CHAPTER XVIHYDE PARK
LITTLE recked Jim Lascelles of the train of circumstances which enabled his precious half-finished work to return to its maker. When it arrived at his hermitage at Balham that afternoon, he merely saw in its premature return an additional affront. He took it for granted that the old woman of Hill Street had ordered it out of the house.
“An absolutely inconceivable old cat,” Jim assured his mother with great truculence.
“I am afraid so, my son,” said his mother, sagely. “Power is so bad for poor Female Us.”
“She has ruined me,” said Jim, miserably. “She and that infernal temper of mine.”
“Temper is feminine too, my son,” said Jim’s mother, profoundly. “She invariably plays Old Harry when she gets hold of the reins.”
Perhaps it ought to be stated that Jim’s mother had recently tried to eke out her slender purse by writing a novel. At least, that is the only explanation there is to offer of how she came to be so wise. The writing of novels is very good for the mind, as all the world knows.
Jim was woefully gloomy for many days. He feltthat by his unlucky outburst he had irretrievably ruined his prospects. And they were getting bright so suddenly that they had almost seemed to dazzle him. Not only had he forfeited the hundred pounds which Lord Cheriton had promised him for a faithful copy of the Gainsborough, but doubtless, after his unhappy exhibition of temper, Lord Kendal’s daughter Priscilla would choose to be painted by somebody else.
This, however, was not the worst. The Goose Girl had passed clean out of his ken. Henceforward he would be debarred the sight of the Gainsborough hat, the lilac frock, and the full-fledged cream-bun appearance. She had driven the unfortunate young fellow so nearly to distraction that while he found it impossible to expel her from his thoughts, he could not summon the resolution to unlock the door of the studio he had caused to be set up in the small Balham back garden. It was nothing less than an affliction to gaze upon the half-finished canvas, which now could never be completed.
By nature Jim Lascelles was a bright and cheery soul. But the fact that he had destroyed his prospects “just as things were coming his way” by a single unbridled act, made him extremely unhappy. It needed all Mrs. Lascelles’ gay courage and invincible optimism to keep Jim steady during these days of trial.
“Finish her out of your head, laddie,” said she, “then try to forget that she ever existed.”
“Nay,” said Jim. “I must either put all I knowinto that little work, or stick a knife through the canvas.”
Jim brooded dreadfully upon the subject. Black rings came under his eyes; he smoked too much and ate too little.
“I must and I will see her,” said Jim.
“That is the true spirit, my son,” said his mother, cheerfully.
It is not quite clear whether she ought openly to have expressed her approval. It was very necessary, all the same, to rouse the unhappy Jim from the lethargy that was making his life unbearable. At all events, he seemed to derive a certain inward power from the mere resolution.
The next morning Jim made his way to Hyde Park. It was now June and it was looking its best, with the trees, the rhododendrons, and the ladies in full bloom. For some time he stood by the railings with a kind of indefinite hope that he would be rewarded for his pilgrimage. Then he began to walk slowly in the direction of Knightsbridge; and confronted by so much fine plumage, he began to wish ruefully that his blue suit was not so shabby and that his straw hat was not in its second season.
He was still hopeful, however. He took a careful survey of the riders. Somewhat oddly, his attention was attracted to a heavy, red-faced, rather stupid-looking man who was pounding along on a gray horse. His appearance was perfectly familiar to Jim Lascelles, yet for the moment he could not remember where and when he had seen him.
It was with an odd mingling of satisfaction and disgust that he was able to recall the heavy red-faced man’s identity. He stopped and turned his eyes to follow him in his progress. Yes, it was he undoubtedly. And there at the corner by Apsley House was a chestnut horse, tall, upstanding, proudly magnificent, surmounted by a royal creature crowned with the light of the morning. At the respectful distance of thirty paces was Mr. Bryant, seated as upright as his own cockade upon a more modest charger. Even he, a man of austere taste and exclusive instinct, did not attempt to conceal an air of legitimate pride in his company. Mr. Bryant had seen nothing that morning, nor many mornings previously, that could in anywise compare with the wonderful Miss Perry.
Doubtless it is hardly right to say that Jim Lascelles’ eyes were envious when they followed the man with the red face, and marked his paternal greeting of the Goose Girl. It is hardly fair, for envy is a vulgar passion, and Jim was too good a fellow ever to be really vulgar in anything. All the same, it must be confessed that he swore to himself softly. He then behaved in a very practical and mundane manner. He took out his watch, one of those admirable American five-shilling watches which are guaranteed to keep correct time for a very long period.
“Three minutes past eleven,” said he. “Oho, my merry man!”
Precisely what Jim Lascelles meant by that mysticexclamation it is difficult to know, but anyhow it seemed to please him. He then observed that the little cavalcade had wheeled round the corner, and had started to come down slowly by the railings upon the left.
Jim stood to await it with a beating heart. It was a most injudicious thing to do, but he was in a desperate and defiant humor.
“Five to one she cuts you,” Jim muttered. “Two to one she cuts you dead. They are all alike when they mount the high horse.”
