Courts of Idleness (11 page)

“Yes. I’ll tell you when to stand by.”

Two minutes later they were clear of the outposts. Like the little town behind them, the road and the countryside had taken on a look of soberness. With the grey light of dawn, the shadows had fled. Fantasy, with all her shining train, was gone westward. The brave show the moonlight had made was over. The world about them seemed to be cleared for action.

As before, the sergeant sat on the foot-board at Ewing’s feet. After a while he plucked a great revolver from under his coat, and held it ready for use in his right hand. With the left he laid hold of the strap that should keep him in. Above him Ewing sat motionless, his hands deep as ever in the great pockets of his coat, his eyes never lifting from the pale road tapering into the distance. Courtier leaned comfortably against the short back of the seat, his chin lifted a little, smiling easily into the rush of the air that swept over the lower half of the wind-screen steadily, like a long, cold wave. He might have been driving up from Newmarket after a good day.

So presently they came to the silent village, and the stream flowing beyond it, and the long ranks of poplars lining the way.

As they dropped into the wood, Ewing made as though he would draw his hands out of his pockets. Then he changed his mind suddenly, and let them stay where they were. A smile at his own impulse flickered over his face. But Courtier had seen the movement with the tail of his eye and laughed outright.

“‘Just the place for a nasty skid,’” he quoted amusedly, taking out the clutch.

And it would have been, if the road had been at all greasy. All the same, they rounded the corner carefully – to see the German uniforms seventy paces away.

Infantry, about a hundred strong, marching towards them in a dense mass: all on the slope of the steep hill midway between the upper and the lower wood.

At one and the same moment they saw and were seen. For a fraction of a second they stared – the one at the other. Then, with a cry, Courtier let in the clutch and pressed the accelerator right down…

It was their only chance, and slight as a hair at that. Death in front of them, death swaying behind them… Put an odd bullet into the body of the van and all in Lence and Otto alike would know the fate of their nitro-glycerine.

The Clement leaped forward like a thing gone mad. The grey mass had halted, and an officer was shouting and fumbling at his holster. Ewing fired with his left hand, resting his wrist on the wind-screen; his right arm lay across Courtier’s shoulder. He would cover him on that side if he could. The sergeant was on his feet firing.

As the officer fell, the mass shivered and broke – too late. Into and over the grey uniforms – that was the way of the van. Literally she ploughed her way through, heaving, rocking, leaping, hurling herself along, hoarse screams of agony and terror ringing her round. Courtier clung to the wheel desperately, helping her all he could. Ewing had lost his balance and lay on his side on the seat, his right arm stretched behind Courtier, blazing away over the Stepney wheel. The sergeant was leaning out at the side, wielding his empty revolver, roaring like one possessed, roaring, roaring… Then a German officer fired full in his face, and he pitched forward heavily on to the broad highway.

It was the only shot the enemy fired. The miracle had happened, and they had come through – they and the death swaying behind them.

“Is she all right?” said Ewing, meaning the van.

The other nodded.

“I think so. Don’t ask me why? Thank God, it was foot,” he added jerkily. “I couldn’t have done it to horses to save my life.”

“Bet there are more behind,” said Ewing laconically, trying desperately to reload. The pace was against him. “Those chaps had come from Very.”

“And turned at the cross roads?”

“Exactly.”

“We’ll be there in a second now. If the others aren’t up—”

“We can go as we please for the rest of the way to Otto. If they are…”

“She’ll never stand it again,” said Courtier. “The steering’ll go. Besides – That’s done it,” be added quietly.

They were out of the lower wood by now, and there, at the foot of the rise, was the head of a German column wheeling out of the road on the left-hand side – the road to Very. Only the head of a column, a bare handful of men – so far. But behind, beyond, blocking the road to Otto, utterly cutting them off, was drawn up a squadron of Uhlans, waiting to see the infantry over the cross roads.

“Straight at ’em,” said Ewing. “And when we’re well in, if they haven’t plugged the nitro stuff, I’ll do it mys – No!” he roared suddenly. “No! Take the road on the right, Bill. Take the road on the right.”

