A SOCIAL TRIUMPH
For almost the space of a minute a battle royal was waged between the
monocle and the long-handled folders. All present, with the exception
of Miss Perry, who was not in the habit of observing anything, sat
in breathless silence to observe the issue. And incredible as it may
appear, the issue was not with the long-handled folders.
“Capital!” murmured the victor, to nobody in particular, and for no
apparent reason.
Jim Lascelles was one of those unfortunate and misguided people who
have an extraordinary _flair_ for what they call “fun.” He bent over to
his mother.
“Don’t give the show away yet,” said he.
“You are too cryptic, my son, for this addle-pate.”
“Don’t you see,” said Jim. “They think our dark horse is an outsider.
Had they known they wouldn’t have come.”
Jim’s mother smiled her little half smile whose furtive mischief was
really far more becoming than it ought to have been.
“When is the sale of work, Lady Charlotte?” she asked, in order to keep
the pot boiling.
The simple question was received by the three ladies with hauteur. As
the sale of work began on the morrow, and Mrs. Lascelles had promised
to preside over the bran tub or the refreshment stall or the rummage
counter, she was not quite clear which, their demeanor was perhaps not
unnatural.
“The sale of work begins to-morrow at three o’clock, Mrs. Lascelles,”
said Miss Champneys, coldly.
“Of course,” said Jim’s mother. “How stupid of me! I knew that
perfectly well. What I meant to have said was, which is the day upon
which Lady Charlotte will perform the opening ceremony?”
“The _first_, Mrs. Lascelles,” said Miss Champneys and Miss Laetitia,
speaking as one.
“Of course,” said Jim’s mother; and involuntarily added the rider, “how
stupid of one!” The Miss Champneys were matchless in putting people in
the wrong. “What I should have asked was, who will perform the ceremony
on the second day?”
“The wife of the member,” said Miss Champneys.
“And on the third?” asked Jim’s mother, rather obviously.
“Lady Plunket,” said Miss Laetitia.
“The wife of the brewer?” asked Jim.
Jim’s question provoked a further display of hauteur. In the first
instance it was an act of presumption for a young man like Jim to have
ventured to ask a question at all, and in the second he had contrived
to ask the sort of question that stamped him as belonging to the
neighborhood.
“Lady Plunket was a Coxby, I believe,” said Miss Champneys. She assumed
an air of devastation, which was singularly becoming to one whose
forebears, according to their own oral and written testimony, had
first appeared in these islands in the train of the Conqueror.
“Any relation to the parson chap?” inquired Cheriton, casually.
Lady Charlotte Greg again elected to do battle.
“I am informed that Lady Plunket is a niece of the late Archbishop
Coxby,” said she, in a tone and manner which for two decades had cowed
the minor clergy of the diocese.
“Archbishop, was he?” said Cheriton. “I only knew him in his capacity
of a bore.”
Each of the three ladies was susceptible of a little quiver of horror.
“Pray where did _you_ meet him?” demanded Lady Charlotte Greg, with
dilated nostril.
“In the House,” said Cheriton. “Shockin’ bore in the House.”
Lady Charlotte raised her glasses with studious care.
“The domestic life of Archbishop Coxby was renowned for its
simplicity,” said she.
A pause surcharged with suppressed emotion followed, and then the
ludicrous drawl of Miss Perry was heard in the land.
“I think a sale of work is too sweet,” said that Featherbrain. “We
always have one once a year in the parish-room at Slocum Magna.”
The Miss Champneys and Lady Charlotte Greg received this announcement
with a frosty disdain which, sad to relate, had not the least effect
upon Miss Perry. The fine shades of social feeling did not percolate
to that obtuse person.
“That is very interesting, my dear Miss Goose,” said Cheriton, in his
most mellifluous manner; “very interesting indeed.”
“We raised eight pounds two and ninepence for the organ fund in 1900,
at Slocum Magna,” drawled Miss Perry.
