DIPLOMACY IS CALLED FOR
Cheriton’s gravity was of a kind he seldom displayed.
“Caroline,” said he, firmly, “if you behaved in that way no
right-minded person could possibly forgive you. The lad is very poor,
and his history is a sad one. He is the son of Lascelles, V.C., as rash
yet generous-hearted a fellow as ever lived. Had it not been for a
dishonest broker the young chap would be a man of wealth and position.”
“I am prepared to hear nothing further upon the subject,” said Caroline
Crewkerne. “I have made up my mind. Cheriton, have the goodness to ring
the bell.”
The affair must have had a tragic termination there and then had not
the God who watches over poor painters--whatever their own private and
personal doubts in regard to that Deity, it is only right for laymen
like ourselves to assume that there is one--seen fit to enact a little
providence of His own. At that crucial moment there came to Cheriton’s
aid no less a person than George Betterton. And as if that opportune
arrival was not in itself sufficient, Providence took the trouble to
play a double coup. Mr. Marchbanks made the announcement immediately
afterwards that luncheon was ready.
While Caroline enlarged upon her grievances to George Betterton and
outlined the extreme course she proposed to take as soon as luncheon
was over, Cheriton scribbled hastily in pencil on the back of a card,
“Remove picture from No. -- Hill Street immediately, to the Acacias,
Hawthorn Road, Balham.”
This accomplished, he proceeded to take John into his confidence.
He placed the card, together with a sovereign, in the palm of that
functionary.
“Go down at once,” said he, “to the people at the Bond Street Galleries
and give them this card. They are to remove that half-finished picture
in the blue drawing-room to that address. By the time luncheon is over
it must be out of the house. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear, my lord,” said John, who among his many virtues had a
proper tenderness for the peerage.
“See that this is done, and when questions are asked all you need know
upon the subject is that a couple of men came and took it away. You
understand?”
“Perfectly, my lord,” said John.
During luncheon Cheriton was seen to particular advantage. At any time
it called for very little effort on his part for him to be one of the
most agreeable men in London. To-day he excelled. He retailed some of
the newest stories and a quantity of the freshest gossip; he was really
genial to George Betterton, and encouraged him to enlarge at length
upon the subject of the Militia; and to his hostess he gave a tip for
the Oaks, for which species of information she had a decided weakness.
It was but seldom among his intimates that George was permitted to
mount his hobby-horse. As for Cheriton, he was the last man in the
world, as a rule, to consent to hold the head of that extraordinary
quadruped while George established himself firmly in the saddle. But on
this occasion he performed that operation in the most graceful manner.
“Excellent speech of yours in the House the other evening, my dear
fellow,” said he. “I wasn’t there myself--Philosophical Society’s
annual meeting--but you were very carefully reported in the _Times_.
Quite your best vein, if I may say so. Very shrewd, very searching,
sound common sense. You thought so, Caroline, did you not?”
It seems incredible, but Caroline Crewkerne walked straight into the
trap. With all her ruthlessness, and all her knowledge of mundane
affairs, she had one besetting weakness. She attached an absurd
importance to any form of politics. It was her Whiggism, doubtless.
She would encourage the most consummate bore, for upon the slightest
pretext her vanity would lead her to believe that her fingers were
really in the pie, and that she had a very considerable hand in the
destinies of the country.
In the heyday of her glory it used to be asserted freely by idle
persons that if the country was not actually ruled from Hill Street,
ministers at least were made and marred there, and of that quarter
Governments went in fear and trembling. And it is by no means
improbable that Caroline Crewkerne came to believe it. It is surprising
what vanity will do for us.
To-day the smoldering embers of a lifelong illusion, if the figure is
permitted, allowed Caroline Crewkerne to establish George Betterton
quite firmly astride his hobby-horse. Cheriton counted the minutes of
his exquisite boredom. George was always heavy. He spoke so slowly
and impressively that he could deliver a platitude in a longer space
of time than any man living, and he could use fewer words in the
operation. Indeed, upon the strength of that gift he had gained a
reputation for incisive brevity.
To see Caroline Crewkerne nodding her vain old head, and wagging her
vain old ears in an exaggerated attitude of statesmanlike attention,
was a positive joy to Cheriton, particularly as time was so valuable.