“I’ll try,” yelled Courtier. “She’ll break in half, but I’ll try.”

It is a cool-headed fellow who will stand fast and take deliberate aim, full in the path of an onrushing car. Had they but known of the death that lay in the van, so easy to loose, it might have been otherwise. The few men that had wheeled stared and shrank back dazedly. Others, unseeing, came on out of the Very road, treading upon the heels of those in front. In a moment all was confusion. Some of them turned to fly, one tripped and fell in the road. And, behind, the front rank of the Uhlans shouted and raved impotently.

The Clement tore down the slope desperately. If she could take the corner, her way was fairly clear. The stumbling, shouting, frantic mass of men was writhing on the very cross of the roads. On two sides their comrades and the Uhlans blocked their chance of safety. A few had started to rush down the road on the right.

As they reached the cross roads, Courtier jammed on the foot-brake and wrenched the wheel round. With a rending noise of tires, the great body swung over, pivoting, as it were, on the front wheels and tilting terribly. Half way about, her side met the jam of men like a wall, flying. She just shuddered and swung on, sweeping the broken bodies against the whole behind, and then breaking them in turn… Somebody fired.

It was all the work of a moment, for in the midst of her swing, Courtier straightened her up and let her go. As she leaped forward like a slipped hound, an officer, screaming in German, thrust out his left hand and fired point-blank over the near-side wing.

Courtier shook the blood out of his eyes and glanced at the seat by his side. Ewing was still there.

“My aunt!” he said. Then: “I thought you were gone that time. I held myself in by the wheel.”

“Put her along,” said Ewing thickly.

Then the road curled, and they pelted into the shelter of a belt of trees. They were through.

Nevertheless, they fled along swiftly, watching and waiting for an odd road on the left. So they should come to Otto, or on to the Otto road…

The level-crossing they struck after about seven kilometres came as a glad surprise. No trains running, they had forgotten the line. And now it was only a matter of raising the tall bar – there was the windlass at hand – and pounding along the railway track to Otto. They were as good as home.

Courtier slowed down wearily, for the fiftieth time brushing the trickle of blood away from his eyebrows. A bullet had whipped across his forehead, just cutting the skin.

As the van came to a standstill:

“Oh, Tag,” he said, merriment trying to struggle into his voice, “what a life!”

As if by way of answer, Ewing slid round sideways, with his chin on his chest. Just in time to catch him, Courtier realized with a shock why the screaming officer’s bullet had not exploded the nitro-glycerine…

He got him out and made him as comfortable as he could in the grass by the wayside. After a little he died quietly, as he had lived.

He spoke for a moment or two, just at the end – queer muttering words, with no brain behind them.

“Doll…” The other started ever so slightly. “Dolly girl… always… Love her long lashes and…on the fifth, Doll. So we’ll be at Yait together, and then… I promise. Not even Bill, till the…” He sighed contentedly. Then, “A marriage has been arran—”

The poor voice faded. There was a sharp struggle for breath, blood fighting with air in the lungs desperately. Courtier raised him a little, and the blood sank back beaten. But the effort had been too much. A moment later he sighed very wearily, settled his head in the crook of the other’s arm, and just slipped out.

Fifty minutes later the Clement, her head-lights smashed and bloody, her wings stained and buckled, blood and hair on her steps and wheels and dumb irons, slowed down between the low platforms of Otto’s railway station. And Courtier sat at her wheel listlessly, a dirty handkerchief bound about his forehead, and an old and stricken look in his strong young face. Behind him, the body of Ewing, which had shifted helplessly with every jolt of the van, came to rest easily, with its white face pressed against the packing of the carefully stowed explosive.

How Others Left the Courts Only to Return

“It’s going to be priceless,” said Daphne, her white arms stretched along the back of the sofa.

From the opposite side of the fireplace her husband regarded her. Then he turned to me.

“D’you hear that?” he said.

“I know,” said I. “I can’t help it.”

“But she’s actually looking forward. She finds pleasure in anticipation.”

“I know,” said I. “It’s painful.”

“Painful?” said Berry. “It’s indecent. I’m not sure I oughtn’t to forbid the banns.”

