A RALLY.
Giles Inglett Saltren had left the cab at Cumberland Gate, when the
momentary faintness had passed. He wished to be alone, in the fresh air,
and with his own thoughts. His uncle had detained the cab till he saw
that his nephew was better. He left him on a bench in the park and bade
him remain there till his return from the interview with Arminell.
The young man felt the relief of being alone. The vibration of the
carriage, his uncle’s voice, his own self-reproach, had, combined with
the shock of the news of his lordship’s death, brought about the slight
fit of unconsciousness. He was in that overwrought condition of nervous
tension in which another touch would be insupportable; and Welsh’s
finger was not light, he twanged the fibres in his nephew’s heart, not
as if he were playing a harp with finger-balls, but as if he were
performing on a zither with his nails. The air was cool; the bench on
which Jingles was seated had not another occupant. The great open space
in Hyde Park devoted to political meetings was sparsely peopled at that
time in the morning; he was not likely to be disturbed, and the rumble
of vehicles along Uxbridge Road and Oxford Street produced a soothing
effect rather than the contrary.
A Frenchman was walking along the path before his bench with a
walking-stick; he had found a bit of slate in the way, and with his cane
he flipped it along a few feet, then stopped, and flipped it on to the
grass; went upon the turf and flipped it back into the path. Then he
sent it forward, past Jingles on his bench, and so on as far as
Cumberland Gate, where the young man lost sight of Monsieur, and was
unable to see whether he continued to drive the scrap of slate before
him up Oxford Street in the direction of his haunts in Leicester Square,
or whether he left it under the arch.
Till the Frenchman had disappeared, Giles Saltren did not begin to
consider his own trouble. He could not do so till the bit of slate was
gone beyond his range, with Monsieur after it. Watching the man was a
sensible relief to him. When one has run, a pause allows the recovery of
breath, and abates the pulsations, so did this diversion of attention
serve to relieve Jingles, to lull the agony of remorse, and enable his
mind to regain something of evenness and tone.
When a man has been struck on the head by a hammer, he falls. Jingles
had received three stunning blows, and recovery could not be immediate.
His sanguine hopes of living by his pen had been upset, and that was a
blow to his self-esteem. Then his belief in his noble parentage had been
knocked over. And lastly he had heard of Lord Lamerton’s death—and
whether that were accidental or not, he could hardly doubt that he had
brought it about, for his lordship would not have left his guests to go
to Chillacot, had he not been impelled to do so by learning of the
elopement.
There are moments in the lives of most of us when we come on new scenes
that are epoch-making in our life’s history. I shall never forget as
such my first view of Mont Blanc, from the Col de Balme, and of a
portion of the moon’s surface through the Cambridge Observatory
telescope, or the first sight of death. Some of these first sights are
invested with pleasure unutterable, others with infinite pain; and of
such latter are often those peeps within ourselves which we sometimes
obtain.
What atmospheric effects, what changing lights, all beautiful, invest
the outer landscape with magic, even where the scenery is tame. How
rarely is it unpleasing to the eye. And it is the same when we turn our
eyes inwards, and contemplate the landscape of our own selves, what
glories of light flood all, what richness of foliage clothes all, how
picturesque are the inequalities! How vast the surface to the horizon!
And yet, it sometimes happens, not often, and not even to all, that a
shadow falls over the scene and blots out all its comeliness, and then
ensues a flare, a lightning flash, and we see all—no longer beautiful,
but infinitely ghastly.
Saint Theresa, in one of her autobiographical sketches, says that she
was shown her own self, on one occasion of introspection, not as she was
wont to view it, but as it was in naked reality, and she could never
after recall the vision without a shudder.
Who sees himself as he is? Who wishes to do so? Who would not be
offended were you to exhibit to his eyes a picture of himself as he is?
No one likes his own photograph, for the sun does not flatter. But no
photographs have yet been taken of man’s interior self; if they were, no
one would consent to look on his own; he would spend all his fortune in
buying up the copies and destroying the plates.
We are accustomed to view ourselves as those do who stand on the
Brocken, magnified a thousand fold, with rainbow haloes about our heads.
I have known a little fellow, who reached my elbow, strut with infinite
consequence and gesticulate with tragic dignity on the Brocken, before
his own shadow projected on a cloud, nimbus-girded, and vast as the
All-Father of Norse mythology. A breath of wind passed, and the phantom
vanished. But we carry our Brocken shadow about with us everywhere, and
posture to it, and look up to it with an awe and admiration that slides
into worship; and very rarely does the cold east wind sweep it away. But
there remains this consolation to the Brocken shadow worshipper, that
when the phantom form disappears, _nothing_ remains behind, and it is a
satisfaction, a poor one, but still a satisfaction, when the blast has
dispelled our ideal self before which we have bowed, to discover behind
it simple nonentity. There would be disenchantment indeed, and a graver
walk, and a more subdued voice, and a less self-asserting tone, but
there would not be that exquisite, that annihilating horror that ensues
when the scattering of the vapour discloses a reality the reverse at
every point of what we had imagined.
