CHAPTER XIIIHIGH REVEL IS HELD IN HILL STREET
ALL the same, Miss Perry did not dance twice with Jim Lascelles that evening. For Jim took his mother to the Theatre Royal, at Brixton, to witness a performance of that excellent old-world comedy, “She Stoops to Conquer.”
He did not appear to enjoy it much. He hardly laughed once, and his mother remarked it.
“What is the matter, my son?” said she. It ought to be stated that Jim’s mother was absurdly young to occupy the maternal relation to a great hulking fellow like Jim.
“There is a ridiculous girl in my head,” said he, “who is above me in station.”
“That Goose?” said Jim’s mother, a little contemptuously, it is to be feared.
“Yes, Señora,” said Jim. “She is turning my brain rather badly.”
Not unnaturally Jim’s mother was amused that Jim should be so serious.
“If only I had enough money to buy back the Red House at Widdiford,” sighed Jim, “I believe I could cut out them all.”
“She was never able to resist the orchard, and thesouth wall, and the strawberry beds,” Mrs. Lascelles agreed.
“I never saw such a creature,” said Jim. “Those lilac frocks and those Gainsborough hats are maddening.”
“Well, laddie,” said Jim’s mother, “you must paint her and make her and yourself famous.”
“She is famous already,” said Jim. “Worse luck. She is a nine days’ wonder in Mayfair, and certain to marry a duke.”
“That Goose!” said Jim’s mother.
“Yes,” said Jim; “it sounds ridiculous, but it is perfectly true.”
“Well, my son,” said Jim’s mother, who believed profoundly in her offspring, “just paint her and see what comes of it.”
While Jim Lascelles lay that night with his head on his arm, dreaming of the Goose Girl, high revel was held at the house of Caroline Crewkerne, in Hill Street, W. All ages and both sexes were gathered in the garb of their ancestors in the spacious suite of rooms on the second floor. From the moment that the first seductive strains were put forth by Herr Blaum’s Green Viennese Band, and his Excellency the Illyrian Ambassador, in the guise of Henri Quatre or the Duke of Buckingham—nobody was quite sure which—accompanied by Diana of Ephesus, a bread-and-butter miss who looked much too young to be a duchess, went up the carpetless blue drawing-room, which seemed at least three times the size it did on ordinary occasions, as indeed was the case, there wasno doubt that Caroline Crewkerne was going to have a great success.
It is not easy to know whether Red Cross Knights, Cardinal Richelieus, Catherines de’ Medici, and those kinds of people are susceptible of thrills; but there was one unmistakably when George Betterton, in the character of a Gentleman of the Georgian Era, took the floor with Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, by Gainsborough, upon his arm.
The less responsible spirits directed their gaze to Charles II. The Merry Monarch was engaged in amiable converse with his hostess, who, habited in an Indian shawl, the gift of her Sovereign, and a jeweled turban presented to her by the Shah of Persia during his last visit to this country, together with the insignia of the Spotted Parrot duly displayed round her neck, made her, in the opinion of many, a very tolerable representation of a heathen deity. As a Gentleman of the Georgian Era and Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, by Gainsborough, came down the room in a somewhat inharmonious manner, owing to the decidedly original ideas of the former in regard to the art he was practicing, the amiable and agreeably cultivated voice of Charles II. soared easily above the strains of the waltz and the frou-frou of the dancers.
“Yes,” said that monarch, “the Georgian Era is sufficiently obvious; but can anybody tell me what has happened to the Gentleman?”
The Georgian Era went its victorious way however, gobbling decidedly, perspiring freely, holdingGainsborough’s Duchess in a grip of iron, and slowly but surely trampling down all opposition with the greatest determination. When, with coxcomb ensanguined, but with a solemn gobble of triumph, he came back whence he started, a slight but well-defined murmur of applause was to be heard on every hand.
“Georgian Era wins in a canter,” one of the knowing fraternity could be heard to proclaim. “Evens on Gobo against the field.”