“I wish you would,” said I. “I don’t want to be best man. If it goes on as it’s begun, I shall be about thirty pounds down before we’ve finished. That’s tips and taxis alone.”

“And then there’s the blackmail.”

“I know,” I said gloomily.

Daphne picked up an evening paper. Then:

“Listen to this,” she said. “‘One of the prettiest weddings of the year will take place on Thursday the 29th, when Mr Peter Lileigh will wed Lady Daffodil Malmorey at St James’s, Piccadilly. The bride-to-be is the youngest of the three beautiful daughters of–’”

“That decides me,” said Berry. “Next Sunday I shall forbid the banns in clear, bell-like tones. Let the Press be informed.”

“Why shouldn’t they be married?” said Jill, from her perch on the sofa’s broad arm. “I think it’s sweet of them.”

“There you are,” said Berry. “Thinks it sweet. She’ll be wanting to do it next. So much for the force of example.” He turned to the grey-eyed maiden. “My dear, I warn you that, if any man has the audacity to ask me for your little hand, I shall push his face.”

Jill knitted her brows.

“I hope you won’t,” she said. “But then ” – with a quick smile – “he might forget to ask you, mightn’t he?”

“Rude child!” said my brother-in-law. “Now you shan’t have the mechanical frog in your bath tonight. Is that nurse calling?”

“I think I’m going to have a cold,” said Daphne.

Berry turned to me.

“Ring up Harley Street,” he said, “And tell William to have some straw put down outside the house the first thing in the morning.”

“Any time tomorrow will do,” said his wife. “I’ve got to be at the dressmaker’s at eleven, and I promised to lunch with Helena Rush.”

“Jade!” said Berry. “Behold the horrid result of matrimony. A woman mocks her lord.” Here a footman entered with the drinks. “Ah, well. For me there is always the schnapps (Low German). I will immerse my misery in alcoholism (Pekingese).” He rose. “Beverage, Jonah?”

“One of the small ones,” said that worthy.

“Small ones,” said Berry contemptuously. “If I gave you what I call a small one, you’d think it was lemonade. You fishing crowd. For myself, as a matter of fact, I’m not really drinking at all nowadays.”

Jonah sat up.

“If you ate and drank, and talked a little less–” he began.

“Talking of golf,” said Daphne, “what do you think I picked up this morning?”

“I know,” said Berry; “a taxi. I did, too. I wonder who they belong to.”

“Idiot! On the links.”

“Probably a ball,” said I. “Other than your own, if I know you.”

“A gold watch,” said Daphne.

“Gent’s gold timepiece?” said her husband.

“Lady’s,” said my sister. “Such a pretty one, with a blue enamel back and a diamond in the middle.”

“Jewelled in one hole,” said Berry. “How much did you get on it?”

“It’s with the secretary. But it’s given me an idea. Daffodil’s got four wrist-watches, but she’s always wanted one to – to pin on. You and I can give her one like this – on a brooch.”

“You seem to forget I’m going to forbid the banns.”

“Don’t forbid the wrong ones,” said I. “They give out stacks sometimes.”

“Trust me,” said Berry. “‘A tall, well-dressed man, whose features proclaimed him to be one of the aristocracy, rose and in clear, bell-like tones (what did I say?) said, “I forbid the last banns but two.”’”

Daphne sighed.

“Well, well,” she said. “I think we’ll buy one all the same. If Daffodil doesn’t have it, it’ll do for Jilly, won’t it, dear?”

The shot went home. Berry glared at his wife. Then:

“You made me love you,” he said defiantly. “I didn’t want to do it.”

Daphne blew him a kiss.

“Have another drink, old chap,” said I.

Berry emptied his glass and handed it to me.

“At least,” he said, “I have one friend left.”

“As a matter of fact, he’s not drinking at all nowadays,” said Jonah.

Tye Gordon lies close in a deep park in one of the south-west counties of England. Who knows no more than its whereabouts might search for a month and never find it, unless he were told the way. In summertime especially. Then, most of all, the rolling country keeps the old place secret, wrapping it about with the greenwood, folding it in her fresh young arms, so that even the sudden storms of summer deal with Tye gently perforce, and the spent wind buffets its ancient gables with feeble fury.

