CHAPTER XXXIIIEVERYTHING FOR THE BEST IN THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS
JIM LASCELLES returned to Balham exactly nine days after he had left that friendly but uninspired suburb. He had worked hard during his absence in Yorkshire; the picture of the fair Priscilla had made excellent progress, and there was a check for five hundred pounds in prospect on completion. Further, by the interest and undoubted talent for commerce of his friend Lord Cheriton, Mr. Crosby of the Foreign Office had been induced to rise to seven hundred and fifty pounds for the portrait of Mrs. Crosby and her children.
So far as the things of this world were concerned, Jim really returned to his mother in high feather. The progress he was making in his profession he felt was out of all proportion to his talent. But it is a great thing to have a friend at court. So much is done in that way. It is not always the best picture, or the best oratorio, or the best play, or the best novel that makes the most guineas in the market-square. It is one thing to create a masterpiece, and it is another to translate it into pounds, shillings, and pence. There can be no doubt that Jim Lascelles had made amazing strides in his art; but all the same, he wasa lucky fellow to have a man like Cheriton to go round with a bell to call the attention of the picture-buying public to the quality of his work.
Jim Lascelles would have been less than human had he not been immensely grateful to Cheriton. And yet he would not have been human either had he not hated him very sorely. After all, what is the use of material prosperity if the man who confers it upon you robs you of the only girl in the world you feel you will ever be able to marry? Certainly he would now have the means to buy his mother a new frock or so in order to deprive her of her favorite excuse for not looking older. But life, even with professional success, was going to be a hollow business.
However, Jim Lascelles contrived in this crisis to behave with a discretion that was very creditable to his character. He had gone down to the depths of late, and, as is often the case with such divers in deep seas, he had brought up a few pearls. One of these was resolution. He finished the picture of Priscilla out of hand and drew his check; and although the season was November, he paid several visits to Eaton Square and did his best for Mrs. Crosby and her youthful family. And ever and anon he took his courage in his hands and spent an hour in further devotion to the masterpiece that was to make him famous.
It was not until early in January that Jim Lascelles made the announcement to his patron that the portrait of Miss Perry was complete. Thereupon quite a number of people interested in art found theirway to the Acacias. They were by no means unanimous in their opinion regarding its intrinsic merit, but they all agreed that it was bound to prove one of the sensations of the year.
“An extraordinarily clever fake,” said a critic of the fine arts privately.
“Mr. Lascelles,” said a dealer, “I should like you to give me an option on all the work you produce during the next five years. I feel sure I could sell it.”
“We have a new Gainsborough here,” said a third person, who spoke in an unofficial capacity, “and that is all there is to be said about it.”
About the end of the month Cheriton himself appeared, duly armed with expert opinion, to see for himself. He was accompanied by Miss Burden and hisfiancée, who was looking thin and unhappy. It was a beautiful day for the time of year; and in regard to his appearance, the happy wooer was as fastidious as usual. Never had he seemed more faultless in his attire or more scrupulously paternal in his demeanor. He looked long at the masterpiece, and he looked particularly.
“Lascelles, my good fellow,” said he, “I am forced to arrive at one conclusion. If you were to paint a thousand pictures, this is something you will never surpass.”
“Why do you think so?” said Jim.
“Because, my dear fellow, there is growth in it. You began it a callow stripling; you have finished it, shall I say, a strong man in the plenitude of his power. I have watched you and the picture growtogether from month to month. It is given to no man to do that sort of thing twice.”
Jim Lascelles, however, was a robust young fellow—at least, it was his ideal to be so. He was apt to be on his guard against high-flown sentiment, yet he knew that Cheriton had spoken the truth.
“You are right,” he said simply. “That canvas has got all I have or all I ever shall have. I am older now than when I began it, and I hope I’m wiser.”
“Not wiser really, my dear fellow; we never get wiser. But you have found yourself. A great career lies before you.”
“You may be right,” said Jim, “or you may not be right, but either way it doesn’t matter.”
