The Jervaise Comedy. J. D. Beresford

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СКАЧАТЬ her statement with regard to the extra stroke of the stable-clock.

      “I had a kind of premonition that it was going to, as soon as it began,” she was saying.

      Gordon Hughes was telling the old story of the sentry who had saved his life by a similar counting of the strokes of midnight.

      And at the back of my mind my dæmon was still thrusting out little spurts of enthralling allegory. The Sturtons and Jervaises had been driven in from the open. They were taking refuge in their house. Presently …

      “Given it up?” I remarked with stupid politeness to Miss Tattersall.

      “They’ve sent John round to the stables to inquire,” she told me.

      I do not know how she knew. “John” was the only man-servant that the Jervaises employed in the house; butler, footman, valet and goodness knows what else.

      “Mrs. Sturton seems to be afraid of the night-air,” Miss Tattersall remarked with a complacent giggle of self-congratulation on being too modern for such prejudices. “I simply love the night-air, don’t you?” she continued. “I often go out for a stroll in the garden the last thing.”

      I guessed her intention, but I was not going to compromise myself by strolling about the Jervaise domain at midnight with Grace Tattersall.

      “Do you? Yes,” I agreed, as if I were bound to admire her originality.

      They are afraid of the night-air, my allegory went on, and having begun their retreat, they are now sending out their servant for help. I began to wonder if I were composing the plot of a grand opera?

      John’s return convinced me that I was not to be disappointed in my expectation of drama.

      He came out from under the staircase through the red baize door which discreetly warned the stranger that beyond this danger signal lay the sacred mysteries of the Hall’s service. And he came down to the central cluster of faintly irritated Sturtons and Jervaises, with an evident hesitation that marked the gravity of his message. Every one was watching that group under the electric-lighted chandelier—it was posed to hold the stage—but I fancy that most of the audience were solely interested in getting rid of the unhappy Sturtons.

      We could not hear what John said, but we inferred the general nature of the disaster from the response accorded to his news. The vicar merely clicked his tongue with a frown of grave disapproval, but his wife advertised the disaster for us by saying—

      “It’s that man Carter, from the Oak, you know; not our own man. I’ve never liked Carter.”

      “Quite hopelessly, eh?” Jervaise asked John, and John’s perturbed shake of the head answered that question beyond any doubt.

      “In any case,” Mrs. Sturton began, and I hazarded a guess that she was going to refuse to drive behind Carter in any stage of intoxication; but she decided to abandon that line and went on with a splendid imitation of cheerfulness, “However, there’s nothing to be done, now, but walk. It’s quite a fine night, fortunately.” She looked at her husband for approval.

      “Oh! quite, quite,” he said. “A beautiful night. Let us walk by all means.”

      A general rustle of relief spread up the gallery of the staircase, and was followed at once by a fresh outburst of chatter. The waiting audience of would-be dancers had responded like one individual. It was as if their single over-soul had sighed its thankfulness and had then tried to cover the solecism. Their relief was short-lived. Mrs. Jervaise “couldn’t think” of the Sturtons walking. They must have the motor. She insisted. Really nothing at all. Their chauffeur was sure to be up, still.

      “Of course, certainly, by all means,” Jervaise agreed warmly, and then, to John, “He hasn’t gone to bed yet, I suppose?”

      “I saw him not half an hour ago, sir,” was John’s response.

      “Tell him to bring the motor round,” Jervaise ordered, and added something in a lower voice, which, near as I was to them, I could not catch. I imagined that it might be an instruction to have the chauffeur out again if he had by any chance slunk off to bed within the last half-hour.

      I think Miss Tattersall said “Damn!” Certainly the over-soul of the staircase group thought it.

      “They’ll be here all night, at this rate,” was my companion’s translation of the general feeling.

      “If they have to wake up the chauffeur,” I admitted.

      “He’s a new man they’ve got,” Miss Tattersall replied. “They’ve only had him three months …” It seemed as if she were about to add some further comment, but nothing came.

      “Oh!” was all that I found appropriate.

      I felt that the action of my opera was hanging fire. Indeed, every one was beginning to feel it. The Hall door had been shut against the bane of the night-air. The stimulus of the fragrant night-stock had been excluded. Miss Tattersall pretended not to yawn. We all pretended that we did not feel a craving to yawn. The chatter rose and fell spasmodically in short devitalised bursts of polite effort.

      I looked round for Brenda, but could not see her anywhere.

      “Won’t you come back into the drawing-room?” Mrs. Jervaise was saying to the Sturtons.

      “Oh! thank you, it’s hardly worth while, is it?” Mrs. Sturton answered effusively, but she loosened the shawl that muffled her throat as if she were preparing for a longer wait. “I’m so sorry,” she apologised for the seventh time. “So very unfortunate after such a really delightful evening.”

      They kept up that kind of conversation for quite a long time, while we listened eagerly for the sound of the motor-horn.

      And no motor-horn came; instead, after endlessly tedious minutes, John returned bearing himself like a portent of disaster.

      The confounded fellow whispered again.

      “What, not anywhere?” Jervaise asked irritably. “Sure he hasn’t gone to bed?”

      John said something in that too discreet voice of his, and then Jervaise scowled and looked round at the ascending humanity of the staircase. His son Frank detached himself from the swarm, politely picked his way down into the Hall, and began to put John under a severe cross-examination.

      “What’s up now, do you suppose?” Miss Tattersall asked, with the least tremor of excitement sounding in her voice.

      “Perhaps the chauffeur has followed the example of Carter, and afterwards hidden his shame,” I suggested.

      I was surprised by the warmth of her contradiction. “Oh, no” she said. “He isn’t the least that sort of man.” She said it as if I had aspersed the character of one of her friends.

      “He seems to have gone, disappeared, any-way,” I replied.

      “It’s getting frightfully mysterious,” Miss Tattersall agreed, and added inconsequently, “He’s got a strong face, you know; keen—looks as if he’d get his own way about things, though, of course, he isn’t a gentleman.”

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