JIM LASCELLES ADDS HEROISM TO HIS OTHER FINE QUALITIES
Four hours later saw the inception of an imperial August day. The
previous night Muffin had entered Goose’s chamber by stealth, with bare
feet and clad in a white nightgown only, and armed with a fat bolster.
After a solemn exchange of civilities, of which Muffin invariably got
the worst, because Goose’s aim was wonderfully accurate and she was
not susceptible to the most tremendous buffets, they ended as usual by
sharing the same bed and going to sleep in one another’s arms. It was
never their custom to heed anything else until the light of the morning
touched their eyelids. As a general rule it touched Muffin’s first. It
then became the duty of that active spirit, as soon as she realized
that she was awake, to hale the still sleeping Goose out of bed.
Sometimes, when even this herculean labor had been accomplished, she
had to beat that somnolent person about the head with a pillow before
she could be induced to put on her stockings. This morning provided no
exception to the regular mode of procedure.
The mists were still gathered about Lake Dwygy, and little was to be
seen of Gwydr and his brethren, when, hand-in-hand, Goose and Muffin
came trampling the dew of the early August day. Bareheaded, laughing,
blithe as the winged inhabitants of the air, they were supremely happy.
Each had brought up the other from her earliest infancy, and although
each was exquisitely modest in all that pertained to herself, in regard
to the fruit of her handiwork each had formed an exaggerated estimate.
Goose was inordinately proud of Muffin, and Muffin was inordinately
proud of Goose.
Tobias was borne in a bag. Although he was strictly forbidden to catch
rabbits, he was never denied an airing.
“There goes a squirrel,” said Muffin. “Look, in that tree. Up he goes;
but it is not very high. I wonder if we could catch him for Aunt
Caroline. Hold my bread and butter, and don’t eat it.”
Muffin had already established herself upon the first branch, when a
voice, great alike in authority and scornfulness, was heard through the
early morning stillness.
“Come out of that tree, you Ragamuffin,” it said. “Leave that squirrel
alone, and kindly take the trouble to read the notice underneath you.
‘The public is allowed in these woods on sufferance only by permission
of the Right Honorable the Countess of Crewkerne. Any person guilty of
disorderly conduct, or who does willful damage to the trees, shrubs,
and flowers, or who attempts to take fish from the lake, or who wanders
in search of game, will be prosecuted with the utmost rigor of the
law.’ Come down at once, you Ragamuffin.”
The voice belonged to Jim Lascelles, of course. Jim was looking rather
haggard, weary, and disheveled. The truth is he had had no sleep during
the night. In the acute phase of his fortunes he could not rest. A
sensitive conscience assured him that he was on forbidden ground,
seeking fruit to which he had no lawful claim. He would have been far
better in Normandy.
This morning he was in a really desperate humor. Work had never been
farther from his thoughts, and the fact that two persons had been
reputed recently to have lost their lives in an attempted ascent of
the Devil’s Footstool, seemed to invest that precipitous chasm with a
certain attraction.
“Look here, you law-breakers,” said he, “let us go and have a look at
the Devil’s Footstool.”
The Misses Perry needed no second invitation. The dark and baleful
ascent looming up from the lower end of the lake had fascinated them
already, and they had even made one or two tentative attempts upon it.
A walk of twenty minutes brought them to the foot thereof; and Tobias
being left in his bag at the bottom, the three of them began to conduct
some highly interesting and extremely thrilling investigations.
From ledge to ledge they went, rising rapidly to a dizzy and precarious
height. On one side of them was a torrent, on the other a chasm. But
they went up resolutely, without a pause, although the foothold was
very uncertain, and it meant death and destruction to look down. And
when, in the course of three hours, they returned breathless and
disheveled to whence they started, having made a complete circuit of
the Devil’s Footstool, and the three of them sat down exulting in
their weariness by the side of Tobias, they really felt that they had
achieved something. All the most signal performances of Widdiford and
Slocum Magna had been effaced.
According to Borrow, Wales is not only a picturesque, but also a
romantic country. Therefore, it must not surprise the judicious reader
that by half-past nine on this memorable August morning Jim Lascelles
had become a hero. The breakfast table at Pen-y-Gros Castle was regaled
by an extremely thrilling narrative of adventures by gorge and chasm.
