Our Friend the Charlatan

"Ha, ha, friend Breakspeare, here's something for thee! Thou art the Sophist of our time, and list how the old wise man spoke of thy kind. 'They do but teach the collective opinion of the many; 'tis their wisdom, forsooth. I might liken them to a man who should study the temper or the desires of a great strong beast, which he has to keep and feed; he learns how to approach and handle the creature, also at what times and from what cause it is dangerous, or the reverse; what is the meaning of its several cries, and by what sounds it may be soothed or infuriated. Furthermore, when, by constantly living with the huge brute, he has become perfect in all this, he calls it philosophy, and makes a system or art of it, which forthwith he professes. One thing he names honourable, another base; this good, that evil; this just, that unjust; all in accordance with the tastes and words of the great animal, which he has studied from its grunts and snarls.'—Ha, ha, friend Breakspeare! Does it touch thee? 'Comes it not something near?'—Nay, nay, take it not in dudgeon! 'Tis old Plato who speaks."

"What, I?" cried the journalist, gaily. "I'm infinitely obliged to you. The passage shall do me yeoman's service—turned against the enemy. For it is not I who speak for the many at Hollingford, as well you know. We Liberals are the select, the chosen spirits. The mighty brute is Toryism."

Only the fear of reaching Rivenoak at too late an hour constrained Lashmar to rise at length and take his leave.

"I hope you will let me come and see you again, Mr. Blaydes," he exclaimed heartily, as he grasped the old man's hand.

"Here you will commonly find me, Mr. Lashmar, after eight o'clock, and if you bear with my whimsies I shall thank you for your company. This ale, I try to believe, will last my time. If a company corrupt it, I forswear all fermented liquor, and go to the grave on mere element—'honest water which ne'er left man in the mire.' But I hope better things—I hops better things."

"And what do you think of Martin?" asked the journalist, as he and Lashmar walked to the nearest place where a vehicle could be obtained for the drive to Rivenoak.

"A fine old cynic!" answered Dyce. "I hope often to drink ale with him."

"Luckily, it doesn't compromise you. Martin belongs to no party, and gives no vote. I could tell you a good story about his reception of a canvasser—a lady, by Jove!—at the last election; but I'll keep it till we meet again, as you are in a hurry. You have put me in spirits, Mr. Lashmar; may it not be long before I next talk with you. Meanwhile, I dig the trenches!"

Ale and strong tobacco, to both of which he was unaccustomed, wrought confusingly upon Dyce's brain as he was borne through the night. He found himself murmuring the name of Constance, and forming a resolve to win her to intimacy on the morrow. Yes, he liked Constance after all. Then came a memory of Martin Blaydes's diatribe, and he laughed approvingly. But Constance was an exception, the best type of modern woman. After all, he liked her.

Again they two breakfasted together. Dyce gave a mirthful description of his evening, and gaily reported Mr. Blaydes's eloquence on the subject of woman.

"On the whole, I agree with him," said Constance. "And I know, of course, that you do."

"Indeed? You agree with him?"

"So does every sensible person. But the subject doesn't interest me. I hate talk about women. We've had enough of it: it has become a nuisance—a cant, like any other. A woman is a human being, not a separate species."

"Why, of course!" cried Lashmar. "Just what I am always saying."

"Say it no more," interrupted his companion. "There are plenty of other things to talk about."

Whereupon, she finished her cup of coffee, nodded a leave-taking, and went at a brisk pace from the room. Dyce continued his meal, meditative, a trifle wounded in self-esteem.

Later in the morning, he saw Constance wheeling forth her bicycle. He ran, and gained her side before she had mounted.

"As you are going out, why shouldn't we have a walk together? Give up your ride this morning."

"I'm very sorry I can't," Constance answered, pleasantly. "The exercise is necessary for me."

"But just this once—"

"Impossible! The morning is too fine and the roads too good."

She sprang into the saddle, and was off—much to Dyce's mortification. He had not dreamt that she could refuse his request. And he had meant to talk with such generous confidence, such true comradeship; it was even his intention to tell Constance that he looked more for her sympathy and aid than for that of anyone else. Surely this would have been very gratifying to her; she could not but have thanked him with real feeling.

