The Jervaise Comedy | Page 3

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