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.