J. D. Beresford
The Jervaise Comedy
I
The First Hour
When I was actually experiencing the thrill, it came delightfully, however, blended with a threat that proclaimed the imminent consequence of dismay. I appreciated the coming of the thrill, as a rare and unexpected dramatic moment. I savoured and enjoyed it as a real adventure suddenly presented in the midst of the common business of life. I imaginatively transplanted the scene from the Hall of Thorp-Jervaise to a West-End theatre; and in my instant part of unoccupied spectator I admired the art with which the affair had been staged. It is so seldom that we are given an opportunity to witness one of these high moments, and naturally enough I began instinctively to turn the scene into literature; admitting without hesitation, as I am often forced to admit, that the detail of reality is so much better and more typical than any I can invent.
But, having said that, I wonder how far one does invent in such an experience? The same night I hinted something of my appreciation of the dramatic quality of the stir at the Hall door to Frank Jervaise, Brendas brother, and he, quite obviously, had altogether missed that aspect of the affair. He scowled with that forensic, bullying air he is so successfully practising at the Junior Bar, as he said, I suppose you realise just what this may mean, to all of us?
Jervaise evidently had failed to appreciate the detail that I had relished with such delight. He had certainly not savoured the quality of it. And in one sense I may claim to have invented the business of the scene. I may have added to it by my imaginative participation. In any case my understanding as interpreter was the prime essentiala fact that shows how absurd it is to speak of photographic detail in literature, or indeed to attempt a proper differentiation between realism and romance.
We were all of us in the Hall, an inattentive, chattering audience of between twenty and thirty people. The last dance had been stopped at ten minutes to twelve, in order that the local parson and his wifetheir name was Sturtonmight be out of the house of entertainment before the first stroke of Sunday morning. Every one was wound up to a pitch of satisfied excitement. The Cinderella had been a success. The floor and the music and the supper had been good, Mrs. Jervaise had thrown off her air of pre-occupation with some distasteful suspicion, and we had all been entertained and happy. And yet these causes for satisfaction had been nothing more than a setting for Brenda Jervaise. It was she who had stimulated us, given us a lead and kept us dancing to the tune of her exciting personality. She had made all the difference between an ordinarily successful dance and what Mrs. Sturton at the open door continually described as a really delightful evening.
She had to repeat the phrase, because with the first stroke of midnight ringing out from the big clock over the stables, came also the first intimation of the new movement. Mrs. Sturtons fly was mysteriously delayed; and I had a premonition even then, that the delay promised some diversion. The tone of the stable clock had its influence, perhaps. It was so precisely the tone of a stage clockhigh and pretentious, and with a disturbing suggestion of being unmelodiously flawed.
Miss Tattersall, Olive Jervaises friend, a rather abundant fair young woman, warmed by excitement to the realisation that she must flirt with some one, also noticed the theatrical sound of that announcement of midnight. She giggled a little nervously as stroke succeeded stroke in an apparently unending succession.
It seems as if it were going on all night, she said to me, in a self-conscious voice, as if the sound of the bell had some emotional effect upon her.
Its because its out of place, I said for the sake of saying something; theatrical and artificial, you know. It ought to be I did not know quite what it ought to be and stopped in the middle of the sentence. I was aware of the wide open door, of the darkness beyond, and of the timid visiting of the brilliant, chattering crowd by the fragrance of scented night-stocka delicate, wayward incursion that drifted past me like the spirit of some sweet, shabby fairy. What possible bell could be appropriate to that air? I began, stupidly, to recall the names of such flowers as bluebell, hare-bell, Canterbury-bell. In imagination I heard their chime as the distant tinkling of a fairy musical-box.
Miss Tattersall, however, took no notice of my failure to find the ideal. Yes, isnt it? she said, and then the horrible striking ceased, and we heard little Nora Bailey across the Hall excitedly claiming that the clock had struck thirteen.
I counted most carefully, she was insisting.
