HYDE PARK
Little recked Jim Lascelles of the train of circumstances which enabled
his precious half-finished work to return to its maker. When it arrived
at his hermitage at Balham that afternoon, he merely saw in its
premature return an additional affront. He took it for granted that the
old woman of Hill Street had ordered it out of the house.
“An absolutely inconceivable old cat,” Jim assured his mother with
great truculence.
“I am afraid so, my son,” said his mother, sagely. “Power is so bad for
poor Female Us.”
“She has ruined me,” said Jim, miserably. “She and that infernal temper
of mine.”
“Temper is feminine too, my son,” said Jim’s mother, profoundly. “She
invariably plays Old Harry when she gets hold of the reins.”
Perhaps it ought to be stated that Jim’s mother had recently tried to
eke out her slender purse by writing a novel. At least, that is the
only explanation there is to offer of how she came to be so wise. The
writing of novels is very good for the mind, as all the world knows.
Jim was woefully gloomy for many days. He felt that by his unlucky
outburst he had irretrievably ruined his prospects. And they were
getting bright so suddenly that they had almost seemed to dazzle him.
Not only had he forfeited the hundred pounds which Lord Cheriton had
promised him for a faithful copy of the Gainsborough, but doubtless,
after his unhappy exhibition of temper, Lord Kendal’s daughter
Priscilla would choose to be painted by somebody else.
This, however, was not the worst. The Goose Girl had passed clean
out of his ken. Henceforward he would be debarred the sight of the
Gainsborough hat, the lilac frock, and the full-fledged cream-bun
appearance. She had driven the unfortunate young fellow so nearly to
distraction that while he found it impossible to expel her from his
thoughts, he could not summon the resolution to unlock the door of the
studio he had caused to be set up in the small Balham back garden. It
was nothing less than an affliction to gaze upon the half-finished
canvas, which now could never be completed.
By nature Jim Lascelles was a bright and cheery soul. But the fact that
he had destroyed his prospects “just as things were coming his way”
by a single unbridled act, made him extremely unhappy. It needed all
Mrs. Lascelles’ gay courage and invincible optimism to keep Jim steady
during these days of trial.
“Finish her out of your head, laddie,” said she, “then try to forget
that she ever existed.”
“Nay,” said Jim. “I must either put all I know into that little work,
or stick a knife through the canvas.”
Jim brooded dreadfully upon the subject. Black rings came under his
eyes; he smoked too much and ate too little.
“I must and I will see her,” said Jim.
“That is the true spirit, my son,” said his mother, cheerfully.
It is not quite clear whether she ought openly to have expressed her
approval. It was very necessary, all the same, to rouse the unhappy Jim
from the lethargy that was making his life unbearable. At all events,
he seemed to derive a certain inward power from the mere resolution.
The next morning Jim made his way to Hyde Park. It was now June and it
was looking its best, with the trees, the rhododendrons, and the ladies
in full bloom. For some time he stood by the railings with a kind of
indefinite hope that he would be rewarded for his pilgrimage. Then he
began to walk slowly in the direction of Knightsbridge; and confronted
by so much fine plumage, he began to wish ruefully that his blue suit
was not so shabby and that his straw hat was not in its second season.
He was still hopeful, however. He took a careful survey of the riders.
Somewhat oddly, his attention was attracted to a heavy, red-faced,
rather stupid-looking man who was pounding along on a gray horse. His
appearance was perfectly familiar to Jim Lascelles, yet for the moment
he could not remember where and when he had seen him.
It was with an odd mingling of satisfaction and disgust that he
was able to recall the heavy red-faced man’s identity. He stopped
and turned his eyes to follow him in his progress. Yes, it was he
undoubtedly. And there at the corner by Apsley House was a chestnut
horse, tall, upstanding, proudly magnificent, surmounted by a royal
creature crowned with the light of the morning. At the respectful
distance of thirty paces was Mr. Bryant, seated as upright as his own
cockade upon a more modest charger. Even he, a man of austere taste and
exclusive instinct, did not attempt to conceal an air of legitimate
pride in his company. Mr. Bryant had seen nothing that morning, nor
many mornings previously, that could in anywise compare with the
wonderful Miss Perry.
