FASHION COMES TO THE ACACIAS
Jim Lascelles was inclined to view his morning as a very great success.
It is true that it had cost him the last half-sovereign he had in the
world, but he felt that it had been invested to full advantage. He had
derived a new store of inspiration from that memorable morning. For a
whole week he was sustained by the recollection of it. He gave up his
days to joyous labor in the wooden erection in the Balham back garden.
“I shall make something of her after all,” said he.
One morning when he came down to breakfast he found a letter at the
side of his plate. This, in itself, was an event sufficiently rare,
because Jim Lascelles was one of those people who never write a letter
if they can possibly avoid doing so. The envelope had rather an air
about it. Upon the back of it was a monogram of a distinguished club.
“What ho!” said Jim.
A pair of eyes by no means ill found in worldly wisdom had duly noted
that which was on the back of the letter.
“The correspondent of dukes,” said their owner. “Which of them is it,
my son?”
Jim threw the contents of the envelope across the table with a gay
laugh.
DEAR LASCELLES (it said),--_The art of the age seems clearly to
call for the presence at the Acacias of the wonderful Miss Perry.
Unless the Fates are adverse--which, according to Juvenal, they are
sometimes--she will appear about 4.30 o’clock to-morrow_ (_Tuesday_)
_afternoon to claim in her own proper person a cup of tea, together
with two lumps of sugar and one cream bun, Buszard’s large size.
Forgive the shortness of the notice. Our old and common friend did
not develop sufficiently marked symptoms of laryngitis until this
morning to submit to the decree of her medical adviser. He has
ordered her to keep her bed. The accomplished Miss Burden accompanies
us in an official capacity. Ponto does not._
_Sincerely yours_,
CHERITON.
_P.S.--Strawberries and cream are known to be very delectable._
Jim’s uncommonly youthful mother was vastly amused.
“Never tell me, my son,” said she, “that an extremely well-informed
Providence does not watch over the destinies of even the humbler
denizens of the suburb of Balham. We are to be deluged with three
persons of fashion, and the Miss Champneys are sure to pay a
call--they always pay a call--this afternoon.”
“Those old guys,” said Jim. “I sincerely hope not.”
“When will you learn, my son,” said Jim’s mother, “to be more
respectful towards the two great ladies of our neighborhood, the real
live daughters of a deceased dean?”
“I beg their pardons,” said Jim, who was humbled. “I am afraid I have
been getting very uncouth of late.”
“The great world is so unsettling, my son. I am afraid you are already
beginning to patronize a ridiculous old frump like me.”
“Beginning!” said Jim.
“But remember, my son, I am determined that I will not be patronized in
my own house by your friend the duke.”
“Oh! he won’t try to,” said Jim, airily. “He’s a very civil old soul,
the same as you are, my dear, although his circumstances are rather
better.”
“I won’t be patronized by that Goose either,” said Jim’s mother, with
tremendous spirit.
“You run no danger in that quarter,” said Jim. “It will be as much as
ever she can do adequately to patronize the strawberries and cream.”
“And who, pray, is the accomplished Miss Burden? I will not be
patronized by her either.”
“I won’t answer for you there, señora. You might get short shift from
that quarter.”
“We shall see, my son,” said Jim’s mother, with an air almost of
truculence.
The back sitting-room at the Acacias was really a very mediocre affair.
It contained so little furniture that it was made to look half as large
again as it actually was. The small room was cool and tasteful if,
perhaps, somewhat too obviously simple and inexpensive. It contained
not a single reminiscence of bygone grandeur. For one thing, the crash
had been rather in the nature of a holocaust; and again, an opulent
past is a poor sort of aid to a penurious present.
The walls were decorated by a blue wash and by a single picture, a
study by Monsieur Gillet for his enchanting “La Dame au Gant.” It had
been given by that master to a young English pupil of whom he was
extremely fond. It held the bare walls all by itself. Jim was a little
vain about it. Then there was a little shelf of books. It comprised
five novels by Turgenev, two by Stendhal, three by Anatole France, four
by Meredith, three by Henry James, two volumes of Heine, the lyrics of
Victor Hugo, two plays of D’Annunzio, and a volume of Baudelaire. There
were two bowls of roses also, which Jim had procured for his mother in
honor of the occasion.