I and the car found it, but then I had been shown the trick of the ways. Even so, it was past three when I stopped at the grey lodge-gates. I had hoped to be there by two. I was on business bent. Pleasant business, perhaps, but still business. In fact, I was bound for Tye Gordon in my capacity of best man.

A week before, Peter had started the hare. It seemed that years ago Daffodil had seen Tye Gordon. She had been staying with friends somewhere in the county – a child of twelve then – and had been driven over to lunch with an old, old gentleman whose name she could not remember. He had been kind to her and her fellows, shown them the beauties of the old house, and let them play through its chambers and run happily in the sun-shot park. That was ten years ago. Long ago the friends had left England, and there had been nothing to take her again to the neighbourhood. But she had never forgotten Tye. And often thereafter her memory would leap back to the summer afternoon, the low, grey building and the fair lawns, the curling avenue and the bracken springing under the oaks, and everywhere the great belt of woodland ringing the place about, keeping it out of the world, saving it from the march of time. More than once Peter had heard her speak of the spot with rapture, wondering if she would ever see it again. And now, quite by chance, it had come to his ears that a place of that name was coming into the market.

“No?” said I.

“Fact,” said Peter. He mentioned the name of a firm. “It’s in their hands. Get an order-to-view, old chap, and have a look at it. I’d go myself, only I don’t want Daffodil to know.” I stared at him.

“You don’t mean–” I began.

“Yes, I do,” he said, grinning. “If it’s all right, and the owners don’t want the earth, I’ll buy it at once and give her the title-deeds for a wedding present.”

I always said Peter had more money than brains. However.

“We can’t push the whole deal through in ten days,” said I. “Besides, it mayn’t even be the right place, or, if it is, it may have changed altogether.”

“The place she drove over from was called Mills Brayling, so if it’s near there, you’ll know it’s the right place. As to whether it’s changed, you know a nice place when you see one.”

“Yes, but I’m not going to take the responsibility of landing you for several thousand pounds, when you’ve never even set eyes—”

“Well, get the order and have a look at the place. There’s a good fellow. If you do, I’ll let you kiss Daffodil in the vestry.”

“That’s no consideration,” said I. “I’m going to do that, anyway. Still, if you really think she’ll appreciate—”

There was no doubt about it being the right place. I had passed through Mills Brayling an hour and a quarter before. I looked at the lodge. White curtains in the windows showed that it was inhabited. But the gates were padlocked. Clearly I must leave the car where it was.

I stopped the engine and sat for a moment looking up the avenue. It promised well, certainly. And it did curl. Of course, if the park and the old house really were as exquisite as Daffodil painted them, it would be nice to… Then I thought of the responsibility and shook my head. A pity. I should have loved to see her eyes light…

“They won’t let you in,” said a voice.

“What’ll you bet me?” said I.

“Unless you’ve got an order.”

I swung round and looked at the speaker. Then I took off my cap. A slim girl in a fawn-coloured dress leaning against a five-barred gate, her elbows behind her on the top bar, one slight foot on the ground, the other above it on one of the lower bars. Her attitude was easy, reposeful. The open neck of the dress showed her white throat, and under a
bébé
bonnet I could see the thick brown hair. A nose ever so slightly tilted, and grave brown eyes. So grave. But the mouth was merry and told of gaiety in the air.

“All fawn,” said I. “Down to her little shoes. I never realized what a becoming colour it was. But it’s rather elusive. You might be a battleship going into action. No one would see you at forty paces; you’d just melt into the road. I suppose that’s why I missed—”

“Oh, no. You were craning your neck to get a glimpse of Tye. What do you know of the old place?”

“Nothing, Bébé. That’s why I’m here.”

“Well, they won’t—”

“Complete with order.”

She sighed. Then:

“Years ago,” she said, “a girl told me of Tye Gordon. And ever since she told me, I’ve wanted to see it. She never even said where it was, but the name stuck in my head, and I saw it last night, marked on a local map, when we were looking out the way to Mills Brayling. And now I’ve given up a party and walked two miles to be told I haven’t an order-to-view. And I knew that when I started. However.”