Cheriton inspected the young fellow with the greatest coolness and impartiality. There was no mistaking that the words were tragic. Cheriton’s penetration declared them to be so. He took some little time for reflection, and then he slowly drew a check out of his pocket-book with an air that was really unfathomable.
“There must be no misunderstanding, Lascelles,” said he, with an air that was brisk and businesslike. “There is every reason to believe that the picture of Miss Perry will prove a valuable property. But at the same time, I hold your promise that I may purchase it on my own terms. Is not that the case?”
“It is, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim, with indifference.
“I hope the bargain I drove with you may not prove too hard,” said Cheriton, with an enigmaticsmile that Jim Lascelles took not the least pains to fathom. “But if I may say so, your conduct in allowing me to drive such a bargain was curiously injudicious. For everybody tells me that your picture is magnificent.”
“I don’t think it matters,” said Jim, who was looking tired. “Although one is glad you like it, of course.”
“It must always be pleasant to the artist to have his work admired. My own comment upon your work is this. I hope, my dear fellow, you will be able to forgive its extravagance.”
As he spoke he gave the check to Jim Lascelles. The painter, however, paid no heed to it at first. His instinct was to crush it in his hands and fling it away, so repugnant was the piece of paper to the touch. Now that the time had come to part with the sole remaining solace he possessed, he felt unable to yield it.
This, however, was a weakness he must not indulge. He looked at the paper perfunctorily, and then he gave a little exclamation. The check was made out in his favor for ten thousand pounds.
“I don’t understand,” said Jim. “Is there not some mistake?”
“You must constrain your modesty a little, that is all,” said Cheriton. “People tell me it will be worth every penny of this sum to the next generation. It is pleasant sometimes to anticipate the verdict of posterity.”
Jim Lascelles did not know how to act or whatto say. In his judgment this was the most Quixotic proceeding he had ever encountered.
“Really, Lord Cheriton,” he said, “I don’t feel that there are sufficient grounds upon which I can accept such a sum as this.”
“A bargain is a bargain,” said Cheriton. “I hold your promise that I am to purchase the picture on my own terms.”
In the flood tide of his bewilderment Jim Lascelles had perforce to remain silent.
“Don’t forget, my dear Lascelles, that the highest pleasure that is given to any man is to adopt the role of Mæcenas. And are you aware that the Red House at Widdiford is in the market, and that six thousand pounds will purchase it?”
Jim flinched a little. A deep flush overspread his face. This was sacred ground, upon which it behoved the outside world to tread warily.
“I hope you don’t mean that the Red House at Widdiford means nothing to you?”
Jim was not proof against the assault.
“I’m not sure that it does,” he said miserably.
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that if I were you.”
Jim began to look decidedly fierce. In spite of the check for ten thousand pounds, which he viewed as somewhat in the nature of a mockery, he showed no disposition to be baited.
“Perhaps it would be wise, Lord Cheriton, not to pursue the subject.”
Cheriton laughed outright at the solemnity of the young fellow’s manner.
“On the contrary,” said he, “one feels that the subject of the Red House at Widdiford should be discussed at length. Miss Perry and I have been over to look at the old place before completing the purchase.”
“Ah! that is interesting,” said Jim, who was more bewildered than ever.
“It seems that, in addition to its other lures, the Red House at Widdiford has peaches in season.”
“Of course it has,” said Jim, who was beginning to feel that Cheriton was making a rather long excursion in the realms of bad taste.
“Well, my dear fellow, I put it to you—what is the use of having peaches in season if one has not the appetite to eat them?”
“What, indeed!” said Jim.
“And again, my dear fellow—what, pray, is the use of giving Buszard a contract for the large size when cream buns lose their savor?”
Jim made no reply, but merely looked miserable.
“Let me tell you in confidence, Lascelles,” said his patron, in a becomingly low tone, “that even the circus has begun to pall. And as for Joseph Wright of Derby, the question of his permanent merit is beginning to appear almost a matter of indifference. Do you feel competent to give advice in regard to what ought to be done?”
“I am afraid I don’t, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim, rather feebly.
