“FROM OUR OWN CORRESPONDENT.”
Suddenly, in the midst of his breakfast, Lord Lamerton uttered an
exclamation and turned purple, and thrust his chair from the table.
Lady Lamerton sprang from her seat. Arminell was alarmed. She had not
seen her father in this condition before; was he threatened with
apoplexy?
“Look at it! God bless my soul!” gasped his lordship. “What confounded
scoundrel has written it? Look at it, Julia, it is monstrous.”
He thrust a newspaper from him.
“It is in this damned Radical daily. Look at it, Julia! Where is
Macduff! I want Macduff. I’ll send for my solicitor. Confound their
impudence, and the lies—the lies!” Lord Lamerton gasped for breath, then
he went on again, “From our Own Correspondent—who is he? If I knew I
would have him dragged through the horse-pond; the grooms and keepers
would do it—delighted to do it—if I stood consequences. Here am I held
up as a monster of injustice, to the scorn, the abhorrence of all
right-minded men, because I have capriciously closed the manganese mine.
There is a harrowing picture drawn of a hundred householders thrown out
of work—and thrown out of work, it is suggested, because at the last
election they voted Liberal; I am depopulating Auburn—I am in a degree
breaking up families. Not a word about the mine threatening my
foundations—not a hint that I have lost a thousand pounds a year by it
these five years. I am driving the trade out of the country; and, as if
that were not enough, here is a sketch of the sort of house in which I
pig my tenants—Patience Kite’s tumble-down hovel at the old lime-quarry!
As if I were responsible for that, when she has it on lives, and we want
to turn her out and repair it, and she won’t go. When we have condemned
the house, and gone as far as the law will allow us! Where is Macduff? I
must see Macduff about this; and then”—his lordship nearly strangled,
his throat swelled and he was obliged to loose his cravat—“and then
there is a picture drawn in the liveliest colours of Saltren’s house—I
beg your pardon, Saltren, this must cause you as much annoyance as it
does myself—of Chillacot, in beautiful order, as it is; Captain Saltren
does right by whatever he has the care of—of Chillacot as an instance of
a free holding, of a holding not under one of those leviathans, the
great landlords of England. Look at this, then look at that—look at
Patience Kite’s ruin and Captain Saltren’s villa; there you have in a
nutshell the difference between free land and land in bonds, under one
of the ogres, the earth-eaters. God bless my soul, it is monstrous; and
it will all be believed, and I shall walk about pointed at as a tyrant,
an enemy of the people, a disgrace to my country and my class. I don’t
care whether she kicks and curses, I will take the law into my hands and
at once have Mrs. Kite turned out, and her cottage pulled down or put in
order. I suppose I dare not pull it down, or the papers will be down on
me again. I will not have a cottage on my land described as this has
been, and the blame laid on me; the woman shall give up her lease. How
came the fellow to see the cottage? He describes it accurately; it is
true that the door has tumbled in; it is true that the chimney threatens
to fall; it is true that the staircase is all to pieces, but this is no
fault of mine. He has talked to Mrs. Kite, but I am sure she never used
the words he has put into her mouth. Where is Macduff? I wish, my dear
Saltren, you would find him and send him to me. By-the-way, have you
spoken to your father about—what was it? Oh, yes, the sale of his house.
Fortunate it is that a railway company, and not I, want Chillacot, or I
should be represented as the rich man demanding the ewe lamb, as
coveting Naboth’s vineyard, by this prophet of the press. Who the deuce
is he? He must have been here and must know something of the place,
there is just so much of truth mixed up with the misrepresentations as
to make the case look an honest one. I want Macduff. Have you seen your
father about that matter of Chillacot, Saltren?”
“My lord,” said Jingles, “I am sorry I have not seen him yet. In fact,
to tell the truth, I—I yesterday forgot the commission.”
“Oh!” said Lord Lamerton, now hot and irritable, “oh, don’t trouble
yourself any more about it. I’ll send Matthews after Macduff. I’ll go
down to Chillacot myself. Confound this correspondent. His impudence is
amazing.”
Lord Lamerton took most matters easily. The enigmatical words of his
daughter, the preceding evening, in the avenue, had not made much
impression on him. They were, he said, part of her rodomontade. But he
repeated them to his wife, and to her they had a graver significance
than he attributed to them. This article in the paper, however, agitated
him deeply, and he was very angry, more angry than any one had seen him
for several years; and the last explosion was caused by the poisoning of
some of his fox-hounds.
