CHAPTER XVIIIFASHION COMES TO THE ACACIAS
JIM LASCELLES was inclined to view his morning as a very great success. It is true that it had cost him the last half-sovereign he had in the world, but he felt that it had been invested to full advantage. He had derived a new store of inspiration from that memorable morning. For a whole week he was sustained by the recollection of it. He gave up his days to joyous labor in the wooden erection in the Balham back garden.
“I shall make something of her after all,” said he.
One morning when he came down to breakfast he found a letter at the side of his plate. This, in itself, was an event sufficiently rare, because Jim Lascelles was one of those people who never write a letter if they can possibly avoid doing so. The envelope had rather an air about it. Upon the back of it was a monogram of a distinguished club.
“What ho!” said Jim.
A pair of eyes by no means ill found in worldly wisdom had duly noted that which was on the back of the letter.
“The correspondent of dukes,” said their owner. “Which of them is it, my son?”
Jim threw the contents of the envelope across the table with a gay laugh.
Dear Lascelles(it said),—The art of the age seems clearly to call for the presence at the Acacias of the wonderful Miss Perry. Unless the Fates are adverse—which, according to Juvenal, they are sometimes—she will appear about 4.30 o’clock to-morrow(Tuesday)afternoon to claim in her own proper person a cup of tea, together with two lumps of sugar and one cream bun, Buszard’s large size. Forgive the shortness of the notice. Our old and common friend did not develop sufficiently marked symptoms of laryngitis until this morning to submit to the decree of her medical adviser. He has ordered her to keep her bed. The accomplished Miss Burden accompanies us in an official capacity. Ponto does not.Sincerely yours,Cheriton.P.S.—Strawberries and cream are known to be very delectable.
Dear Lascelles(it said),—The art of the age seems clearly to call for the presence at the Acacias of the wonderful Miss Perry. Unless the Fates are adverse—which, according to Juvenal, they are sometimes—she will appear about 4.30 o’clock to-morrow(Tuesday)afternoon to claim in her own proper person a cup of tea, together with two lumps of sugar and one cream bun, Buszard’s large size. Forgive the shortness of the notice. Our old and common friend did not develop sufficiently marked symptoms of laryngitis until this morning to submit to the decree of her medical adviser. He has ordered her to keep her bed. The accomplished Miss Burden accompanies us in an official capacity. Ponto does not.
Sincerely yours,Cheriton.
P.S.—Strawberries and cream are known to be very delectable.
Jim’s uncommonly youthful mother was vastly amused.
“Never tell me, my son,” said she, “that an extremely well-informed Providence does not watch over the destinies of even the humbler denizens of the suburb of Balham. We are to be deluged with three persons of fashion, and the Miss Champneys are sureto pay a call—they always pay a call—this afternoon.”
“Those old guys,” said Jim. “I sincerely hope not.”
“When will you learn, my son,” said Jim’s mother, “to be more respectful towards the two great ladies of our neighborhood, the real live daughters of a deceased dean?”
“I beg their pardons,” said Jim, who was humbled. “I am afraid I have been getting very uncouth of late.”
“The great world is so unsettling, my son. I am afraid you are already beginning to patronize a ridiculous old frump like me.”
“Beginning!” said Jim.
“But remember, my son, I am determined that I will not be patronized in my own house by your friend the duke.”
“Oh! he won’t try to,” said Jim, airily. “He’s a very civil old soul, the same as you are, my dear, although his circumstances are rather better.”
“I won’t be patronized by that Goose either,” said Jim’s mother, with tremendous spirit.
“You run no danger in that quarter,” said Jim. “It will be as much as ever she can do adequately to patronize the strawberries and cream.”
“And who, pray, is the accomplished Miss Burden? I will not be patronized by her either.”
“I won’t answer for you there, señora. You might get short shift from that quarter.”
“We shall see, my son,” said Jim’s mother, with an air almost of truculence.