It was not quite clear--and even to this day the mystery has not
been elucidated--whether Jim Lascelles had saved the life of Muffin,
or whether Muffin had saved the life of Jim Lascelles. But one fact
emerged clear, distinct, and radiant. Jim Lascelles was a hero of the
first class. His conduct within the precincts of the Devil’s Footstool
merited a diploma.
Cheriton seconded the praises of his _protégé_.
“It is bred in the fellow,” said he. “His father, you know, was
Lascelles, V.C.”
“He looks that kind of young man,” assented Miss Burden. “His eyes are
so open and fearless.”
As soon as Aunt Caroline was visible, which was not until noon, she was
put in possession of the facts.
“Who, pray, is Jim Lascelles?” was her first inquiry; and the tone of
it was not wholly sympathetic.
“He used to live at the Red House at Widdiford,” chimed both her nieces
as one.
In spite of his heroism, which no amount of cross-examination could
mitigate, a few leading questions which Elizabeth was called upon to
answer had the effect of rendering Aunt Caroline decidedly hostile to
Jim Lascelles. For the identity of the presumptuous young man was only
too soon established. He was the person who had had the impertinence to
fling himself out of the house in Hill Street when he had been rebuked
in a becoming manner for conduct which was really unpardonable. As for
the “Jim,” it literally stuck in Aunt Caroline’s throat.
It was almost the only reminder that their august relation had had,
beyond the scanty character of their wardrobes and their plebeian
devotion to bread and jam, that their upbringing had been that of Tom,
Dick, and Harry.
“Elizabeth,” said Aunt Caroline, “it would be more seemly to my mind if
you have occasion to mention Mr. Lascelles to speak of him as such.”
Muffin opened solemn and round eyes of wonder upon Aunt Caroline.
“Oh, but,” said she, “if I called Jim Mr. Lascelles he would pull my
hair.”
“In that case,” said Aunt Caroline, “you would do well to terminate the
acquaintance.”
“But he saved me from falling down the precipice,” said Muffin, “and I
am going to write to dearest papa about it.”
“Caroline,” said Cheriton, “a truce to Whig exclusiveness. Behave like
a human being, and ask the young fellow to dinner. Ask his mother also.
I am told she is a singularly agreeable woman.”
Aunt Caroline sat the image of blue-blooded defiance. George Betterton,
however, who had listened torpidly to the account of the episode, was
prevailed upon by the general enthusiasm for Jim Lascelles, and the
favorable impression he had already formed of that hero’s mother, to
throw the weight of his own influence into the scale.
“Right thing, Caroline,” said George, “to ask the young fellow to
dinner in the circumstances. Behaved very well, they tell me.”
“He shall not cross my threshold,” said Caroline, “until he apologizes
for his behavior to me in Hill Street.”
“Of course he will apologize,” said Cheriton, “if you hold out the
olive branch. He can’t apologize unless you do.”
“I am sure, dear Lady Crewkerne,” ventured Miss Burden, “Mr. Lascelles
is a gentleman and his mother is a----”
Miss Burden was unable to complete her remark. She was annihilated by
a terrific glance. The elder Miss Perry also, as was to be expected,
behaved very tactlessly.
“Jim is just a sweet,” she drawled ridiculously, “and dear Mrs.
Lascelles is just a sweet too.”
The glance which had slain Miss Burden was extended to the elder Miss
Perry. Its effect in that quarter was by no means so terrible. That
Featherbrain sustained it with the most admirable composure.
“Jim is just a sweet,” said she, “and Muffin saved him from falling
over the precipice.”
“I was given to understand,” said Aunt Caroline, “that it was the man
Lascelles who saved Elizabeth.”
“Yes, it was, Aunt Caroline,” said Muffin; “but Goose is rather a
silly.”
Of course there could only be one conclusion to the whole matter. The
massed force of public opinion was too much for the Whig remnant, even
in its own stronghold. Ungraciously, it must be confessed, Miss Burden
was commanded to write as follows: “The Countess of Crewkerne requests
the pleasure of the company of Mrs. Lascelles and Mr. James Lascelles
at dinner this evening at 8:30.”
“This is one of your white days, Caroline,” said her oldest friend,
with approbation. “A singularly gracious act in a life which, if I may
say so, has not been too full of them. We must mark it with a little
white stone.”
“Don’t be a coxcomb, Cheriton,” said the old lady. “Who has dared to
remove the ribbon from Ponto’s neck?”
“He lost it in the water, Aunt Caroline,” said Muffin, with all the
assurance of one in favor at Court, “when he fell in.”
