Araminta

FROM the moment that “Caroline Crewkerne’s Gainsborough” came upon the town there was no denying her success. She was a new sensation; and happy in her sponsors the diminished glories of Hill Street emerged from their eclipse. If old Lady Crewkerne derived a grim satisfaction from the absolute possession of the nine days’ wonder, Cheriton was one of the proudest and happiest men in London. He took to himself the whole merit of the discovery.

“I assure you,” he declared to a circle of the elect, “that blind old woman would never have seen the likeness. It was quite providential that I happened to look in and point it out.”

In matters of art Cheriton’s taste was really fastidious. And in addition to his other foibles no man was more susceptible to beauty. Every morning for a week he called at Hill Street, to view his discovery more adequately in the full light of day. It was in vain, however, that he tried to surprise her. She was kept very close.

For one thing the creature had positively no clothes in which to submit to the ordeal of the public gaze. Almost the first thing Caroline Crewkerne did was to send for her dressmaker, who was commanded to make Miss Perry “appear respectable,” and was given only three days in which to perform the operation.

“I assure your ladyship it is impossible in three days,” said the dressmaker.

“If that is your opinion,” said her ladyship, “I shall go elsewhere.”

As it was her ladyship’s custom to pay her bills quarterly, on the morning of the fourth day Miss Perry came down to breakfast in a blue-serge costume. It was rigid in outline and formal in cut. In fact, it had been chosen by Miss Burden, and had been wrought in the style affected by that model of reticent good taste.

It was in this attire, surmounted by a straw hat of the regulation type in lieu of the inverted vegetable basket, that Cheriton saw Miss Perry for the second time.

“What are you thinking of, Caroline?” said he tragically. “Where is your instinct? It is a gross act of vandalism to consign a genuine Gainsborough to the tender mercies of a woman’s tailor.”

“Pooh,” said Caroline.

All the same Cheriton was roused to action. At noon next day a cab appeared at the door of Caroline’s residence. It contained a milliner and twenty-two hats in twenty-two boxes. The milliner said she had instructions to wait for Lord Cheriton.

The redoubtable Caroline’s first instinct was to order the milliner off the premises.

“Gross impertinence,” she declared.

However, the perverse old woman had a liberal share of reason. Cheriton had his foibles, but emphatically he knew on which side of the bread to look for the butter. In all matters relating to this world, from racehorses to French millinery, wise people respected his judgment.

At five minutes after midday Cheriton himself appeared in the company of an amiable, courteous, and distinguished foreigner.

“What, pray, is the meaning of this invasion?” said Caroline, with a snort of hostility.

“This is Monsieur Duprez,” said Cheriton, “the great genius who comes to London twice a year from Raquin’s at Paris.”

Monsieur Duprez, overwhelmed by this melodious flattery, very nearly touched the Persian carpet with his nose. Caroline scowled at him.

“Cheriton,” said she, “who has given you authority to turn my house into a dressmaker’s shop?”

“I have the authority,” said Cheriton, “of a pure taste unvitiated by Whig prejudice and Victorian tradition. Miss Burden, will you have the great goodness to summon Nature’s masterpiece so that Art, her handmaiden, may make an obeisance to her; and might I also suggest that you procure Lady Crewkerne’s knitting?”

Miss Burden, thrilled by the unmistakable impact of romance, waited with animation for permission to obey my lord.

“I will not have my niece tricked out like a play-actress,” said Caroline. “Cheriton, understand that clearly.”

Cheriton, feeling his position to be impregnable, was as cool as you please. As is the case with so many people, his coolness bordered upon insolence. Caroline was so much the slave of her worldly wisdom that in a case of this kind she would be compelled to bow the knee to an array of acknowledged experts. Besides, it was so easy for Cheriton to justify himself in the most dramatic manner. He pointed histrionically to the world-famous Duchess of Dorset.

