by E. F. Benson
A fugue on the subject of ‘Oh, do’, followed.
“Upon my word,” said Colonel Chase, highly gratified but tremulous, “my little twopenny stories are only fit for a friend’s ear, just to pass the time. Really in public, you know, and on a platform it’s a very different matter!”
A wail of ‘Oh, do’ went up in a minor key.
“Think how many more people will come,” said Mrs. Oxney, “though to be sure Miss Howard’s name alone would fill the hall. There won’t be standing room.”
“And all the poor little children in hospital.”
“And helping others,” said Mrs. Bliss who had been quite ready to adopt the unspoken suggestion that she would bring Mind to bear upon Mr. Graves’s influenza, till this proposition was made.
“And poor Mr. Graves lying there and worrying himself over what will happen if no one can be found to take his place.”
“And so much more amusing than Mr. Graves could possibly be.”
“And how we shall all shudder if you tell your ghost story, and how we shall laugh if you tell us about the Dean and the port wine.”
(“And what Slam said about your declaration of two hearts,” whispered Tim to Mrs. Holders.).
“And the tiger! What suspense for those who haven’t heard it.”
It was not in human nature to resist so universal an appeal. Colonel Chase saw himself on the platform before a tense audience.
“Indeed, I hardly like to refuse,” he began.
The wailing strains of ‘Oh, do’ swelled to a joyful chorus. “Well, I yield, I yield,” he said. “I am not too proud to fill a gap at the last moment. But my work’s cut out for me. I shall have to rehearse my little yarns over and over again to get them ship-shape by tomorrow night. Short notice, you know, padre. Miss Howard’s lucky only to be improvising.”
“Oh, but you know them all by heart,” said Mrs. Oxney. “Tell them all just as you tell them to us after tea. Perfect!”
Mr. Banks warmly shook the Colonel’s hand and hurried back to relieve his Committee’s suspense with the joyful news, while Colonel Chase abandoning all thought of a walk, retired to the smoking-room to jot down his selection of stories, and trim them into public shape. He was immensely gratified at the strong expressions of entreaty and delighted anticipation which he had heard from those who knew his stories so well, and promised to give his audience something better worth listening to than the yarns with which Mr. Graves entertained the victims of his professional manipulations. (Probably they only laughed at them because Mr. Graves was running his fingers over ticklish places in their anatomy.) So much too lay in the address and appearances of the raconteur, and it was pleasant to remember that Mr. Graves was a podgy little bit of a man with no presence at all and a wheezy voice. . . . “We’ll begin with a good laugh,” he thought: the ‘Curate’s Egg’ would lead off well, and he recited to himself with appropriate gestures of a man wielding an egg-spoon, the story of the Curate breakfasting with his Bishop, and being given an egg which smelt abominable (‘something like the waters here,’ thought the Colonel) and, on his diocesan making enquiries, how the Curate said that parts of it were excellent. Very likely that yarn had never reached Bolton yet, or, on the other hand, it might have reached Bolton so long ago that the majority of his audience would be too young to recollect its vogue. After that might come the story of the man-eating tiger which he stalked on foot through the jungle and shot as it charged him. Then for relief he would tell them of the Dean who gargled with port wine by mistake, but perhaps two stories making fun of the cloth would be injudicious, with Mr. Banks in the chair, and he decided to tell instead the story of the little boy who took a sip of his father’s whisky and soda, and not liking the taste put it back in the glass. That had amused Mr. Banks before now. After that he must make the flesh of his entire audience creep, and the ghost story of the dak-bungalow would be the very thing. It was rather a long story, but he had no reason to suspect that anyone had ever found it so, and if the lights could be turned down during it, and Miss Howard would play a little weird music on the piano during the most thrilling section, the effect would be quite terrific. Then up would go the lights again, and he would make them hold their sides over the member of Parliament who thought he had sat down on his neighbour’s hat, and in the middle of his profuse apologies found that it was his own. How his junior officers used to roar when he told them that story at mess. But he must be careful to omit the swear-words tomorrow: that was a pity.