“When he fell in!” said Aunt Caroline.
“He went to sleep on the edge of the punt,” Muffin explained, “and he
toppled over.”
“I trust,” said the least of Ponto’s admirers, “that the obese beast
will not gain length of days from his immersion.”
John, wearing his second-best livery, which he always affected in
Wales, delivered the mandate at Jim Lascelles’ lodgings in Pen-y-Gros
hamlet, but that hero and his mother had gone down to the lake. They
were joined there presently by a cheerful party of four persons. Jim
Lascelles was very heartily congratulated upon the heroism he had
displayed.
“It has given great pleasure at the Castle,” said Cheriton, “where
heroism is always, and I think justly, admired. My friend Brancaster
will exert himself to get you a medal. Doubtless your Sovereign will
present it to you.”
George Betterton, in the manner of a true-blue Englishman, went the
length of shaking the hero very heartily by the hand.
“Great pleasure to me, Mr. Lascelles,” said that worthy, “to hear of
your gallant action. Congratulate you heartily. Would have given great
pleasure to your gallant father.”
Jim Lascelles laid down his palette with an air of tremendous
truculence.
“To whom am I indebted for this?” said he. “Which of them is it? I
suspect that Goose.”
“They are both of them Geese,” said Jim’s mother.
“Aunt Caroline thinks it is so splendid of you,” said Muffin, who
was seated on the pebbles for the purpose of removing her shoes and
stockings. “She has invited you and dear Mrs. Lascelles to dinner.”
“You incomparably foolish person,” said Jim. “I’ve a great mind now not
to paint your picture.”
“A pair of irresponsible babblers,” said Jim’s mother, whose eyes were
really very much brighter than they had any need to be. “One is as bad
as the other. But an old woman feels very proud of her son all the
same.”
Jim Lascelles stuck his hands in his pockets ruefully.
“This is the deuce,” said he. “Upon my word, I deny the whole thing in
the most absolute and unconditional manner.”
“I have heard you deny your genius before now,” said Mrs. Lascelles;
“but, my dear boy, you have never been able to convince Lord Cheriton
that you are not a genius. And I feel sure that all you say to the
contrary will fail to convince him that you are not a hero.”
“Absurd!” said Jim, hotly. “I am as much of one as I am of the other.”
“A dooced awkward place you are in, my dear fellow,” said Cheriton.
“Everybody who has heard Miss Muffin’s thrilling account of her
deliverance from an imminent and deadly peril within the precincts of
the Devil’s Coal Box----”
“Footstool,” said the elder Miss Perry.
“Footstool, I stand corrected,” said Cheriton, adding new
embellishments to his oratory. “Everybody who has heard Miss Muffin’s
hair-raising narrative of her deliverance from an imminent and deadly
peril within the precincts of the Devil’s Footstool has conceived a
deep admiration for its author. From my old and misguided friend Lady
Crewkerne to Ponto himself, all at the Castle are of one mind. I may
say the admiration of our friend Miss Burden is already tinged with
passion.”
“Put on those shoes and stockings, you Ragamuffin,” said Jim. “I shall
not paint you.”
“But, Jim,” said that artless person, with eyes of extraordinary
roundness and candor, “you promised to.”
“Lascelles,” said Cheriton, “I am afraid, my dear fellow, you must
accept the inevitable with all the grace at your command. No reasonable
person can possibly doubt your heroism, and I fear it is only critics
of the older school who can doubt your genius. It is hard to conceive a
situation more trying to a modest young Englishman, educated at Harrow.
My dear Mrs. Lascelles, I feel constrained to compliment you publicly
upon having a son who is the dooce of a fine fellow.”
“I am glad you think so, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim’s mother. “I think so
myself.”
Thereupon the green linen frock and the red umbrella and the French
novel, together with an extremely choice suit of tweeds and a superb
Panama hat, went along by the lake to take a closer view of that
formidable chasm, the Devil’s Footstool. At the same time George
Betterton handed Miss Goose aboard the punt.
Jim Lascelles took up the tools of his trade.
“Get into the water, you Ragamuffin,” said he. “I’ll paint you with
pink eyes and green hair. And your frock shall not have a single rent
in it. It shall be the last cry of the fashion.”
Things went excellently well for a time. It was a glorious August day.
There was hardly a cloud about Gwydr; the sky was of a pure Italian
hue; there was scarcely a puff of wind to ruffle Lake Dwygy. For a
bright and diligent hour Jim Lascelles was on the best of terms with
his canvas.