“Caroline,” said he, “if you will take the advice of an old friend you will attend to your knitting. Three experts are present. They can be trusted to deal with this matter effectually. Indeed, I might say four. Miss Burden, I know you to be in cordial sympathy with the highest in whatever form it may manifest itself. Therefore I entreat you, particularly as the time of Monsieur Duprez and Madame Pelissier belongs not to themselves, nor to us, but to civilization, to produce our great work of Nature, in order that her handmaiden Art may deck her.”

Caroline’s hostile upper lip took a double curl, a feat which was the outcome of infinite practice in the expression of scorn.

“I hope you will not put ideas into the creature’s head, that’s all,” said she. “Fortunately she is such a born simpleton that it is doubtful whether she is capable of retaining any. Burden, you may fetch her.”

It was a charming April morning, and the sunshine was flooding the room. It made a canopy for Miss Perry as she came in simply and modestly through the drawing-room door. At once it challenged that wonderful yellow mane of hers that was the color of daffodils, which on its own part seemed to reciprocate the flashing caresses of the light of the morning. The yellow mane appeared to grow incandescent and shoot out little lights of its own. The glamor of pink and white and azure was very wonderful, too, as the sunlight wantoned with it in its own inimitable manner. Here was Juno indeed, and none recognized the fact so clearly as the Prince of the Morning.

Monsieur Duprez’s eyes sparkled; Madame Pelissier gave a little exclamation.

“You have here a great subject,” said Lord Cheriton to those rare artists. “And there you have the manner in which the great Gainsborough treated it.”

Madame Pelissier disclosed her creations. Hat after hat was fitted to the daffodil-colored mane. Cheriton hovered round and round the young goddess, surveying each separate effect from every point of view. His gravity could not have been excelled by a minister of state.

“They must be enormous,” said he, with ever-mounting enthusiasm. “They must sit at the perfect angle. They must be of the hue of the wing of the raven. Yes, feathers decidedly. And they must flop like the dooce.”

“Cheriton,” said the warning voice, “don’t be a coxcomb.”

“Yes, I like that wicker-work arrangement. The way it flops is capital. It will do for week-days. But there must be one for Sunday mornings in which to go to church.”

Madame Pelissier was inclined to be affronted by Cheriton’s extreme fastidiousness. There was not a single creation in the whole collection which had quite got “that,” he declared, snapping his fingers in the manner of Sir Joshua.

“Madame Pelissier,” said he, solemnly, “it comes to this. You will have to invoke your genius to create a Sunday hat for Juno. You observe what Gainsborough did for her great-grandmamma. Mark well that masterpiece, dear Madame Pelissier, for je prends mon bien où je le trouve.”

“Carte blanche, milor?” said Madame Pelissier, with a little shrug.

“Absolument,” said my lord. “Give a free rein to your genius, ma chère madame. Crown the young goddess with the noblest creation that ever consecrated the drab pavement of Bond Street.”

“I warn you, Cheriton,” said the aunt of the young goddess, “I will not have the creature figged out like a ballet-dancer or a female in a circus.”

“Peace, Caroline. Where is your knitting?” He shook a finger of warning at her. “Really, Caroline, you must refrain from philistine observations in the presence of those who are dedicated to the service of art.”

Caroline snorted with great energy.

Monsieur Duprez, crowing with delight, was absorbing Gainsborough’s masterpiece.

“I haf it,” said he, tapping the center of his forehead, “ze very ting.”

“May it prove so, my dear Duprez, for then we shall have a nine days’ wonder for the town.”

Thus it will be seen that in the beginning “Caroline Crewkerne’s Gainsborough,” as she was so soon to be christened by the privileged few who write the labels of history, owed much to Cheriton’s foresight, judgment, and undoubted talent for stage management.

She really made her début at Saint Sepulchre’s Church—in which sacred and fashionable edifice, I regret to say, her aunt Caroline was an infrequent worshiper—and afterwards in Hyde Park on the second Sunday morning in May.