At a quarter to four Mrs. Lascelles sat reading “Pêcheur d’Islande” for
the thirteenth time. She looked very cool and dainty in a simple black
dress, embellished with still simpler white muslin. Her look of youth
had never been quite so aggressive; and in Jim’s opinion her wise
little smile of tempered gayety was perfectly irresistible.
“My dear,” said Jim, censoriously, “it is time you made a serious
effort to look older.”
“I do try so hard,” said Mrs. Lascelles, plaintively. “This is
positively the most frumpish frock I possess, and I have done my hair
over my ears on purpose.”
“Haven’t you an older frock?” said Jim.
“This one is decidedly the elder of the two, laddie.”
“How old is it?”
“Seven years.”
“And what is the age of the other one?”
“It is a mere infant. It is only five.”
“Then it is quite time you had a new one.”
“It is not usual, I believe, for a woman to get a new dress for the
purpose of making herself look older.”
“But then you are a most unusual woman.”
“I don’t want to be unusual, laddie. I do try so hard not to be. If
there is one thing I dislike more intensely than another it is an
unusual woman.”
“Then you are very perverse. I wonder what effect it would have if you
did your hair higher.”
“I will try if you like; but I know----”
“What do you know?” said Jim, sternly.
“That I never look quite so maternal as when I have it over my ears.”
“Well, it’s a serious matter. I look like being driven to get a new
mother.”
“There is a scarcity of good ones, my son.”
Jim scanned the tiny sitting-room with a very critical look.
“Upon my word,” said he, “that little rosewood piano and that little
effort of Monsieur Gillet’s are the only decent things in it.”
“I am afraid we have an air of cheap gentility,” said his mother. “But
don’t let them sneer at it. Gentility of any kind is quite an honorable
aspiration.”
“I wonder,” said Jim, “if there is anybody in the neighborhood who
would lend us a _Peerage_ for the afternoon. We might stick it in the
center of the room upon that little Japanese table.”
The front-door bell was heard to ring.
“Too late, too late,” said Mrs. Lascelles, dramatically. “The peerage
has already arrived.”
“It is the Miss Champneys,” said Jim.
“I think not, laddie. It is only twenty past four, and it is so much
more impressive to pay a call at five.”
“Two to one it’s the Hobson Family.”
The countenance of Jim’s mother assumed a look of anxiety that bordered
upon the tragic.
“By all the saints and all the powers,” said she, “I had quite
forgotten the existence of the Hobson Family. Do you really think it
can be?”
“I am perfectly sure of it,” said Jim, with immense conviction. “This
is an opportunity that the Hobson Family could not possibly miss.”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” said Jim’s mother, “what is to be done?”
“These things are sent to try us,” said Jim, philosophically. “The
Hobson Family has no other _raison d’être_.”
“Alack! alack!” gasped Jim’s mother.
The little maid-of-all-work entered the room. With her prim freckled
countenance and her hair, which like herself was quite unnecessarily
pretty, done over a roll, she conveyed somewhat the impression of a
small cat who has the furtive air of a confirmed cream stealer. Also
she had the air of one who takes an immense interest in everything.
“Miss Burden,” announced the little maid-of-all-work, as though it gave
her great pleasure to do so. “Miss Perry. The Earl of Cheriton.”
Mrs. Lascelles laid “Pêcheur d’Islande” upon the varnished boards. She
rose to greet Miss Perry with an exclamation. In the circumstances it
was most natural, for Miss Perry was looking neither more nor less than
a goddess.
Jim’s mother took a hand of Miss Perry in each of her own.
“You are too wonderful,” said she. “You take away one’s breath. I
always predicted that you would grow up a beautiful girl; but, really,
who could have expected this.”