The back sitting-room at the Acacias was really a very mediocre affair. It contained so little furniture that it was made to look half as large again as it actually was. The small room was cool and tasteful if, perhaps, somewhat too obviously simple and inexpensive. It contained not a single reminiscence of bygone grandeur. For one thing, the crash had been rather in the nature of a holocaust; and again, an opulent past is a poor sort of aid to a penurious present.
The walls were decorated by a blue wash and by a single picture, a study by Monsieur Gillet for his enchanting “La Dame au Gant.” It had been given by that master to a young English pupil of whom he was extremely fond. It held the bare walls all by itself. Jim was a little vain about it. Then there was a little shelf of books. It comprised five novels by Turgenev, two by Stendhal, three by Anatole France, four by Meredith, three by Henry James, two volumes of Heine, the lyrics of Victor Hugo, two plays of D’Annunzio, and a volume of Baudelaire. There were two bowls of roses also, which Jim had procured for his mother in honor of the occasion.
At a quarter to four Mrs. Lascelles sat reading “Pêcheur d’Islande” for the thirteenth time. She looked very cool and dainty in a simple black dress, embellished with still simpler white muslin. Her look of youth had never been quite so aggressive; and inJim’s opinion her wise little smile of tempered gayety was perfectly irresistible.
“My dear,” said Jim, censoriously, “it is time you made a serious effort to look older.”
“I do try so hard,” said Mrs. Lascelles, plaintively. “This is positively the most frumpish frock I possess, and I have done my hair over my ears on purpose.”
“Haven’t you an older frock?” said Jim.
“This one is decidedly the elder of the two, laddie.”
“How old is it?”
“Seven years.”
“And what is the age of the other one?”
“It is a mere infant. It is only five.”
“Then it is quite time you had a new one.”
“It is not usual, I believe, for a woman to get a new dress for the purpose of making herself look older.”
“But then you are a most unusual woman.”
“I don’t want to be unusual, laddie. I do try so hard not to be. If there is one thing I dislike more intensely than another it is an unusual woman.”
“Then you are very perverse. I wonder what effect it would have if you did your hair higher.”
“I will try if you like; but I know——”
“What do you know?” said Jim, sternly.
“That I never look quite so maternal as when I have it over my ears.”
“Well, it’s a serious matter. I look like being driven to get a new mother.”
“There is a scarcity of good ones, my son.”
Jim scanned the tiny sitting-room with a very critical look.
“Upon my word,” said he, “that little rosewood piano and that little effort of Monsieur Gillet’s are the only decent things in it.”
“I am afraid we have an air of cheap gentility,” said his mother. “But don’t let them sneer at it. Gentility of any kind is quite an honorable aspiration.”
“I wonder,” said Jim, “if there is anybody in the neighborhood who would lend us aPeeragefor the afternoon. We might stick it in the center of the room upon that little Japanese table.”
The front-door bell was heard to ring.
“Too late, too late,” said Mrs. Lascelles, dramatically. “The peerage has already arrived.”
“It is the Miss Champneys,” said Jim.
“I think not, laddie. It is only twenty past four, and it is so much more impressive to pay a call at five.”
“Two to one it’s the Hobson Family.”
The countenance of Jim’s mother assumed a look of anxiety that bordered upon the tragic.
“By all the saints and all the powers,” said she, “I had quite forgotten the existence of the Hobson Family. Do you really think it can be?”
“I am perfectly sure of it,” said Jim, with immense conviction. “This is an opportunity that the Hobson Family could not possibly miss.”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” said Jim’s mother, “what is to be done?”
“These things are sent to try us,” said Jim, philosophically. “The Hobson Family has no otherraison d’être.”
“Alack! alack!” gasped Jim’s mother.
The little maid-of-all-work entered the room. With her prim freckled countenance and her hair, which like herself was quite unnecessarily pretty, done over a roll, she conveyed somewhat the impression of a small cat who has the furtive air of a confirmed cream stealer. Also she had the air of one who takes an immense interest in everything.
“Miss Burden,” announced the little maid-of-all-work, as though it gave her great pleasure to do so. “Miss Perry. The Earl of Cheriton.”
