The Jervaise Comedy by J. D. Beresford

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"I'm sorry for that," I agreed. "But I'm going to make amends. I realised
it all this afternoon in the wood when I went to meet Arthur. I'm going to
begin all over again, now. I'm coming to Canada--to work." The whole
solution of my problem was suddenly clear, although I had not guessed it
until that moment. "I'm going to buy a farm for all of us," I went on
quickly, "and all the money that's over, I shall give away. The hospitals
are always willing to accept money without asking why you give it. They're
not suspicious, _they_ don't consider themselves under any obligation."

"How much should you have to give away?" she asked.

"Thirty or forty thousand pounds," I said. "It depends on how much the
farm costs."

"Hadn't you better keep a little, in case the farm fails?" she put in.

"It won't fail," I said. "How could it?"

"And you'd do all that just because you've--remembered me?"

"There was another influence," I admitted.

"What was that?" she asked, with the sound of new interest in her voice.

"All this affair with the Jervaises," I said. "It has made me hate the
possession of money and the power money gives. That farm of ours is going
to be a communal farm. Our workers shall have an interest in the profits.
No one is to be the proprietor. We'll all be one family--no scraping for
favours, or fears of dismissal; we'll all be equal and free."

She did not answer that, at once; and I had an unpleasant feeling that she
was testing my quality by some criterion of her own, weighing the
genuineness of my emotion.

"Did you feel like this about things this afternoon?" she asked, after
what seemed to me an immense interval.

I was determined to tell her nothing less than the truth. "No," I
confessed, "much of it was a result of what you said to me. I--I had an
illumination. You made me see what a poor thing my life had been; how
conventional, artificial, worthless, it was. What you said about my plays
was so true. I had never realised it before--I hadn't bothered to think
about it."

"I don't remember saying anything about your plays," she interrupted me.

"Oh! you did," I assured her; "very little; nothing directly; but I knew
what you felt, and when I came to think it over, I agreed with you."

"I've only seen _one_," she remarked.

"They're all the same," I assured her, becoming fervent in my humility.

"But why go to Canada?" she asked. "Why not try to write better plays?"

"Because I saw my whole life plainly, in the wood this afternoon," was my
reply. "I did not know what to do then. I couldn't see any answer to my
problem. But when you were speaking to me a minute ago, I realised the
whole thing clearly. I understood what I wanted to do.

"It's a form of conversion," I concluded resolutely.

"I'm sure you mean it all--now," she commented, as if she were speaking to
herself.

"It isn't a question of _meaning_ anything," I replied. "The experiences
of this week-end have put the whole social question in a new light for me.
I could never go back, now, to the old life. My conscience would always be
reproaching me, if I did."

"But if you're rich, and feel like that, oughn't you to shoulder your
responsibilities?" she asked.

"Do something? Wouldn't it be rather like running away to give your money
to the hospitals and go to Canada to work on a farm?"

"That's my present impulse," I said. "And I mean to follow it. I don't
know that I shall want to stay in Canada for the rest of my life. I may
see further developments after I've been there for a few years. But..."

"Go on," she urged me.

"But I want to--to stay near you--all of you. I can't tell you how I
admire your father and mother and Arthur and--all of you. And you see, I
admit that this conversion of mine has been very sudden. I--I want to
learn."

"Do you always follow your impulses like this?" she put in.

"I've never had one worth following before," I said.

"What about wanting to fight Frank Jervaise?" she asked. "And running away
from the Hall? And suddenly taking Arthur's side in the row? and all those
things? Didn't you follow your impulses, then?"

And yet, it had never before occurred to me that I was impulsive. I had
imagined myself to be self-controlled, rather business-like, practical. I
was frankly astonished at this new light on my character.

"I suppose I did, in a way," I admitted doubtfully.

"To say nothing of..." she began, and stopped with a little, rather
embarrassed laugh.

"Of what?" I urged her.

"How many times before have you imagined yourself to be head over ears in
love?" she asked.

I was repaid in that moment for all the self-denials and fastidious
shrinkings of my youth.

"Never once!" I acclaimed triumphantly. "It's the one common experience
that has passed me by. I've often wondered why I could never fall in love.
I've admired any number of women. I've tried to fall in love with them.
And I have never been able to, try as I would. I could deceive myself
about other things, but never about that. Now, I know why."

I waited for her encouragement, but as she did not speak I went on with
more hesitation. "You'll think me a romantic fool, I suppose, if I tell
you why?"

"Oh! I know, I know," she said. "You've told me already in so many words.
You mean that you've been waiting for me; that you _had_ to wait for me.
You've been very frank. You deserve some return. Shall I tell you just how
I feel? I will. I don't mind telling you the truth, too. I did remember
you last night. But not since; not even now. But I like you--I like you
very much--as you are this evening. More than I've ever liked any man
before. And if you went away, I should remember you; and want you to come
back. But you must give me time. Lots of time. Don't make love to me any
more; not yet; not till I've really remembered. I think I shall--in a
little while--when you've gone away. You're so near me, now. And so _new_.
You don't belong to my life, yet."

She paused and then went on in another tone. "But I believe you're right
about Canada. I'll explain it all to the others. We'll make some kind of
arrangement about it. I expect it will have to be _your_ farm, nominally,
for a time--until we all know you better. I can feel that you do--that you
have taken a tremendous fancy to all of us. I felt it just now, after
supper. I was watching you and--oh! well, I knew what you were feeling
about my father and mother; and it seemed to be just what I should have
liked you to feel. But I don't think I would give _all_ my money to the
hospitals, if I were you. Not without thinking it over a bit, first. Wait
until we get to Canada and see--how we get on."

"You don't trust my impulses," I said.

She laughed. "Wait till to-morrow anyway," she replied.

And as she spoke I heard far away, across the Park, the sound of the
stable-clock at the Hall, striking twelve. The artificial sound of it was
mellowed and altered by distance; as different from that theatrical first
striking I had noticed in the exciting atmosphere of the crowd, as was my
present state of mind from that in which I had expectantly waited the
coming of romance....

"To-morrow begins now," I said.

"And I have to be up before six," she added, in the formal voice she knew
so well how to assume.

I felt as though she had by that one return to civility cancelled all that
she said, and as we turned back to the house, I began to wonder whether
the promise of my probation was as assured as I had, a minute earlier, so
confidently believed.

We were nearly at the little porch that would for ever be associated in my
mind with the fumbling figure of Frank Jervaise, when she said,

"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

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