Miss Perry said nothing at first. She merely proceeded to hug Jim’s
mother in the traditional Widdiford manner.
Mrs. Lascelles appeared to undergo some little personal inconvenience
in the process.
“You wonderful being,” she gasped.
Jim presented Miss Burden to his mother with a formal and becoming
gravity. There was always a veiled tenderness about the eyes of Miss
Burden which to some people rendered her oddly attractive. Her air of
shyness was also thought by some to be a merit.
“So sweet of you to come,” said Jim’s mother. She had already performed
the feminine operation of falling in love with Miss Burden at first
sight.
“I should also like, my dear,” said Jim, with excellent gravity, “to
make you and Lord Cheriton acquainted with one another. You can’t think
how kind he has been to me.”
Jim’s mother gazed demurely into the complacent and amused countenance
of that peer.
“I think I ought to be able to guess,” said she.
“Capital,” that peer was heard to murmur with extraordinary irrelevance.
“I beg your pardon,” said Jim.
“Not at all, my dear fellow,” said Cheriton, in his most graciously
musical manner, “not at all. I made no observation. But I should like
to be allowed to make one. What remarkable sunshine for London.”
“The sunshine is occasionally quite obtrusive at Balham,” said Jim’s
mother. “Lower the sunblind a little, laddie. You will find that chair
the coolest, Lord Cheriton.”
It was really not necessary for Mrs. Lascelles to offer the coolest
chair to Lord Cheriton. For, if the truth must be told, he looked cool
enough already. It was perhaps his most assiduously cultivated and
most carefully cherished characteristic. However, he took the chair
Jim’s mother had indicated. He took it almost as if he were conferring
homage upon it. Having chosen a likely spot upon the varnished boards
upon which to set his silk hat, he proceeded to place it there with
immense precision. He then crossed his lavender trousers very urbanely,
displaying in the process an extremely neat and spotless pair of white
gaiters. He then placed his black-rimmed eyeglass in the left or
more fashionable eye, and surveyed his surroundings with a leisurely
benevolence that was really most engaging.
By the time Cheriton appeared to be pleasantly settled, and by the time
Mrs. Lascelles had fully recovered from the effects of Miss Perry’s
third hug, she said--
“Ring, laddie.”
Jim obeyed. He had assumed already an air of almost unwarrantable humor.
The little maid-of-all-work entered.
“Tea, please, Miranda,” said her mistress.
Miranda embellished the command of her mistress with a totally
unnecessary half courtesy which she was apt to produce upon state
occasions. It was a remarkably effective little affair, although its
true place was undoubtedly a comic-opera.
“Capital!” murmured Cheriton. And then, as a pause in the conversation
seemed to give his remark a significance to which it laid no claim, he
added sententiously, “weather!”
“Yes,” said Jim, “capital weather.”
Miss Burden addressed a remark to Jim’s mother.
“Do you think the exhibition of the Royal Academy is equal to the last
one?”
“I think it is better,” said Mrs. Lascelles, with an air of conviction,
“decidedly better, don’t you?”
“That is because there is a picture by a young fellow of the name of
Lascelles in it,” said Jim.
“Quite a sufficient reason,” said Cheriton.
“The brutes have skyed me, though,” said Jim.
“Jealousy, my dear fellow,” said Cheriton. “The Church, the stage, and
the fine arts live in perpetual dread of the rising generation.”
“That is so true, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim’s mother. “I am so glad
to hear you say that. Of course it is jealousy. Those musty and
stereotyped old R.A.’s are dreadfully frightened of young men with new
ideas.”
“Profoundly true, my dear Mrs. Lascelles; profoundly true,” said
Cheriton, with the deference of a courtier.
“My mother expects every one who enters this house,” said Jim,
aggrievedly, “to declare that I’m a genius.”
“I do not find it at all hard,” said Cheriton, “to obey that condition.”
“People of taste never do,” said Jim’s mother, beaming upon my lord.
The little maid-of-all-work brought in a tea-tray and a basket of
comestibles.