Mrs. Lascelles laid “Pêcheur d’Islande” upon the varnished boards. She rose to greet Miss Perry with an exclamation. In the circumstances it was most natural, for Miss Perry was looking neither more nor less than a goddess.
Jim’s mother took a hand of Miss Perry in each of her own.
“You are too wonderful,” said she. “You take away one’s breath. I always predicted that you would grow up a beautiful girl; but, really, who could have expected this.”
Miss Perry said nothing at first. She merely proceeded to hug Jim’s mother in the traditional Widdiford manner.
Mrs. Lascelles appeared to undergo some little personal inconvenience in the process.
“You wonderful being,” she gasped.
Jim presented Miss Burden to his mother with a formal and becoming gravity. There was always a veiled tenderness about the eyes of Miss Burden which to some people rendered her oddly attractive. Her air of shyness was also thought by some to be a merit.
“So sweet of you to come,” said Jim’s mother. She had already performed the feminine operation of falling in love with Miss Burden at first sight.
“I should also like, my dear,” said Jim, with excellent gravity, “to make you and Lord Cheriton acquainted with one another. You can’t think how kind he has been to me.”
Jim’s mother gazed demurely into the complacent and amused countenance of that peer.
“I think I ought to be able to guess,” said she.
“Capital,” that peer was heard to murmur with extraordinary irrelevance.
“I beg your pardon,” said Jim.
“Not at all, my dear fellow,” said Cheriton, in his most graciously musical manner, “not at all. I made no observation. But I should like to be allowed to make one. What remarkable sunshine for London.”
“The sunshine is occasionally quite obtrusive at Balham,” said Jim’s mother. “Lower the sunblind a little, laddie. You will find that chair the coolest, Lord Cheriton.”
It was really not necessary for Mrs. Lascelles to offer the coolest chair to Lord Cheriton. For, if the truth must be told, he looked cool enough already. It was perhaps his most assiduously cultivated and most carefully cherished characteristic. However, he tookthe chair Jim’s mother had indicated. He took it almost as if he were conferring homage upon it. Having chosen a likely spot upon the varnished boards upon which to set his silk hat, he proceeded to place it there with immense precision. He then crossed his lavender trousers very urbanely, displaying in the process an extremely neat and spotless pair of white gaiters. He then placed his black-rimmed eyeglass in the left or more fashionable eye, and surveyed his surroundings with a leisurely benevolence that was really most engaging.
By the time Cheriton appeared to be pleasantly settled, and by the time Mrs. Lascelles had fully recovered from the effects of Miss Perry’s third hug, she said—
“Ring, laddie.”
Jim obeyed. He had assumed already an air of almost unwarrantable humor.
The little maid-of-all-work entered.
“Tea, please, Miranda,” said her mistress.
Miranda embellished the command of her mistress with a totally unnecessary half courtesy which she was apt to produce upon state occasions. It was a remarkably effective little affair, although its true place was undoubtedly a comic-opera.
“Capital!” murmured Cheriton. And then, as a pause in the conversation seemed to give his remark a significance to which it laid no claim, he added sententiously, “weather!”
“Yes,” said Jim, “capital weather.”
Miss Burden addressed a remark to Jim’s mother.
“Do you think the exhibition of the Royal Academy is equal to the last one?”
“I think it is better,” said Mrs. Lascelles, with an air of conviction, “decidedly better, don’t you?”
“That is because there is a picture by a young fellow of the name of Lascelles in it,” said Jim.
“Quite a sufficient reason,” said Cheriton.
“The brutes have skyed me, though,” said Jim.
“Jealousy, my dear fellow,” said Cheriton. “The Church, the stage, and the fine arts live in perpetual dread of the rising generation.”
“That is so true, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim’s mother. “I am so glad to hear you say that. Of course it is jealousy. Those musty and stereotyped old R.A.’s are dreadfully frightened of young men with new ideas.”
“Profoundly true, my dear Mrs. Lascelles; profoundly true,” said Cheriton, with the deference of a courtier.
