JIM LASCELLES WRITES HIS NAME IN THE VISITORS’ BOOK
The husband-elect felt a perfectly legitimate curiosity concerning the
course to be adopted in this crisis by this eminently worldly wise,
hard-headed, and matter-of-fact diplomatist.
“Do you assure me positively that the man is a gentleman?” said
Caroline Crewkerne.
Cheriton ruminated. The term, as he understood it and as Caroline
interpreted it, was of a somewhat baffling complexity.
“Ye-es,” said he, after an interval of unusually weighty reflection; “I
should be inclined to say the young chap was by way of being one.”
“As that is your opinion,” said Caroline, grimly, “I shall speak a few
words to him myself upon the subject.”
Cheriton gave this determination the benefit of an ample measure of his
consideration.
“My dear Caroline,” said he, “it is either the worst thing you can do,
or it is the best.”
“I agree with you, Cheriton,” said Caroline Crewkerne. “And it all
depends upon the man himself. Tell Burden to look him up in Walford.”
Walford preserved so much discretion upon the subject of Jim Lascelles
that, although several of his name were mentioned, neither he nor his
forbears were singled out for special notice. The practical Caroline,
having duly recorded the fact that “it was as she feared,” desired
to know whether Walford had anything to say upon the subject of his
mother. However, as no one at Pen-y-Gros Castle was acquainted with the
maiden name of Jim’s mother, Caroline’s curiosity in regard to her also
had to go unsatisfied. Nevertheless, she had fully decided to speak to
the presumptuous young man upon the subject.
To that end John was dispatched after dinner that evening to the
lodgings of Mr. James Lascelles in Pen-y-Gros hamlet with the
compliments of his mistress and the request that Mr. Lascelles would
call at the Castle at noon on the morrow.
Mr. Lascelles sent back the information that he would be pleased to
do so. Yet no sooner had the gate of the cottage clicked behind the
emissary from the Castle than he repented, and it was only in deference
to the wisdom of his mother that John was not recalled.
Jim’s mother shook her head over him with sage indulgence.
“When will you learn, my son,” said she, “that old ladies who live in
Hill Street must be treated _au grand sérieux_ by rising young painters
who live at Balham?”
“Yes, old lady, I suppose so,” said Jim, ruefully. “And if one James
Lascelles is ever to find the wherewithal to get back the Red House at
Widdiford, he will have to learn to keep his tongue in his cheek and
his back supple; and also learn how to stroke the fur of every old cat
that ever stuck somebody else’s coronet upon the panel of her carriage.”
“For shame, my son!” said Jim’s mother.
And she bestowed an embrace upon James which he really did not deserve.
Jim’s powers of resentment were unchristian and did him no credit, but
perhaps he would have shown less promise in his art had he been less
susceptible to the rubs of the world. That is the best that can be said
for him.
However, as the morning was wet, he did not mind so much that he was
due at Pen-y-Gros Castle at noon. He put on his carefully brushed
blue suit and the black silk tie that his mother had knitted for him
recently with her own fair hands, and at twelve o’clock precisely he
was seeking admittance at the gloomy portals. As he did so he looked
in vain for signs of the Goose Girl and the Muffin Girl. He could not
help speculating as to what the old heathen wanted him for. Nothing
pleasant, he would take his oath. Doubtless the Goose had blabbed.
If so, a warm quarter of an hour was before him. Yet he felt that he
should not mind that particularly. After all, the old beldame was quite
likely to receive as good as she gave.
John received him, and handed him over to Mr. Marchbanks himself, who
said, “Will you kindly come this way, sir?” in the manner that he
alone could say it.
Jim followed Mr. Marchbanks, after bestowing a somewhat contemptuous
glance at a daub in the entrance-hall which purported to be the work
of one Tintoret. A little further along, however, was a Cavalier by
Vandyck, which was more to his taste. He glanced at the furniture
also, which in its way was magnificent. It was of embossed Spanish
leather. At the head of the wide stone-flagged staircase up which he
was conducted, was a _portière_ of Gobelin tapestry. Passing through
this, he was taken along a corridor containing good pictures and bad,
and mediæval weapons and suits of armor, until at last he found himself
in an extremely cozy room containing seductive lounges and strewn with
Turkish mats. And there, seated alone and singularly upright in a
high-backed chair, with a perfectly revolting little dog sleeping at
her footstool, was the old woman Jim Lascelles so cordially disliked.
Jim was a little surprised that the old woman deigned to offer not two
fingers only, but the whole of her hand.
“What is in the wind, I wonder?” mused Jim, as he accepted it with his
best bow.
“It is good of you to come, Mr. Lascelles,” said the old woman, by no
means ungraciously. Remember there never was an old woman yet who could
not contrive to be agreeable if she really made up her mind to be so.