“Miranda,” said her mistress, “if Mrs. Hobson calls, or Miss Hermia
Hobson, or Miss Harriet Hobson, or Mr. Hobson, or Mr. Herbert Hobson,
or Mr. Henry Hobson calls, I am not at home.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said the little maid-of-all-work, with an air of
great intelligence, and with a further display of the comic-opera
courtesy.
“Sugar or lemon, Miss Burden?” said Jim’s mother.
Miss Burden took sugar, a small lump. Miss Perry took two lumps, size
not stated.
“I wish these cups were more sensible,” said Jim’s mother, with a
reminiscence and an apology.
“That cup is absurd, my dear,” said Jim.
Miss Perry seemed inclined to agree with Jim.
“Fetch the largest cup we have in the house, please, Miranda,” said her
mistress.
“Thank you so much, dear Mrs. Lascelles,” said Miss Perry.
Jim handed bread and butter and strawberries. Miss Burden was content
with a small slice of the former. Miss Perry was more eclectic in her
patronage. Jim was then guilty of an action which his mother was forced
to consider as singularly ill bred. He took up the plate of cream buns,
Buszard’s large size, which had been specially procured, and placed it
on the chimney-piece in a very ostentatious manner. And at the same
time he indulged in a classical quotation to Lord Cheriton, who laughed
as though he understood it. It is possible that Miss Burden understood
it also, but Mrs. Lascelles seemed a little doubtful about its meaning.
As for Miss Perry, she was perfectly frank and wholly unabashed in her
abysmal ignorance.
“What _does_ it mean?” she demanded, with a thrill in her voice and her
azure orbs very wide.
“It means,” said Jim, “it is better to contemplate from afar the
rewards of virtue than to partake of them prematurely.”
“A free translation, my dear fellow,” said Cheriton, “creditable alike
to your scholarship, your literary instinct, and your knowledge of
human nature.”
“But you _owe_ me one, you know,” said Miss Perry. “Doesn’t he, Lord
Cheriton?”
“I am afraid, Lascelles,” said that peer, “it will be necessary to
return a true bill.”
Jim presented Miss Perry with one cream bun on a blue china plate.
“That spotted cake with the almonds in it is topping,” said he,
attempting maliciously to embarrass Miss Perry with riches. “The
pastrycook who creates it has a reputation that extends as far as Upper
Tooting and Streatham.”
“I will try some,” said Miss Perry.
Lord Cheriton took lemon with his tea, also a rusk.
“Genius is a delightful thing,” said he, conversationally. “I have a
genius for admiring it in others.”
“One feels sure you must have,” said Jim’s mother, most sympathetically.
“I am trying to cultivate it also. As one is the mother of a highly
gifted son, one feels that one ought.”
“Precisely,” said Cheriton. “And may one venture to remark that you
will not find the undertaking difficult?”
“Lord Cheriton,” said Jim, in a tone of warning, “weigh your words
carefully. My life is in danger of becoming a burden to me. As for
you, señora,” said Jim, sternly, “once more, and with the most marked
publicity, I deny with all the vehemence of which I am capable that I
am a genius.”
“What, pray, is the use?” said his mother. “It is futile to deny it.
Besides, even if you were not, it is not right to contradict your old
mother, especially before company.”
“So true,” murmured the _arbiter elegantiarum_ nibbling at his rusk.
Jim, however, was a young fellow with resources. He proceeded
immediately to carry the war into the enemy’s country.
“I am afraid, Lord Cheriton,” said he, “that judgment is not my
mother’s strong point. You see, she is not so mature as she might be.”
“I have observed it,” said Cheriton.
“Her absence of judgment,” said Jim, coolly, “or her absence of
maturity?”
“I have observed her absence of maturity,” said Cheriton, with a
coolness in nowise behind the coolness of Jim.
“In my opinion,” said Jim, “she is too young to be the mother of a
great hulking fellow like me.”