“Duchess,” said the Georgian Era, with a bow to his fair partner, who looked as cool as a cucumber, “you deserve an ice.”
“Yes,” said Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, with grave alacrity, “apinkone, please.”
“Bad form,” said the Second Charles; “decidedly a breach of manners to address her as duchess in the circumstances. But what can one expect of the Georgian Era!”
The Merry Monarch, with the unmistakable air of the master of the ceremonies, as indeed he was, proceeded to lead out Katharine of Aragon, who was seen to great advantage, such was her natural distinction, and who was that ill-fated queen to the manner born.
“Humph!” said the Heathen Deity. “For a born fool she dances very well.”
The Second Charles danced like a rather elderly angel with wings.
The young people also were enjoying themselves. Eligible young men, and not a single one of the otherkind had gained admittance, had each his dance with the fair Araminta, or the fair Daphne, or the fair Evadne, or the fair Sweet Nell of Old Drury. Of course Gainsborough’s masterpiece really brooked no rival, except the great canvas in the left-hand corner, which, in the full glare of the electric lights, seemed to do her best to dispute the supremacy of her youthful descendant.
“Yellow hair knocks spots off the auburn,” said an Eldest Son to the Lynx-Eyed Dowager to whose apron he was very carefully tied.
“A matter of taste,” was the rejoinder. “Yellow is never a safe color. It is well known that it means doubtful antecedents. They are beginning the lancers. Go, Pet, and find Mary.”
Pet, who was six feet five, and had leave from Knightsbridge Barracks until five a.m., claimed the Watteau Shepherdess, a real little piece of Dresden China, who had forty-six thousand in land and thirty-six thousand in consols, and would have more when Uncle William permanently retired from the Cavalry; and who was perfectly willing to marry Pet or anyone else if her mamma only gave her permission to do so.
Charles II. sat out the supper dance with the fair Araminta.
“Miss Goose,” said the sagacious monarch, “never dance the dance before supper if you can possibly avoid it. You will live longer, you will be able to do ampler justice to whatever fare may be forthcoming, you will also be able to get in before thesquash; and if the quails run short, as is sometimes the case, it won’t matter so much as it otherwise might do.”
As far as the Merry Monarch was concerned, however, the precautions against the squash and the possibility of the quails running short were wholly superfluous. The pleasantest corner of the best-situated table had been reserved for him hours before, and all his favorite delicacies had been duly earmarked.
“Miss Goose,” said the Merry Monarch, “have you had an ice yet?”
“I have hadseven,” said Araminta, Duchess of Dorset.
“Pinkones?” asked the Second Charles.
“Five were pink,” said the Duchess, “one was yellow, and one was green. But I think thatpinkones arealmostthe nicest.”
“I concur,” said the Second Charles.
After supper, before dancing was resumed, some incautious person, after gazing upon Gainsborough’s masterpiece and subjecting it to some admiring if unlearned remarks, pulled aside the crimson curtain which hid from view Jim Lascelles’ half-finished copy.
“Oho!” said the incautious one in a loud voice, “what have we here? To be sure, a Sargent in the making! Only Sargent could paint that hair.”
The attention of others was attracted.
“I should say it is a Whistler,” said a second critic.
“A Sargent decidedly,” said a third. “Only he could paint that hair.”
“It is high art, I dare say,” said a fourth, “but isn’t it rather extravagant?”
“If Gillet were in London,” said critic the fifth, who had more instruction than all the others put together, “I should say it was Gillet. As he is not, it might be described as the work of a not unskillful disciple.”
Cheriton stood listening.
“It is the work of a young chap named Lascelles,” said he; “the coming man, I’m told.”
Nobody had told Cheriton that Jim Lascelles was the coming man, and not for a moment did he believe that he was; but he was a member of that useful and considerable body which derives a kind of factitious importance from the making of imposing statements. He felt that it reacted upon his own status to announce that a young chap named Lascelles was the coming man when not a soul had heard of the young chap in question.