At luncheon, Miss Bride was obviously unrepentant. One would have said that it amused her to notice the slight coldness 'which Lashmar put into his manner towards her. She had never seemed in better spirits.

In the afternoon Dyce was summoned to a private interview with Lady Ogram. It took place in an upstairs room he had not yet entered. His hostess sat before a wood-fire (though the day was warm) and her face now and then had a look of suffering, but she spoke cheerfully, and in a tone of much kindness.

"Well, have you enjoyed your stay with me?—You must come down again presently; but, in the meantime, you'll be busy. Go and see Mrs. Toplady, and get to know all the useful people you can. We shall be working here for you, of course. Miss Bride will keep you posted about everything."

The dark eyes, at this moment pain-troubled, were reading his countenance.

"I needn't tell you," Lady Ogram continued, "that Miss Bride has my entire and perfect confidence. I don't think I'm easily deceived in people, and—even before she spoke to me of you—I had made up my mind that' in some way or other, she must be given a chance of doing something in life. You know all about her ways of thinking—perhaps better than I do."

In the pause which followed, Dyce was on the point of disclaiming this intimacy; but the drift of Lady Ogram's talk, exciting his curiosity, prevailed to keep him silent. He bent his look and smiled modestly.

"She's one of the few women," went on his friend, "who do more than they promise. She'll never be what is called brilliant. She won't make much of a figure in the drawing-room. But, give her a chance, and she'll do things that people will talk about. She has powers of organising; I don't know whether you understand how well she is getting to be known by serious workers in the social reform way. There's not one of them can write such good letters—tell so much in few words. But we must give her a chance—you and I together."

Dyce was startled. His smile died away, and, involuntarily, he turned a look of surprise on the speaker.

"You mean," said Lady Ogram, as though answering a remonstrance, "that you know all about that without my telling you. Don't be touchy; you and I can understand each other well enough, if we like. What I want to let yon know is, that I consider she has a claim upon me. Not in the ordinary sense. Perhaps I'm not quite an ordinary woman, and I see things in a way of my own. She has a claim upon me, because she's one of the few women who have nothing of the baby or the idiot in them, and I've been looking out for that sort all my life. If Constance Bride"—the voice became slower, as if for emphasis—"is put into a position of trust, she'll do all that is expected of her. There's no particular hurry; she's young enough still. And as for you, you've got your hands full."

Dyce felt so puzzled that he could not shape a word. One thing was growing clear to him; but what did the old woman mean by her "position of trust?" How was Constance to be given her "chance?" And what' exactly, was she expected to do?

"Well, we've had our talk," said the old lady, moving as if in pain and weariness. "Go back to town to-night or to-morrow morning, as you like. Write to me, mind, as well as to Miss Bride, and let me know of all the acquaintances you make. It's just possible I may be in London myself next month; it depends on several things."

She became dreamy. Dyce, though he would have liked to say much, knew not how to express himself; it was plain, moreover, that his hostess had little strength to-day. He rose.

"I think I shall catch the evening train, Lady Ogram."

"Very well. A pleasant journey!"

She gave her hand, and Dyce thought it felt more skeleton-like than ever. Certainly her visage was more cadaverous in line and hue than he had yet seen it. Almost before he had turned away, Lady Ogram closed her eyes, and lay back with a sigh.

So here were his prospects settled for him! He was to marry Constance Bride—under some vague conditions which perturbed him almost as much as the thought of the marriage itself. Impossible that he could have misunderstood. And how had Lady Ogram hit upon such an idea? It was plain as daylight that the suggestion had come from Constance herself. Constance had allowed it to be understood that he and she were, either formally, or virtually, affianced.

He stood appalled at this revelation in a sphere of knowledge which he held to be particularly his own.

CHAPTER XI

It was a week after the departure of Dyce Lashmar. Lady Ogram had lived in agitation, a state which she knew to be the worst possible for her health. Several times she had taken long drives to call upon acquaintances, a habit suspended during the past twelvemonth; it exhausted her, but she affected to believe that the air and movement did her good, and met with an outbreak of still more dangerous choler the remonstrances which her secretary at length ventured to make. On the day following this characteristic scene, Constance was at work in the library, when the door opened, and Lady Ogram came in. Walking unsteadily, a grim smile on her parchment visage, she advanced and stood before the writing-table.