And Caroline Crewkerne was no exception to the universal rule. “Pray be
seated,” said she.
Jim Lascelles took the chair that was farthest from her ladyship.
The old woman was very concise, matter-of-fact, and businesslike. She
spoke slowly, she enunciated her words with beautiful clearness; in
short, she was a model of what you would expect her to be. She was all
compact of hard-headed, clear-cut, practical sagacity.
“I wish to speak to you upon an important subject,” she began. “It has
come to my knowledge that you have been paying your addresses to my
niece, Miss Perry.”
Jim Lascelles was prepared for the speech in its substance, but its
calm, matter-of-fact, non-committal air was baffling to him.
“In a sense, Lady Crewkerne, that is correct,” said Jim.
The old woman nodded, not unamiably, however.
“It is a matter of regret to me that you should have done so,” said
she. “It is likely to be of grave prejudice to my niece.”
“I am indeed sorry to learn that,” said Jim, with excellent gravity.
“I will explain. My niece is a penniless girl, and I am given to
understand, Mr. Lascelles, that you are yourself a young professional
man with your way to make in the world.”
“Your information is correct, Lady Crewkerne,” said Jim, who was
sufficiently impartial to admire the old woman’s statesmanlike
plainness.
“That being the case,” she proceeded, “a union between you is
undesirable from my niece’s point of view, and also from your own.”
“I hope I am not entirely without prospects, Lady Crewkerne,” said Jim,
who, however, did not mention his prospects with any great depth of
conviction.
“They belong to the future,” said the old woman. “They will take time
to materialize. I prefer to deal with the present.”
“Miss Perry and I had not contemplated marriage just at present,” said
Jim.
“Quite so,” said the aunt of Miss Perry. “It is sensible of you both
not to do so.”
The old woman’s tone was devoid of irony, but the absence of it
merely seemed to heighten the amount there was in her aspect of that
undesirable quality. Jim thought he had never seen a human countenance
that he liked so little.
“What I wish to point out to you,” the old woman went on, “is that my
niece has lately received an offer of marriage from a person who has
excellent credentials.”
From the first Jim had been expecting some such thunderbolt. Therefore
he contrived to maintain his pose of scrupulously polite attention.
“As far as Miss Perry’s well-being is concerned, I am glad to know
that, Lady Crewkerne,” said Jim, with an urbanity that did him great
credit. “As far as my own is concerned, I deplore it.”
“The offer of marriage my niece has received,” said the old woman, “is
of such a character that those who have her welfare at heart feel very
strongly that she is bound to entertain it. Not only will it give her
an assured position socially, but also it will establish the fortunes
of her family, which, as you are doubtless aware, are at a low ebb.”
Jim gave a little nod to assure the old woman that he was not
unacquainted with the fortunes of Miss Perry’s family.
“In these circumstances, Mr. Lascelles,” said she, briefly, “I think
your course is clear.”
Jim, however, assumed an air of perplexity.
“I wish, Lady Crewkerne,” said he, “that I shared your opinion.”
The old woman showed no acerbity.
“Have the goodness, Mr. Lascelles,” said she, “to examine the matter in
a rational light, from the point of view of a man of the world.”
A short period was conceded to Jim Lascelles for the purpose of doing
so.
“I suppose, Lady Crewkerne,” said Jim, at the termination of the
period, “you wish me to give her up?”
“I do,” said the old woman.
Jim pondered a little. It was not very easy to give up the Goose Girl.
But this uncompromising old heathen in her great head-dress, and
installed in her state chair of embossed Spanish leather, had shown him
his duty. And she had used the fewest possible words in contriving it.
“Your duty is perfectly obvious to my mind, Mr. Lascelles,” said she,
after a full minute of silence had passed.
“Ye-es,” said Jim, drawing in his breath; “doubtless that is so.”
Jim Lascelles took another minute to see if there was any way possible
of circumventing his obvious duty. And then he rose from his chair.
“Lady Crewkerne,” said he, “to-morrow my mother and I will leave the
neighborhood. We thank you very much for the hospitality you have shown
us.”
Jim bowed gravely, and prepared to take his leave with the air of one
who has performed a dignified action.
“Thank you, Mr. Lascelles,” said the old woman, upon a note of veiled
sarcasm, which yet was not so unpleasant as it might have been. “I am
obliged to you. I shall be glad if you will write your name in the
visitors’ book.”
In this fashion the audience terminated with a display of dignity upon
both sides. Of course it was proper and natural that it should be
conducted in this manner, considering where it was held. So much was
clearly demanded by every detail of its surroundings. And in the hall
Mr. Lascelles wrote his name in the visitors’ book immediately below
that of George Betterton, who had left Pen-y-Gros Castle the previous
week.