In the Egyptian temples hung purple curtains embroidered with gold, and
censers perpetually smoked before the veil, and golden lamps, ever
burning, diffused a mellow light through the sacred enclosure. What was
behind that pictured spangled veil, within the holy of holies? Sometimes
a hippopotamus wallowing on straw—or a chattering crane—sometimes
Nothing. We are engaged all our lives in the erection of magnificent
temples about ourselves, and in embroidering gold-besprent curtains, and
in the burning of frankincense, and in the kindling and feeding of
lamps, in these tabernacles; and what is behind the veil? Do we know? Do
we ever look? We paint and plate with gold ideal representations of the
god within on the propylæum of our temple, but what resemblance does
this figure bear to the reality? Do we know? Do we care to know? Will we
not rather put out our eyes than compare them? If, by chance, a sudden
gleam of sun, a puff of pure air, stir the curtain and reveal the
mystery, with what haste we fly to duplicate the veils, to blind the
windows, to nail the curtains to the gilded sideposts, and weight them
with lead. How we redouble our prostrations, and make more dense the
cloud of incense; how we elaborate our ceremonial, and when the
hippopotamus within yawns, or the ibis chatters, we clash our symbals,
boom our drums, peal our trumpets to drown the utterance of the god.
There was in Alexandria no god like unto Serapis, whose temple was the
wonder of the world. But one day an impious hand struck off the head,
and out of the gilded idol rushed a legion of rats. There is no god, no
idol, like the ideal self within the veil; but it does not chance to
every one as it chanced to Giles Inglett Saltren, to have its head
knocked off and see the vermin scamper out of it. When that does happen,
that is a moment never to be forgotten. It is a moment of infinite
importance in the life-history, it is a moment determinative of the
future. The worshippers of Serapis, after that terrible spectacle, which
was also extremely laughable, stood in consternation; and at that moment
stood also at the fork of two roads. Either they shuffled off to the
left, with their hands in their pockets, damning all religion, and
vowing they would believe in nothing thenceforth, or they moved with
firm steps along the right-hand road that led to a truer faith.
The same takes place with us when the Serapis of our ideal self is
broken and reveals the nest of rats within, Either our moral nature
becomes disintegrated, and breaks down utterly and irremediably into
unsightly débris, or we turn from the worship of ourselves to seek
elsewhere our ideal, and looking to it, attain to a nobler, more
generous, an altruistic life.
Mr. James Welsh had not spared Jingles; he had told him plainly, even
coarsely, what he thought of him, but no words of his could express the
intensity of the sense of infamy that Giles Inglett felt. For a moment
he had been stunned, numbed as hand and foot become numbed for awhile,
and then with a tingling and needle-pricking, the moral juices began
once more to flow, and the agony of inner pain he felt was the pledge of
moral recovery.
As soon as Giles Inglett Saltren began to consider what were the
consequences drawn upon him and Arminell by his folly, an almost
overpowering desire came over him to fly from England. He had sufficient
money to pay his passage across the Atlantic, and to maintain him in a
new world till he could obtain a suitable situation. In a new world he
might begin life anew, leaving behind his old follies and faults, and
make a smooth table of the past. In the old world he could do nothing to
remedy what he had wrought; but he put the temptation from him. He saw
that to yield to it would be an act of cowardice, and would result in
moral ruin. Instinctively, without self-analysis, he reached the
conclusion that a single course lay open before him if he were to save
his moral self from wreck. The same moment that he became conscious of
this, he stood up, and hailed a passing empty hansom.
That moment saw the beginning of a new life in him; new ends, new
visions rose before his eyes.
Thus it was that Giles Inglett Saltren entered the sitting-room where
his uncle was engaged with Arminell, and thus it was that he entered it
a very different man from what Mr. Welsh had described him.
“How came you here?” asked the journalist. “Did not I tell you to remain
in Hyde Park till you were wanted?”
“I have come,” answered Giles firmly, “to speak to Miss Inglett. I have
a just duty to perform to her, to clear her mind of the clouds I have
brought over it. Miss Inglett, I was utterly wrong in supposing that his
lordship was—was—what I let you believe him to be, my father. I did him
a grievous wrong, I imagined it possible that the best and most
blameless of men had been guilty of the basest conduct. And now that
your father is dead—”
“Dead!” echoed Arminell.
Saltren looked at his uncle. He had supposed that Welsh had broken the
news to the girl.
“Yes,” said he, and his voice, which before was firm, gave way for a
moment. “Your father is dead.”
