HE BECOMES SOMEBODY.
Arminell kept to herself that day. At lunch she had not much to say to
her step-mother, and Lord Lamerton was out. Giles came down, and his
mother talked to him and to the tutor, and seemed not to observe
Arminell’s silence.
The girl was unhappy. She had given way to a momentary weakness, or wave
of regret at the thought of her father’s unworthiness, but the feeling
predominating in her mind was indignation that her mother should have
been left unacquainted with the previous conduct of my lord. She
repeated to herself, “Most certainly she never knew it, or she would
never have married him, even if she knew that ceremony was worthless
that had been performed over him and Marianne.”
Arminell had idealised her mother. The girl had an affectionate heart,
but she concentrated her affection on the memory of her mother. Ever
since her father’s re-marriage there had brooded over her a sense of
wrong done to the memory of the mother. How could my lord, after having
loved such a woman, take to himself his present wife?
Arminell was by no means easy in mind about Jingles’ assurance that he
would not speak. He had given the same assurance as Mrs. Saltren had
told her, to his mother, and had broken his promise. She resolved to
exert her powers of persuasion on him to deepen this determination to be
silent.
It was unfortunate that Lord Lamerton had not been able to cultivate
more freely his daughter’s society, but a nobleman has ten thousand
calls on his time; he is prevented from living that close life of
familiar association with his children which is the privilege of those
in an inferior station. He considered, and he was right in considering,
that his country, his order, and his county had claims on him which must
not be put aside. He was a poor orator indeed, and rarely spoke in the
House, but he conscientiously voted with his party. In town he and Lady
Lamerton saw a good deal of society, not because they cared particularly
for it, but because they considered it a duty to entertain and keep up
relations with friends and connexions. In the country Lord Lamerton, as
Arminell contemptuously said, was kept on the gallop between school
prize-givings, petty sessional meetings, quarter session, political and
charitable institutions. He sat on boards, occupied chairs wherever
there were boards and chairs placed for him. Moreover, at Orleigh, after
the London season, the house was full of acquaintances, who came to
shoot, hunt, drive, and be amused; and, with a house full of guests,
Lord Lamerton had not opportunity for cultivating the society of his
daughter. But he was a man full of kindness, and he made many attempts
to gain her affection, and persuade her to be to him the close companion
that a daughter often is to a father. These attempts had failed, chiefly
because of the resentment she bore him for having married again. Had he
remained a widower, and sought to associate her with him in his
pursuits, it might have been otherwise; but, as he had looked elsewhere
for a companion, she closed her heart in reserve against him.
Lord Lamerton was fond of hunting, and in this Arminell did not accord
with him. Her Girton governess had scoffed at those who had nothing
better to do or think of than the pursuit, over hedge and gate, of a
creature hardly bigger than a cat; and the sneer had taken effect on the
girl, and made her regard her father, because of his hunting, as
somewhat grotesque and deficient in moral dignity. She could not
accompany him when shooting, but she was out of sympathy with sport of
this kind also. Her governess had spoken of those lords of creation who
concentrated their vast intellects on the killing of a jack-snipe, and
this remark stuck in her, as did the other about fox-hunting. She
regarded sportsmen as fools, more or less. I once knew a man who had a
mole with three white hairs growing out of it, on his nose; and, when I
talked with him, one hemisphere of my brain was engaged in considering
the mole, and asking how it came there—whether it had grown as he grew,
or whether it had been of the same size when he was born, and whether
his body had expanded and elongated about it; why he did not disguise it
with chalk or violet powder, or else darken the three white hairs with
antimony; whether he had consulted a surgeon concerning its removal,
and, if so, why the surgeon had not removed it? Was it the cork plugging
an artery, so that the man would bleed to death were it to be cut away?
Why he, of all men, was afflicted with this mole—was it hereditary? And
if so, on which side did it come to him, on the paternal or maternal?
And if it were a hereditary mole, whether it would be possible, by
judicious crossing, to reduce and finally extirpate it? Then again,
whether after long disappearance, in say three generations, the mole
would declare itself in the fourth? what the mole had to do with the
doctrine of evolution? whether the Anthropological Society had
considered this mole? and other questions. Afterwards I did not know
whether this man had blonde hair or swarthy, eyes brown or blue, an
intellectual forehead or one retreating, nose acquiline, _rétroussé_, or
sausage. Neither could I recall anything about his conversation—I could
think of him only as the Man with the mole, or, to be more exact, as the
Mole with the man.
