_Nouveau Riche_
A Crocean dawn was outside and around him when he awoke--yellow, of the
metropolitan variety; it was, that is to say, a fog. But in spite of
the dullness of the outer world, Mr. Trimblerigg awoke happy, with the
happiness of a man whose prayer has been answered.
For many days he had been praying fervently that his character might be
placed above suspicion: and now that Davidina’s suspicion of him had
gone, and his own with it, he had just everything for the present that
he could pray for. And on the top of it, he had forgiven an enemy--in
such a way that, if he did not miscalculate, his enemy would presently
have to forgive him.
There, in that purified spiritual atmosphere, another great work was
awaiting him. All omens were auspicious; he knew now for certain that
he was going to achieve fame, and that very soon, among the Free
Churches, he would be able to have almost whatever position he liked,
and do almost anything he chose. And so, as he got up in that crocean
dawn, he felt all about him, but especially in his brain, an effusing
sense of well-being and happiness. And as he looked at himself in the
glass before shaving, he smiled: and it seemed to him then that his
countenance was wonderfully bright.
Presently, as he shaved, he began to have a suspicion that the
illumination was different and strange: that there was a curious
absence of shadow about his chubby cheeks and under his chin, which
made shaving easy; and this, too, on a dark morning.
This fact only dawned on him gradually; for close above his head
hung the electric pendant, with its bulb of powerful light directed
downwards by the white porcelain shade. But when, thoughtful of the
high price of electricity, he turned it out and once more faced his
glass to give a final polish to his hair, there could no longer be
any doubt that he was in the presence of something which waited to be
explained--something too mysterious, too incredible to be described as
a phenomenon.
‘Crocean dawn’: the embodied phrase looked him in the face. But how
had it located itself? Was it physical, or spiritual, or was it only
mental? ‘Miracle’ he did not think of calling it; his Free Church
upbringing had given him an instinctive repugnance to such Romish
things as modern miracles; though he admitted the possibility (but
that was different) of miraculous answer to prayer. But miracles
of a personal and a phenomenal kind he regarded with a certain
suspicion--had indeed published in _The Rock of Ages_ an article
against them, wherein, with unrelenting logic, he had traced them to
spiritual agencies--if spiritual they might be called--not of good but
of evil. And now--this!
But if it was not a miracle in the accepted sense, if it was only
something seen with the eye of the spirit, nevertheless there it was,
carrying implications, and imposing if not exactly a burden--a problem,
a weight of responsibility, which he did not quite know how he was to
solve.
He could not help feeling that, for the present at least, he would
like to keep it to himself, until he was a little more sure. But then
a sudden sense of elation carried him away; for of what he had hoped
might be true, this surely was proof; he really was--good! Even if it
was only a recognition--an encouragement sent confidentially, for
his eye alone, it meant--it must mean--that Heaven approved of him.
The beauty of holiness was upon him in visible form--a certificate
of character unimpeachable in its completeness; and yet, for an
uncomfortable instant, the thought had flashed--how was he going to
live up to it? Could he be as holy in practice as this advertised him
to be? No, for the present at least, he would rather that it should
not be seen. This was early dawn: he was hardly up to it. He must
acclimatize himself.
So here, in the privacy of his own chamber, he examined the portent at
leisure, and from all points of view. Trying to see himself, as others
might presently be seeing him, he continued his study of the glass.
Around a face broader than it was long, a wide forehead, puckered
eyes, short nose, a neat bunch of a mouth, and hair worn rather long,
turning up at the ends like the hair of the knave of hearts, a faint
lemon-coloured radiance emerged, effused, flowed for a few inches, and
then suddenly stopped short.
It was that abrupt ending which gave it so uncanny a character. Earthly
radiance diminishes as it travels from its source; but this behaved
differently--was indeed, if anything, brighter where it ended than
where it started. Thus, from a front view, it had that plate-like
appearance with which stained-glass windows and pictures of mediæval
saints had made him familiar.
Going to his wife’s dressing-table he took up the hand-mirror, so as to
get a better side-view. The plate-like appearance persisted: quarter,
three-quarter, and back view were always the same. The emanation was
not flat, then, but round; a glory of three dimensions encircled him,
and he moved in a globe of light which, like a head of dandelion seed,
was brightest toward the edge, yet so faint and unsubstantial, it
seemed as though a breath might blow it away.