"I made a fool of myself yesterday," sounded in a hollow voice, of tremulous intonation. "Is it enough for me to say so?"

"Much more than I like to hear you say, Lady Ogram," answered Constance, hastening to place a chair for her. "I have been afraid that something had happened which troubled you."

"Nothing at all. The contrary. Look at that photo, and tell me what you think of it."

It was the portrait of a girl with features finely outlined, but rather weak in expression; a face pleasant to look upon, and at the first glance possessing a quality of distinction, which tended however to fade as the eye searched for its constituents, and to lose itself in an ordinary prettiness.

"I was going to say," began Constance, "that it seemed to remind me of—"

She hesitated.

"Well? Of what?"

"Of your own portrait in the dining-room. Yes, I think there is a resemblance, though far-away."

Lady Ogram smiled with pleasure. The portrait referred to was a painting made of her soon after her marriage, when she was in the prime of her beauty; not good as a work of art, and doing much less than justice to the full-blooded vigour of the woman as she then lived, but still a picture that drew the eye and touched the fancy.

"No doubt you are right. This girl is a grand-niece of mine, my brother's son's daughter. I only heard of her a week ago. She is coming to see me."

Constance now understood the significance of Mr. Kerchever's visit, and the feverish state of mind in which Lady Ogram had since been living. She felt no touch of sympathetic emotion, but smiled as if the announcement greatly interested her; and in a sense it did.

"I can quite understand your impatience to see her."

"Yes, but one shouldn't make a fool of oneself. An old fool's worse than a young one. Don't think I build my hopes on the girl. I wrote to her, and she has written to me—not a bad sort of letter; but I know nothing about her, except that she has been well enough educated to pass an examination at London University. That means something, I suppose, doesn't it?"

"Certainly it does," answered Constance, noting a pathetic self-subdual in the old lady's look and tone. "For a girl, it means a good deal."

"You think so?" The bony hands were restless and tremulous; the dark eyes glistened. "It isn't quite ordinary, is it? But then, of course, it tells nothing about her character. She is coming to stay for a day or two coming on Saturday. If I don't like her, no harm's done. Back she goes to her people, that's all—her mother's family—I know nothing about them, and care less. At all events, she looks endurable—don't you think?"

"Much more than that," said Constance. "A very nice girl, I should imagine."

"Ha! You mean that?—Of course you do, or you wouldn't say it. But then, if she's only a 'nice girl'—pooh! She ought to be more than that. What's the use of a photograph? Every photo ever taken of me made me look a simpering idiot."

This was by no means true, but Lady Ogram had always been a bad sitter to the camera, and had destroyed most of its results. The oil painting in the dining-room she regarded with a moderate complacency. Many a time during the latter years of withering and enfeeblement her memory had turned to that shining head in marble, which was hidden away amid half a century's dust under the roof at Rivenoak. There, and there only, survived the glory of her youth, when not the face alone, but all her faultless body made the artist's rapture.

"Well," she said, abruptly, "you'll see the girl. Her name is May Tomalin. You're not obliged to like her. You're not obliged to tell me what you think of her. Most likely I shan't ask you.—By the bye, I had a letter from Dyce Lashmar this morning."

"Indeed?" said the other, with a careless smile.

"I like his way of writing. It's straight-forward and sharp-cut, like his talk. A man who means what he says, and knows how to say it; that's a great deal nowadays."

Constance assented with all good-humour to Lady Ogram's praise.

"You must answer him for me," the old lady continued. "No need, of course, to show me what you write; just put it into a letter of your own."

"I hardly think I shall be writing to Mr. Lashmar," said Miss Bride, very quietly.

"Do you mean that?"

Their eyes met' and Constance bore the other's gaze without flinching.

"We are not such great friends, Lady Ogram. You will remember I told you that I knew him but slightly."

"All right. It has nothing to do with me, whether you're friends or not. You can answer as my secretary, I suppose?"

And Lady Ogram, with her uncertain, yet not undignified, footfall, went straightway from the room. There was a suspicion of needless sound as the door closed behind her.

