Il say ‘goodbye’ instead, like – like a good boy-scout.”

  “Say it then.”

  I said it.

  “Oh, but that isn’t—”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s a new rule.”

  When the clatter of the mare’s hoofs had died away in the distance, I walked slowly up to the farm. I was quite sure about the ear-rings this time. At least, about the one in her left ear.

  “Ah,” said Daphne, as I entered the room, “where have you been all this time?”

  All things considered, I thought that was rather good.

  “I don’t think I’ve been into Cornwall,” I said, “but I’ve done Devon pretty thoroughly.”

  “We went back for you.”

  “Ah!”

  “Why do you say ‘Ah!’?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Didn’t see anything of a ram, did you?” I added carelessly.

  There was a pause.

  “Not until after he’d seen Berry,” said Jonah.

  “Ah, where is Berry?”

  “Upstairs,” said Daphne.

  “He did – er – see Berry then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Er – how did he see him? I mean – hang it, I didn’t bring the beastly ram there.”

  “You left him there,” said Daphne.

  “I know: but you can’t pick up every tame ram you meet. Besides—”

  “Tame!” said Jonah. “Good Lord!”

  “He saw Berry, you say? Did he see him well?”

  “I think he’d have seen him home, if it hadn’t been for the brook.”

  “Courteous beast. He saw him as far as that, did he?”

  “He saw him halfway across.”

  I regret to say I laughed so immoderately that I never noticed that Berry had entered the room, until he clapped me on the shoulder.

  “It was a neat revenge,” said that gentleman; “very neat, my boy. But you deserve six months for it.”

  “Hang it,” I said, “you seem to think I—”

  “I should certainly have haunted you,” said Berry.

  Six weeks had sloped by.

  The train ran slowly into the station. I got out. Then I remembered my umbrella and got back. Then I got out again.

  “Porter,” I said.

  The individual addressed turned round, and I saw it was the station-master. For a few moments he regarded me with indignation, obviously wondering whether he would be exceeding his duty if he ordered me to be flung to the engine. Two inspectors hovered longingly near him. Then he said “Chut!” and turned away.

  I fought my way the length of the platform to the vicinity of the luggage van. Four porters were standing looking moodily at the luggage already upon the platform.

  I touched one on the shoulder.

  “Yes,” I said, “it’s a nice bit of luggage, isn’t it?”

  He said it was.

  “Don’t you think it’s that dressing-case that does it? Lends an air of distinction to the rest. Bucks it all up, as it were, eh?”

  Before he could reply: “So you’re down for the weekend too,” said a voice I should have recognized amid the hubbub of the heavenly choir. “Staying at Watereaton?”

  It was she.

  Such a pretty girl. Very fair, very blue eyes, a beautiful skin, and – yes, a dimple. She was wearing a long, fur coat, while a little black felt hat with a ghost of a brim leaned exquisitely over one of the blue eyes. Her hands were plunged into deep pockets, but a pair of most admirable legs more than made good the deficit.

  I sighed.

  “Disappointed?” she said.

  “Not in you – you’re beautiful. But in myself. Yes, I shall resign.”

  “Resign?”

  “My scout-hood.”

  “You were wrong about my hair, but—”

  “But what?”

  “You knew me again, at any rate.”

  “But of course. You’ve the same voice and the same dear laugh, and – yes, you’ve got—”

  “What?”

  “The same ear-rings,” said I.

  4: Adam and New Year’s Eve

  Jonah rose, walked to the window, pulled the curtains aside, and peered out into the darkness.

  “What of the night?” said I.

  “Doth the blizzard yet blizz?” said Berry.

  “It doth,” said Jonah.

  “Good,” said Berry. Then he turned to Daphne. “Darling, you have my warmest Yuletide greetings and heartiest good wishes for a bright New Year. Remember the old saying:

  ‘You may have more pretentious wishes,

  But more sincere you can’t than this is.’”

  “Do you believe it’s going on like this?” said his wife.

  “Dear heart – two words – my love for you is imperishable. If it were left at the goods station for a month during a tram strike, it would, unlike the sausages, emerge fresh and sweet as of yore. I mean it.”

  “Fool,” said Daphne. “I meant the weather, as you know.”