Once more he brushed his hair for experiment. The lemon-coloured flame
did not deflect or waver from its outward symmetry; nor did his head
experience any electric thrills, as though virtue were passing either
into him or out of him. With a slight sense of disappointment he laid
his brushes down, and put on his coat. This, he found on consulting
the glass, had made no change, except that upon the black cloth fell a
slight radiance; but when for further experiment he once more switched
on the light, it almost disappeared; and against the window, looking
back at himself in the hand-mirror, for a moment he persuaded himself
that it had gone. But if an involuntary wish had fathered that thought,
he had only to move away from the light for its form and colour to
reappear as strongly as ever; and as it responded with unvarying
consistency to all the experiments he played on it, so did his sense of
its reality become a conviction. It was not merely an idea, it was a
fact.
And then the feeble tinkle of a bell below told him of breakfast. He
went out on to the landing and peeped over the banisters.
Hearing dilatory sounds among the breakfast things, ‘Mrs. James,’ he
called, ‘you needn’t wait.’ And a minute later, on hearing her descend
to the basement, he came downstairs at a run.
At table, in case Mrs. James should find excuse to return, he took his
wife’s place instead of his own, sitting with his back to the window;
and found, in that position, though the morning was still dark, that he
could see into his egg quite easily. Thus, even while away from his
mirror, the sense of something real, not imaginary, remained with him.
But it gave him no joy; for though in himself he felt at unity with
this day-spring from on high that had visited him, he was doubtful how
it would appear to the outside world--whether the world was ripe for
it--whether, indeed, it was intended for the outside world at all. It
was already in his mind that if he entered his Mission Centre office
by the ordinary way, he would have to run the gauntlet of a roomful of
clerks; and that his unexplained accompaniment might provoke comment,
possibly even mirth. And Mr. Trimblerigg, even with reason on his side,
was not one who liked to be laughed at.
Unable to make up his mind what he felt about it himself, now, as he
considered the matter from the worldly point of view, he began to
regard it with less and less favour. He could not but feel that for
such a manifestation as this the world needed preparation; a publicity
campaign should have gone first and some more obvious occasion should
have been found for its first appearance--this, in all humility--than
one so merely personal to himself, a testimonial to the integrity of
his character.
And then--to give the first test to his doubts--came the interrogative
Mrs. James, merely wishing to know what meals he would be in for, and
whether, if callers came to inquire for him, he would name any time
when he should be at home.
Mr. Trimblerigg, keeping his head in the light of the window, gave
her the required instructions, and saw at once from the uneventful
expression of her face that she had noticed nothing.
This threw him suddenly back upon doubt; and no sooner had she
returned to her kitchen than he ran upstairs again, and looked once
more in the glass.
The visitation was still upon him; but now that there was more daylight
he saw it much less; nor had it so definite an edge where the radiance
left off. Had he been a woman a broad-brimmed hat with plenty of veil
about it would have made what was there quite unnoticeable; or had he
been a missionary in India wearing a turban in all the glare of the
Eastern sun. But fate had decreed otherwise; the environment he had to
face was not of so obscuring a kind.
Then all at once the thought occurred to him--what would it be like at
night? He drew down blinds, closed curtains, and went back to the glass.
The vivid result made him realize, with a shock, the actual state at
which his mind had now arrived with regard to facing his fellow-men.
‘I shan’t be able to go out at night,’ he said to himself. ‘I should
frighten people.’
But as a matter of fact he was getting frightened himself. He knew
definitely now that he wished it had not happened: and so, being
of that mind, more and more did he entreat to be told how it could
have happened. Was it from his brain, or his body, or his soul, that
these rays emanated; and were they a symptom--physical, mental, or
spiritual--of sickness or health; and if of sickness, were they to be
temporary or permanent?
So he debated; yet when it came to addressing himself directly to the
possible source of all this trouble, he was hesitant what to do. He
did not wish to seem ungrateful, or to confess to moral cowardice, or
even to plead the most plausible excuse--that he was unworthy; and so
after hesitating for awhile he kept his thoughts unobtrusively to
himself on the earthly plane. What never struck him for a moment was
that he had done this himself--that, just as when you put water in a
kettle upon the fire, it boils till presently it boils over, so if you
put self-belief and self-worship into an ebullient and imaginative
brain, the belief will out, like murder, in one form or another; and
as pictorial imagery was Mr. Trimblerigg’s strong point--to the point,
one may say, of intoxication--this halo was but the bouquet or visible
fragrance of the life within. And just as his own and his wife’s mirror
between them reflected it with accuracy and completeness, with equal
accuracy and completeness it reflected him.