“Dead!” again repeated Arminell, and put her hands to her brow. She was
being stunned by repeated blows, as Saltren had been stunned. “Dead!
Impossible.”
“Miss Inglett, it is as well that you should know all, and know it at
once, for action must be taken immediately. Your father has met with an
accident—he has been found dead after a fall. I shall return immediately
by the express to Orleigh. I go to my mother at Chillacot. You must
allow my uncle at once to escort you to Lady Hermione; place yourself
under her protection, and confide to her all the particulars of your
leaving home. I will see Lady Lamerton, and she shall telegraph to you
at Lady Hermione’s to return to the Park. I will wire at once, in your
name, to your mother, to send your lady’s-maid to you at your aunt’s in
Portland Place. Your maid will find you there, and attend you home to
Orleigh. It is possible that by this means your running away from home
with me may remain unknown. You left Orleigh on Saturday, by to-night
your maid will be with you in Portland Place, and I shall be seen this
evening at Orleigh, where I shall make it a point of showing myself. It
is therefore not likely that suspicions of my ever having left may
arise. There is no time to be lost. You will hear, all too soon, the
particulars of your father’s death—about myself I will not speak. I
should be ashamed to say a word in self-justification, and my
self-reproach is beyond the power of words to express.”
Arminell turned herself about, as though rotating on a pivot, holding
her temples with both hands, and elbows extended.
“Yes,” said Mr. Welsh, “this is well considered. Giles, it shall be as
you say. I will take Miss Inglett at once to Portland Place, unless she
prefers that I should go to her ladyship, and prepare her; and then Miss
Inglett can follow. That probably will be the least painful course.”
Arminell still swung herself from side to side. She was pale as ashes,
and her eyes full of trouble and terror.
“I will go home directly, uncle,” said Giles. “I have acted not like a
fool only, but wickedly, and I must face the consequences.”
Arminell remained stationary, and released her temples.
“What was that you said?” she asked.
“As I have been guilty, not of indiscretion only, but of a crime,” said
he, gravely, “I must face the consequences, be they what they may.” Then
Arminell drew a long breath. She recovered her composure for a moment.
She recalled what had been her judgment on her father when she thought
him guilty.
“I also,” she said, and her voice was harsh, “I also have been guilty,
not of folly only, but of a crime. I have sinned against my dear, dear
father. I will not go to my Aunt Hermione. I will not go back to
Orleigh.”
“But the repentant prodigal,” said Welsh, “in the Gospel story did
return.”
“When the father was at home to receive him,” answered Arminell,
sharply. “There is not—” She drew another long breath; and then said, “I
also will face the consequences.”
END OF VOL II.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
--------------
S. BARING GOULD, M.A.
--------------
=HISTORIC ODDITIES AND STRANGE EVENTS.= Demy 8vo, 10s. 6d.
[Now Ready.
“Striking into the dark side-paths of history, we have a
collection of exciting and entertaining chapters. The
volume is delightful reading.”—_Times._
“The entire contents are stimulating and
delightful.”—_Notes and Queries._
=OLD COUNTRY LIFE.= With numerous Illustrations and
Initial Letters by W. PARKINSON, F. D. BEDFORD, and F.
MASEY. Large Crown 8vo, 10s. 6d. A limited number of
copies on large paper will also be printed.
[_On November 18._
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_CONTENTS._
CHAP.
I. OLD COUNTY FAMILIES.
II. THE LAST SQUIRE.
III. COUNTRY HOUSES.
IV. THE OLD GARDEN.
V. THE COUNTRY PARSON.
VI. THE HUNTING PARSON.
VII. COUNTRY DANCES.
VIII. OLD ROADS.
IX. FAMILY PORTRAITS.
X. THE VILLAGE MUSICIANS.
XI. THE VILLAGE BARD.
XII. OLD SERVANTS.
XIII. THE HUNT.
XIV. THE COUNTY TOWN.
=JAEL AND OTHER STORIES. (In February.)=
=YORKSHIRE ODDITIES. New and Cheaper Edition. (In the
Press.)=
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Punctuation has been normalized. Variations in hyphenation have been
retained as they were in the original publication. The following changes
have been made:
excede —> exceed the requisite measure. {page 49}
Ill would came of it —> come of it {page 94}
The idea in kneaded, —> is kneaded, {page 111}
simple nonenity —> nonentity {page 295}
Advertising material “By the Same Author” has been moved to the end of
the text.
Footnotes have been moved to the end of the chapter in which they occur.
Italicized phrases are presented by surrounding the text with
_underscores_.
Bolded phrases are presented by surrounding the text with =equal signs=.
Words and phrases presented in mixed small capital letters in the
original are presented using ALL CAPITAL LETTERS.
End of Project Gutenberg's Arminell (Vol 2/3), by Sabine Baring-Gould