“Where, pray, is Slocum Magna?” inquired Lady Charlotte Greg.
Miss Perry had learned by this time that whenever Slocum Magna was
mentioned in the presence of London people the question was inevitable.
However, before she could take steps to enlighten Lady Charlotte Greg,
Cheriton favored her with a paternal finger.
“Permit me, my dear Miss Goose,” said he, elaborately. “Slocum Magna,”
he proceeded, with the weighty air of one who is no stranger to the
Front Bench, “is the next village to Widdiford.”
“And where, pray, is Widdiford?” inquired Lady Charlotte Greg.
“Widdiford,” said Cheriton, meditatively, “Widdiford is the place where
the Red House is and where they haven’t _quite_ got the railway, don’t
you know.”
“But it is only three miles away,” chimed Miss Perry.
The pause which ensued made Jim’s mother and the Miss Champneys wonder
what was going to happen. All three felt a little uncomfortable. On
the contrary, Lady Charlotte Greg felt it to be a tribute to the
overpowering nature of her personality, and was gratified accordingly.
Cheriton crossed and recrossed his lavender trousers, and changed the
glass from the right eye to the left with the air of a High Church
clergyman pronouncing the benediction.
“Have you been to see the horses at the Hippodrome?” inquired the
undefeated Miss Perry of Lady Charlotte Greg.
“I have not,” said that lady, with a quiver of an evangelical top-knot.
“Have you?” inquired Miss Perry of the Miss Champneys.
“My sister and I have not,” said the elder Miss Champneys, whose
top-knot, although not quite so evangelical as Lady Charlotte’s, yet
contrived to quiver just as much.
“You ought,” said Miss Perry, with irresistible friendliness. “They
play bridge and fire off guns and pretend to be dead. I have been nine
times.”
The Miss Champneys conferred in discreet undertones with Lady Charlotte
Greg.
“Too natural to be an actress,” said that authority. “Her hair and skin
bear inspection. If she were not so painfully overdressed she would be
a singularly beautiful girl.”
“Can you place that curiously artificial person?” asked Miss Laetitia,
who had a passion for exact knowledge.
“An actor-manager unmistakably,” said Infallibility with immense
decision.
“Is he the father, do you suppose?” inquired the insatiable Miss
Laetitia.
“Dear me, no, Laetitia. Can you not see that that girl is by way of
being a lady?”
All unwittingly the hostess proceeded to deal Infallibility a blow.
“Lady Charlotte,” said she, “may I introduce Lord Cheriton, an old
schoolfellow of my husband’s? Miss Champneys--Lord Cheriton. Miss
Laetitia Champneys--Lord Cheriton. May I also introduce Miss Burden
and Miss Perry? Lady Charlotte Greg--Miss Champneys, Miss Laetitia
Champneys.”
During the bowings and the counter bowings that ensued, Jim Lascelles
seized the opportunity to say to his mother--
“You gave the dark horse away too soon, señora. There might have been
fun.”
“If you wish to succeed in life, my son,” his mother admonished him,
“never treat the peerage flippantly.”
“I should like to go to-morrow to the sale of work,” said Miss Perry.
“You shall, my dear Miss Goose,” said Cheriton, “because I feel
sure that your papa would like you to, provided that we have Lady
Charlotte’s assurance that there will be no harangue from Parson
Coxby’s daughter.”
“Lady Plunket does not appear until Friday,” said Lady Charlotte, by no
means ungraciously, “and I only intend to say a few words myself.”
The Miss Champneys were not overawed by Lord Cheriton because they
were gentlewomen born, but neither they nor the wife of the Bishop of
Marchester had quite so much condescension as when they entered the
little Balham sitting-room. It is trivial to dwell on these things.
Self-respecting people really don’t notice them--at least, they make
it a point of honor to appear not to do so. But there are cynics
in the world who like to lay stress upon them. Not the wife of the
Bishop of Marchester alone, but the Miss Champneys also began to
thaw perceptibly. And presently, for the first occasion during their
intercourse, Miss Laetitia went the length of addressing Jim’s mother
as “dear Mrs. Lascelles.”