Doubtless it is hardly right to say that Jim Lascelles’ eyes were
envious when they followed the man with the red face, and marked his
paternal greeting of the Goose Girl. It is hardly fair, for envy is
a vulgar passion, and Jim was too good a fellow ever to be really
vulgar in anything. All the same, it must be confessed that he swore to
himself softly. He then behaved in a very practical and mundane manner.
He took out his watch, one of those admirable American five-shilling
watches which are guaranteed to keep correct time for a very long
period.
“Three minutes past eleven,” said he. “Oho, my merry man!”
Precisely what Jim Lascelles meant by that mystic exclamation it is
difficult to know, but anyhow it seemed to please him. He then observed
that the little cavalcade had wheeled round the corner, and had started
to come down slowly by the railings upon the left.
Jim stood to await it with a beating heart. It was a most injudicious
thing to do, but he was in a desperate and defiant humor.
“Five to one she cuts you,” Jim muttered. “Two to one she cuts you
dead. They are all alike when they mount the high horse.”
As Jim Lascelles stood to await the approach of the cavalcade, he
no longer thought ruefully of his cheap straw hat and his shabby
blue suit. They had become dear to him as the badge of his impending
martyrdom.
Gobo hugged the railings. He was so close to Jim Lascelles that he
nearly touched him with his spurs--dummy spurs, as Jim noted. Miss
Perry was explaining that all the girls had white frocks at Buckingham
Palace, and how she wished that Muffin had been there, as a white
frock always suited her, although she was inclined to tear it, when
Miss Featherbrain was met by the steady and unflinching gaze of Jim
Lascelles. Instantly her hand went up, not one of darned cotton, but a
yellow gauntleted affair that matched her hair, in quite the regulation
Widdiford manner.
“Why--why,” she cried, “it’s Jim! Hallo, Jim!”
In the ears of Jim Lascelles the incomparably foolish speech had never
sounded so absurd and so delicious. It was plainly the intention of
Miss Perry to hold animated conversation with the undeniably handsome
youth who returned her greeting. But the intervention of the highest
branch of the peerage, as solemn as the British Constitution and as
solid too, between her and the railings; and the fact that there was
a resolutely oncoming rearguard in the person of the scandalized Mr.
Bryant, who in his own mind was tolerably sure that the presumptuous
young man by the railings had no connection with the peerage whatever,
sufficed to keep Miss Perry in the straight path.
Therefore Jim Lascelles had to be content with one of the old Widdiford
smiles, which nevertheless was enchanting, and a parting wave of the
yellow gauntlet, which was the perfection of friendliness, comradeship,
and natural simplicity. He stood to watch the cavalcade pass slowly
down the ride, the magnificent chestnut and its rider the observed
of all observers, for both were superb and profoundly simple works
of nature. The red-faced and stolid personage on the gray, a more
sophisticated pair, were yet well in the picture also, for if less
resplendent, they too in their way were imposing.
Jim’s reverie was interrupted by a voice at his elbow.
“There they go,” it said, “the most ill-assorted pair in England.”
With a start of surprise Jim turned to find an immaculate beside him.
Cheriton was wearing a light-gray frock-coat with an exaggerated air
of fashion.
“Crabbed age and youth,” said Jim, yet quite without bitterness. He was
still glowing with pleasure at his frank and friendly recognition.
“A pitiful sight,” said Cheriton. “A man of his age! How odd it is that
some men are born without a sense of the incongruous!”
“Yes,” said Jim.
“Gal looks well outside a horse. Very well indeed. Pity that old
ruffian should ruin so fair a picture.”