“Matthews, send James down after Mr. Macduff at once.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And, Saltren, a word with you in the smoking room if you can spare me
the time.”
“I am at your service, my lord.”
Lord Lamerton had been so excited by the article he had read that he was
in a humour to find fault; and, as Viola says
“Like the haggard check at every feather
That comes before his eye.”
Such moods did not last long; he was the slowest of men to be roused,
and when angry, the most placable; but an injustice angered him, and he
had been unjustly treated in the article in that morning’s paper.
There must be deep in our souls, some original sense of justice, for
there is nothing so maddens a man and sweeps him in angry fever beyond
the control of reason, as a sense of injustice done, not only to
himself, but to another. It is the violation of this ineradicable sense
of justice which provokes to the commission of the grossest injustice,
for it blinds the eyes to all extenuations and qualifying circumstances.
It is an expansive and explosive gas that lies latent in every breast—in
the most pure and crystalline, an infinite blessing to the world, but
often infinitely mischievous. It is the moral dynamite in our
composition.
There is a hot well in Iceland called Strokr which bubbles and steams
far below the surface, the most innocuous, apparently, of hot springs,
and one that is even beneficial. But if a clod of turf be thrown down
the gullet, Strokr holds his breath for a moment and is then resolved
into a raging geyser, a volcano of scalding steam and water. I once let
a flannel-shirt down by a fishing-line, thinking to wash it in the
cauldron of Strokr, and Strokr resented the insult, and blew my shirt to
threads, so that I never recovered of it—no, not a button. It is so with
men, they are all Strokrs, with a fund of warmth in their hearts, and
they grumble and fume, but, for all that, exhale much heat, and nourish
flowers about them and pasture for sheep and asses, but some slight wad
of turf, or a dirty flannel-shirt—some trifling wrong done their sense
of justice,—and they become raging geysers.
Lord Lamerton was not so completely transformed as that, because culture
imposes control on a man, but he was bubbling and squirting. He was not
angry with the tutor, personally, because he did not think that the
young man was blameworthy. What indiscretion had been committed, had
been committed by Arminell. With her he was angry, because her tone
towards him, and her behaviour to her step-mother, were defiant.
“Saltren,” said he, when he reached the smoking-room and was alone with
Jingles, “do you think your uncle could have written that abominable
article? I did not mention my suspicion in the breakfast-room, so as not
to give you pain, or trouble the ladies, but, ’pon my soul, I do not see
who else could have done it. I heard he had been down here on Sunday,
and I hoped he had talked the matter of the line and Chillacot over with
your father, and had given him sensible advice. Yet I can hardly think
he would do such an ungracious, under the circumstances, such an immoral
thing as write this, not merely with _suppressio veri_, which is in
itself _suggestio falsi_, but with the lies broadly and frankly put.
Upon my word—I know Welsh is a Radical—I do not see who else could have
done it.”
“I am afraid he has, though I cannot say. I did not see him, my lord,”
said the tutor.
“I am sorry, really it is too bad, after all that has been done—no, I
will say nothing about that. Confound it all, it is too bad. And what
can I do? If I write a correction, will it be inserted? If inserted,
will it not serve for a leader in which all I have admitted is
exaggerated and distorted, and I am made to be doubly in the wrong? And
now, I suppose it is high time for Giles to go to school. I don’t want
you to suppose that this idea of mine has risen in any way from this
damned article, or has anything whatever to do with it, because it has
not. I do not for one instant attribute to you any part in it. I know
that it shocks you as it shocks me; that you see how wrong it is, as I
do. But, nevertheless, Giles must go to school; his mother and I have
talked it over, and between you and me, I don’t want the boy—dear monkey
that he is—to be over-coddled at home. His mother is very fond of him,
and gets alarmed if the least thing is the matter with him, and fidgets
and frets, and, in a word, the boy may get spoiled by his mother. A lad
must learn to hold his own among others, to measure himself beside
others, and, above all, to give way where it is courteous, as well as
right to give way. A boy must learn that others have to be considered as
well as himself, and there is no place like school for teaching a fellow
that. So Giles must go to school. Poor little creature, I wonder how he
will like it? Cry at first, and then make up his mind to bear it. I do
trust if he have his bad dreams, the other chaps won’t bolster and lick
him for squalling out at night and rousing them. Poor monkey! I hope
they will make allowance for him. He is not very strong. Giles must go
to school, and not be coddled here. His mother is absurdly fond of the
little fellow. I don’t want to hurry you—Saltren, and you can always
rely on me as ready to do my best for you, but I think you ought to look
about you, at your leisure, you know, but still look about you. And,
damn that article, don’t you have anything to do with Welsh, he will
lead you, heaven alone knows whither.”
