Courts of Idleness

The Courts of Idleness

First published in 1920

© Estate of Dornford Yates; House of Stratus 1920-2011

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The right of Dornford Yates to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

Typeset by House of Stratus.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

www.houseofstratus.com

Born ‘Cecil William Mercer’ into a middle class Victorian family with many Victorian skeletons in the closet, including the conviction for embezzlement from a law firm and subsequent suicide of his great-uncle, Yates’ parents somehow scraped together enough money to send him to Harrow.

The son of a solicitor, he at first could not seek a call to the Bar as he gained only a third class degree at Oxford. However, after a spell in a Solicitor’s office he managed to qualify and then practised as a Barrister, including an involvement in the Dr. Crippen Case, but whilst still finding time to contribute stories to the
Windsor Magazine
.

After the First World War, Yates gave up legal work in favour of writing, which had become his great passion, and completed some thirty books. These ranged from light-hearted farce to adventure thrillers. For the former, he created the
‘Berry’
books which established Yates’ reputation as a writer of witty, upper-crust romances. For the latter, he created the character
Richard Chandos
, who recounts the adventures of
Jonah Mansel
, a classic gentleman sleuth. As a consequence of his education and experience, Yates’ books feature the genteel life, a nostalgic glimpse at Edwardian decadence and a number of swindling solicitors.

In his hey day, and as testament to his fine writing, Dornford Yates’ work often featured in the bestseller list. Indeed,
‘Berry’
is one of the great comic creations of twentieth century fiction; the
‘Chandos’
titles also being successfully adapted for television. Along with Sapper and John Buchan, Yates dominated the adventure book market of the inter war years.

Finding the English climate utterly unbearable, Yates chose to live in the French Pyrenées for eighteen years, before moving on to Rhodesia (as was), where he died in 1960.

‘Mr Yates can be recommended to anyone who thinks the British take themselves too seriously.’ - Punch

‘We appreciate fine writing when we come across it, and a wit that is ageless united to a courtesy that is extinct’ - Cyril Connolly

To the countryside of England, the hanging forests

of Austria, and the tilted, flower-starred meadows

of the Pyrenees.

How Some Passed Out of the Courts Forever

“This,” said Fairie, “is too thick.”

It really was. From a leaden sky snow was beginning to fall. The draughts – for there is no wind in London, only draughts – caught and flung it insolently in the faces of passers-by. These received it, some dumbly, most with an ill grace, much as once lords and gentlemen-in-waiting endured the horseplay of the King’s fool – with crooked smiles. A veritable prince among jesters, the weather. Never had monarch’s fool so ample a licence.

From a club window Bill Fairie surveyed the scene gloomily. By his side his brother-in-law, Marlowe, busied himself with the delicate operation of piercing a slim cigar.

“Snow’s all right,” said the latter suddenly. “Very seasonable. It is this sort of weather, brother, that has made us Englishmen what we are.”

“I believe it is,” said Fairie. “Incidentally, d’you know we’ve had twenty minutes’ sunshine in the last thirteen days?”

Marlowe reached for a match with a frown.

“I can see you’ve been reading the papers,” he said.

“And that the average rainfall for March has already been exceeded, with another twenty-two days of the month to go?”

“Twenty-three,” corrected the other pleasantly. “Don’t you remember? ‘Thirty days hath September, April, June, and Nov–’”

“There are times,” said Fairie, “when I feel that I could offer you violence.”

“Not really,” said Marlowe. “Your better self—”

“At the present moment, for instance, I could witness your immersion in a horse-pond unmoved.”

Marlowe sat up and laid down his cigar.

“The existing climatic conditions make that remark peculiarly offensive,” he said. “You’ve made me feel cold all over. Only an old brandy…”

His companion grinned.

“You shall have one,” he said, beckoning to a waiter. “And now replace your cigar. It does much to relieve the monotony of your face.”

Bill Fairie was thirty-one. Nice-looking, cleanshaven, lazy-eyed, he strolled unconcernedly through life, to all appearances a leisured bachelor. Yet he adored his wife, with whom he had slipped into matrimony when he was twenty-eight. Between the two there existed a perfect understanding. Never far apart, they were seldom alone together, preferring to make two of a party. Their cousins, the Brokes – brother and sister – shared a house with them. The four pulled together excellently.

“Why don’t you and Betty clear out?” said Marlowe, after a pause. “Just now Biarritz—”

“Is probably rather colder than this, and gradually filling up with the sort of people one leaves England to avoid. Besides, we’re hanging on for the Grand National.”

“That, of course, settles it. Aintree ought to be rather nice if this weather goes on. Got your panama ready?”

Fairie leaned against the wall and regarded his brother-in-law.

“He would be humorous,” he said musingly. “I suppose it’s being so much with me. Well, well! As I was saying, we both want to see the race, if only because—”

“Give it a miss and clear out,” said Marlowe absently. “Pretty legs that kid’s got. Over there, getting out of the car.” He pointed across the street. “Awfully like Dolly Lair’s. By Jove,” he cried, springing to his feet, “if it isn’t her! And I knew her little ankles at thirty paces. I must go and tell her.”