“I must remember the name,” said a broad-jowled marquis from Yorkshire, who had come up in time to hear Cheriton’s statement, and who greatly preferred to accept the judgment of others in the fine arts rather than exercise his own. “I should like him to paint Priscilla.”
“The very man to paint Priscilla,” said Cheriton, with conviction. And this, be it written to Cheriton’s credit, was genuine good nature.
“What is the subject?” said the first critic.
“Why, can’t you see?” said a chorus. “It is Caroline Crewkerne’s Gainsborough.”
“Which of ’em?”
“The yellow-haired one, of course.”
Cheriton screwed his glass in his eye. He had been the first to detect that the color of the hair was yellow, and yet for some strange reason the solution of the mystery had not until that moment presented itself to him.
“What damned impertinence!” said he.
“Anybody been treading onyourcorns, Cheriton?” asked several persons.
“Not exactly. But, do you know, I commissioned that fellow Lascelles to make a copy of Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, for Cheriton House.”
“And he copies the wrong Araminta!” came a shout of laughter. There was really no need to shout, but immediately after supper that is the sort of thing that happens sometimes. “A good judge too.”
“Gross impertinence. I think I shall be quite justified in repudiating the whole transaction.”
“Quite, Cheriton,” said the marquis, with a very obvious wink at the company and preparing to jest in the somewhat formidable Yorkshire manner. “But it is easily explained. Young fellow got a little mixed between Gainsborough’s Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, and Nature’s Araminta, Duchess of Brancaster. Very natural mistake—what?”
The arrival upon the scene of the Georgian Era and the Heathen Deity, the latter walking quitenimbly with very little aid from her stick, set the circle of art critics in further uproar.
“Who pulled aside the curtain?” demanded the mistress of the house. “Cheriton, I suspect you.”
“It is my picture, anyhow,” said Cheriton, coolly, although he felt the game was rather going against him.
“It is not at all clear to my mind that it is your picture,” said the sharp-witted Caroline, to the delight of everybody. “You send a man to copy my Gainsborough, and he copies my niece.”
“A very natural error,” said the marquis, “as we have just explained to Cheriton.”
The Georgian Era was seen to grow uneasy. He began to fumble in his Georgian costume. Obviously he was not quite sure where the pockets were. At last, however, he was able to produce a pair of spectacles which he proceeded to adjust.
“Very good likeness,” said he, heavily. “Caroline, when the picture is finished I should like to purchase it for the Cheadle Collection.”
A salvo of laughter greeted this speech, but to laughter the speaker was constitutionally oblivious.
“The picture is not Caroline’s, my dear George,” said Cheriton. “The young fellow is painting it on my commission.”
“Excellent likeness,” said George, tenaciously. “I shall make you a fair offer, Cheriton, for the Cheadle Collection.”
“I am sorry, my dear George, for the sake of theCheadle Collection,” said Cheriton, amiably; “but that picture is not for sale.”
“You are quite right, Cheriton,” said Caroline Crewkerne; “the picture is not for sale. I gave permission for a copy to be made of my Gainsborough, not of my niece.”
“It appears to be a question of copyright,” said a wit.
“I hold the copyright in both at present,” said Caroline, in an exceedingly grim manner.
The strains of the dance began to float through the room. The younger section of the company had again taken their partners; a brace of royalties had arrived, yet in spite of that jest and counter-jest were in the air.
“Cheriton was never in it from the start,” said the marquis, “if you want my candid opinion.”
“The luckier he,” said the first critic. “What does any man want with a girl who hasn’t a sou, a country parson’s daughter?”
“Healthy, I should say,” said critic the second. “Comes of a good stock on the mother’s side.”
“Ye-es,” said a third. “Useful.”
“Finest-looking girl in England,” said a fourth.
“They can both afford to marry her,” said the marquis, “and I will lay the odds that the better man of the two does.”
“Cheriton gets her in that event.”
“Gobo for a monkey.”
All the time, however, in Another Place, the Master of the Revels—but, after all, that is no concern of ours.