The minutes grew tedious in their passing, all the same. The clock
chimed half-past two, and Miss Perry mentioned the circus.
“Let us postpone it until to-morrow, my dear Miss Goose, if you really
don’t mind,” said Cheriton. “The conversation is so absorbing. The
preserved ginger is highly delectable too.”
Miss Perry shared the latter opinion.
“Green Chartreuse or Grand Marnier, my lord?” said Mr. Marchbanks.
“Both,” said my lord.
Mr. Marchbanks dissembled his surprise in an extremely well-bred
manner. In his eyes, however, a peer of the realm was in the happy
position of Cæsar’s wife.
It must not be assumed, however, that Cheriton indulged in both these
luxuries. His respect for the internal economy forbade that course. But
observing that George Betterton selected Green Chartreuse he contrived
to smuggle unseen the Grand Marnier to George’s side of the table. He
then addressed his mind to slumber. After a full twenty minutes thus
blissfully stolen he awoke with a little start.
“Beg pardon, George,” said he. “Did I understand you to say the
Militia had gone to the dooce and the country must be reconstructed,
or that the Country had gone to the dooce and the Militia must be
reconstructed?”
“The Country, Cheriton,” said Caroline Crewkerne, in her most _affairé_
manner; “certainly the Country.”
“What a good head you have, Caroline!” said Cheriton, giving expression
to a somnolent admiration. “Take after your father. Sorry to interrupt
you, George. Most able discourse. By the way, Caroline, you never give
one the treat of the famous old brandy these days. Not for myself. I
never touch brandy; but I was thinking of George. It is known to be
excellent for any kind of disquisition.”
George Betterton, duly fortified with a little of the famous old
brandy, and with a yet further supply of Grand Marnier, which Cheriton
caused to be conveyed to him, proceeded on his victorious way.
“Country gone to the dogs--yes,” said Cheriton. “Militia gone to
the dooce--quite so. Circus to-morrow, Miss Goose. But Gobo quite
educational too.”
Cheriton addressed himself again to slumber, with a peaceful, resigned,
yet vastly contented air.
It was five minutes past three before Caroline Crewkerne quitted the
table. In spite of her fund of natural shrewdness she could not help
feeling--so easy it is for the wisest people to deceive themselves in
some things--that she had sat at the feet of a political Gamaliel who
played ducks and drakes with the War Office. As for George Betterton,
having been endured with a patience that was not always extended to
him, without actually giving himself airs, he felt that upon the
subject of the Militia he really was no end of a fellow. Cheriton, who
had enjoyed an additional thirty-five minutes of undisturbed repose,
gave him clearly to understand that he concurred in that opinion.
Back in the drawing-room, Caroline Crewkerne reaffirmed her intention
of destroying the half-finished portrait of Miss Perry.
“An unpardonable piece of presumption in the first place,” said she.
“And, in the second, the man was positively insolent.”
Cheriton had already looked for the canvas, and with a whimsical
little sigh of satisfaction had looked in vain. It would seem that the
myrmidons of the Bond Street Galleries had done their work.
“Do be more lenient, my dear Caroline,” said Cheriton, persuasively.
“The fellow is young, and his lot is hard. Pray don’t take the bread
out of the mouth of a rising genius who has to support his mother.
George, my dear fellow, throw the weight of your great influence into
the scale. Caroline must be more humane. Rising young man--highly
susceptible--wholly captivated by our distracting Miss Goose. Any young
fellow with any sort of instinct for nature at her choicest would have
done the same.”
Cheriton concluded upon an exclamation from the redoubtable Caroline.
“Why,” she cried, “the picture has been taken away!”
Mr. Marchbanks was summoned.
“Two men from Peabody’s fetched it an hour ago, my lady,” Mr.
Marchbanks explained.
“Without my permission,” stormed his mistress.
“I had no instructions, my lady,” said Mr. Marchbanks. “I was under the
impression that it was the property of the young painting gentleman.”
“You were under the impression!”
“Caroline,” said Cheriton gravely, “if you have not been properly
scored off it looks uncommonly like it. Young fellow evidently didn’t
allow the grass to grow under his feet. He said he would send for it
to-morrow, but he seems to have changed his mind. But, in my humble
judgment, if you must blame anybody you will do well to blame George.
If he hadn’t been so devilish interesting on the subject of the Militia
it would never have happened.”