I cant think why that man doesnt come, Mrs. Sturton repeated in a raised voice, as if she wanted to still the superstitious qualms that Miss Bailey had started. I told him to come round at a quarter to twelve, so that there shouldnt be any mistake. Its very tiresome. She paused on that and Jervaise was inspired to the statement that the fly came from the Royal Oak, didnt it, a fact that Mrs. Sturton had already affirmed more than once.
What makes it rather embarrassing for the dear Jervaises, Miss Tattersall confided to me, is that the other things arent ordered till onethe Atkinsons bus, you know, and the rest of em. Brenda persuaded Mrs. Jervaise that we might go on for a bit after the vicar had gone.
I wished that I could get away from Miss Tattersall; she intruded on my thoughts. I was trying to listen to a little piece that was unfolding in my mind, a piece that began with the coming of the spirit of the night-stock into this material atmosphere of heated, excited men and women. I realised that invasion as the first effort of the wild romantic night to enter the house; after that. After that I only knew that the consequences were intensely interesting and that if I could but let my thoughts guide me, they would finish the story and make it exquisite.
Oh! did she? I commented automatically, and cursed myself for having conveyed a warmth of interest I certainly did not feel.
Shes so enthusiastic, isnt she? Brenda, I mean, Miss Tattersall went on, and as I listened I compared her to the stable-clock. She, too, was a persistent outrage, a hindrance to whatever it was that I was waiting for.
Mrs. Sturton and her husband were coming back, with an appearance of unwillingness, into the warmth and light of the Hall. The dear lady was still at her congratulations on the delightfulness of the evening, but they were tempered, now, by a hint of apology for spoiling itto a certain extentI hope I haventby this unfortunate contretemps.
The Jervaises were uncomfortably warm in their reassurances. They felt, no doubt, the growing impatience of all their other visitors pressing forward with the reminder that if the Sturtons cab did not come at once, there would be no more dancing.
Half-way up the stairs little Nora Baileys high laughing voice was embroidering 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.
Theyve 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, dont 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?
Johns 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 Halls 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 chandelierit was posed to hold the stagebut 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,
Its that man Carter, from the Oak, you know; not our own man. Ive never liked Carter.
Quite hopelessly, eh? Jervaise asked John, and Johns 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, theres nothing to be done, now, but walk. Its 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 couldnt 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 hasnt gone to bed yet, I suppose?
I saw him not half an hour ago, sir, was Johns 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.
Theyll be here all night, at this rate, was my companions translation of the general feeling.
If they have to wake up the chauffeur, I admitted.
Hes a new man theyve got, Miss Tattersall replied. Theyve 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.
Wont you come back into the drawing-room? Mrs. Jervaise was saying to the Sturtons.
Oh! thank you, its 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. Im 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 hasnt 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.
Whats 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 isnt 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.
Its getting frightfully mysterious, Miss Tattersall agreed, and added inconsequently, Hes got a strong face, you know; keenlooks as if hed get his own way about things, though, of course, he isnt a gentleman.
I had a suspicion that she had been flirting with the romantic chauffeur. She was the sort of young woman who would flirt with any one.
I wished they would open that Hall door again. The action of my play had become dispersed and confused. Frank Jervaise had gone off through the baize door with John, and the Sturtons and their host and hostess were moving reluctantly towards the drawing-room.
We might almost as well go and sit down somewhere, I suggested to Miss Tattersall, and noted three or four accessible blanks on the staircase.
Almost, she agreed after a glance at the closed door that shut out the night.
In the re-arrangement I managed to leave her on a lower step, and climbed to the throne of the gods, at present occupied only by Gordon Hughes, one of Frank Jervaises barrister friends from the Temple. Hughes was reputed brilliantly clever. He was a tallish fellow with ginger red hair and a long nosethe foxy type.
Rum start! I cried, by way of testing his intellectual quality, but before I could get on terms with him, the stage was taken by a dark, curly-haired, handsome boy of twenty-four or so, generally addressed as Ronnie. I had thought him very like a well-intentioned retriever pup. I could imagine him worrying an intellectual slipper to pieces with great gusto.
I say, its all U.P. now, he said, in a dominating voice. Whats the time? He was obviously too well turned out to wear a watch with evening dress.