  “A rebuff,” said her husband. “Do I care? Never. Strike me in the wind, and I will offer you my second wind for another blow. I did not forget everything when I married you. But to the weather. This berlizzard – German – has its disadvantages. A little more, and we shan’t be able to bathe tomorrow. Never mind. Think of the Yule log. Noël.” Here he regarded his empty glass for a moment. “Woman, lo, your lord’s beaker requires replenishing. I ought not to have to tell you, really. However.”

  Daphne selected one of the harder chocolates, took careful aim, and discharged it in the direction of her husband’s face. It struck him on the nose.

  “Good shot,” said I. “That entitles you to a vase. If you like, you can have another two shots instead.”

  “I’ll take the vase,” said my sister. “For all the area of the target, I mightn’t hit it again.”

  “A few years ago,” said Berry, “you would probably have been pressed to death for this impious display. In consideration of your age, you might instead have been sent to a turret.”

  “What’s a turret?” said Jill.

  “Old English for bathroom, dear, and kept there till you had worked the murder of Becket in tapestry and four acts. I shall be more merciful. When you can show me a representation of the man who drew Slipaway in the Calcutta Sweep trying to believe that it wouldn’t have won, even if it hadn’t been knocked down when it was leading by nineteen lengths—”

  “Very brilliant,” said Daphne, “but the point is, what are we going to do about tomorrow night?”

  “If it goes on like this, we can’t go.”

  “Oh
, but we must,” said Jill.

  “My dear, I’m not going out in this sort of weather without Sjvensen, and he may be too busy to leave town. Besides, the blubber hasn’t come yet.”

  “Couldn’t we get hold of Wenceslas?” said I. “He’s getting five million a week at the Palliseum. Makes footprints there twice daily in real snow. The audience are invited to come and tread in them. They do, too, like anything. Happily, Wenceslas is famed for the size of his feet. But you can’t expect a man to leave—”

  “But it can’t go on like this,” said Daphne

  “My dear, English weather is like your dear self – capable of anything. Be thankful that we have only snow. If it occurred to it to rain icebergs, so that we were compelled willy or even nilly to give up sleeping out of doors, it would do so. Well, I’m tired. What about turning out, eh? Light the lanthorn, Jonah, and give me my dressing-gown.”

  “If you want to make me really ill,” said Daphne, “you’ll go on talking about bathing and sleeping out of doors.”

  Berry laughed a fat laugh.

  “My dear,” he explained, “I was only joking.”

  We were all housed together in an old, old country inn, the inn of Fallow, which village lies sleeping at the foot of the Cotswold Hills. We knew the place well. Few stones of it had been set one upon the other less than three hundred years ago, and, summer and winter alike, it was a spot of great beauty – comparatively little known, too, and far enough from London to escape most tourists. The inn itself had sheltered Cromwell, and before his time better men than he had warmed themselves at the great hearth round which we sat. For all that, he had given his name to the panelled room. Our bedrooms were as old, low-pitched and full of beams. The stairs also were a great glory. In fact, the house was in its way unique. A discreet decorator, too, had made it comfortable. Save in the Cromwell room, electric light was everywhere. And in the morning chambermaids led you by crooked passages over uneven floors to white bathrooms. It was all right.

  Hither we had come to spend Christmas and the New Year. By day we walked for miles over the Cotswolds, or took the car and looked up friends who were keeping Christmas in the country, not too many miles away. The Dales of Stoy had been kind, and before the frost came I had had two days’ hunting with the Heythrop. And tomorrow was New Year’s Eve. Four miles the other side of the old market town of Steeple Abbas, and twenty-one miles from Pallow, stood Bill Manor, where the Hathaways lived. This good man and his wife Milly were among our greatest friends, and they had wanted us to spend Christmas with them. Though we had not done so, we had motored over several times and they had lunched with us at Fallow only the day before. And for New Year’s Eve the Hathaways had arranged a small but very special ball, to which, of course, we were bidden. Indeed, I think the ball was more for us than for anyone else. Anyway, Jim and Milly said so. The idea was that we should come over in the car in time for dinner with the house party, the ball would begin about ten, and when it was over, we should return to Fallow in the ordinary way. Nobody had anticipated such heavy weather.