“Keep that side, you Ragamuffin,” said he, “and give the light of the
morning a chance. Keep that cucumber basket out of the eye of the
sun. And don’t leave the water on any pretext whatever. I am not in
the least interested in toads, newts, lizards, speckled trout, ferns,
grass, or in your general conversation. Soak and tear and soil your
garments to your heart’s content, but you take those Foot Pieces out
of the water on pain of appearing at Burlington House as an American
heiress.”
“But, Jim----”
“Silence, you Ragamuffin.”
“But, Jim, there is dearest Aunt Caroline.”
It was perfectly true. The mistress of Pen-y-Gros Castle was standing
five yards from the canvas. She was in the full panoply of war. Ponto,
her aide-de-camp, and Miss Burden, her gentlewoman, were by her side.
Her ebony stick supported her venerable frame; her head-dress was
surmounted by a hat that had been fashionable in 1880. An eyeglass was
in her grim old eye; and her gentlewoman held an umbrella over her to
protect her aged form from the fierce rays which, according to Borrow,
are sometimes reflected from the slopes of the Welsh mountains.
“I am sorry to curtail a discourse on art,” said the mistress of
Pen-y-Gros Castle, speaking in a tone that was beautifully distinct,
“but you do not seem to be aware that the public is allowed in these
grounds on sufferance only.”
Jim took off his hat and bowed in a very becoming if slightly ironical
manner.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Crewkerne,” said he, “but I am aware of that
perfectly. I have seen the notice which warns the public at least six
times this morning.”
“I hope you will heed it,” said Lady Crewkerne.
“It does not forbid the public to paint the scenery, I believe,” said
Jim coolly.
Jim had really no right to be so cool in the presence of the mistress
of Pen-y-Gros Castle. All the same, it is by no means certain that she
did not respect him for it.
“It depends,” said she, “upon what portion of the scenery the public
wishes to paint. For instance, you appear to be painting some person
who stands in the water. And the public is expressly forbidden to enter
the water.”
“I am sorry,” said Jim Lascelles. “I beg your pardon, I’m sure.”
Jim Lascelles, for all his coolness, did not quite know what to say
next to keep within the rules of the game. However, that section of the
public that was standing in the water saw fit rather providentially to
disobey the instructions of the artist. She left the water and came
resolutely to the aid of Jim Lascelles. Barefooted and with her skirt
kilted in the true Slocum Magna and Widdiford manner, she accosted the
mistress of Pen-y-Gros Castle.
“Dearest Aunt Caroline,” said she, “this is Mr. Jim Lascelles, who
saved me from falling over the precipice this morning.”
“We have met before, I think,” said Aunt Caroline, grimly.
“Wasn’t it brave of him?” said Muffin.
“Mr. Lascelles,” said Aunt Caroline, “you appear to have acted in a
prompt and courageous manner, and I congratulate you upon your manly
conduct.”
“Thank you, Lady Crewkerne,” said Jim, with excellent gravity, “but I
am happy to say Miss Perry has greatly exaggerated the occurrence.”
“Oh, no, Jim,” said Miss Perry. “Ask Goose.”
“There is one thing, Mr. Lascelles,” said the mistress of Pen-y-Gros
Castle, “that I hope you will take to heart. In future the public will
be strictly forbidden to climb the Devil’s Footstool.”
“I think that precaution will be in its interests,” said Jim. “It is
all right going up, but it is a wicked place coming down.”
“Well, Mr. Lascelles,” said Lady Crewkerne, “it is satisfactory to
learn that this injudicious adventure has terminated without loss of
life. I shall be glad if you will dine at the Castle this evening.”
Jim Lascelles was sufficiently mollified by the tone to accept the
invitation.
“And for my part,” said Jim, after he had done so, “I shall be glad,
Lady Crewkerne, if you will accept an apology for my behavior the last
time we met. I am afraid I was very much in the wrong.”
“Mr. Lascelles,” said Lady Crewkerne, speaking very distinctly, “I
have since thought that matter over carefully, and I have come to the
conclusion that there is no need for me to revise the judgment I formed
at the time. You were very much in the wrong. All the same, I have
pleasure in accepting your apology. Burden, we will return. I feel the
heat.”
Things having been placed on this amicable basis, the mistress of
Pen-y-Gros Castle withdrew with her retinue, and Muffin returned to the
water.