The next moment he was gone. Fairie looked after him. Then:

“I don’t think this is quite decent,” he said. “However.” With that, he moved to another window, the better to observe what took place.

The car had stopped at a corner. For a moment the girl had been speaking with someone inside; now she turned to the chauffeur, clearly giving an order. The next second the great doors of an Insurance Office had swung to behind her. The car slipped away from the kerb into the line of traffic. Only a bulldog in a blue coat remained, a lead trailing from his collar. Seemingly, while the door was open, he had scrambled out of the car unnoticed. He had not seen his mistress pass through the tall doors, so now he stood bewildered, looking slowly about him, suddenly lost.

Marlowe appeared upon the scene hurriedly; it had taken a few seconds to find his coat and hat. From the club window his brother-in-law watched him amusedly. Quickly he glanced round for the car, by this time out of sight. Seeing it nowhere, he scanned the pavement carefully on either side. Fruitlessly, of course. So, by a process of exhaustion, he came to the buildings. It seemed certain that one of them must contain the lady. The question was, which had that honour. After a critical survey, he rejected the Insurance Office, naturally enough, for a doorway which admitted – so ran the superscription – to some temporary Exhibition of Water-Colours. After a moment’s hesitation he passed in.

A slow smile spread over Fairie’s countenance. This was an opportunity not to be missed, and it had stopped snowing. Besides, the bulldog, poor fellow, was getting worried…

A minute later he crossed the street and picked up the trailing lead. The animal blinked up at him curiously.

“Lad,” said Fairie, “be of good cheer. She of the pretty legs will come again. We’re going to wait for her, and I simply love your coat.”

Thus addressed the bulldog regarded his friend with big eyes, snuffling inquisitively. Fairie smiled back, stooping to stroke the broad brown head. With a sigh of relief the bulldog accepted the situation.

The pair had not long to wait. In fact, they were still regarding one another, when my lady emerged from the building as suddenly as she bad entered it. Very smart, if you please, in her fine mink coat, which swathed her from neck to knee in an odour of luxury. From knee to ankle she went naked, as women do, unless a rose-coloured lustre may be accounted clothes. Her hair was hidden under a small blue hat, but gaiety danced in her eyes for the world to see and be glad of, and on her lips hung a smile no winter could take away. As though to mock the rough weather, her slight patent-leather slippers made light of the dripping steps: the huddles of snow could not muster refulgence like theirs.

As the bulldog surged forward, an exclamation of surprise broke from his mistress’ lips. Fairie raised his hat.

“You are careless, you know,” he said, with a smile. “It’s one thing to leave your sponge in the bathroom, but it’s quite another to leave your bulldog on the pavement.”

“But how – I don’t understand,” said the girl, her voice full of laughter. “I didn’t leave him.”

“Oh, but you did,” said Fairie. “I saw you. And he’s very upset about it. You should have heard him sigh just now.”

My lady bent over the bulldog.

“Peter, dear, you know I didn’t mean to,” she said. “But why did Peter get out of the car? Oh, naughty Peter.”

The familiar expression of reproof appeared to afford its target immense gratification. He wagged all his hindquarters and squirmed with delight, snuffling furiously.

“I’m forgiven, you see,” said his mistress, looking up at Fairie.

“I think he’s very tolerant,” said the latter. “I wouldn’t have forgiven you so easily.”

“Ah, but then he’s got a nice nature” – with a mischievous glance.

“Ungenerous,” said Fairie aggrievedly. “The remark, I mean. Not the look. I loved that.”

The girl smiled. Then:

“It was splendid of you to take care of him. I’m awfully grateful. And now…”

She put out a hand for the lead. Fairie looked at her.

“Er – Peter and I were just going to have some tea,” he said. “Over the way there. At Rumpelmayer’s.”

“Were you, though?”

“Fact,” said Fairie, with an anxious glance at the entrance to the Water-Colours. “We were wondering if – er – if you’d join us.”

My lady raised her eyebrows ever so slightly.

“If you can get Peter across the street without breaking the lead,” she said slowly, “you can have tea together.”

“And you’ll join us?”

The girl hesitated. Then:

“And I’ll join you,” she added, with a faint smile.

“Done,” said Fairie, turning towards the kerb.

Directly he felt the strain on his collar, Peter looked up at his mistress. Clearly she was not proposing to move. Enough. Without giving an inch, he screwed his head round and gave Fairie an apologetic look. The strain continuing, the look became one of surprised protest. Another moment and the brown eyes turned contemptuously away. You would have sworn the dog had shrugged his broad shoulders.

“Oh, Peter!” said Fairie reproachfully.

A grunt of disgust and indignation answered him. The girl looked on amusedly.

“The silent knight,” said Fairie, loosening the lead for a moment. “What’s his horse-power?”

“I’m not sure. But he’s pulling very well this afternoon, isn’t he?”

Fairie nodded.