As Jim Lascelles stood to await the approach of the cavalcade, he no longer thought ruefully of his cheap straw hat and his shabby blue suit. They had become dear to him as the badge of his impending martyrdom.
Gobo hugged the railings. He was so close to Jim Lascelles that he nearly touched him with his spurs—dummy spurs, as Jim noted. Miss Perry was explaining that all the girls had white frocks at Buckingham Palace, and how she wished that Muffin had been there, as a white frock always suited her, although she was inclined to tear it, when Miss Featherbrain was met by the steady and unflinching gaze of Jim Lascelles. Instantly her hand went up, not one of darned cotton, but a yellow gauntleted affair that matched her hair, in quite the regulation Widdiford manner.
“Why—why,” she cried, “it’s Jim! Hallo, Jim!”
In the ears of Jim Lascelles the incomparably foolishspeech had never sounded so absurd and so delicious. It was plainly the intention of Miss Perry to hold animated conversation with the undeniably handsome youth who returned her greeting. But the intervention of the highest branch of the peerage, as solemn as the British Constitution and as solid too, between her and the railings; and the fact that there was a resolutely oncoming rearguard in the person of the scandalized Mr. Bryant, who in his own mind was tolerably sure that the presumptuous young man by the railings had no connection with the peerage whatever, sufficed to keep Miss Perry in the straight path.
Therefore Jim Lascelles had to be content with one of the old Widdiford smiles, which nevertheless was enchanting, and a parting wave of the yellow gauntlet, which was the perfection of friendliness, comradeship, and natural simplicity. He stood to watch the cavalcade pass slowly down the ride, the magnificent chestnut and its rider the observed of all observers, for both were superb and profoundly simple works of nature. The red-faced and stolid personage on the gray, a more sophisticated pair, were yet well in the picture also, for if less resplendent, they too in their way were imposing.
Jim’s reverie was interrupted by a voice at his elbow.
“There they go,” it said, “the most ill-assorted pair in England.”
With a start of surprise Jim turned to find an immaculate beside him. Cheriton was wearing alight-gray frock-coat with an exaggerated air of fashion.
“Crabbed age and youth,” said Jim, yet quite without bitterness. He was still glowing with pleasure at his frank and friendly recognition.
“A pitiful sight,” said Cheriton. “A man of his age! How odd it is that some men are born without a sense of the incongruous!”
“Yes,” said Jim.
“Gal looks well outside a horse. Very well indeed. Pity that old ruffian should ruin so fair a picture.”
Cheriton seemed prepared to criticise his rival’s style of horsemanship. Reluctantly, however, he forbore to do so. For George had been drilled very severely in his youth; and in spite of his years and his weight he was able to make a creditable appearance in the saddle.
“Do you know, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim, “I almost regret that I did not attempt an equestrian portrait.”
My lord’s brows went up.
“Upon my word, Lascelles,” said he, “you are an uncommonly bold fellow to mention the word ‘portrait.’”
“I agree with you,” said Jim.
He laughed rather bitterly. Cheriton affected a gravely paternal air.
“Lascelles,” said he, “I think the fact that at school your father imbued me with the elements of wisdom gives some sort of sanction to a little plain speaking on my part.”
“Go on, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim, with gloomy resignation. “Rub it in.”
“I think, Lascelles,” said Cheriton, with a fine assumption of the air of a “head beak,” “your conduct merits censure in the highest degree.”
“It has received it,” said Jim. “I have been kicking myself for being such a hot-headed fool ever since it happened.”
“One is almost afraid,” said Cheriton, ruefully, “that your indiscretion is irreparable. Really, Lascelles, making due allowance for the fact that your father was one of the most rash and hasty men I ever encountered, and allowing further for the fact that my old friend has a deplorable absence of, shall we say, amenity, your behavior amounted neither more nor less than to suicide.”
“I don’t regret what I did,” said Jim, “as far as that old Gorgon of a woman is concerned. I am afraid I should behave in just the same way again if I were placed in a similar position. But I know it was very unwise. As for the portrait, I intend, by hook or by crook, to finish it.”
“Well, Lascelles,” said Cheriton, giving the young fellow a kindly touch on the arm in parting, “do what you can; and when the work is complete you must let me see it.”
It was a new Jim Lascelles who returned to Balham by the twelve-thirty from Victoria and took luncheon with his mother. He called at the greengrocer’s just as you get out of the station, and arrived at the Acacias with a number of paper bags tucked undereach arm. He hummed the favorite air in the very latest musical comedy, while he proceeded to make a salad whose mysteries he had acquired in Paris. He had been initiated into them by Monsieur Bonnat, the famouschefof the Hotel Brinvilliers. And it so happened that Jim’s mother, who spoiled him completely, had purchased a lobster, which she really couldn’t afford, such was the current price of that delicacy and the present state of her finances, to cheer Jim up a bit.
“My dear,” said Jim, “let us have the last bottle of the Johannisberg.”
Miranda, the demure little maid-of-all-work, was ordered rather magnificently to procure the same.