It was a really great afternoon for Jim’s mother. The Miss Champneys
had never exhibited themselves in such an agreeable light. Lady
Charlotte Greg also softened the first impression she had created, and
contrived to be quite agreeable too. It was Miss Burden who asked of
malice prepense whether they had seen Mr. Lascelles’ picture at the
Royal Academy. They had not, these ladies assured Miss Burden, but
they would make a point of going specially to Burlington House to do
so. It was Lord Cheriton, with a very direct look at Jim’s mother, who
mentioned Mr. Lascelles’ undoubted genius.
“Of course,” said Miss Laetitia, “Mr. Lascelles must have genius if he
exhibits at the Royal Academy.”
“It doesn’t necessarily follow, Laetitia,” said Lady Charlotte Greg,
who felt with justice that Miss Laetitia was impinging upon her
prerogative of dispensing universal information. “Before now I have
known quite second-rate people exhibit at the Royal Academy.”
“Have you, though?” said Cheriton. “That is interesting.”
“There is Mottrom,” said Lady Charlotte Greg. “One finds his pictures
there continually. Nothing will convince me that Mottrom is first rate.
One feels one ought really to draw the line at the music of Wagner and
the pictures of Mottrom.”
“Capital!” said Cheriton.
The voice of Miss Perry was heard again in the land.
“Do you like the pictures of Joseph Wright of Derby?” inquired that art
critic.
Jim’s mother looked at Lord Cheriton, and Lord Cheriton looked at Jim’s
mother with great demureness.
“A police constable, was he not?” said Lady Charlotte Greg.
“Lord Cheriton knows,” said Miss Perry.
“Very probably,” said that authority, with the air of one to whom a
great truth has presented itself unexpectedly. “To be sure, what could
be more natural than Police Constable Joseph Wright of Derby?”
Jim Lascelles began to grow restless, as sensitive souls are apt to
do when amateurs begin to talk “shop” for their benefit. And in his
capacity of a common-sense young Englishman of athletic tastes, he felt
that to call a man a genius was much the same as kicking him. Of course
mothers are privileged. In self-defense, however, Jim began to carry
the war into the enemy’s country.
“Does anybody object to Chopin?” said he.
Nobody did.
“Then you must play your little piece, my dear,” said Jim, with a cool
air of triumph.
Jim’s mother protested, of course; and of course her six callers were
unanimous in their insistence. Jim opened the little rosewood piano,
and arranged the music-stool with a dual sense of satisfaction. Not
only had he turned the tables effectually, but also he was genuinely
proud of his mother’s playing.
Jim had reason to be proud of it. Truth to tell, she played a waltz
about as well as it could be played by an amateur on a cottage piano
in a small back sitting-room. The ladies, with the exception of Miss
Perry, rewarded her with a murmur of thanks. Miss Perry was not content
with anything less than vigorous applause. Cheriton, on the contrary,
was strangely silent.
“She talks about me,” said Jim, triumphantly, “so I shall now talk
about her. Pachmann is the only person in Europe who knows more about
Chopin than she does.”
“I know something about Chopin too,” said Cheriton.
As he spoke all his artifice seemed to fall away from him in the oddest
manner. It struck Jim all at once that his face was old and worn and
tired.
“You will hardly believe,” said Cheriton, in an altered voice, “where I
first heard that. It was at a little house in the Rue Saint Antoine.
George Sand was living in it at that time, and Chopin brought it there
and played it to us the evening he composed it. They were all there--De
Musset, Flaubert, Edmond de Goncourt, and that weird fellow----”
“Théophile Gautier,” said Jim’s mother.
“Yes, Gautier. Those were great days.”
Cheriton slowly uncrossed his lavender trousers, and rose with a little
sigh. He closed the lid of the rosewood piano reverently.
