CHAPTER XXVIJIM LASCELLES ADDS HEROISM TO HIS OTHER FINE QUALITIES
FOUR hours later saw the inception of an imperial August day. The previous night Muffin had entered Goose’s chamber by stealth, with bare feet and clad in a white nightgown only, and armed with a fat bolster. After a solemn exchange of civilities, of which Muffin invariably got the worst, because Goose’s aim was wonderfully accurate and she was not susceptible to the most tremendous buffets, they ended as usual by sharing the same bed and going to sleep in one another’s arms. It was never their custom to heed anything else until the light of the morning touched their eyelids. As a general rule it touched Muffin’s first. It then became the duty of that active spirit, as soon as she realized that she was awake, to hale the still sleeping Goose out of bed. Sometimes, when even this herculean labor had been accomplished, she had to beat that somnolent person about the head with a pillow before she could be induced to put on her stockings. This morning provided no exception to the regular mode of procedure.
The mists were still gathered about Lake Dwygy,and little was to be seen of Gwydr and his brethren, when, hand-in-hand, Goose and Muffin came trampling the dew of the early August day. Bareheaded, laughing, blithe as the winged inhabitants of the air, they were supremely happy. Each had brought up the other from her earliest infancy, and although each was exquisitely modest in all that pertained to herself, in regard to the fruit of her handiwork each had formed an exaggerated estimate. Goose was inordinately proud of Muffin, and Muffin was inordinately proud of Goose.
Tobias was borne in a bag. Although he was strictly forbidden to catch rabbits, he was never denied an airing.
“There goes a squirrel,” said Muffin. “Look, in that tree. Up he goes; but it is not very high. I wonder if we could catch him for Aunt Caroline. Hold my bread and butter, and don’t eat it.”
Muffin had already established herself upon the first branch, when a voice, great alike in authority and scornfulness, was heard through the early morning stillness.
“Come out of that tree, you Ragamuffin,” it said. “Leave that squirrel alone, and kindly take the trouble to read the notice underneath you. ‘The public is allowed in these woods on sufferance only by permission of the Right Honorable the Countess of Crewkerne. Any person guilty of disorderly conduct, or who does willful damage to the trees, shrubs, and flowers, or who attempts to take fish from the lake, or who wanders in search of game, will be prosecutedwith the utmost rigor of the law.’ Come down at once, you Ragamuffin.”
The voice belonged to Jim Lascelles, of course. Jim was looking rather haggard, weary, and disheveled. The truth is he had had no sleep during the night. In the acute phase of his fortunes he could not rest. A sensitive conscience assured him that he was on forbidden ground, seeking fruit to which he had no lawful claim. He would have been far better in Normandy.
This morning he was in a really desperate humor. Work had never been farther from his thoughts, and the fact that two persons had been reputed recently to have lost their lives in an attempted ascent of the Devil’s Footstool, seemed to invest that precipitous chasm with a certain attraction.
“Look here, you law-breakers,” said he, “let us go and have a look at the Devil’s Footstool.”
The Misses Perry needed no second invitation. The dark and baleful ascent looming up from the lower end of the lake had fascinated them already, and they had even made one or two tentative attempts upon it. A walk of twenty minutes brought them to the foot thereof; and Tobias being left in his bag at the bottom, the three of them began to conduct some highly interesting and extremely thrilling investigations.
From ledge to ledge they went, rising rapidly to a dizzy and precarious height. On one side of them was a torrent, on the other a chasm. But they went up resolutely, without a pause, although the footholdwas very uncertain, and it meant death and destruction to look down. And when, in the course of three hours, they returned breathless and disheveled to whence they started, having made a complete circuit of the Devil’s Footstool, and the three of them sat down exulting in their weariness by the side of Tobias, they really felt that they had achieved something. All the most signal performances of Widdiford and Slocum Magna had been effaced.
According to Borrow, Wales is not only a picturesque, but also a romantic country. Therefore, it must not surprise the judicious reader that by half-past nine on this memorable August morning Jim Lascelles had become a hero. The breakfast table at Pen-y-Gros Castle was regaled by an extremely thrilling narrative of adventures by gorge and chasm.