“That is disappointing, for in the past you have shown such a surprising fertility of ideas and resources.The problem is so serious. Can one conceive a world in which cream buns have no savor, circuses no glamor, and in which the Joseph Wrights of Derby are allowed to ruffle it unquestioned among their betters? Frankly, the feat is beyond me, Lascelles. And then, too, my dear fellow, the news that Muffin is to have a new mauve from London to wear in the spring has excited hardly any enthusiasm.”
“Indeed?” said Jim.
“That is so, I assure you. And to my mind, that is not the least sinister symptom. I have conferred with the wise woman of Hill Street, and during my sojourn in the west country also with the presiding genius of Slocum Magna. And after some discussion of the pros and cons of the situation, formon pèreandma tantedo not appear to see eye to eye in all things, we are at last in agreement that something ought to be done to restore the savor to the best confectionery, and also to insure that no upstart shall occupy without question the same kind offauteuilas Rembrandt and Velasquez. The result of our deliberations is, my dear fellow, that we have come to the conclusion that you are the man to help us.”
“I!” said Jim, impotently.
“Have you any objection to undertaking such a scheme of philanthropy?”
“If I could do anything to add to Miss Perry’s happiness,” said Jim, “I should be just about the proudest chap in the world.”
“Well, it seems, my dear fellow, that you can doso. At least, that is the opinion that has been arrived at by the experts who have communed over her case.”
Jim’s heart beat painfully.
“Tell me what I can do,” he said rather hoarsely, “for the best, the truest-hearted, the most absolutely genuine girl in the world.”
“You can marry her.”
“Marry her?” said Jim, weakly.
“Yes, in the afternoon of April the First, at Saint Sepulchre’s Church.”
“But——” said Jim.
“The oracle of Hill Street thinks the First of June is preferable, because there will be more people in town, and the presents are likely to be more numerous. But personally I agree with Mrs. Lascelles andmon pèrethat April is as good a time as any other for visiting the Prado.”
“But——” said Jim.
“I forget the inn I stayed at when I was last at Madrid. It was ‘El’ Something, and for some obscure reason it had no aspirate. But one Ford is the authority for Spain, although, to be sure, a certain Borrow wrote a famous work upon the subject. By the way, we must not overlook one important argument in favor of June.”
“What is it?” said Jim, mechanically.
“It is hardly right to expect a new mauve to make itsdébuton the First of April. Yet there seems no help for it. No ceremony could possibly be considered complete without it.”
“Am I to understand——?” said Jim, whostopped with ridiculous abruptness right in the middle of his question.
“By the way, my dear fellow, I have taken the liberty of suggesting to your accomplished mother that it might help her literary career if she moved a little nearer to the center. A little flat in Knightsbridge might be a judicious investment. As you may be aware, publishers as a race are highly susceptible, and an address in Knightsbridge might favorably impress them.”
“Do you think so?” said Jim, who did not know in the least what he was saying.
But there is really no reason to persist in this history. In spite of scruples, which were as much due to pride as to generosity, Jim Lascelles married the Goose Girl at Saint Sepulchre’s Church on the First of April. On that significant occasion the presiding genius of Hill Street displayed an amount of Christian feeling which, in the opinion of a contemporary, was without parallel in his experience.
The entire family of Slocum Magna, including Milly, whose pigtail was the color of a yellow chrysanthemum, and was tied with a ribbon, came up to London and stayed a whole week at Morley’s Hotel. Among other things, they all went one day to see the Exhibition, and found there wasn’t one. Papa dined twice in Hill Street, and met dukes and people; and he brought back the report that Aunt Caroline was less worldly than he had feared she was. He gave his daughter away on the glorious First; and Muffin wore her new mauve on that occasion. In the opinionof all qualified persons it was quite as successful as the peerless original. Polly, who took after her papa, and had more intellect than all the rest of the family put together, Dickie and Doggo included, looked charmingly proper in a “costume” more reticent than Muffin’s. Her young man assisted the Dean of Dunstable, the uncle of the bride, in performing the ceremony.