Constance sat for a minute or two in a very rigid attitude, displeasure manifest on her lips. She did not find it easy to get to work again, and when the time came for her bicycle ride, she was in no mind for it, but preferred to sit over a book. At luncheon Lady Ogram inclined to silence. Later in the day, however, they met on the ordinary terms of mutual understanding, and Constance, after speaking of other things, asked whether she should write Lady Ogram's reply to Mr. Lashmar.

"Mr. Lashmar? Oh, I have written to him myself," said the old lady, as if speaking of a matter without importance.

Three days went by, and it was Saturday. Lady Ogram came down earlier than usual this morning, but did not know how to occupy herself; she fretted at the rainy sky which kept her within doors; she tried to talk with her secretary of an important correspondence they had in hand (it related to a projected society for the invigoration of village life), but her thoughts were too obviously wandering. Since that dialogue in the library, not a word regarding Miss Tomalin had escaped her; all at once she said:

"My niece is due here at four this afternoon. I want you to be with me when she comes into the room. You won't forget that?"

Never before had Constance seen the old autocrat suffering from nervousness; it was doubtful whether anyone at any time had enjoyed the privilege. Strange to say, this abnormal state of things did not irritate Lady Ogram's temper; she was remarkably mild, and for once in her life seemed to feel it no indignity to stand in need of moral support. Long before the time for Miss Tomalin's arrival, she established herself on her throne amid the drawing-room verdure. Constance tried to calm her by reading aloud, but this the old lady soon found unendurable.

"I wonder whether the train will be late?" she said. "No doubt it will; did you ever know a train punctual? It may be half an hour late. The railways are scandalously managed. They ought to be taken over by the government."

"I don't think that would improve matters," said the secretary, glad of a discussion to relieve the tedium. She too was growing nervous.

"Nonsense! Of course it would."

Constance launched into argument, and talked for talking's sake. She knew that her companion was not listening.

"It's four o'clock," exclaimed Lady Ogram presently. "There may be an accident with the brougham. Leggatt sometimes drives very carelessly—" no more prudent coachman existed—"and the state of the roads about here is perfectly scandalous"—they were as good roads as any in England. "What noise was that?"

"I heard nothing."

"I've often noticed that you are decidedly dull of hearing. Has it always been so? You ought to consult a what are the men called who see to one's ears?"

Lady Ogram was growing less amiable, and with much ado Constance restrained herself from a tart reply. Three minutes more, and the atmosphere of the room would have become dangerously electric. But before two minutes had elapsed, the door opened, and a colourless domestic voice announced:

"Miss Tomalin."

There entered very much the kind of figure that Constance had expected to see; a young lady something above the middle height, passably, not well, dressed, moving quickly and not ungracefully, but with perceptible lack of that self-possession which is the social testimonial. She wore a new travelling costume, fawn-coloured, with a slightly inappropriate hat (too trimmy), and brown shoes which over-asserted themselves. Her collar was of the upright sort, just turned down at the corners; her tie, an ill-made little bow of red. About her neck hung a pair of eye-glasses; at her wrist were attached a silver pencil-case and a miniature ivory paper-knife. The face corresponded fairly well with its photographic presentment so long studied by Lady Ogram, and so well remembered by Constance Bride; its colour somewhat heightened and the features mobile under nervous stress, it offered a more noticeable resemblance to that ancestral portrait in the dining-room.

Lady Ogram had risen; she took a tremulous step or two from the throne, and spoke in a voice much more senile than its wont.

"I am glad to see you, May—glad to see you! This is my friend and secretary, Miss Bride, whom I mentioned to you."

Constance and the new-comer bowed, hesitated, shook hands. Miss Tomalin had not yet spoken; she was smiling timidly, and casting quick glances about the room.

"You had an easy journey, I hope," said Miss Bride, aware that the old lady was sinking breathless and feeble into her chair.

"Oh, it was nothing at all."

Miss Tomalin's utterance was not markedly provincial, but distinct from that of the London drawing-room; the educated speech of the ubiquitous middle-class, with a note of individuality which promised to command itself better in a few minutes. The voice was pleasantly clear.

"You had no difficulty in finding the carriage?" said Lady Ogram, speaking with obvious effort.