“My mother expects every one who enters this house,” said Jim, aggrievedly, “to declare that I’m a genius.”
“I do not find it at all hard,” said Cheriton, “to obey that condition.”
“People of taste never do,” said Jim’s mother, beaming upon my lord.
The little maid-of-all-work brought in a tea-tray and a basket of comestibles.
“Miranda,” said her mistress, “if Mrs. Hobson calls, or Miss Hermia Hobson, or Miss Harriet Hobson,or Mr. Hobson, or Mr. Herbert Hobson, or Mr. Henry Hobson calls, I am not at home.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said the little maid-of-all-work, with an air of great intelligence, and with a further display of the comic-opera courtesy.
“Sugar or lemon, Miss Burden?” said Jim’s mother.
Miss Burden took sugar, a small lump. Miss Perry took two lumps, size not stated.
“I wish these cups were more sensible,” said Jim’s mother, with a reminiscence and an apology.
“That cup is absurd, my dear,” said Jim.
Miss Perry seemed inclined to agree with Jim.
“Fetch the largest cup we have in the house, please, Miranda,” said her mistress.
“Thank you so much, dear Mrs. Lascelles,” said Miss Perry.
Jim handed bread and butter and strawberries. Miss Burden was content with a small slice of the former. Miss Perry was more eclectic in her patronage. Jim was then guilty of an action which his mother was forced to consider as singularly ill bred. He took up the plate of cream buns, Buszard’s large size, which had been specially procured, and placed it on the chimney-piece in a very ostentatious manner. And at the same time he indulged in a classical quotation to Lord Cheriton, who laughed as though he understood it. It is possible that Miss Burden understood it also, but Mrs. Lascelles seemed a little doubtful about its meaning. As for Miss Perry, she wasperfectly frank and wholly unabashed in her abysmal ignorance.
“Whatdoesit mean?” she demanded, with a thrill in her voice and her azure orbs very wide.
“It means,” said Jim, “it is better to contemplate from afar the rewards of virtue than to partake of them prematurely.”
“A free translation, my dear fellow,” said Cheriton, “creditable alike to your scholarship, your literary instinct, and your knowledge of human nature.”
“But youoweme one, you know,” said Miss Perry. “Doesn’t he, Lord Cheriton?”
“I am afraid, Lascelles,” said that peer, “it will be necessary to return a true bill.”
Jim presented Miss Perry with one cream bun on a blue china plate.
“That spotted cake with the almonds in it is topping,” said he, attempting maliciously to embarrass Miss Perry with riches. “The pastrycook who creates it has a reputation that extends as far as Upper Tooting and Streatham.”
“I will try some,” said Miss Perry.
Lord Cheriton took lemon with his tea, also a rusk.
“Genius is a delightful thing,” said he, conversationally. “I have a genius for admiring it in others.”
“One feels sure you must have,” said Jim’s mother, most sympathetically. “I am trying to cultivate it also. As one is the mother of a highly gifted son, one feels that one ought.”
“Precisely,” said Cheriton. “And may one ventureto remark that you will not find the undertaking difficult?”
“Lord Cheriton,” said Jim, in a tone of warning, “weigh your words carefully. My life is in danger of becoming a burden to me. As for you, señora,” said Jim, sternly, “once more, and with the most marked publicity, I deny with all the vehemence of which I am capable that I am a genius.”
“What, pray, is the use?” said his mother. “It is futile to deny it. Besides, even if you were not, it is not right to contradict your old mother, especially before company.”
“So true,” murmured thearbiter elegantiarumnibbling at his rusk.
Jim, however, was a young fellow with resources. He proceeded immediately to carry the war into the enemy’s country.
“I am afraid, Lord Cheriton,” said he, “that judgment is not my mother’s strong point. You see, she is not so mature as she might be.”
“I have observed it,” said Cheriton.
“Her absence of judgment,” said Jim, coolly, “or her absence of maturity?”
“I have observed her absence of maturity,” said Cheriton, with a coolness in nowise behind the coolness of Jim.