These ought to be enough he thought, and, as an encore, he could tell the history of the young grocer who meaning to send a lovely rose to his young lady sent by mistake a piece of strong Gorgonzola, enclosing an amorous note saying ‘When I smell it I think of you.’ The rose went — he might say — to a peppery old Colonel not a hundred miles from here, as per his esteemed order, and so the young grocer lost his custom and his young lady. . . . He went through them all just as he meant to tell them tomorrow night, and found they had taken twenty-five minutes, which would do very well: but not another yarn should they get out of him, however much they clamoured.
Then he went to look for Miss Howard, to ask her to play the ghost-music, but found she had gone to see about laying the carpet in the Green Salon: he followed her, for it was most important that she should make ghost-music to his recitation, but learned that the carpet had been laid, and Miss Howard had gone to the Assembly Rooms. He just looked into the Green Salon to see how her preparations progressed, but was plunged into so thick a stew of opoponax and musk and incense that it was impossible to breathe, let alone seeing anything. Violently coughing, he proceeded to the Assembly Rooms, and there was Miss Howard seeing what it felt like to improvise on a platform. She readily consented to play weird music to accompany the ghost story, and a couple of workmen, who were arranging chairs for the entertainment tomorrow, sat down in them, so as not to make a ‘scraping sound’ during this rehearsal of the famous adventures in the dak-bungalow. The climax approached:
“I was just about to light my lamp,” said the Colonel in a hollow voice, “when I saw, or seemed to see in the far corner a shadow forming itself into the semblance of a man. . . . No, Miss Howard, I think I should like you to come in with those chords at the word ‘far corner’. And the soft pedal, please. I shall be speaking in a very low voice myself, and I fear it would hardly carry. Shall we try that again?”
“I can’t play much softer,” said Miss Howard, “and the soft pedal has been on the whole time.”
“Then perhaps we had better turn the piano away from the audience,” said he. “Lend a hand here, one or two of you fellows, will you?”
“But my solo follows very soon after, Colonel,” she said. “The piano must be moved back again.”
“Oh, that’s easily done. The padre and I will see to that. Now, Miss Howard, I’ll begin again at ‘light my lamp’, and your cue is ‘far corner’. Now please.”
Once more the terrifying tale unfolded itself and when the phantom shrieked, Miss Howard produced so fearful an effect with the loud pedal and both hands violently scampering up the piano that the Colonel nearly jumped out of his skin.
“My word, how you startled me,” he said. “Most effective. Just like that tomorrow please. And then dead silence till the beat of the tom-toms is heard, on one note in the bass very slow and measured. . . . Perfect. And now let us take it all through again: we must get it without a hitch. Perhaps at the beginning we might have a line or two of ‘On the road to Mandalay’, just to give the local colour. Oh, much softer than that. Just a suggestion . . . fading away as I begin.”
Now Miss Howard had come here on purpose to have a good practice and get used to the room and the instrument, and here she was tucked away behind the upright piano, and making ghost-music for the Colonel. Already it was growing dark, the chairs were all arranged, and the foreman was jingling his keys, wanting to lock the hall up and get home. He had heard the ghost story three times and now he could not stand it again.
“We’re closing the hall for the night, sir, now,” he said.
Colonel Chase forgot about Mind for the moment, and was highly indignant.
“Well, upon my soul!” he said. “We’re doing our best to give you a good entertainment for your Children’s Hospital and we’re told we’re not wanted. It’s enough to make—”
Suddenly he remembered about his cold and his pedometer.
“Just give us two minutes more, there’s a good feller,” he said. “And perhaps you’d be so kind as to go to the far end of the room, and tell me if you can hear. . . . That’s capital of you. . . . Now Miss Howard I’m sure you don’t want to keep anybody waiting, any more than I do. So let’s practise the rest afterwards, and begin now at ‘I was just about to light my lamp’—”
The thrilling section down to the phantom’s shriek was rehearsed once more, and Colonel Chase called out to know if he had been heard.