It was not quite clear—and even to this day the mystery has not been elucidated—whether Jim Lascelles had saved the life of Muffin, or whether Muffin had saved the life of Jim Lascelles. But one fact emerged clear, distinct, and radiant. Jim Lascelles was a hero of the first class. His conduct within the precincts of the Devil’s Footstool merited a diploma.
Cheriton seconded the praises of hisprotégé.
“It is bred in the fellow,” said he. “His father, you know, was Lascelles, V.C.”
“He looks that kind of young man,” assented Miss Burden. “His eyes are so open and fearless.”
As soon as Aunt Caroline was visible, which was not until noon, she was put in possession of the facts.
“Who, pray, is Jim Lascelles?” was her first inquiry; and the tone of it was not wholly sympathetic.
“He used to live at the Red House at Widdiford,” chimed both her nieces as one.
In spite of his heroism, which no amount of cross-examination could mitigate, a few leading questions which Elizabeth was called upon to answer had the effect of rendering Aunt Caroline decidedly hostile to Jim Lascelles. For the identity of the presumptuous young man was only too soon established. He was the person who had had the impertinence to fling himself out of the house in Hill Street when he had been rebuked in a becoming manner for conduct which was really unpardonable. As for the “Jim,” it literally stuck in Aunt Caroline’s throat.
It was almost the only reminder that their august relation had had, beyond the scanty character of their wardrobes and their plebeian devotion to bread and jam, that their upbringing had been that of Tom, Dick, and Harry.
“Elizabeth,” said Aunt Caroline, “it would be more seemly to my mind if you have occasion to mention Mr. Lascelles to speak of him as such.”
Muffin opened solemn and round eyes of wonder upon Aunt Caroline.
“Oh, but,” said she, “if I called Jim Mr. Lascelles he would pull my hair.”
“In that case,” said Aunt Caroline, “you would do well to terminate the acquaintance.”
“But he saved me from falling down the precipice,”said Muffin, “and I am going to write to dearest papa about it.”
“Caroline,” said Cheriton, “a truce to Whig exclusiveness. Behave like a human being, and ask the young fellow to dinner. Ask his mother also. I am told she is a singularly agreeable woman.”
Aunt Caroline sat the image of blue-blooded defiance. George Betterton, however, who had listened torpidly to the account of the episode, was prevailed upon by the general enthusiasm for Jim Lascelles, and the favorable impression he had already formed of that hero’s mother, to throw the weight of his own influence into the scale.
“Right thing, Caroline,” said George, “to ask the young fellow to dinner in the circumstances. Behaved very well, they tell me.”
“He shall not cross my threshold,” said Caroline, “until he apologizes for his behavior to me in Hill Street.”
“Of course he will apologize,” said Cheriton, “if you hold out the olive branch. He can’t apologize unless you do.”
“I am sure, dear Lady Crewkerne,” ventured Miss Burden, “Mr. Lascelles is a gentleman and his mother is a——”
Miss Burden was unable to complete her remark. She was annihilated by a terrific glance. The elder Miss Perry also, as was to be expected, behaved very tactlessly.
“Jim is just a sweet,” she drawled ridiculously, “and dear Mrs. Lascelles is just a sweet too.”
The glance which had slain Miss Burden was extended to the elder Miss Perry. Its effect in that quarter was by no means so terrible. That Featherbrain sustained it with the most admirable composure.
“Jim is just a sweet,” said she, “and Muffin saved him from falling over the precipice.”
“I was given to understand,” said Aunt Caroline, “that it was the man Lascelles who saved Elizabeth.”
“Yes, it was, Aunt Caroline,” said Muffin; “but Goose is rather a silly.”
Of course there could only be one conclusion to the whole matter. The massed force of public opinion was too much for the Whig remnant, even in its own stronghold. Ungraciously, it must be confessed, Miss Burden was commanded to write as follows: “The Countess of Crewkerne requests the pleasure of the company of Mrs. Lascelles and Mr. James Lascelles at dinner this evening at 8:30.”
“This is one of your white days, Caroline,” said her oldest friend, with approbation. “A singularly gracious act in a life which, if I may say so, has not been too full of them. We must mark it with a little white stone.”
“Don’t be a coxcomb, Cheriton,” said the old lady. “Who has dared to remove the ribbon from Ponto’s neck?”
“He lost it in the water, Aunt Caroline,” said Muffin, with all the assurance of one in favor at Court, “when he fell in.”
