Mr. Jervis, Vol. 2 (of 3)

The bachelors’ ball was to be the dance of the season, and to be done in a style that would set all future competition at defiance, for young Jervis—who was quite a leading light on the committee—had developed unexpectedly magnificent ideas, and ordered things right and left as if the hosts were so many millionaires. Half the supper—at least anything delectable or rare, that could venture to undertake a journey—was to be despatched from Pelitis. It appeared to the flattered community that the Indian Empire was being ransacked from Calcutta to Bombay, in order to entertain them suitably. Groups of coolies were toiling up with palms from the hot low country, a dozen paharis were seeking orchids among the hills, there would be game from the Terai, pâtés and French sweets from the city of palaces, and fish that had executed their last splash in the Bay of Bengal.

Dr. Loyd nodded his head over his newspaper in the club smoking-room, and remarked that “He supposed it was all as it should be, and truly fin-de-siècle!”

To which the Honble. P. Brande, from over the edge of the Calcutta Journal, made answer—

“Pooh! Fin-de-siècle! Which siècle? The Romans, we all know, got their oysters from Cornwall, their caviare from the Caspian, we are only copying them in our so-called modern Capua.”

“Yes,” responded Dr. Loyd, with a laugh, “you are right; our luxurious tastes are centuries old; but we have advanced in other ways. Science, for instance. There have been splendid discoveries.”

“Most of them infringements of old Chinese and Egyptian patents.”

“Do you mean to say that we have not advanced?” demanded the other, deliberately laying down his paper.

“Yes,” admitted Mr. Brande; “we have telephones, sewing-machines, bicycles, telegrams; I doubt if they have made us happier than our forefathers. Women have advanced—that is certain. A century ago they were content to live in one place, and in a condition of torpid ignorance—they were satisfied that their métier was to sit at home, and cook and sew. Now, we have changed all that. I am reading an article by a woman,” tapping the page, “which is amazingly brilliant, lucid, and daring.”

“Oh, they are daring enough—fools rush in, you know.”

“Meaning that we are angels! Thank you, Loyd,” rejoined Mr. Brande, with his dry little laugh. “This article is quite in your own line. The subject is heredity, the burning question of the day and hour. How pitiless it is, this heredity,” he continued, removing his pince-nez, and sitting well back in his chair—“the only certain and unfailing legacy! Strange how a voice, a trick, a taste, the shape of a feature, or a finger, is handed down, as well as soul-corroding vices, bodily diseases and deformities. Even animals——”

“Yes, yes,” impatiently, “you are going to tell me about the puppy who points as soon as his eyes are open. I know everything that has been said. Of course we see a great deal of one side of it in our profession.”

“I wish that a taste for cooking had been handed down in my wife’s family,” cried Colonel Sladen, suddenly plunging headlong into the conversation. “I tell her that she will poison me yet, and just as effectually as if she were Lucrezia Borgia.”

“I’m only surprised that she has not done it long ago,” muttered a bystander.

“What’s that you were saying about the advance of women, eh, Brande? It’s the greatest rot and nonsense, this scribbling and prosing about the equality of the sexes,” blustered Colonel Sladen, squaring himself on the hearthrug. “Women must be kept in their proper places—their sphere is home, the nursery and kitchen.”

Cries of “Oh! oh!” from several young men, drawn to the scene by a well-known blatant bass voice.

“Yes, I say”—encouraged by his audience—“that this growing independence should be nipped, and at once. Women are pushing themselves into our places—doctors, decorators, members of school boards, senior wranglers, journalists. I don’t know what they will want next.”

“Then I shall be happy to enlighten you,” rejoined a clear treble voice from the doorway, and there stood Miss Valpy, in her most mannish coat, Tattersall waistcoat, and sailor hat, heading a crowd of other ladies. “Sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but we want this room.”

Colonel Sladen puffed and glared, for the moment positively speechless.

“Permit me to introduce the decorating committee for the ball,” continued this bold young person. “The secretary has given the club over to us for two days. We have carte blanche, and no time to lose. Each apartment has its own allotted number of workers. This one represents our share,” looking round with the complacent eye of a proprietor. “Of course it will have to be thoroughly fumigated and ventilated; but I dare say it won’t make a bad tea-room.”