“In my opinion,” said Jim, “she is too young to be the mother of a great hulking fellow like me.”
“I am inclined to agree with you, Lascelles,” said my lord, with his courtier’s air. “But in my humblejudgment it is a pleasant folly for a mother to err on the side of youth.”
“It is a form of indiscretion not without its dangers,” said Jim.
“Yes, my dear Lascelles, you are undoubtedly right there.”
“This spotted cake with the almonds in it is awfully nice,” said Miss Perry.
“The confection with the pink icing and the sugar-plums is generally admired at Balham,” said Jim.
“I will try some,” said Miss Perry. “Quite a small piece, please. I think pink icing is so nice; don’t you?”
“I do,” said Jim, cutting a liberal piece for two persons.
A ring was heard to proceed from the front-door bell. Mrs. Lascelles betrayed anxiety.
“I trust,” said she, “our small Cerberus will prove equal to a frontal attack by the Hobson family.”
“She will, unquestionably,” said Jim, with an air of reassurance.
“It would be a great disappointment if she didn’t,” said Cheriton, “if one may venture to express a purely personal emotion.”
“Why, Lord Cheriton?” said Jim’s mother. Her tone was a natural blend of surprise and interest.
“A lifelong habit of minute observation,” said Cheriton, “emboldens one to think that she would prove equal to anything.”
Before Cheriton could suffer rebuke for holding an opinion upon such a subject, the little maid-of-all-work announced—
“Lady Charlotte Greg, Miss Champneys, Miss Laetitia Champneys.”
The space of the small back sitting-room was sensibly diminished by the entrance of three tall bony women, each equally austere of feature and ponderous of manner. Each was veiled and habited in black with white facings; and although their boots were not elastic-sided, it is difficult to advance any adequate reason for their not being so fashioned.
Miss Champneys, whose manner was decidedly impressive, introduced to Jim’s mother Lady Charlotte Greg, her oldest friend, who was staying with them at The Laurels for the purpose of opening the sale of work at Saint Agatha’s. Lady Charlotte Greg, the daughter of a successful politician and the wife of an evangelical bishop, conveyed the right degree of distance in her greeting. And after all, when you come to think of it, the distance is very great between a tiny back sitting-room at Balham and the Palace at Marchester.
While these three very large ladies were adjusting themselves to three somewhat small chairs, and they were accepting tea from a fresh brew duly procured by the assiduous Miranda, each lifted her black veil and scrutinized her surroundings and her company with a rather ruthless directness. It always seemed to the quailing hostess of the Acacias, the Chestnuts, the Elms, or of Beaconsfield Villas, when she met thatglance that a personal apology was demanded from her.
All three ladies were unanimous in the opinion that Mrs. Lascelles’ callers were overdressed. And in their opinion to be overdressed was to be guilty of one of the seven deadly sins.
“I am convinced,” said Miss Laetitia Champneys, in an undertone to Lady Charlotte Greg, “that that girl in the preposterous hat with feathers is an actress.”
In the opinion of Miss Laetitia Champneys for any person to be an actress was to identify one’s self with the most elemental form of human degradation.
“Do you suppose I require to be told, Laetitia?” said Lady Charlotte, bridling. She felt that not only her sense of decency but also her knowledge of the world had been aspersed. “And that preposterous person with the eyeglass,” added Lady Charlotte, “is, of course, an actor-manager.”
Neither Miss Laetitia nor her elder sister, Miss Champneys, was quite sure what an actor-manager really was. They did know, however, that dear Charlotte was excelled by none in knowledge of the world.
Lady Charlotte, as is the way with Lady Charlottes all the world over, as the erudite inform us, put up her glasses. She proceeded to study the actor-manager, a rare species of wild fowl of which the Close of Marchester was mercifully free, in a manner which can only be described as remorseless. Yet the actor-managerappeared to suffer no embarrassment. He serenely changed his black-rimmed monocle from his left eye to his right, which, if not quite so fashionable as the other one, was rather perversely endowed with better powers of vision.