“When he fell in!” said Aunt Caroline.
“He went to sleep on the edge of the punt,” Muffin explained, “and he toppled over.”
“I trust,” said the least of Ponto’s admirers, “that the obese beast will not gain length of days from his immersion.”
John, wearing his second-best livery, which he always affected in Wales, delivered the mandate at Jim Lascelles’ lodgings in Pen-y-Gros hamlet, but that hero and his mother had gone down to the lake. They were joined there presently by a cheerful party of four persons. Jim Lascelles was very heartily congratulated upon the heroism he had displayed.
“It has given great pleasure at the Castle,” said Cheriton, “where heroism is always, and I think justly, admired. My friend Brancaster will exert himself to get you a medal. Doubtless your Sovereign will present it to you.”
George Betterton, in the manner of a true-blue Englishman, went the length of shaking the hero very heartily by the hand.
“Great pleasure to me, Mr. Lascelles,” said that worthy, “to hear of your gallant action. Congratulate you heartily. Would have given great pleasure to your gallant father.”
Jim Lascelles laid down his palette with an air of tremendous truculence.
“To whom am I indebted for this?” said he. “Which of them is it? I suspect that Goose.”
“They are both of them Geese,” said Jim’s mother.
“Aunt Caroline thinks it is so splendid of you,” said Muffin, who was seated on the pebbles for the purpose of removing her shoes and stockings. “She has invited you and dear Mrs. Lascelles to dinner.”
“You incomparably foolish person,” said Jim. “I’ve a great mind now not to paint your picture.”
“A pair of irresponsible babblers,” said Jim’s mother, whose eyes were really very much brighter than they had any need to be. “One is as bad as the other. But an old woman feels very proud of her son all the same.”
Jim Lascelles stuck his hands in his pockets ruefully.
“This is the deuce,” said he. “Upon my word, I deny the whole thing in the most absolute and unconditional manner.”
“I have heard you deny your genius before now,” said Mrs. Lascelles; “but, my dear boy, you have never been able to convince Lord Cheriton that you are not a genius. And I feel sure that all you say to the contrary will fail to convince him that you are not a hero.”
“Absurd!” said Jim, hotly. “I am as much of one as I am of the other.”
“A dooced awkward place you are in, my dear fellow,” said Cheriton. “Everybody who has heard Miss Muffin’s thrilling account of her deliverance from an imminent and deadly peril within the precincts of the Devil’s Coal Box——”
“Footstool,” said the elder Miss Perry.
“Footstool, I stand corrected,” said Cheriton, addingnew embellishments to his oratory. “Everybody who has heard Miss Muffin’s hair-raising narrative of her deliverance from an imminent and deadly peril within the precincts of the Devil’s Footstool has conceived a deep admiration for its author. From my old and misguided friend Lady Crewkerne to Ponto himself, all at the Castle are of one mind. I may say the admiration of our friend Miss Burden is already tinged with passion.”
“Put on those shoes and stockings, you Ragamuffin,” said Jim. “I shall not paint you.”
“But, Jim,” said that artless person, with eyes of extraordinary roundness and candor, “you promised to.”
“Lascelles,” said Cheriton, “I am afraid, my dear fellow, you must accept the inevitable with all the grace at your command. No reasonable person can possibly doubt your heroism, and I fear it is only critics of the older school who can doubt your genius. It is hard to conceive a situation more trying to a modest young Englishman, educated at Harrow. My dear Mrs. Lascelles, I feel constrained to compliment you publicly upon having a son who is the dooce of a fine fellow.”
“I am glad you think so, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim’s mother. “I think so myself.”
Thereupon the green linen frock and the red umbrella and the French novel, together with an extremely choice suit of tweeds and a superb Panama hat, went along by the lake to take a closer view of that formidable chasm, the Devil’s Footstool. At thesame time George Betterton handed Miss Goose aboard the punt.
Jim Lascelles took up the tools of his trade.
“Get into the water, you Ragamuffin,” said he. “I’ll paint you with pink eyes and green hair. And your frock shall not have a single rent in it. It shall be the last cry of the fashion.”
Things went excellently well for a time. It was a glorious August day. There was hardly a cloud about Gwydr; the sky was of a pure Italian hue; there was scarcely a puff of wind to ruffle Lake Dwygy. For a bright and diligent hour Jim Lascelles was on the best of terms with his canvas.
