The Jervaise Comedy | Page 7

before that afternoon seen Jervaise's home nor
any of his people with the exception of the brother now in India, I had
known Frank Jervaise for fifteen years. We had been at Oakstone
together, and had gone up the school form by form in each other's
company. After we left Oakstone we were on the same landing at Jesus,
and he rowed "two" and I rowed "bow" in the college boat. And since
we had come down I had met him constantly in London, often as it
seemed by accident. Yet we had never been friends. I had never really
liked him.
Even at school he had had the beginning of the artificially bullying
manner which now seemed natural to him. He had been unconvincingly
blunt and insolent. His dominant chin, Roman nose, and black
eyebrows were chiefly responsible, I think, for his assumption of
arrogance. He must have been newly invigorated to carry on the part
every time he scowled at himself in the glass. He could not conceivably
have been anything but a barrister.
But, to-night, in the darkness, he seemed to have forgotten for once the
perpetual mandate of his facial angle. He was suddenly intimate, almost
humble.
"Of course, you don't realise how cursedly awkward it all is," he said
with the evident desire of opening a confidence.
"Tell me as little or as much as you like," I responded. "You know that
I..."
"Yes, rather," he agreed warmly, and added, "I'd sooner Hughes didn't
know."
"He guesses a lot, though," I put in. "I suppose they all do."
"Oh! well, they're bound to guess something," he said, "but I'm hoping

we'll be able to put that right, now."
"Who are we going to see?" I asked.
He did not reply at once, and then snapped out, "Anne Banks; friend er
Brenda's."
My foolishly whimsical imagination translated that queer medley of
sounds into the thought of a stable-pump. I heard the clank of the
handle and then the musical rush of water into the pail.
"Sounds just like a pump," I said thoughtlessly.
He half withdrew his arm from mine with an abrupt twitch that
indicated temper.
"Oh! don't for God's sake play the fool," he said brutally.
A spasm of resentment shook me for a moment. I felt annoyed,
remembering how at school he would await his opportunity and then
score off me with some insulting criticism. He had never had any kind
of sympathy for the whimsical, and it is a manner that is apt to look
inane and ridiculous under certain kinds of censure. I swallowed my
annoyance, on this occasion. I remembered that Jervaise had a
reasonable excuse, for once.
"Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to play the fool. But you must admit that
it had a queer sound." I repeated the adjectival sentence under my
breath. It really was a rather remarkable piece of onomatopoeia. And
then I reflected on the absurdity of our conversation. How could we
achieve all this ordinary trivial talk of everyday in the gloom of this
romantic adventure?
"Oh! all serene," Jervaise returned, still with the sound of irritation in
his voice, and continued as if the need for confidence had suddenly
overborne his anger. "As a matter of fact she's his sister."
"Whose sister?" I asked, quite at a loss.
"Oh! Banks's, of course," he said.
"But who in the name of goodness is Banks?" I inquired irritably. The
petulant tone was merely an artifice. I realised that if I were meek, he
would lose more time in abusing my apparent imbecility. I know that
the one way to beat a bully is by bullying, but I hate even the pretence
of that method.
Jervaise grunted as if the endeavour to lift the weight of my ignorance
required an almost intolerable physical effort.
"Why, this fellow--our chauffeur," he said in a voice so threateningly

restrained that he seemed on the point of bursting.
There was no help for it; I had to take the upper hand.
"Well, my good idiot," I said, "you can't expect me to know these
things by intuition. I've never heard of the confounded fellow before.
Haven't even seen him, now. Nor his sister--Anne Banks,
Frienderbrenda's."
Jervaise was calmed by this outburst. This was the sort of attitude he
could understand and appreciate.
"All right, keep your shirt on," he replied quite amicably.
"If you'd condescend to explain," I returned as huffily as I could.
"You see, this chap, Banks," he began, "isn't quite the ordinary
chauffeur Johnnie. He's the son of one of our farmers. Decent enough
old fellow, too, in his way--the father, I mean. Family's been tenants of
the Home Farm for centuries. And this chap, Banks, the son, has
knocked about the world, no end. Been in Canada