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.