“Not a word, sir,” said the foreman cheerfully. “I heard the music though. And now I must really ask you—”
“Yes, yes, at once,” said the Colonel. “We can have another practice at home, Miss Howard. Let me see. I must have a table on the centre of the platform with a glass and bottle of water. It would never do if I was to get hoarse, for in the story of the little boy and his father’s whisky I mean to use falsetto. And I hope there will be plenty of light; the play of the features counts for so much. The look of tension and terror in the tiger story; that would be quite lost if there was not enough light. But they must be turned down for the ghost story and turned up immediately after it. That must be seen to by some trustworthy man.”
The next day was a succession of hectic hours for Wentworth, since Colonel Chase who had so intrepidly faced man-eaters and phantoms found the prospect of facing an audience far more formidable. He recited his stories over and over again to rows of imaginary listeners in the smoking-room, and manifested such want of control if disturbed, that Mrs. Oxney put up a notice on the door of ‘Private’. Miss Howard had similarly taken possession of the drawing-room, and in spite of her confidence in Mind, found that the passage of octaves to usher in the re-entry of the Chopin waltz was fading gradually but firmly out of her memory and that constant repetition only served to hasten that distressful process. In order to fix these fugitive beauties in her mind (since Mind seemed so inconsistent an ally) she wrote down some of the most important on music paper, though as her performance was improvised, it would hardly do to play from notes when the time came. Occasionally she closed her eyes and smiled, but the smile grew very wan as its inefficacy manifested itself. Then Colonel Chase wanted to go through the music of the ghost story once or twice more, and it got muddled up with the octaves which now came out like the sun from behind a cloud when she wanted something else, and he forgot the cue he had given her of ‘the far corner’, and said, ‘the other end of the room’. In consequence there were no weird chords at all, for she was waiting for ‘far corner’.
“Music, please,” rapped out Colonel Chase.
“But my cue is ‘far corner’,” said Miss Howard in a strangled voice.
“Well, ‘the other end of the room’ is the same thing,” he said. “A little intelligence, Miss Howard. The point is that the ghost is just appearing, and you have to play. I should have thought that was clear. Let us go back to the lighting of the lamp.”
Miss Howard moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. She often did this when determined, under any provocation, to behave like a perfect lady.
“My mistake no doubt,” she said. “The lighting of the lamp: yes.”
This time she came in with the shriek-motif far too soon, and Colonel Chase, with his nerves worn to fiddle-strings at the prospect of this evening, stamped on the floor with his great feet.
“Good gracious me!” he exclaimed. “It gets worse and worse. We had better have no music at all than this hash.”
Miss Howard merely closed the lid of the piano.
“I think that would be far the best course,” she said and sat with her hands in her lap looking at the ceiling, till he left the room. Then she opened the piano again and went on with her practice.
Colonel Chase went back to the smoking-room in an ague of passion and nervousness. He told the ghost story again to himself, but now he had got so accustomed to the music that it put him out dreadfully not to have it, and a frenzied effort at reliance on Mind had no calming effect whatever. Though he hated to do it, he felt he must eat humble pie, and beg Miss Howard to forgive him, for he could not get on at all without her. Perhaps Mrs. Oxney would carry his regrets: that would make the humble pie less hard to swallow. She consented to do her best.
Miss Howard had a sense of dignity, and when the ambassadress with many compliments on the exquisite music, sidled into the drawing-room, she met with a cool reception.
“I am very glad that Colonel Chase feels that he has behaved most rudely,” said Miss Howard. “It is his place to tell me so himself. Thank you, Mrs. Oxney.”
And she resumed the long shake for the right hand which led towards the Chopin waltz. The octaves went better now, and having given ample time for Colonel Chase to come and apologise, she went out for a stroll in the bright sunshine, strenuously denying malice, nervousness and loss of memory. Naturally she had to be unconscious of his presence at lunch, but that was only proper. He had no existence for Miss Howard: how then could she see him?