It ought, therefore, to have done him good; but the experience was
too wild and sudden and strange; for this was the very first time
in all his life when he had wished to keep himself to himself,
under circumstances which apparently made it impossible. Nor did he
yet realize that this was but the preliminary stage--the eruption
stage--the stage of concentrated effort outwardly expressed, in
which it sought to establish itself in his mind and consciousness as
a fixed part of a pervasive and expansive personality, destined to
go much further in the world than he had ever yet dreamed. Being a
temperamental halo--pale at first, rather uncertain of itself and of
its relations to the society into which it was born, it was not yet
all that it would wish to be; it had not yet made itself at home. But
even in the first few hours of its existence it fluctuated, waxing
and waning in response to the spirit within; and when the time came
for him to go out into the street and face the world, when for a few
uncomfortable moments he stood hesitating by the hat-stand, it almost
died out.
But this would have been to deny himself entirely; and this he could
not do. He put on his overcoat; then with a wavering mind asked himself
what hat he should wear with it--with IT, that is to say. It seemed
almost to savour of irreverence that he should wear a hat at all. But
unwilling to make himself more noticeable than necessary, he finally
selected one. Then, before putting the hat on, he went upstairs, to
have a last look at himself. It was then--he saw, or hoped--almost
undetectable; but when he put on his hat--a black one--it once more
leapt into local prominence, disappointing his hope that what covered
his head might have covered that also. On the contrary, his hat failing
to contain it, it seemed rather to contain his hat.
As he went forth, the undemonstrative Mrs. James looked out at him from
her window. She had not detected, she did not detect now, the thing he
had striven to conceal: but his fluttered manner and his talking to her
with his back to the light had made her suspicious: ‘It’s my belief
he’s been having a night out,’ she remarked to herself as she watched
him go. And though she owned it was no concern of hers, she allowed the
suspicion to entertain her all the rest of the day; and when in the
afternoon a rather agitated lady called, with a bruised face, wishing
urgently to see him or to know where he was to be found, but refusing
to disclose her name, she did her best for his morals by giving the
address which in another twenty-four hours would be his; where, she
explained pointedly, he had gone with his wife and family to have a
little rest and be away from people.
And while Mrs. James was thus providing adventure for him, according to
the light that was in her, he by reason of the light that was not in
him but on him, was having adventures of his own.
Upon opening the street door he was pleased to find that it was
beginning to rain. He went back, fetched his umbrella, opened it, and
emerged holding the umbrella rather low in order to protect--his hat.
Then he stepped out briskly, trying to think and to move naturally;
but the terrible literalness of the streets troubled him. In such
surroundings he felt more than ever the incongruity which under modern
conditions, separates matter from spirit. To walk in the light of the
gospel had hitherto seemed to him easy; but now to walk in his own
light was difficult.
He was getting along, however, and so far had not attracted attention.
On the other side of the street went a whistling boy, casting down
newspapers through area railings. As he passed he felt that the boy had
become aware of him, for the whistling had stopped.
A moment later from behind, from across the street, came the cry,
‘Hullo, old lamp-shade!’
Was that from the boy? Was it intended for him? And was it as a lighted
scarecrow that the world was going to regard him? He did not turn to
find out; he made no sign that he had heard; but passing a shop front
he sidled, and tilting his umbrella took a look at himself. Yes, under
the shade of the umbrella, it was painfully distinct. He lifted the
umbrella away; it almost disappeared.
That decided him. It was only humility, he told himself; he did not
wish to be seen of men; he furled his umbrella, and stood with his best
hat exposed to the rain.
Cabs and taxis passed him; he could, of course, have taken one; but
those dark interiors would make more show of him than an umbrella; a
bus with its glass sides, or better still its top open to the sky, was
what he now waited for. And then down came more rain, making a bus-top
ridiculous. He screwed his courage up to the sticking point; after all,
it must be done; he must test his public and find out if life--life on
earth, life inside as well as outside a bus, life in a modern city--was
possible.
Round the corner came the right numbered motor-bus. As it drew up he
had a cowardly sense of relief; there was no one on the top, and the
inside seemed full. The conductor dispelled his hope. ‘Room for one,’
he said; and Mr. Trimblerigg got in. It was unfortunate; he had to go
to the far end, where there was less light.
An old lady, as he settled beside her, said to her companion, ‘I do
believe the sun’s coming out!’ ‘It can’t: it’s raining too hard,’ was
the reply.
