HIGH 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 the south 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 was no 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, holding Gainsborough’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, “a _pink_
one, 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 other kind 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 the squash; 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 had _seven_,” said Araminta, Duchess of Dorset.
“_Pink_ ones?” asked the Second Charles.
“Five were pink,” said the Duchess, “one was yellow, and one was green.
But I think that _pink_ ones are _almost_ the 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 on _your_ corns, 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 quite nimbly 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 the Cheadle 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.