A CONTRETEMPS.
The inquest on young Tubb took place on the following day. This
occasioned fresh unpleasantness, and further excitement of feeling.
Unfortunately Captain Saltren was on the jury, and he insisted, against
all evidence and reason, in maintaining that the verdict should be to
the effect that Archelaus Tubb had been murdered by his lordship. One
other juryman agreed with him, but the others could not go so far. As
Saltren stubbornly refused to yield, the jury was discharged, and
another summoned by the coroner, which returned “Accidental death,” but
with a rider blaming Macduff for carelessness in the destruction of the
cottage.
Arminell was changed in her behaviour to her father since she had heard
Mrs. Saltren’s story. She had lost faith in him; those good qualities
which she had previously recognised in him, she now believed to be
unreal. The man as he was had been disclosed to her—false, sensual,
wanting in honour. All the good he displayed was the domino cast over
and concealing the mean and shabby reality. He wore his domino
naturally, with a frank _bonhommie_ which was the perfection of
acting—but then, it was acting. Arminell was very straightforward, blunt
and sincere, and hated everything which was not open. Social life she
represented to herself as a school of disguises, a masquerade in which
no one shows as he is, but dresses in the part he wishes to appear in.
Some men and women are such finished actors that they forget themselves
in their assumed parts, and such was her father. Having to occupy the
position of a county magnate, he had come to fit the position
exteriorly, and had accommodated his conscience to the delusion that he
was what he pretended to be—the wealthy, blameless, honourable nobleman,
against whom not a stone could be cast. All this was a pretence, and
Arminell was not angry, only her moral nature revolted at the
assumption. Her high principle and downrightness made her resent the
fraud that had been perpetrated on herself and the world.
She had on several occasions heard her father speak in public, and had
felt ashamed because he spoke so badly, but chiefly because she was
convinced that he was repeating, parrot-like, what had been put into his
mouth by my lady. He pretended to speak his own thoughts, and he spoke
those of his wife—that was an assumption, and so was his respectability,
so his morality.
Arminell had long undervalued her father’s mental powers, but she had
believed in his rectitude. She thought his virtue was like that stupid
going straightforward that is found in a farmer’s horse, which will jog
along the road, and go straight, and be asleep as it goes. But Mrs.
Saltren’s story, which she believed in spite of the improbabilities,
improbabilities she did not stop to consider, had overthrown the
conviction, and she now saw in her father a man as morally imperfect as
he was intellectually deficient.
Had he been open, and not attempted to disguise his offence, she might
have forgiven him, but when he assumed the disguise of an upright
God-fearing man, doing his duty, her strictly truthful nature rose up in
indignant protest.
* * * * *
“My dear!” exclaimed Lady Lamerton; “good gracious, what is this I hear?
What have you done? Undertaken to throw open the grounds and house on
Saturday! Why, Lamerton, how could you? Saturday is the day on which I
proposed to give our garden-party.”
“’Pon my word, Julia, I forgot about your garden-party!”
“You promised to make a note of the day.”
“So I did—not to be from home. But I forgot when I was asked to allow
the place to be seen.”
“You must countermand the order to have it opened.”
“That I cannot do. I publicly, at the meeting, announced that I would
allow the house and grounds to be overrun on Saturday, and I cannot
withdraw the permission.”
“Only for this once.”
“Not for this once. It is the first Saturday after the promise was made.
You must postpone your garden-party.”
“I cannot do that. The invitations have been sent out. There is no time;
ices, the band, everything, are ordered.”
“Well, Julia, we must make shift as we can.”
“Look here, Lamerton, how will it do to confine our party to the terrace
and garden, and have refreshments in the orangery?”
“So be it; that will do very well. The guests will not object. Tell them
there has been a clash, and they will enjoy the joke.”
“The public will want to be admitted to the house by the principal
entrance.”
“Of course. They are to be shown the state apartments, and the doubtful
Van Dyck.”
“Then—how about our guests? What a predicament you have got me into. We
cannot receive our guests at the back door.”
“No need for that, Julia. Receive in the garden. The carriages will set
down the guests at the iron gates. Pray heaven we may have fine
weather!”
“It will be very awkward. The footmen will have to look after the
sight-seers, that they do not poke their umbrellas through the pictures,
or finger the ornaments—and we shall want them in the garden to attend
to our guests!”
“It will go all right. I will send Macduff to arrange. He is a manager.”
After a pause, Lady Lamerton said, “I am glad Hermione will take
Arminell under her wing. You have told Armie to be ready to start on
Monday?”
“Yes; I don’t understand the girl, whether she is in a sulk, or sorry
for her misconduct.”
“Her boxes are being got ready,” said Lady Lamerton. “There is something
in her manner that is uncomfortable. I have noticed it as well as you.
When I speak about Lady Hermione, she says nothing, and leaves the
room.”
“A plunge in London life will renovate her.”
“I trust so. She sadly needs renovation. The caldron of a London season
differs from that of Pelias. The latter rejuvenated those dipped in it;
but the former matures.”
“Have you spoken to Arminell about going out with Jingles the other
night?”
Lady Lamerton shook her head.
“No,” said his lordship, “I know it is of no use. Best say nothing. We
must build our hopes on a diversion of her thoughts.”
“Yes—” Lady Lamerton mused, then heaved a sigh. “Oh, Lamerton, what a
muddle you have made! How shall we manage a garden party when we have
the public swarming all about the place? It is a _contretemps_!”