The Brother of Daphne Part 55

Berry rose and walked towards the door. With his fingers on the handle, he turned.

"If you don't know what some of the hard words mean," he said, "I shall be in the library."

"Why in the library?" said Daphne.

"I'm going to write in another scene."

"Another scene?"

"Well, an epilogue, then."

"What's it going to be?"

"Buckingham's murder," said Berry. "I can see it all. It will be hideously realistic. All women and children will have to leave the theatre."

As he went out:

"I expect the Duke will fight desperately," said I.

Berry put his head round the door.

"No," he said, "that's the dastardly part of it. It is from behind that his brains are dashed out with a club."

I stretched out my hand for a roll.

"Do you know how a log falls?" said Berry. "Because, if--"

I could not get Daphne to see that, if Berry had not withdrawn his head, the roll would not have hit the Sargent. However.

The good works of which Daphne is sometimes full occasionally overflow and deluge those in her immediate vicinity. Very well, then. A local inst.i.tution, whose particular function has for the moment escaped me, suddenly required funds. Perhaps I should say that it was suddenly noised abroad that this was the case, for it was one of the kind that is always in this uncomfortable plight. If one day someone were to present it with a million pounds and four billiard tables, next week we should be asked to subscribe to a fund to buy it a bagatelle board. At any rate, in a burst of generosity, Daphne had undertaken that we would get up a show. When she told us of her involving promise, we were appalled.

"A show?" gasped Jonah.

"Yes," said Berry. "You know, a show--, display. We are to exhibit us to a horrified a.s.sembly."

"But, Daphne darling," said Jill. "What have you done?"

"It's all right," said my sister. "We can do a play. A little one, you know, and the Merrows will help."

"Of course," said Berry. "Some telling trifle or other. Can't we dramatize 'The Inchcape Rock'?"

"Excellent," said I. "I should like to play the abbot. It would be rather suitable, too. If you remember, 'they blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok."'

"Why not?" said Berry. "We could have a very fervent little scene with them all blessing you."

"And perhaps Heath Robinson would paint the scenery."

And so on.

In the end, Berry and Jonah had constructed quite a pa.s.sable little drama, by dint of drawing largely on Dumas in the first place, and their own imagination in the second. There were one or two strong situations, relieved by some quite creditable light comedy, and all the 'curtains' were good. The village hall, complete with alleged stage, was engaged, and half the county were blackmailed into taking tickets.

There were only twelve characters, of which we accounted for five, and it was arranged that we should all twelve foregather four days beforehand, to rehea.r.s.e properly. The other seven artists were to stay with us at White Ladies for the rehearsals and performance, and generally till the affair had blown over.

It was ten days before the date of the production that I was cast for Buckingham. Six days to become word perfect. When three of them had gone, I explained to the others that, for all their jealousy, they would find that I should succeed in getting into the skin of the part, and that, as it was impossible to polish my study of George Villiers in the teeth of interference which refused to respect the privacy even of my own bedroom, I should go apart with Pomfret, and perfect my rendering in the shelter of the countryside.

"Have pity upon our animal life!" cried Berry, when I made known my intention. "Consider the flora and fauna of our happy s.h.i.+re!"

"Hush, brother," said I. "You know not what you say. I shall not seek the fields. Rather--"

"That's something. We don't want you hauled up for sheep-worrying just now."

"--shall I repair to some sequestered grove. There, when I shall commune with myself, Nature will go astray. Springtime will come again. Trees will break forth into blossom, meadows will blow anew, and the voice of the turtle--"

"If you don't ring off," said Berry. "I'll set George at you."

George is our gorgonzola, which brings me back to Pomfret. Pomfret is a little two-seater. I got him because I thought he'd be so useful just to run to and fro when the car was out. And he is. We made friends at Olympia, and I took to him at once. A fortnight later, Jill was driving him delightedly round and round in front of the house.

After watching her for a while, Berry got in and sat down by her side.

"Not that I want a drive," he explained carefully; "but I want to see if my dressing-case will be able to stand it as far as the station."

"If you think" I began, but the next moment Jill had turned down the drive, and I watched the three go curling out of sight.

When they returned, half an hour later, Berry unreservedly withdrew his remark about the dressing-case, and the next day, when Daphne suggested that Pomfret should bear a small basket of grapes to the vicarage, he told her she ought to be ashamed of herself.

From that day Pomfret was one of us.

And now, with three days left to learn my words, and a copy of the play in my pocket, I drove forth into the countryside. When I had idly covered about twenty miles, I turned down a little lane and pulled up by the side of a still wood. I stopped the engine and listened. Not a sound. I left the road and strolled in among the trees till I came to where one lay felled, making a little s.p.a.ce. It was a suns.h.i.+ny morning in October, and summer was dying hard. For the most part, the soft colourings of autumn were absent, and, as if loyal to their old mistress, the woods yet wore the dear green livery, faded a little, perhaps, but the more grateful because it should so soon be laid aside.

The pleasant place suited my purpose well, and for twenty minutes I wrestled with the powerful little scene Jonah had written between the Queen and Buckingham. By the end of that time I knew it fairly well, so I left it for a while and stealthily entered the old oak chamber--Act III, Scene I--by the secret door behind the arras. After bringing down the curtain with two ugly looks, four steps, and a sneer, I sat down on the fallen beech-tree, lighted a cigarette, and wondered why I had rejected the post of call-boy. Then I started on the love-scene again.

"'Madam, it is said that I am a harsh man. I am not harsh to every one. Better for me, perhaps, if I were; yet so G.o.d made me.'"

"When do you open?"

"That's wrong," said I. "'Can you be gentle, then?' comes after that.

Now, however, that you have shattered the atmosphere I had created--of course, I think you're absolutely beautiful, and, if you'll wait a second, I'll get Pomfret's rug."

"I don't know what you mean, but thanks all the same, and if Pomfret doesn't mind, this tree is rather grubby."

I got the rug and spread it on the fallen trunk for her. She was what the Irish are popularly believed to call 'a shlip of a ghirl,' clad in a dark blue riding-habit that fitted her slim figure beautifully. No hat covered her thick, blue-black hair, which was parted in the middle and loosely knotted behind. Here and there a wisp of it was in the act of escaping. I watched them greedily. Merry grey eyes and the softest colouring, with a small red mouth, ready to join the eyes in their laughter if its owner listed. She was wearing natty little patent-leather boots, and her hunting hat and crop lay on the log by her side. She sat down and began to pull the gloves off a pair of small brown hands.

"Do you know if cats ever drink water?" she said musingly.

"From what I remember of last year's statistics, there was, I believe, a marked decrease in the number of alcoholism cases reported as occurring amongst that species. I'm speaking off-hand, you know."

"Never mind that: it's very good hearing."

"I know, and, talking of tight-ropes, Alice, have you seen the March Hare lately?"

She threw her head back and laughed merrily. Then--