Jim Lascelles and the Goose Girl spent a month in the land of Cervantes and Velasquez. They are living now at the Red House at Widdiford. Jim is quite likely to be elected to an Associateship of the Royal Academy before long. At least, he is getting very good prices for his work, and his “Miss Perry” has been esteemed a rare triumph for British art. His “Naiad” also, purchased by the Chantrey Bequest, has been generally and justly admired.
The accomplished mother of the rising artist took the disinterested advice of a well-wisher, and a fortnight after her son’s brilliant marriage—theMorning Mirrordescribed it as such—she left “P.P.C.” cards on the Miss Champneys at the Chestnuts, and moved “nearer to the center.” It may have been coincidence, or it may have been cause and effect, but within a fortnight of her installation at No. 5, Beaufort Mansions, W., “The Fair Immortal” was accepted on a royalty by an eminent firm of publishers, and made its appearance in the course of the summer. It won such unanimous approval from the Press and the public, that it can now be purchased for sixpence of any self-respecting bookseller in theUnited Kingdom; its fortunate authoress has signed contracts for work for the next three years and has been elected a member of three of the best ladies’ clubs in the metropolis.
Muffin’s season at Hill Street was an even greater triumph than her sister’s—but thereby hangs a tale for a wet afternoon. Aunt Caroline, in spite of her advanced years, is worth “a good many dead ones” at present, and in the opinion of her oldest friend her manner has more amenity. Perhaps it is that the influence of youth has been a good one in her life. It is right to think so since there is no reason to believe that she has altered her opinion of the clergy.
Polly has not yet married her parson, but she is certain to do so. Serious people, however, “make haste slowly,” as the wise Italians say. It is well that they should. Charley has found his way to Sandhurst all right, and feels himself to be a field-marshal already. Dickie has lately been presented to a living worth eleven hundred a year—a really preposterous emolument, considering the widespread depression in things ecclesiastical. However, in justice to Dickie, it should be stated that he was always quietly confident that something would come of his left-arm bowling. And so it ought if you break both ways.
Milly has been two terms already at her Brighton boarding school. In the opinion of her mistresses she is the best inside right at hockey on the South Coast. If she is not chosen to play against Walesin the forthcoming international match she will be much disappointed.
Entertaining at Cheriton House is still to seek. The thing threatens to become a national scandal. Comparisons, highly unfavorable to the present peer, are being constantly drawn by convinced free-fooders and the praisers of past times. The noble earl, however, is fully occupied at present in steering a course between the Scylla of Hill Street on the one hand, and the Charybdis of No. 5, Beaufort Mansions on the other. The presiding genius of the former locality, however, defines a coxcomb as a person who never means anything. Still, it doesn’t do to be too sure in these days.
As an instance of the need for honest doubt, George Betterton did not lead the fair Priscilla to the altar after all. The world understood that a religious difference was the rock which sundered them. Whether George had too little religion and Priscilla had too much, is one of those things that has never been elucidated clearly. But, beyond all shade of controversy, they were never brought to the question. Priscilla made quite a good marriage, all the same. As for George—well, what really happened to him is a story for one of those typical English afternoons in which it is really not fit for a dog to be out. People say that George is much improved lately.
In conclusion, we feel bound to record our opinion that it is gravely to be doubted whether Jim Lascelles will make as great a painter as Velasquez. Considering his youth, his attainments, and his temper, wewere among those who predicted a high destiny for the young fellow, but that was before “the wicket rolled out so plumb.” Authorities upon the subject are not slow to inform us, however, that it is better to marry the girl you want to, and to live at the Red House at Widdiford, and be a county magistrate, and to have a couple of expensive sons in the Services, and to have your girls dressed by Redfern and presented at Court, than to appear on a pedestal by public subscription in front of the National Gallery three centuries after you have ceased to take an interest in the verdict of posterity.
Quot homines tot sententiæ.These wiseacres may be right, or they may not be right. It is only the Caroline Crewkernes who are infallible.
THE END