“A girl told her of Tye,” I said musingly.

She nodded.

“The best friend I have. And I’m losing her next week.”

Daffodil.

“Is she going to be married?” I said carelessly, getting out of the car.

“Yes” – moodily.

“I was afraid so from your tone. These marriages.”

“Run along in with your order,” she said suddenly. “I’ll look after your car. The others aren’t picking me up at Pell Corner till five o’clock, so I’ve nothing to do.”

I gave her a look. After a long moment the brown eyes fell.

“Do I look that sort of man?” I said stiffly.

“No.” She spoke so low that I could hardly hear her.

“Then why—”

“I beg your pardon,” she said simply.

I handed her the order with a grave smile.

“I have come far,” I said, “and it is important that I should see Tye today. That is my excuse for asking if I may accompany you.”

Her eyes flashed.

“Why whip me?” she said. “I’ve said I’m sorry.”

For a moment we stood facing each other. Then:

“Curtain,” said I. “Well, that’s a jolly good scene. If the second act’s half as good…”

She broke into reluctant laughter. The situation was saved.

I took off my coat and flung it into the car. Together we walked to the door of the lodge. The keeper, who admitted us, promised to watch the car, and a minute later we were walking down the avenue.

It was the first real summer’s day we’d had. Right at the end of May. Up to now the weather had been unpleasantly cold. The country was looking wonderful.

“So she’s to be married next week,” said I; “your friend.”

The girl nodded.

“Shall you attend the obsequies?”

“As bridesmaid. The only one, too. Oh!” She caught at my arm. “Isn’t that lovely?”

It was. At a bend of the avenue the house had come into view. It stood fair on the slope of a hill, long and low, its grey stone mellowed by many a summer sun, wisteria drooping about its lattices, a broad flagged terrace running along its front. From the terrace wide steps of living turf led to a great greensward, which stretched on one side to the avenue and on the other to the fringe of the park itself. The timber was a great glory, oaks and elms and beeches of grave antiquity. On the sward itself towered a magnificent cedar. In the distance, rising and falling, the line of the famous woods stood up against the sky. The afternoon sun was striking the old place slantwise, making the windows flame and the trees fling long shadows across the grass.

“Glorious!” I exclaimed. “I wonder which room Queen Elizabeth had.”

“What a shame!” she said, laughing. “It’s much too sweet to make fun of. Just faery.”

“Well kept, too. That sward’s perfect. And look at those grass steps.”

“The practical man,” said Bébé. “I wonder where they keep the lawn-mower.”

“Not at all,” said I. “Gardeners came in long before Tye Gordon was raised. What about ‘Richard Two,’ where the gardener says, ‘Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks, which, like–’” I hesitated.

“Go on.”

“‘Unruly children,’” said I. “You would have it, wouldn’t you, Bébé?”

She looked at me critically. Then:

“Your hair’s very untidy,” she said.

“I know. But then the pleasure of meeting you was unexpected. Besides, you can’t talk. Your eyes are all over the place.”

“You know you’re an impossible person,” she said, smiling.

“On the contrary,” said I, “I am extremely probable. Put your money on little Archibald. And now let’s go to the house. Perhaps the caretaker will lend me a comb.”

The entrance lay at the west side of the building. Here the avenue led to a wide paved court, from which a flight of handsome stone stairs rose to the front door. About the balustrade sat pigeons, sleeking themselves in the hot sun. But for them the place was deserted. For a minute we stood watching them. Then came the quick barking of a dog and a moment later a man’s deep voice.

Round the corner of the house stepped a coachman, a Bedlington at his heels. A real coachman, spruce in his undress livery and bright jack boots, placid, pink-faced, well-liking. He welcomed us respectfully, glanced at the order and asked us to excuse him while he went back to the house. Then he would admit us by the front door. A minute or two later there was the noise of drawn bolts, and the door creaked on it hinges. Slowly we ascended the steps…

It was at the far end of an echoing gallery that Bébé put a hand to her head and swayed. I was just in time to catch her before she fell.