Now, it sometimes happens that we see a blemish in a man’s character,
and that blemish entirely engrosses our attention, so that we cannot
conceive of the man other than as the man with the blemish. He may have
good, counterbalancing qualities, but of these we know nothing, we take
no account, we see only the moral mole.
Moreover, this habit of seeing moles, and marking nothing but moles
grows on us. I quite remember how that for a twelvemonth after I had
talked with my gentleman with the mole, I examined the nose of every one
I met, exploring it for moles, and expecting to find them hid under
disguises, powdered or patched over; or to discover traces of the
amputation of moles, suspicious, tell-tale scars, or else tokens that
latent moles were on the eve of eruption, moles that had been hidden
deep in the system, which were unsuspected by nearest and dearest,
gradually, stealthily, inexorably working into publicity; and I began to
calculate how long it would be before the suspected mole came to light.
And I became radically convinced that all men had moles in their
constitution—that is, all men but myself—and that all men therefore were
to be mistrusted, and held at arms’ length, lest their moles should
communicate themselves to us, after the manner of warts.
Arminell had not indeed reached this stage, but she was in that
condition in which she saw the faults of her father and step-mother, and
the faults only. Unable to forgive him his second marriage, she was
predisposed to judge unfairly and harshly all he did, and all he left
undone.
That one special reason for his re-marriage was his desire to provide
her with a step-mother, one who could guide and advise her, and
counteract some of the mischief done by injudicious governesses, never
for a moment occurred to her, and yet this had been the predominant
motive in the mind of Lord Lamerton when he chose Lady Julia Chesterton.
She was a woman spoken of as clever and well-read, and kind-hearted.
Clever, well-read, and kind-hearted he had found her, and yet deficient
in the very quality necessary for commanding Arminell’s respect, and
that was decision. Lady Julia, whatever Arminell might think, was an
able woman, but her promiscuous reading had sapped the foundations of
all independence of mind that she ever possessed, and had acted on her
brain, as acids on osseous matter—reducing it to jelly. She was ever
building with head, and hands, and heart, an indefatigable builder, but
always on no foundations at all, because she argued that solid rock was
no where discoverable, and sand was liable to shift, therefore she would
erect her structures in the air, on nothing.
Lord Lamerton had been disappointed at the result, but had no idea as to
the cause of failure. And now, upon a mind in antagonism, this
disclosure made by Mrs. Saltren came, and brought Arminell’s antagonism
to a climax.
The tears which young Saltren had surprised were the sole tribute of her
filial affection. When they were dried only hostility remained.
Some while ago, Messrs. Pears published an advertisement of their soap,
on which were a green spot and another red, and the curious were invited
to study one spot at a time, and then look at a blank wall. When this
was done, he who had contemplated the red spot, saw a green disc dance
before his eyes; but if, on the other hand, he had looked long on the
green spot, he saw before him only a red ball. It is so with a good many
people; and it was so with Arminell. Whenever Lord or Lady Lamerton
wished her to see this or that, to take such a view of some particular
matter, she invariably saw the complimentary colour, that is the reverse
of what she was desired to see.
I, who write this, am ashamed to confess that I do the same, and I am
not sure that, occasionally, you, my dear reader, may also do the
same—now and then, of course, only when the wind is easterly, and the
liver is out of order, or the next morning after a ball. I know that
when I have read the _Saturday Review_, I rise from the perusal
believing in Mr. Gladstone and ready to follow him to the bottom of the
Red Sea, or wherever else he desires to lead us; and that when I have
read the _Pall-Mall Gazette_, I am eager to drive my wife and daughters
into the Primrose League. Also, I am quite sure that when some person
has been warmly lauded in your hearing, dear reader, you take a low view
of that individual, and when another has been much disparaged, you take
up the cudgels to defend him, though he or she is an absolute stranger
to you, and one of whom you have never heard before. I never recommend a
watering-place to my friend, sure, if he goes there, he will call it a
beastly hole, or dissuade him from buying a horse, by detailing its
faults, so certain am I that my words will make him purchase the brute.
In the afternoon of the same day, as the sun was warm, and the air was
soft, Saltren took little Giles upon the terrace, and Arminell, who saw
them from her window, descended, and joined them there. She was uneasy
and impatient to know what the tutor intended doing. Would he come to a
full understanding with Lord Lamerton, and would my lord agree to
provide for him, if he would depart and keep the secret of his birth
undisclosed? Or would Jingles in London discover sufficient to make him
suspect that his mother’s marriage was valid, and be carried away by
ambition to establish his legitimacy at all costs to others?