“My lord,” said Saltren, “you forestall me. I myself was about to ask
leave to depart. I have not the natural qualifications for a tutor; I
lack, perhaps, the necessary patience. I intend to embrace the literary
profession. Indeed, I may almost say that I have secured a situation
which will make me independent. Secured is, possibly, too decided a
word—I have applied for one.”
“I am glad to hear it, I am very glad. My lady said she thought you had
a fancy for something else. But—don’t have anything to do with Welsh. He
will carry you along the wrong course, along one where I could do
nothing for you, and, I will always help you when I can.”
“My lord, whenever you can, with convenience, spare me——”
“Spare you! Oh don’t let us stand in your way. You have almost got a
berth to get into?”
“I have applied for a place which I may almost say I can calculate on
having. My only difficulty has been, that I did not know when I should
be at liberty. If your lordship would kindly allow me to leave
immediately——”
“My dear fellow, suit your own convenience. We can manage with Giles.
The rector will give him an hour or two of Latin and Greek, till the
term begins, when he can go to school. I don’t know that I won’t let the
monkey run wild till the time comes for the tasks to begin.”
“Then, my lord, it is understood that I may go immediately?”
“Certainly.”
Though Lord Lamerton gave his consent, he was a little surprised at the
readiness of the tutor to leave Orleigh, and to throw up his situation
before he had really secured another. There was something ungracious in
his conduct after all the kindnesses he had received which jarred on his
lordship’s feelings. He had a real liking for the young man, and he was
desirous that he should do well for himself. He was unable to resist the
temptation to say—“You seem in a vast hurry to leave us, Saltren.”
“I have reasons, my lord. Something has occurred which makes it
imperative on me to leave this house immediately.”
“Do you refer to this article by our own correspondent?”
“Not at all, my lord. It has no connection with that. Something, a
distressing secret, has come to my knowledge, which forces me to quit
Orleigh.”
“What the deuce is it?”
“I will probably write to you, my lord, about it when I am away.”
“It is a secret then, between you and me, and—any one else?”
“It is a secret that concerns me most closely, and indeed, others beside
me. But, no doubt, your lordship has divined to what I allude.”
Lord Lamerton turned hot and cold. Now Arminell’s mysterious words
recurred to his memory. What had her meaning been? Was the tutor
referring to the same matter? Had that headstrong girl thrown herself
into his arms, protesting that she loved him? Very likely. She was
capable of doing such a thing. What else could she have meant? What else
could induce the young man to go precipitately?
Lord Lamerton hesitated a moment what to say, looking down, and knitting
his brows.
“You have, my lord, I can see, guessed to what I refer. It is not a
matter on which we can speak together. It would be too painful. Each of
us would rather say nothing on a very distressing matter. Let what has
passed suffice for the present. I am sure, my lord, that you can
understand my motives in desiring to leave promptly.”
“’Pon my soul, I think I do. Dash it, I do!”
“Then, my lord, you will not desire to retain me in Orleigh any longer?”
“No—for God’s sake, go. I respect you. You are behaving aright. I am
sorry, I am ashamed, but there, there, you are acting properly. I will
not say another word. Go where you like, and always look to me as your
friend, nay, as taking almost a fatherly interest in you.”
He held out his hand, caught that of young Saltren and pressed it, then
left the room for his wife’s boudoir.
“Julia,” said he, in an agitated tone, “things are worse than we
imagined. I thought nothing of it, but you women have eyes where men are
blind.”
“What has happened?”
“Armie—good heavens!—Armie has offered herself to young Saltren, and he,
like a gentleman, like a true, honourable gentleman, has asked me to let
him go, because he cannot remain here any longer, under the
circumstances.”
“Did he tell you this?”
“Not in so many words, but there was no mistaking his meaning. Of course
he felt a delicacy—he did not like to say how—but, there, there! I shall
be angry again. Ah, that girl! Armie is well off, has her mother’s
fortune; he knows that, but was not to be dazzled. He sees what is right
to be done, and does it. Hah! There comes Macduff. I see him in the
drive. I’ll have the masons at once, this morning, and tear down
Patience Kite’s cottage.”