“An obstinate fellow,” he said musingly.

Once more the girl put out her hand.

“Try ‘determined,’” she said. “Goodbye.”

Fairie shook his head.

“No,” he said simply. “Obstinate. That’s the difference between us. I am determined. And now let’s go and have tea. If you stand here any longer, Miss Dorothy Lair, you will catch cold.”

With that he picked Peter up in his arms, settling him on his back like a baby, paused on the kerb for a break in the stream of taxis, and then walked easily across the broad street. After a moment the girl followed him. As she stepped on to the pavement:

“I didn’t know I knew you,” she said coldly.

Fairie set down his charge and looked at her.

“I don’t think you do,” said he, “or you wouldn’t have spoken like that. And now goodbye.”

So saying, he held out the lead. She took it hesitatingly.

“Don’t you want—”

“To give you tea? My dear, I should have loved to. So long, Peter.”

He raised his hat and turned on his heel.

“I say,” said the girl suddenly.

“Yes?”

“I know you don’t forgive people easily, but as we did arrange – I mean, I shouldn’t like to disappoint Peter.”

“I’m not at all sure,” said Fairie, “that I don’t adore you.”

“Thanks very much,” said Dolly, with a little laugh. “And now, please, how did you know my name?”

Marlowe emerged from the Exhibition of Water-Colours looking inexpressibly bored. Instead of the attractive Dolly, he had lighted upon an old friend of his father’s, who had been abroad for three years – an encounter which, for all his cunning, had cost him ten slow-going minutes.

He crossed the street moodily, reflecting upon his infamous luck. Of course, the delay had spoiled any chance he had had of catching Miss Lair. Listlessly he began to make his way up the pavement, looking idly into the shop-windows. Looking idly…

The sudden spectacle of Dolly and his brother-in-law engaged in obviously light-hearted converse over a dainty tea, behind the plate-glass of Rumpelmayer’s, filled him with an emotion too deep for words. For a moment he stood as if rooted to the spot. Then:

“Hullo, old chap,” said a soft voice.

His sister, Elizabeth Fairie.

Marlowe turned to her.

“Look at him,” he said, pointing a shaking finger at the unconscious delinquent. “Look at the brute.”

“Where? Who?” said his sister calmly. “Oh, it’s Bill. And Dolly Lair. She’s a dear kid. I wish they’d look round.”

“So do I,” said Marlowe grimly.

Within, the pair were holding high festival.

“If you’d only said you were Mr Fairie,” Dolly was saying.

“What’s in a name?” replied her companion. “The Doll by any other name would smell as sweet.”

“Will you be serious?” said Dolly, bubbling with laughter.

Fairie regarded her.

“How you dare have a mouth like that, beats me,” he said. “Hullo! There’s Betty. Oh, and Marlowe, too. Now, isn’t that nice?”

Coolly he beckoned them to come in. With a smile Elizabeth turned to comply with the request. Marlowe took off his hat with awful deliberation. His brother-in-law nodded genially, and Dolly bowed.

“How strange he looks!” she said.

“Always like that when he’s been looking at pictures,” Fairie explained. “He’s been to some exhibition or other this afternoon.”

“I never knew he cared about art” – surprisedly.

“Practically all he lives for,” said Fairie, rising. “And here’s my helpmeet. I suppose I must get her a chair.”

Elizabeth Fairie was a great beauty. More than that. There was an exquisite charm about her that was irresistible. Talk with her once, and you would remember it for all time. You might forget the big brown eyes after a while, but never the soft light glowing behind them, forget the proud curve of the mouth, but never the faint smile playing about it. The odds are, you would remember all four, probably with a sigh. The easy grace of her movements, her speech, her manners generally, was remarkable. With it all, she was perfectly natural. Sporting, too, and always ready for anything. She sat a horse better than most women sit a sofa, had no nerves, and usually wore a little air of amused gravity, which argued a strong sense of humour.

“Well, children,” said Betty.

“Child yourself,” said her husband. “You see in us a man and woman of the world.”

“As bad as that?” said Betty, raising her eyebrows. “Anyway, you looked very sweet. What were you discussing so cheerfully?”

“Agriculture, if you must know,” said Fairie. “Yes, some further tea, please. I suppose Pip’s coming.”

“I expect so. He seems rather bored with you about something.”

“Dear, dear,” said her husband composedly. “But here he is. Now mark how a soft answer shall turn away his wrath.” He turned to greet the gentleman in question. “Hullo, old chap. How are the Water-Colours? Any gems?”

“I will deal with you,” said Marlowe, “at some future time.” Here he drew up a chair. “Probably on a dark night, when there is no moon. I ought to have warned you about him,” he added, turning to Dolly. “His sheepish exterior conceals a wolfish heart.”

“How awful!” said Dolly.

“Yes,” replied Marlowe with unction. “Beneath a thin veneer of—”

“Oh, look,” said his sister. “It’s beginning to snow again.”

“Hush,” said her husband. “Wherever were you brought up? Never direct attention to indecency.”