At the same moment that Arminell came out on the terrace, the rector’s
wife, Mrs. Cribbage, drove up in her wickerwork pony-carriage, and
entered the house to pay a visit to Lady Lamerton.
Giles ran off to see his rabbits, and Jingles was left alone walking
with Arminell.
“I suppose you are not burdening Giles with many lessons, now that he is
convalescent?” said the girl.
“No, her ladyship does not wish him to be pressed. He is still heavy in
his head with cold.”
“Well,” said Arminell, “I did not come here to talk about Giles, so we
will dismiss him from our conversation. I have been considering this
miserable matter, and I want to know what action you purpose taking on
it.”
“I also,” said the tutor, “have been revolving the matter in my head,
and I have resolved to leave Orleigh as soon as possible, and to ask my
uncle, Mr. James Welsh, my mother’s brother, to assist me to enter a
literary career.”
“Literary career! in what branch?”
“I intend to write for the press, I mean for the papers. Mr. Welsh lives
by his profession, and I will do the same.”
“That must be more interesting than teaching little boys Mensa—mensæ,
Dominus—domini.”
“The press is the sceptre that now rules the world, and I will wield
it.”
“Oh, how I envy you!” said Arminell. “You are about to do something,
something worth the labour, something the thought of which kindles
ambition. You will escape out of this wearisome round of hum-drum into
the world of heroic action. Here is my lord spending his life in petty
duties as he regards them and has no result at the end to show; my lady
thinking, planning, executing, and also with no result appearing; and I,
wasting my time practising at the piano, running my voice over scales,
doing a little sketching, reading odds and ends, picking flowers—and
nothing can come of it all. We are made for more serious work.”
“I believe,” said Jingles, “that the writer of leaders exercises more
power, because he appeals to a wider circle, than even the member of
Parliament. One out of every twenty who takes up a paper, reads the
speeches, but every one reads the leading articles. I believe that we
stand at the beginning of a great social revolution, not in England
only, but throughout the civilized world, and I have long desired to
take part in it, I mean in directing it. I do not hold the extreme
opinions of some, but I have my opinions, no, that is not the word,
convictions, bred in me by my perception of the inequalities,
injustices, and unrealities of life as it is now organised.”
“And you will work for your uncle?”
“I do not altogether hold with him,” said Jingles. “He takes too
commercial an aspect of the mission imposed on a man with his power and
faculties for reaching the ear of the people.”
“Do you intend to live with him?”
“I cannot tell. I have decided on nothing as to the particulars. I have
sketched out the broad features of my future career.”
“And,”—Arminell’s voice faltered—“my father?”
“I will write to him after I am in town, informing him that I know all,
and that, therefore, it was not possible for me, with self-respect, to
remain in his house.”
Arminell looked down on the gravel.
“You will not go into this matter, not have my mother’s name brought in
question?”
“I will do nothing that can cause you a moment’s pain,” answered Jingles
patronisingly.
“I shall be very solitary,” she said. “More so than before. With you I
can talk about matters of real interest, matters above the twaddle of
common talk—Yes?”
This was addressed to the footman who appeared on the terrace and
approached.
“What is it, Matthews?”
“My lady says, miss, that she will be glad if you could make it
convenient to step into the parlour.”
“There,” said Arminell, when Matthews had withdrawn. “So she stands
between me and the light at all times. I shall be back directly. She
wants me about the choice of some new patterns for covering the sofas
and chairs, I dare say. Here comes Giles from his rabbits.”
Arminell walked slowly to the drawing-room, with a frown of vexation on
her brow. She never responded with alacrity to her step-mother’s calls.
Mrs. Cribbage, the rector’s wife, saw at once that Arminell was in a bad
humour, as she entered the room.
“I am so sorry to interrupt you,” she said. “It was my doing. Lady
Lamerton and I were speaking about old Samuel Ceely, and I have just
heard how you have interested yourself about him.”
“I sent to ask you to come, dear,” said Lady Lamerton in her sweet,
gentle tones, “because Mrs. Cribbage has been telling me about the man.
He is unobjectionable now, but he was a bit of a rake once.”