"Oh, none whatever, thank you! So kind of you to send it for me."

"I wanted to see you for a moment, as soon as you arrived. Now they shall take you to your room. Come down again as soon as you like; we will have tea."

"Thank you; that will be very nice."

Miss Tomalin stood up, looked at the plants and flowers about her, and added in a voice already more courageous:

"What a charming room! Green is so good for the eyes."

"Are your eyes weak?" inquired Lady Ogram, anxiously.

"Oh, not really weak," was the rapid answer (Miss Tomalin spoke more quickly as she gained confidence), "I use glasses when I am studying or at the piano, but they're not actually necessary. Still, I have been advised to be careful. Of course I read a great deal."

There was a spontaneity, a youthful vivacity, in her manner, which saved it from the charge of conceit; she spoke with a naive earnestness pleasantly relieved by the smile in her grey eyes and by something in the pose of her head which suggested a latent modesty.

"I know you are a great student," said Lady Ogram, regarding her amiably. "But run and take off your hat, and come back to tea."

She and Constance sat together, silent. They did not exchange glances.

"Well?" sounded at length from the throne, a tentative monosyllable.

Constance looked up. She saw that Lady Ogram was satisfied, happy.

"I'm glad Miss Tomalin was so punctual," was all she could find to say.

"So am I. But we were talking about your deafness: you must have it seen to. Young people nowadays! They can't hear, they can't see, they have no teeth—"

"Miss Tomalin, I noticed, has excellent teeth."

"She takes after me in that. Her eyes, too, are good enough, but she has worn them out already. She'll have to stop that reading; I am not going to have her blind at thirty. She didn't seem to be deaf, did she?"

"No more than I am, Lady Ogram."

"You are not deaf? Then why did you say you were?"

"It was you, not I, that said so," answered Constance, with a laugh.

"And what do you think of her?" asked Lady Ogram sharply.

"I think her interesting," was Miss Bride's reply, the word bearing a sense to her own thought not quite identical with that which it conveyed to the hearer.

"So do I. She's very young, but none the worse for that. You think her interesting. So do I."

Constance noticed that Lady Ogram's talk to-day had more of the characteristics of old age than ordinarily, as though, in her great satisfaction, the mind relaxed and the tongue inclined to babble. Though May was absent less than a quarter of an hour, the old lady waxed impatient.

"I hope she isn't a looking-glass girl. But no, that doesn't seem likely. Of course young people must think a little about dress—Oh, here she comes at last."

Miss Tomalin had made no change of dress, beyond laying aside her hat and jacket. One saw now that she had plenty of light brown hair, naturally crisp and easily lending itself to effective arrangement; it was coiled and plaited on the top of her head, and rippled airily above her temples. The eyebrows were darker of hue, and accentuated the most expressive part of her physiognomy, for when she smiled it was much more the eyes than the lips which drew attention.

"Come and sit here, May," said Lady Ogram, indicating a chair near the throne. "You're not tired? You don't easily get tired, I hope?"

"Oh, not very easily. Of course I make a point of physical exercise; it is a part of rational education."

"Do you cycle?" asked Constance.

"Indeed I do! The day before yesterday I rode thirty miles. Not scorching, you know; that's weak-minded."

Lady Ogram seemed to be reflecting as to whether she was glad or not that her relative rode the bicycle. She asked whether May had brought her machine.

"No," was the airy reply, "I'm not a slave to it."

The other nodded approval, and watched May as she manipulated a tea-cup. Talk ran on trivialities for a while; the new-comer still cast curious glances about the room, and at moments stole a quick observation of her companions. She was not entirely at ease; self-consciousness appeared in a furtive change of attitude from time to time; it might have been remarked, too, that she kept a guard upon her phrasing and even her pronunciation, emphasising certain words with a sort of academic pedantry. Perhaps it was this which caused Lady Ogram to ask at length whether she still worked for examinations.

"No, I have quite given that up," May replied, with an air of well-weighed finality. "I found that it led to one-sidedness—to narrow aims. It's all very well when one is very young. I shouldn't like to restrict my study in that way now. The problems of modern life are so full of interest. There are so many books that it is a duty to read, a positive duty. And one finds so much practical work."