“Do you mean to say that we are to turn out?” demanded Colonel Sladen, “and to give up our smoking-room for this tomfoolery?”

“There will be no tomfoolery about the supper,” she retorted impressively. “I shall really be much obliged if you”—looking round and speaking authoritatively—“will all clear out.”

“Then I suppose we must fall back on the card-room,” growled Colonel Sladen, not displeased at thus securing an early rubber.

“Oh, pray don’t!” with a deprecatory gesture, “the card-room is already in hand; it is to be the ladies’ cloak-room.”

Colonel Sladen restrained himself with great difficulty as he asked, in a sort of choked voice—

“And pray what arrangements have been made for whist?”

“Oh, a tent will be good enough for the card-players!” was the contemptuous reply.

“I never heard of such management! I shan’t come to this blessed ball!”

“Oh yes you will,” returned Miss Valpy, serenely. She was already at work, collecting and piling up newspapers. “Think of the prawns and pomphret coming all the way from Bombay, and how disappointed they would be not to see you!”

“Ah, and the Agra beauty who is also expected—Miss Glossop; she will cut you all out! Ha, ha, ha!” retorted Colonel Sladen, with angry exultation.

“That’s what people generally say of a girl they have never seen,” rejoined Miss Valpy, coolly sweeping spills off the chimney-piece. “Now, I have seen her. There are twenty prettier faces in Shirani.”

“Including the face of Miss Valpy!” with ferocious sarcasm.

“It is extremely kind of you to say so,” making him a mocking curtsey, “and for once I am quite of your opinion.”

Colonel Sladen could not find any appropriate retort beyond some inarticulate emotional noises.

“Fanny”—to her sister—“help Mrs. Glover and Mrs. Bell. Abdar”—to a servant—“take out all the chairs into the verandah, and send in the coolies to lift the table.”

Thus the smoking-room was stormed, and its lawful tenants scattered abroad by bold, domineering, and unscrupulous women. It was true that every department had been told off; the senior ladies had undertaken the supper-room. There were to be little tables for four—quite a novel departure; and on the day of the ball there was scarcely a small table left in any private house in Shirani—the bachelors had borrowed every one, as well as armchairs, rugs, and draperies. Rookwood was almost swept and garnished, in answer to the demands of Mrs. Brande’s “boy” Mark. Mrs. Langrishe, careful soul, had declined to lend one single chair or candlestick. It would have established a precedent. She, however, was good enough to spare her niece, who demonstrated that she could work hard, and decorate, and arrange flowers, when she pleased, and was full of clever expedients. She and Toby Joy presided over the arrangements of the long verandahs, and divided them with screens, palms, and sofas, hung up lamps, flags, and draperies, and devised numbers of sitting-out nooks with curiously sympathetic details and elaborate care. Their merry bursts of laughter continually penetrated to the ball-room, where a large party, by means of ladders, hammers, and nails, were festooning the walls with miles of bazaar muslin. Each department had its own special staff, and they embellished according to their collective taste, and in friendly rivalry with their neighbours.

One gang of workers visited another in order to offer their opinion and encouragement, and most of the young people enjoyed the decorations every whit as much as the grand result—the ball itself.

Honor, Mrs. Sladen, and half a dozen men and maidens were posted to the reception rooms and card-tent, and, strange to say, Honor and Mark Jervis shared the same hammer and bag of nails. Personal history has its epochs: brief seasons, during which life is fuller than usual. Never had the life of these two young people seemed so fruitful of pleasant events as at the present time!

Miss Valpy, the valiant leader of the forlorn hope which stormed the smoking-room, was resting from her labours. Lunch for the workers was to be served in an al fresco fashion in the back verandah. Meanwhile she reposed in a coign of vantage, an interested and lynx-eyed spectator. She did not rest alone; her companion, Mr. Skeggs—the youth who considered a young man a reward in himself—lolled lazily beside her.

He was a little afraid of Miss Valpy, her sharp tongue occasionally penetrated the rhinoceros hide of his conceit. But somehow the other girls had not encouraged his assistance, which—to tell the truth—had chiefly consisted in dropping packets of tacks about the floor and lavishing uncomplimentary criticism.

