The Jervaise Comedy

“One moment. I’ll get you something,” and left me standing in almost precisely the same spot from which I had gazed up at her window the night before.

She returned almost immediately, but it was not until we were inside the house and she had lighted my candle that she gave me the “something,” pressing it into my hand with a sudden delicious, girlish embarrassment.

She was gone before I recognised that the precious thing she had given me was a sprig of Rosemary.

Postscript

The True Story

It was by the merest accident that we gathered that delightful piece of information—on our first trip to England, not quite three years after we were married.

I did not know that “The Mulberry Bush” had been revived for a few weeks as a stop-gap, until we saw the boards outside the theatre. Anne insisted that we should go in, and the arbiters of coincidence ordained that I should take seats in the stalls immediately behind one of those well-informed society women who know the truth about everything.

We were somewhat amused by her omniscience during the first interval, but it was not until the second that she came to the priceless report of our own two selves.

I was not listening to her when she began, but Anne’s sudden grasp of my arm and the inclination of her head, awoke me to the fact that the gossip just in front of us must, for some reason or other, be instantly attended to.

There was a good deal of chatter going on in the auditorium and I missed an occasional sentence here and there in addition to the opening, but there could be no doubt as to the application of the reminiscence I heard.

“Got himself into a scrape and had to leave the country,” was the first thing that reached me. “As a matter of fact I had the whole story from some one who was actually staying in the house at the time.” She dropped her voice as she added something confidentially of which I only caught the sound of the name Jervaise. Anne was squeezing my arm violently.

“Yes, his father’s house,” the gossip continued in answer to a question from her companion. “A young man of great promise. He took silk last year, and is safe for a place in the Cabinet sooner or later.”

“Our Frank,” Anne whispered.

I nodded and waited eagerly, although I had not, then, realised my own connection with the story.

“Oh! yes, that other affair was four years ago—nothing to do with the dear Jervaises, except for the unfortunate fact that they were entertaining him at the time. He ran away with a farmer’s daughter; eloped with her in the middle of a dance the Jervaises were giving. Never seen her before that evening, I believe. The father was one of the Jervaises’ tenants…. A superior kind of young woman in some ways, I’ve heard; and a friend of the youngest Jervaise girl … you wouldn’t remember her … she went with her friend to Australia or somewhere … some quixotic idea of protecting her, I believe … and married out there. The farmer’s name was Baggs. The whole family were a trifle queer, and emigrated afterwards … yes, it was a pity about Melhuish, in a way. He was considered quite a promising young dramatist. This thing of his was a distinct success. Very amusing. But naturally, no one would receive him after he’d married this Baggs girl. Besides which …”

But at that point the orchestra began, the woman dropped her voice again, and the only other fragment I heard was, “… after the disgraceful scene at the dance … quite impossible….”

I looked at Anne and was surprised to find that she was white with indignation.

“I must tell them,” she whispered passionately.

“Oh! no, please,” I whispered back. “They wouldn’t believe you. It would only add another shocking detail to the next exposition of the scandal.”

“Detestable people,” she said, in a voice that must have been heard by our gossip, although she evidently did not realise the application of the description to herself and her friend.

“Let’s be thankful,” I whispered to Anne, “that I’m no longer writing this sort of piffle to amuse them. If it hadn’t been for you…”

The two women had left the theatre before the end of the third act, but long before that Anne had seen the humour of this true story of our elopement.

The End