“He was such a gentle fellow,” he said quaintly. “Such a gentle fellow.”
The eyes of Jim’s mother looked strangely bright.
“And the Dudevant?” said she, in a soft tone. “Was she--was she an
ogress?”
“No; merely a child of nature. They were all children of nature. That
man had a soul.”
It struck all, with the exception of Miss Perry, as quite odd that the
old exquisite should replace very carefully the music-stool under the
little rosewood piano. There was something incongruous about the action.
“He was such a gentle fellow,” he said.
When Cheriton turned his tall and corseted form away from the piano,
Jim’s mother observed that his eyes looked curiously hollow and faded,
and that, for all their carmine, his cheeks looked old and worn. He
took Jim by the arm in his paternal manner.
“Come, my dear fellow,” he said, “take us to see your masterpiece.”
“One moment,” said Jim, disengaging his arm.
He walked to the chimney-piece, and solemnly took up the plate of cream
buns. With these in his hand he led the way through the open French
window to the wooden erection in the garden. Cheriton brought up the
rear of the procession, shepherding the six ladies with his usual air
of excessive gallantry.
The painting-room contained merely a rug for the floor, a large and
comfortable sofa with cushions, and at the far end, in a sumptuous
light, the single canvas three parts complete. A dozen studies of the
great subject and minor works had been tidied away.
The Miss Champneys gave vent to their admiration.
“But surely,” said Lady Charlotte Greg, making great play with her
glasses--“but surely this is a very fine picture.”
“I am beginning to think so,” said Cheriton, complacently.
“I have thought so from the first,” said the mother of the artist.
“I also, dear Mrs. Lascelles,” said Miss Burden.
“I wish I could have worn my fancy frock,” said Miss Perry, without any
suggestion of vanity. “But it is not for out of doors.”
“The frock does not trouble me,” said Jim. “It is that incredible hat
that I am exercised about.”
“Incredible hat?” said Lady Charlotte Greg.
“She wear-eth an in-cred-ible hat,” said Jim.
Without preface or apology Miss Perry seated herself in the center of
the sofa and assumed her pose.
“A singularly beautiful sitter,” said Lady Charlotte Greg, “and
singularly placable.”
With an ostentation that in the circumstances was remarkable, Jim
Lascelles placed the plate of cream buns on a small table at a
respectful distance from the sofa.
“I must now,” said Jim, courteously, “request the public to withdraw.”
“Rembrandt himself could not have bettered it,” said Cheriton, as
he stood by the door to shepherd into the garden five irresponsible
creatures who were babbling incoherent criticism of the fine arts.
By the time Miss Perry returned to the little sitting-room she had
duly earned, received, and assimilated two cream buns, Buszard’s large
size. For her the sitting had been a decided success, and Jim Lascelles
was inclined to view it in that light also. Already he had put an
immense amount of labor into the picture, and he was now beginning to
feel that the end was in sight. And looking at it as it grew, touching
and retouching it continually, learning to treat every detail with a
boldness and a delicacy of which he had hardly dared to believe himself
to be capable, he could not help feeling that this work stood for
growth.
Already he knew himself to be artistically thrice the stature of when
it was begun. Something had been born in him. It was the culmination of
seven years’ single-minded and assiduous labor. Indeed, Jim Lascelles
was almost beginning to realize that some fine morning he might wake
to find himself famous.
When sitter and painter returned to the house Cheriton was discovered
reading “La Chartreuse de Parme” aloud to Miss Burden and Jim’s mother.
“Now we must fly,” said Miss Burden. “I tremble to think of what will
happen.”
“I shall make what apologies I can for you,” said Cheriton. “I suppose
we shall have to plead guilty to finding the polo at Hurlingham very
absorbing.”
An invitation to partake of pot-luck was declined reluctantly. Miss
Burden was genuinely alarmed. However, the three distinguished visitors
left the Acacias with the request that they might come again.