“He was a gamekeeper to the late Lord Lamerton, and to the dowager,” put
in Mrs. Cribbage, “and was dismissed. I could find out all the
particulars. I believe he sold the game, and besides, was esteemed not
to have the best moral character. However, I know no particulars. I will
now make a duty of enquiring, and finding them out. Of late years—except
for snaring rabbits and laying night-lines—I believe he has been
inoffensive.”
“We are all miserable sinners,” said Arminell, “we were told so on
Sunday——”
“You were not at church on Sunday,” interrupted Mrs. Cribbage.
“And,” continued Arminell, “it is really satisfactory to know that poor
Ceely is not an exception to that all-embracing rule, and that he has
not the moral perfection which would make up for his physical
short-comings.”
Arminell could not endure the rector’s wife, and took no pains to
disguise her feelings. Lady Lamerton likewise disliked her, but was too
sweet and ladylike to show it.
Mrs. Cribbage was an indefatigable parish visitor. She worked the parish
with the most conscientious ardour, considering a week lost unless she
had visited every house in it and had dispensed a few pious scriptural
remarks, and picked up a pinch of gossip in each. She knew everything
about every one in the place, and retailed what she knew, especially if
it were too unpleasant to retain. She did not give out much scandal in
the cottages, but she pecked here and there after grains of information,
and swallowed what she found. And the people, well aware of her liking,
with that courtesy and readiness to oblige which characterises the
English lower orders, brought out and strewed before her all the nasty,
and ill-natured, and suspicious scraps of information they had hoarded
in their houses. Mrs. Cribbage carried away whatever she learned, and
communicated it to her acquaintances in a circle superior to that where
she gathered it, to the Macduffs, to the wives of the neighbouring
parsons, to the curate, with caution to Lady Lamerton. She acted as a
turbine wheel that forces water up from a low level to houses on a
height. She thus impelled a current of tittle-tattle from the deep
places of society to those who lived above; but in this particular she
differed from the turbine, that forces up clean water, whereas, what
Mrs. Cribbage pumped up was usually the reverse.
Mrs. Cribbage was nettled by Arminell’s uncourteous tone, and said:
“What charming weather we have been having. I hope, Miss Inglett, that
you enjoyed your Sunday morning walk?”
“It was as delightful as the weather,” answered Arminell, well aware
that there were claws in the velvet paw that stroked her. “Would you
wish to know where I went?”
“O, my dear Miss Inglett! I know.”
Then Mrs. Cribbage left, and when she was gone, Lady Lamerton said
gently, “You were too curt with that woman, dear. You should never
forget your manners, never be rude to a visitor in your own house.”
“I am not an adept at concealment, as are others.”
“The best screen against such a person is politeness.”
“She is like a snail, with eyes that she stretches forth to all parts of
the parish. I hate her.”
“Arminell, your father has been putting prickly wire about on fences
where cattle or pigs force their way. The beasts scratch themselves
against the spikes, and after one or two experiences, learn to keep
within bounds, and lose the desire to transgress. The Mrs. Cribbages—and
there are yards of them—are the spiky wires of society, hedging us
about, and keeping us in our proper places, odious in themselves, but
useful, and a protection to us against ourselves.”
“Barbed or unbarbed, I would break through them.”
“No, my dear, you would only tear yourself to pieces on them, without
hurting them; they are galvanised, plated, incapable of feeling, but
they can inflict, and it is their mission to inflict an incredible
amount of pain. You have already committed an indiscretion, and the
crooked spike of the Cribbage tongue has caught you. Instead of going to
church on Sunday morning, you walked in the road with Mr. Saltren. Of
course, this was an act of mere thoughtlessness, but so is the first
plunge of the calf against the prickly wire. Be more judicious, dear
Armie, in the future. Where were you on Sunday afternoon?”
“Sitting with Giles and Mr. Saltren,” said Arminell, furious with anger
and resentment, “talking Sabbath talk. We discussed Noah’s ark.”
“And this morning he went into the music-room to you. Your father told
me he found him there turning over the leaves of your music, and
counting time for you; and now Mrs. Cribbage arrives and sees you
walking with him on the terrace. My dear Armie, Jingles is a nobody, and
these nobodies are just those whom it is unsafe to trifle with. They so
speedily lose their balance, and presume.”
“Mr. Saltren is not such a nobody as you suppose,” answered Arminell.
“He is a man of ability and independence of thought, he is one who will
before long prove himself to be a somebody, indeed.”
“My dear, he is a somebody already who has established himself as a
nuisance.”