Another half-hour’s solitary rehearsal in the smoking-room broke Colonel Chase down: he could not manage the ghost story at all without those weird chords. He apologised in person, and they went through it twice more. After tea they sat with Mrs. Bliss in a row and demonstrated over the entertainment. Mr. Kemp and Florence were demonstrating too, he over his left hip, and Florence over her need for Miss Howard as a friend, and they all parted to dress, calm and confident.
Dinner was early that night for the entertainment began at a quarter to eight for eight, whatever that meant. Colonel Chase had pinned a quantity of medals and ribands to his evening coat, among which Mrs. Holders swore she detected an ordinary shilling with a hole in it. The assembly room was packed, all but the front row where seats were reserved for the party from Wentworth, and the four centre ones, so Mr. Banks excitedly told them, for the Dowager Countess of Appledore and her party. She had sent in from the Grange that afternoon to order them, with the intimation that she might be a few minutes late. As she was patroness of the Children’s Hospital Mr. Banks was sure that this signified that the entertainment was not to begin without her and her party. He and Town Councillor Bowen had arranged to receive her at the door, and he hoped that Colonel Chase would assist them. So they all three waited for the august arrivals in a strong draught for a quarter of an hour. Then the glad word went about that the motor from the Grange had arrived, and an awed silence settled on the rest of the front row.
The reception committee bowed and smiled and an icy blast swept Lady Appledore and party into the hall. In number and splendour her party was disappointing, for it consisted of two women so wrapped up in cloaks and scarves and capes and woollies that nothing whatever could be seen of them. They were then partially unwound by the reception committee and the bleak and wintry features of Lady Appledore, whose face resembled a frost-bitten pansy with all its marking huddled up together in the middle, were disclosed. ‘Party’ was her companion, Miss Jobson, whose life was spent in holding skeins of wool for her, reading books to her, and sitting opposite to her in the motor. Lady Appledore then nodded to Mr. Banks to signify that she was ready, and the choir of St. Giles’s church sang a lullaby and a drinking song amid indescribable apathy.
Colonel Chase’s moment had arrived: Miss Howard slipped into her place behind the piano, and Mr. Banks introduced the gallant Colonel whose stories were so well known to everybody by repute (and, he might have added, to Wentworth by repetition). The gallant Colonel like Horatio of old had thrown himself into the breach caused by the lamented absence of Mr. Graves
and so they were going to taste what he might call the choicest of Colonel Chase’s anecdotal vintage for themselves.
Wentworth violently led the otherwise tame applause and Colonel Chase’s ruddy face had faded to the hue of the cheapest pink blotting paper as he told them about the Curate’s egg. Wentworth rocked with laughter but Mrs. Oxney heard Lady Appledore say to her companion, ‘I am never amused, Miss Jobson, at jokes about the Church,’ and she remembered with dismay that the story of the Dean was coming and that her ladyship was the daughter of one. She whispered her apprehensions to her sister who felt sure that Colonel Chase would substitute the story of the little boy and his father’s whisky. That would be far more suitable for Lady Appledore was a savage teetotaller.
The narrator embarked on his story of “My encounter with the Man-eater,” which had so often frozen the blood of Wentworth. But the audience, with the curious unanimity of crowds, had made up their minds, after the Curate’s egg, that he was a comic, pure and simple, and the crack-jaw Indian names and allusions to tiffin and Chota-hazri and shikari produced little titters of delighted laughter. They became more and more certain of it as he bade them follow him (he was kidding them) into the pathless solitary jungle with the kites whistling overhead (here some dramatic boy at the back whistled piercingly between his fingers) and up the dry nullah-wallah. “All at once,” said the Colonel pointing at Mrs. Oxney, “I heard a rustle in the bushes close by me, and turning I saw within a few yards of me the gleaming eyes and flashing teeth of the man-eater.” He whisked round, making the movement of putting his rifle to his shoulder, and at that moment, the performing dog which had escaped from its master, leaped on to the stage and sat up and begged. So loud a roar of delighted laughter went up from the entire hall that no one ever knew whether the man killed the man-eater or the man-eater the man. As it slowly subsided amid sporadic cackles, a yelp or two from the performing dog denoted that somebody was “larning” it to be a tiger.