“Pity ’tis, ’tis the last,” said Jim, who proceeded to toast his mother. “May those precious publishers,” said he, “learn truly to appreciate a very remarkable literary genius, my dear.”
“I am afraid they do, dear boy,” said she. “That is the trouble.”
“It is a rattling good story, anyhow,” said Jim, stoutly.
“It certainly ends as every self-respecting and well-conducted story ought. But this old addle-pate hasn’t a spark of literary genius in it.”
“Oh, hasn’t it!” said Jim, bringing his fist upon the table. “George Sand is a fool to you, my dear.”
“Dear fellow,” said Jim’s mother, with a smile of pleasure. “At any rate I am enough of a genius to like appreciation. But with you, laddie, it is different.You are the real right thing, as dear Henry James would say.”
“Oh, am I?” said Jim. “Well, here’s to the Real Right Thing, whichever of us has it. I know which side of the table it is, if you don’t.”
“The Realest Rightest Thing is outside in the garden waiting for the hand of the master to complete her.”
“Ye gods, the hand of the master! You pile it on ‘a leetle beet tick,’ as Monsieur Gillet would say to you. But shall I tell you a secret? I saw the Goose Girl this morning.”
“Of course you did, dear boy.”
“How did you guess?”
“The step on the gravel told me.”
“You are wonderful, you know. Fancy your finding it out like that when I tried hard to tread heavily!”
“That vain, wicked, foolish, and depraved Goose!” said Jim’s mother. “You met her in Hyde Park this morning walking with her duke, and she gave you a smile, and if she was more than usually foolish, she said, ‘Why, it’s Jim!’”
“She wasà cheval. But youarewonderful, you know,” said Jim.
“Riding was she? And pray how did the great overgrown creature look outside a horse?”
“I could never have believed it. She was mounted on a glorious chestnut, a great mountain of a beast, a noble stepper; and in her smart new habit, and in an extraordinarily coquettish bowler—think on it, mydear, the Goose Girl in a bowler!—she was a picture for the gods.”
“One can readily believe that the creature would set high Olympus in a roar.”
“She was to the manner born. She might have learned the art of equitation inla haute écoleinstead of in the home paddock at Widdiford on that screw of the dear old governor’s.”
“Oh no, dear boy,” said Jim’s mother, with decision. “Poor dear Melancthon was anything but a screw. He was by Martin Luther out of Moll Cutpurse. He won the point-to-point on three occasions.”
“I humbly beg Melancthon’s pardon. That explains why the Goose Girl comes to be so proficient. She certainly looked this morning as if she had never sat anything less than the blood of Carbine.”
“I think the secret of the whole matter, my son,” said Jim’s mother, profoundly, “is that the Female Us is so marvelously adaptable. If she is really smartly turned out on a fine morning in June with a real live duke on the off side of her and all London gazing at her, if she had never learned to sit anything else than a donkey she would still contrive to look as though she had won the whole gymkhana. It is just that quality that makes the Female Us so wonderful. It is just that that maketh Puss so soon get too big for her dancing slippers.”
“Well, you wise woman,” said Jim, “the Goose Girl would have taken all the prizes this morning. And she didn’t even cut me.”
“Cut you, my son!” exclaimed Jim’s mother. “Gott in himmel! that Goose cut you indeed!”
“There are not many Goose Girls that wouldn’t have done in the circumstances. But she is True Blue. And I am going to finish her portrait. And I am going to make her permanently famous.”
Jim’s mother tilted the last of the Johannisberg into his glass.
“Go in and win, dear boy,” said she. “You have genius. Lavish it upon her. Earn fame and fortune, and buy back the Red House at Widdiford.”
“And in the meantime,” said Jim, “she will have married that old fossil and borne him three children.”
“She will not, dear boy,” said the voice of the temptress, “if you make her promise not to.”
“Oh, that wouldn’t be cricket,” said Jim, “with her people so miserably poor and James Lascelles by no means affluent; and the old fossil with a house in Piccadilly, and another in Notts, and another in Fifeshire, and a yacht in the Solent, and a box at the Opera, and a mausoleum at Kensal Green. No, old lady, I’m afraid it wouldn’t be cricket.”
Jim’s mother exposed herself to the censure of all self-respecting people.
“It would be far less like cricket,” said she, “for that perfect dear of a Goose to have her youth, her beauty, and her gayety purchased by a worldly old ruffian who ought to be a grandfather. Come, sir, she awaits her very parfit gentil knight.”
But Jim shook his head solemnly.
“No, old lady,” said he, “I am afraid it wouldn’t be playing the game.”
Nevertheless, immediately luncheon was over, Jim took the key of his studio off the sitting-room chimney-piece, and went forth to the misshapen wooden erection in the small Balham back garden. The key turned in the lock stiffly. It was nearly three weeks since it had last been in it. For several hours he worked joyfully, touching and retouching the picture and improvising small details out of his head. And all the time the Goose Girl smiled upon him in the old Widdiford manner. Her hair had never looked so yellow, and her eyes had never looked so blue.