Before long he was aware that those opposite were studying him with
curious gaze. Elderly gentlemen lowered their papers, wiped and refixed
their glasses, but did not resume reading. Their eyes bulged a little
as they tried to believe them. Mr. Trimblerigg grew irritated; he
wished they would make up their minds and have done with it. Presently
a woman, sitting opposite, with a bandaged infant in her arms, leaned
forward and remarked confidentially:
‘So you’ve been ’aving it too, have yer?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mr. Trimblerigg. ‘Having what?’
‘Haven’t they been X-raying you?’ she explained inquiringly. ‘They done
it to this one ’ere six times; but it don’t show like that on ’im. Does
it ’urt much?’
‘Not at all,’ said Mr. Trimblerigg, smiling: and then, taking a plunge
at his public, for others were listening. ‘This is merely a first
experiment, I didn’t think anyone would notice it.’
He was aware that, as he spoke, the eyes of all his fellow-passengers
had gravitated towards him; that he was exciting more undivided
interest now than when he first got in.
Just then the conductor came along to collect his fare, and Mr.
Trimblerigg, who knew the amount of it, tendered a three-penny bit,
without comment.
‘Angel, sir?’ inquired the man encouragingly, naming a destination,
intent on his job. Somebody at the far end tittered, and a smile went
down the row of faces opposite.
That remark, and its reception, revealed to Mr. Trimblerigg more than
anything which had yet happened, the unfortunate position in which
any approach to the truth placed him. The spirit of the age was not
attuned to receive it seriously, far less with reverence. Dispensations
of Providence such as this no longer entered into the calculations of
men’s minds; nor was seeing believing, except on lines purely material.
Surrounded by that atmosphere of scepticism which he felt in his bones,
Mr. Trimblerigg had himself succumbed, and spoken, not as a man of
faith having things of mystery to declare, but as an experimentalist,
peddling in science--so adapting himself to a public which had no use
for things spiritual: truly an inglorious demonstration of his famous
thesis that truth is only relative.
The old lady and her companion got out, looking back at him as they
went with slightly scared eyes and puzzled smiles. One of the newspaper
readers moved up and sat next to him. The bus had halted under the
gloom of a broad railway arch, and he became aware that a gentle
light, emanating from himself, fell upon the faces on either side of
him. The newspaper reader, making acknowledgment with a pleased smile,
tilted his newspaper so as to obtain the benefit. ‘Very convenient,’ he
murmured; ‘quite a new idea. Where can one get it?’
And so challenged Mr. Trimblerigg still had not the courage to explain.
‘I haven’t the maker’s name,’ he said. ‘It isn’t mine. I’m only trying
it.’
And hearing himself so speak, he sat aghast; it was horrible thus to be
denying the light that was in him. Yet what else could he say, so as to
be believed?
‘How do you put it on?’ pursued his interrogator. ‘What is it, luminous
paint?’
‘No, nothing of that sort,’ he replied. ‘It’s a secret. I mustn’t
explain.’
And then, though he had not reached his destination, unable to bear it
any more, he called for a stop and got out.
Having alighted on the pavement, feeling painfully the concentration
of at least twenty-four pairs of eyes upon his back, he put up his
umbrella to cut off the view, though it had really ceased to rain, and
made haste away.
Somebody had got out after him. He heard steps insistently close
following him; then a voice speaking the American accent.
‘Say! pardon me, sir. Do you mind telling whether you are advertising
that as a patent? Can be got anywhere?’
‘No, it can’t exactly be got,’ said Mr. Trimblerigg, whose own more
insistent question was whether it could be got rid of. ‘It isn’t mine.
I’m just trying it.’
‘It’s very remarkable, very striking,’ said his interlocutor. ‘There’s
a future in that contraption, sure; or I’m much mistaken. You’ve
patented it, I suppose, before bringing it out? If you’re needing
capital to develop it, I’m your man.’
‘No, no,’ said Mr. Trimblerigg hastily. ‘I don’t want to develop it.
It’s developing itself; and--and,’ he hesitated--‘it isn’t for sale!’
Then, trying for once to have courage, and stand a faithful witness for
truth: ‘It’s not what you think it is,’ he said. ‘It’s not material;
it’s spiritual--a visitation; but the revelation of its meaning has not
yet come to me.’
And so saying he took a perilous run into the traffic, and dodging
death on nimble feet, got safely away to the other side.
He left behind him a stunned patriot.
‘America, you’re beaten!’ said the voice with the accent.