“I am inclined to agree with you, Lascelles,” said my lord, with his
courtier’s air. “But in my humble judgment it is a pleasant folly for
a mother to err on the side of youth.”
“It is a form of indiscretion not without its dangers,” said Jim.
“Yes, my dear Lascelles, you are undoubtedly right there.”
“This spotted cake with the almonds in it is awfully nice,” said Miss
Perry.
“The confection with the pink icing and the sugar-plums is generally
admired at Balham,” said Jim.
“I will try some,” said Miss Perry. “Quite a small piece, please. I
think pink icing is so nice; don’t you?”
“I do,” said Jim, cutting a liberal piece for two persons.
A ring was heard to proceed from the front-door bell. Mrs. Lascelles
betrayed anxiety.
“I trust,” said she, “our small Cerberus will prove equal to a frontal
attack by the Hobson family.”
“She will, unquestionably,” said Jim, with an air of reassurance.
“It would be a great disappointment if she didn’t,” said Cheriton, “if
one may venture to express a purely personal emotion.”
“Why, Lord Cheriton?” said Jim’s mother. Her tone was a natural blend
of surprise and interest.
“A lifelong habit of minute observation,” said Cheriton, “emboldens one
to think that she would prove equal to anything.”
Before Cheriton could suffer rebuke for holding an opinion upon such a
subject, the little maid-of-all-work announced--
“Lady Charlotte Greg, Miss Champneys, Miss Laetitia Champneys.”
The space of the small back sitting-room was sensibly diminished by
the entrance of three tall bony women, each equally austere of feature
and ponderous of manner. Each was veiled and habited in black with
white facings; and although their boots were not elastic-sided, it
is difficult to advance any adequate reason for their not being so
fashioned.
Miss Champneys, whose manner was decidedly impressive, introduced to
Jim’s mother Lady Charlotte Greg, her oldest friend, who was staying
with them at The Laurels for the purpose of opening the sale of work
at Saint Agatha’s. Lady Charlotte Greg, the daughter of a successful
politician and the wife of an evangelical bishop, conveyed the
right degree of distance in her greeting. And after all, when you
come to think of it, the distance is very great between a tiny back
sitting-room at Balham and the Palace at Marchester.
While these three very large ladies were adjusting themselves to three
somewhat small chairs, and they were accepting tea from a fresh brew
duly procured by the assiduous Miranda, each lifted her black veil and
scrutinized her surroundings and her company with a rather ruthless
directness. It always seemed to the quailing hostess of the Acacias,
the Chestnuts, the Elms, or of Beaconsfield Villas, when she met that
glance that a personal apology was demanded from her.
All three ladies were unanimous in the opinion that Mrs. Lascelles’
callers were overdressed. And in their opinion to be overdressed was to
be guilty of one of the seven deadly sins.
“I am convinced,” said Miss Laetitia Champneys, in an undertone to Lady
Charlotte Greg, “that that girl in the preposterous hat with feathers
is an actress.”
In the opinion of Miss Laetitia Champneys for any person to be an
actress was to identify one’s self with the most elemental form of
human degradation.
“Do you suppose I require to be told, Laetitia?” said Lady Charlotte,
bridling. She felt that not only her sense of decency but also her
knowledge of the world had been aspersed. “And that preposterous
person with the eyeglass,” added Lady Charlotte, “is, of course, an
actor-manager.”
Neither Miss Laetitia nor her elder sister, Miss Champneys, was quite
sure what an actor-manager really was. They did know, however, that
dear Charlotte was excelled by none in knowledge of the world.
Lady Charlotte, as is the way with Lady Charlottes all the world over,
as the erudite inform us, put up her glasses. She proceeded to study
the actor-manager, a rare species of wild fowl of which the Close
of Marchester was mercifully free, in a manner which can only be
described as remorseless. Yet the actor-manager appeared to suffer no
embarrassment. He serenely changed his black-rimmed monocle from his
left eye to his right, which, if not quite so fashionable as the other
one, was rather perversely endowed with better powers of vision.