At least a fortnight before the great occasion Cheriton had declared his intention to the powers that obtained in Hill Street of making Miss Perry known to London on the first really bright and warm Sunday morning that came along. Thanks to the behavior of providence, her church-going clothes arrived the evening before the weather; whilst only a few hours previously a deft-fingered jewel of a maid had arrived expressly from Paris, at the instance of the experts, who was learned in the set of the most marvelous frocks and hats, and who also was a rare artist in the human hair.

Therefore let none confess to surprise that Miss Perry was the innocent cause of some excitement when she burst upon an astonished world. Mr. Marchbanks was the first to behold Miss Perry, when on this historic second Sunday morning in May she quitted the privacy of her chamber fittingly clothed to render homage to her Maker. He beheld her as she came down the marble staircase in an enormous black hat with a wonderful feather, a miracle of harmonious daring, and in a lilac frock, not answering, it is true, in every detail to that in which her famous great-grandmamma had been painted by Gainsborough, but none the less a triumph for all concerned in it. However, to judge by the demeanor of shocked stupefaction of the virtuous man who first encountered it, who himself was about to accompany Mrs. Plunket to Divine worship, this was an achievement that was not to the taste of everybody. In the opinion of Mr. Marchbanks it might be magnificent, but it was not religion.

By one of those coincidences in which real life indulges so recklessly, Miss Perry had not reached the bottom of the stairs when Cheriton, duly admitted by John, and himself armed cap-à-pie for Divine worship in a brand-new wig, with freshly dyed mustache, light-gray trousers, lilac gloves, white gaiters, and a gardenia in his buttonhole, was enabled to take up a strategical position in the entrance-hall.

His greeting was almost as melodramatic as his appearance.

“A positive triumph!” he cried. “My dear young lady—my dear Miss Perry—my dear Miss Araminta, the highest hopes of a sanguine temperament have been exceeded. Art, the handmaiden, has done her work nobly, but of course the real triumph belongs to Nature.”

“Isn’t my new frock a nice one?” said Miss Perry.

“Incomparable.”

“It is almost as nice as the mauve one Muffin had last summer but one,” said Miss Perry.

It seemed to Cheriton that the speech of Miss Perry was absurdly suited to her clothes. He led her proudly to the morning-room.

“Caroline,” said he, “prepare for the conquest of London.”

That old woman had never looked so fierce. As a preliminary she snuffed the air.

“Burden,” said she, “cease behaving like a fool and have the goodness to get my spectacles.”

Miss Burden obeyed her in a kind of delirium. The scrutiny of the powers was severe and prolonged. There was no approbation in it.

“An old-fashioned respect for the English Sunday,” said Caroline, “precludes my going to church with a tableau vivant.”

Cheriton scorned her openly.

“You perverse woman,” said he, “why are you so blind? Here is a triumph that will ring through the town. Are you prepared to identify yourself with it or are you not?”

Caroline Crewkerne subjected her niece to a second prolonged and severe scrutiny.

“Humph,” said she, ungraciously.

However, she was a very shrewd old woman. Further, she was a very clear-sighted old woman, who knew herself to be what Cheriton did not hesitate to proclaim her. She was a philistine. Upon any matter which impinged upon life’s amenities she was far too wise to trust her own judgment. Cheriton, on the other hand, in spite of an inclination towards the bizarre and the freakish, she allowed to have taste.

“I shall go to church,” she announced to her gentlewoman.

She spoke as if she were flinging down a gauntlet.

The Church of Saint Sepulchre, as the elect do not need to be told, is quite near to Hill Street. Caroline Crewkerne was ready to start ten minutes before the service began.

“Easy, Caroline,” said Cheriton, studying his watch reflectively; “there is no hurry.”

“Even if they bore one,” said Caroline, “it is not good manners to be disrespectful to the officiating clergy.”

Cheriton, however, although he advanced no positive reasons why disrespect should be offered to the officiating clergy, showed a marked disposition for Divine Service to begin without him. He loitered and loitered upon absurdly flimsy pretexts. And just as the procession was about to start from the door of Caroline’s residence he mislaid his umbrella.