“Keep that side, you Ragamuffin,” said he, “and give the light of the morning a chance. Keep that cucumber basket out of the eye of the sun. And don’t leave the water on any pretext whatever. I am not in the least interested in toads, newts, lizards, speckled trout, ferns, grass, or in your general conversation. Soak and tear and soil your garments to your heart’s content, but you take those Foot Pieces out of the water on pain of appearing at Burlington House as an American heiress.”
“But, Jim——”
“Silence, you Ragamuffin.”
“But, Jim, there is dearest Aunt Caroline.”
It was perfectly true. The mistress of Pen-y-Gros Castle was standing five yards from the canvas. She was in the full panoply of war. Ponto, her aide-de-camp, and Miss Burden, her gentlewoman, were byher side. Her ebony stick supported her venerable frame; her head-dress was surmounted by a hat that had been fashionable in 1880. An eyeglass was in her grim old eye; and her gentlewoman held an umbrella over her to protect her aged form from the fierce rays which, according to Borrow, are sometimes reflected from the slopes of the Welsh mountains.
“I am sorry to curtail a discourse on art,” said the mistress of Pen-y-Gros Castle, speaking in a tone that was beautifully distinct, “but you do not seem to be aware that the public is allowed in these grounds on sufferance only.”
Jim took off his hat and bowed in a very becoming if slightly ironical manner.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Crewkerne,” said he, “but I am aware of that perfectly. I have seen the notice which warns the public at least six times this morning.”
“I hope you will heed it,” said Lady Crewkerne.
“It does not forbid the public to paint the scenery, I believe,” said Jim coolly.
Jim had really no right to be so cool in the presence of the mistress of Pen-y-Gros Castle. All the same, it is by no means certain that she did not respect him for it.
“It depends,” said she, “upon what portion of the scenery the public wishes to paint. For instance, you appear to be painting some person who stands in the water. And the public is expressly forbidden to enter the water.”
“I am sorry,” said Jim Lascelles. “I beg your pardon, I’m sure.”
Jim Lascelles, for all his coolness, did not quite know what to say next to keep within the rules of the game. However, that section of the public that was standing in the water saw fit rather providentially to disobey the instructions of the artist. She left the water and came resolutely to the aid of Jim Lascelles. Barefooted and with her skirt kilted in the true Slocum Magna and Widdiford manner, she accosted the mistress of Pen-y-Gros Castle.
“Dearest Aunt Caroline,” said she, “this is Mr. Jim Lascelles, who saved me from falling over the precipice this morning.”
“We have met before, I think,” said Aunt Caroline, grimly.
“Wasn’t it brave of him?” said Muffin.
“Mr. Lascelles,” said Aunt Caroline, “you appear to have acted in a prompt and courageous manner, and I congratulate you upon your manly conduct.”
“Thank you, Lady Crewkerne,” said Jim, with excellent gravity, “but I am happy to say Miss Perry has greatly exaggerated the occurrence.”
“Oh, no, Jim,” said Miss Perry. “Ask Goose.”
“There is one thing, Mr. Lascelles,” said the mistress of Pen-y-Gros Castle, “that I hope you will take to heart. In future the public will be strictly forbidden to climb the Devil’s Footstool.”
“I think that precaution will be in its interests,” said Jim. “It is all right going up, but it is a wicked place coming down.”
“Well, Mr. Lascelles,” said Lady Crewkerne, “it is satisfactory to learn that this injudicious adventure has terminated without loss of life. I shall be glad if you will dine at the Castle this evening.”
Jim Lascelles was sufficiently mollified by the tone to accept the invitation.
“And for my part,” said Jim, after he had done so, “I shall be glad, Lady Crewkerne, if you will accept an apology for my behavior the last time we met. I am afraid I was very much in the wrong.”
“Mr. Lascelles,” said Lady Crewkerne, speaking very distinctly, “I have since thought that matter over carefully, and I have come to the conclusion that there is no need for me to revise the judgment I formed at the time. You were very much in the wrong. All the same, I have pleasure in accepting your apology. Burden, we will return. I feel the heat.”
Things having been placed on this amicable basis, the mistress of Pen-y-Gros Castle withdrew with her retinue, and Muffin returned to the water.