“This ought to be a ripping ball,” remarked the youth complacently. “Awfully well done. Some of them are working like niggers.” And he grinned like a schoolboy.

“I am glad to see that you have a generous appreciation of other people’s efforts,” rejoined the young lady sternly.

“Ah, well, yes”—stroking his exceedingly faint moustache. “I say, I wonder who will be the belle to-night? Who do you think the prettiest girl in Shirani? I bar the married ladies.”

“That is something very novel. Prettiest girl,” she repeated speculatively. “Well, Miss Clover is the most strictly good-looking, her features the most correctly in drawing.”

“Yes; only she always looks as if she was dressed up to sit or stand and be stared at, like a wax figure with a label, ‘The public are requested not to touch.’ You could not imagine her playing a hard set of tennis, or riding to hounds, or braving wet weather.”

“No”—sarcastically—“I fancy she would ‘come off’ badly.”

“Miss Paske is the most lively of the lot. She has such a piquante, wicked little face. On the whole I give her the preference. I like to talk and dance with her, but I funk a tête-à-tête or a long walk, for she is just the sort of girl who would propose for a fellow like a shot.”

“I am sure you need not be the least uneasy or afraid of putting temptation in her way,” rejoined Miss Valpy. “You may enjoy her company with impunity. You would not suit her at all, as you are neither rich, good-looking, clever, or, indeed, distinguished for anything but an enormous amount of conceit; and the amusement it affords us is your only redeeming quality.”

Mr. Skeggs again stroked his little moustache, blinked his white eyelashes fatuously, and giggled like a girl.

“Crushed—not to say squashed,” he groaned.

“You admire Miss Paske,” continued the young lady scornfully. “Just what I would have expected of you! Now, in my opinion, she is not to be named in the same hour with Honor Gordon. What lovely eyes she has!”

“Yes; Miss Gordon with her fiddle and her figure is hard to beat. As to her eyes—I suppose they have never happened to scorch you? She is too stand-off; she is a woman’s girl. To tell you the truth, she frightens me.”

“Poor timid little soldier! No doubt you mean that she never flatters you; and I admit that her honest frankness sometimes takes away my breath. However, she does not terrify other men—for instance,” and she paused expressively, “Mr. Jervis.”

“No;” pursing up his mouth and raising his eyebrows. “I should not say he shrank from her. And who do you consider the best-looking man in Shirani, Miss Valpy? Your taste is so cultivated.”

“Present company always excepted?” with a mocking glance out of the corner of her eye.

He nodded with a solemn acquiescence.

“Mr. Jervis, of course,” was her promptly off-hand opinion.

“Oh, come—I say,” expostulated the youth.

“Yes, I will say that he is extremely handsome; not in the big moustache, hooked-nose, bold brigand-style. He has a noble air; the shape of his head, the cast of his features, the expression of his eyes, embody my idea of a hero.”

“A hero!” ejaculated her listener. “Great Scot! A pity he has no way of showing what stuff he is made of, beyond beating buffaloes away from old ladies.”

“Yes, it is a pity. However, his opportunity may come yet. It is also a still greater pity that one can never praise one man to another.”

“Well,” nursing his knee meditatively, “I will admit that Jervis is passable, and looks clean bred——”

“Thank you, that is very kind of you. Does it not strike you that he is afflicted with an old-fashioned infirmity, and is decidedly shy?”

“Shy!” he almost shouted. “Jervis shy? Ha, ha, ha!”

“Well, he is with ladies.”

“Oh, you may call it by whatever name you please. I call it fastidiousness. At any rate he is not shy with men. No fear! Only last night at the club some cad made a caddish remark, and it was not our hoary secretary who took it up and went for him, or any of the old chaps, but Jervis. By George, he gave him pepper. Went slap down his throat, spurs and all. A man’s man you know, and popular. He can sing a good song, make a rattling good speech, and is as active as a cat; you should see him take a run, and jump standing on the billiard-room chimney-piece.”

“What, Jervis? My Jervis?” in a tone of affected horror.