Cheriton seemed prepared to criticise his rival’s style of
horsemanship. Reluctantly, however, he forbore to do so. For George had
been drilled very severely in his youth; and in spite of his years and
his weight he was able to make a creditable appearance in the saddle.
“Do you know, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim, “I almost regret that I did not
attempt an equestrian portrait.”
My lord’s brows went up.
“Upon my word, Lascelles,” said he, “you are an uncommonly bold fellow
to mention the word ‘portrait.’”
“I agree with you,” said Jim.
He laughed rather bitterly. Cheriton affected a gravely paternal air.
“Lascelles,” said he, “I think the fact that at school your father
imbued me with the elements of wisdom gives some sort of sanction to a
little plain speaking on my part.”
“Go on, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim, with gloomy resignation. “Rub it in.”
“I think, Lascelles,” said Cheriton, with a fine assumption of the air
of a “head beak,” “your conduct merits censure in the highest degree.”
“It has received it,” said Jim. “I have been kicking myself for being
such a hot-headed fool ever since it happened.”
“One is almost afraid,” said Cheriton, ruefully, “that your
indiscretion is irreparable. Really, Lascelles, making due allowance
for the fact that your father was one of the most rash and hasty men I
ever encountered, and allowing further for the fact that my old friend
has a deplorable absence of, shall we say, amenity, your behavior
amounted neither more nor less than to suicide.”
“I don’t regret what I did,” said Jim, “as far as that old Gorgon of a
woman is concerned. I am afraid I should behave in just the same way
again if I were placed in a similar position. But I know it was very
unwise. As for the portrait, I intend, by hook or by crook, to finish
it.”
“Well, Lascelles,” said Cheriton, giving the young fellow a kindly
touch on the arm in parting, “do what you can; and when the work is
complete you must let me see it.”
It was a new Jim Lascelles who returned to Balham by the twelve-thirty
from Victoria and took luncheon with his mother. He called at the
greengrocer’s just as you get out of the station, and arrived at the
Acacias with a number of paper bags tucked under each arm. He hummed
the favorite air in the very latest musical comedy, while he proceeded
to make a salad whose mysteries he had acquired in Paris. He had been
initiated into them by Monsieur Bonnat, the famous _chef_ of the Hotel
Brinvilliers. And it so happened that Jim’s mother, who spoiled him
completely, had purchased a lobster, which she really couldn’t afford,
such was the current price of that delicacy and the present state of
her finances, to cheer Jim up a bit.
“My dear,” said Jim, “let us have the last bottle of the Johannisberg.”
Miranda, the demure little maid-of-all-work, was ordered rather
magnificently to procure the same.
“Pity ’tis, ’tis the last,” said Jim, who proceeded to toast his
mother. “May those precious publishers,” said he, “learn truly to
appreciate a very remarkable literary genius, my dear.”
“I am afraid they do, dear boy,” said she. “That is the trouble.”
“It is a rattling good story, anyhow,” said Jim, stoutly.
“It certainly ends as every self-respecting and well-conducted story
ought. But this old addle-pate hasn’t a spark of literary genius in it.”
“Oh, hasn’t it!” said Jim, bringing his fist upon the table. “George
Sand is a fool to you, my dear.”
“Dear fellow,” said Jim’s mother, with a smile of pleasure. “At any
rate I am enough of a genius to like appreciation. But with you,
laddie, it is different. You are the real right thing, as dear Henry
James would say.”
“Oh, am I?” said Jim. “Well, here’s to the Real Right Thing, whichever
of us has it. I know which side of the table it is, if you don’t.”
“The Realest Rightest Thing is outside in the garden waiting for the
hand of the master to complete her.”
“Ye gods, the hand of the master! You pile it on ‘a leetle beet tick,’
as Monsieur Gillet would say to you. But shall I tell you a secret? I
saw the Goose Girl this morning.”
“Of course you did, dear boy.”
“How did you guess?”
“The step on the gravel told me.”