“Ahem! Well, I am not so sure of his being your Jervis,” drawled Mr. Skeggs.

“No; and I am positively certain that he is not, in the sense you mean. I must confess that I should like to study him.”

“Would you?” sarcastically. “You will not find him easy to classify or to fit into any of the usual pigeon-holes; he is a fellow who has a singular gift of self-control—consumes his own smoke, you know.”

“Why you have been unbending your great mind and studying him yourself! What do you make him out to be?”

“I make him out to be a curiosity—a mixture of an Arcadian shepherd, a London swell, and the rich young man in the Bible.”

“You overwhelm me completely, especially by your last simile. Why the rich young man in the Bible?”

“Because he kept all the commandments.”

“Oh!” drawing a long breath, “he must be as wonderful a rarity as the great auk. As for an Arcadian shepherd, I see what you mean. He has got what some one called an out-of-door mind. I have not. I should loathe Arcadia, and green swards, and be-ribboned crooks, and skipping lambs. To let you into a dead, dead secret, I can never see a lamb without thinking of mint sauce!”

“Shame! Shame!” exclaimed Mr. Skeggs, in tragic tones. “Well, Miss Gordon,” to Honor, who had approached their nook, “how are you getting on with that grand scheme of mirrors and draperies?”

“Very badly. It would have been finished long ago, only some unprincipled people from the ball-room made raids on me, and carried off both my hammers, all my pins, and two of my best Phoolcarries. What do you call that?” appealing for sympathy to Miss Valpy.

“I call it a beastly shame,” said Toby Joy, who had joined her, speaking with much virtuous indignation—Toby, who himself had been one of the most audacious robbers.

“I call it, Honor among thieves,” remarked Jervis, who happened to be passing by.

Miss Valpy looked after him attentively. No, that young man was by no means shy.

“I have made no end of beautiful kala-juggas,” continued Toby, complacently; “there ought to be half a dozen engagements to-night,” and he nodded his head and rubbed his hands ecstatically.

“I thought kala-juggas were not allowed,” retorted Miss Valpy, severely.

“Fine man traps,” growled Colonel Sladen, who had just arrived to offer criticism and obtain lunch. “But girls don’t go off as they used to do in my bachelor days. Girls,” looking hard at Miss Valpy, “are a drug in the market.”

“There is another view, that may not have occurred to you,” she answered, snatching up the gauntlet thus flung in her face. “They are undoubtedly more difficile than when you were a young man. They may have heard the good old motto, ‘Look before you leap!’”

Toby Joy sniggered audibly, and Colonel Sladen, turning savagely upon him, demanded, “what the devil he was laughing at?”

Toby, slightly cowed by the cantonment magistrate’s beetling brows and fierce demeanour, blandly answered with an impudent twinkle—

“I was only thinking of something I was told just now. Mrs. Tompkins’ English-speaking Bearer announced to her to-day that the goose had four pups!”

There was a shout of laughter at this startling item of natural history; but Colonel Sladen was still unappeased, and would have pitilessly pressed home his question, but for Mr. Skeggs, who cried with great presence of mind—

“There is Jervis coming back; what is he saying? Ah!”—with a gesture of delight—“Lunch—lunch—lunch.’ Shows he is an alien, or it would have been ‘Tiffin—tiffin—tiffin.’”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Jervis, making a profound bow, “luncheon awaits you; and Mrs. Loyd requests me to announce that as you are here to work and not to play, you are only allowed twenty minutes for refreshments.”

“Mrs. Loyd is as bad as an East End sweater,” grumbled Mr. Skeggs, handing Miss Valpy down from their mutual perch.

“You may tell Mrs. Loyd from me, that I won’t work a second over the eight hours,” cried Toby; and, offering his arm to Miss Paske, they waltzed across the ball-room, “just to try the floor.”

“Pray observe,” whispered Miss Valpy, as she and her escort seated themselves before a recherché cold luncheon, “how your man’s man, Mr. Jervis, takes care to secure a place beside a woman’s girl. Can you explain that?”

“No,” seizing a pair of carvers as he spoke. “Just at present I prefer to explore the contents of this most interesting-looking raised pie.”