“You are wonderful, you know. Fancy your finding it out like that when
I tried hard to tread heavily!”
“That vain, wicked, foolish, and depraved Goose!” said Jim’s mother.
“You met her in Hyde Park this morning walking with her duke, and she
gave you a smile, and if she was more than usually foolish, she said,
‘Why, it’s Jim!’”
“She was _à cheval_. But you _are_ wonderful, you know,” said Jim.
“Riding was she? And pray how did the great overgrown creature look
outside a horse?”
“I could never have believed it. She was mounted on a glorious
chestnut, a great mountain of a beast, a noble stepper; and in her
smart new habit, and in an extraordinarily coquettish bowler--think on
it, my dear, the Goose Girl in a bowler!--she was a picture for the
gods.”
“One can readily believe that the creature would set high Olympus in a
roar.”
“She was to the manner born. She might have learned the art of
equitation in _la haute école_ instead of in the home paddock at
Widdiford on that screw of the dear old governor’s.”
“Oh no, dear boy,” said Jim’s mother, with decision. “Poor dear
Melancthon was anything but a screw. He was by Martin Luther out of
Moll Cutpurse. He won the point-to-point on three occasions.”
“I humbly beg Melancthon’s pardon. That explains why the Goose Girl
comes to be so proficient. She certainly looked this morning as if she
had never sat anything less than the blood of Carbine.”
“I think the secret of the whole matter, my son,” said Jim’s mother,
profoundly, “is that the Female Us is so marvelously adaptable. If she
is really smartly turned out on a fine morning in June with a real
live duke on the off side of her and all London gazing at her, if she
had never learned to sit anything else than a donkey she would still
contrive to look as though she had won the whole gymkhana. It is just
that quality that makes the Female Us so wonderful. It is just that
that maketh Puss so soon get too big for her dancing slippers.”
“Well, you wise woman,” said Jim, “the Goose Girl would have taken all
the prizes this morning. And she didn’t even cut me.”
“Cut you, my son!” exclaimed Jim’s mother. “Gott in himmel! that Goose
cut you indeed!”
“There are not many Goose Girls that wouldn’t have done in the
circumstances. But she is True Blue. And I am going to finish her
portrait. And I am going to make her permanently famous.”
Jim’s mother tilted the last of the Johannisberg into his glass.
“Go in and win, dear boy,” said she. “You have genius. Lavish it upon
her. Earn fame and fortune, and buy back the Red House at Widdiford.”
“And in the meantime,” said Jim, “she will have married that old fossil
and borne him three children.”
“She will not, dear boy,” said the voice of the temptress, “if you make
her promise not to.”
“Oh, that wouldn’t be cricket,” said Jim, “with her people so miserably
poor and James Lascelles by no means affluent; and the old fossil with
a house in Piccadilly, and another in Notts, and another in Fifeshire,
and a yacht in the Solent, and a box at the Opera, and a mausoleum at
Kensal Green. No, old lady, I’m afraid it wouldn’t be cricket.”
Jim’s mother exposed herself to the censure of all self-respecting
people.
“It would be far less like cricket,” said she, “for that perfect dear
of a Goose to have her youth, her beauty, and her gayety purchased by
a worldly old ruffian who ought to be a grandfather. Come, sir, she
awaits her very parfit gentil knight.”
But Jim shook his head solemnly.
“No, old lady,” said he, “I am afraid it wouldn’t be playing the game.”
Nevertheless, immediately luncheon was over, Jim took the key of his
studio off the sitting-room chimney-piece, and went forth to the
misshapen wooden erection in the small Balham back garden. The key
turned in the lock stiffly. It was nearly three weeks since it had
last been in it. For several hours he worked joyfully, touching and
retouching the picture and improvising small details out of his head.
And all the time the Goose Girl smiled upon him in the old Widdiford
manner. Her hair had never looked so yellow, and her eyes had never
looked so blue.