Catherine Parr Traill - "Lost in the Backwoods"

Thomas Dixon - "The Man in Gray"

Thomas L. Masson (Editor) - "Masterpieces Of American Wit And Humor"

MARY E. BAMFORD - "OUT OF THE TRIANGLE"

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Books: Our Friend the Charlatan

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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."

"What sort of work?"

"In the social direction. I take a great interest in the condition
of the poor."

"Really?" exclaimed Lady Ogram. "What do you do?"

"We have a little society for extending civilisation among the
ignorant and the neglected. Just now we are trying to teach them how
to make use of the free library, to direct their choice of books. I
must tell you that a favourite study of mine is Old English, and I'm
sure it would be so good if our working classes could be brought to
read Chaucer and Langland and Wycliffe and so on. One can't expect
them to study foreign languages, but these old writers would serve
them for a philological training, which has such an excellent effect
on the mind. I know a family--shockingly poor living, four of
them, in two rooms--who have promised me to give an hour every
Sunday to 'Piers the Plowman'--I have made them a present of the
little Clarendon Press edition, which has excellent notes Presently,
I shall set them a little examination paper--very simple, of
course."

Miss Bride's countenance was a study of subdued expression. Lady
Ogram--who probably had never heard of 'Piers the Plowman'--
glanced inquiringly at her secretary, and seemed to suspend
judgment.

"We, too, take a good deal of interest in that kind of thing," she
remarked. "I see that we shall understand each other. Do your
relatives, Mr. and Mrs. Rooke, work with you?"

"They haven't quite the same point of view," said Miss Tomalin,
smiling indulgently. "I'm afraid they represent rather the old way
of thinking about the poor--the common-sense way, they call it; it
means, as far as I can see, not thinking much about the poor at all.
Of course I try to make them understand that this is neglect of
duty. We have no right whatever to live in enjoyment of our
privileges and pay no heed to those less fortunate. Every educated
person is really a missionary, whose duty it is to go forth and
spread the light. I feel it so strongly that I could not, simply
could _not_, be satisfied to pursue my own culture; it seems to me
the worst kind of selfishness. The other day I went, on the business
of our society, into a dreadfully poor home, where the people, I'm
sure, often suffer from hunger. I couldn't give money--for one
thing, I have very little, and then it's so demoralising, and one
never knows whether the people will be offended--but I sat down
and told the poor woman all about the Prologue to the Canterbury
Tales, and you can't think how interested she was, and how grateful!
It quite brightened the day for her. One felt one had done _some_
good."

There was silence. Lady Ogram looked admiringly at the girl. If
anyone else had talked to her in this way, no vehemence of language
would have sufficed to express her scorn; but in May Tomalin such
ideals seemed to her a very amiable trait. She was anxious to see
everything May said or did in a favourable light.

"Have you tried the effect of music?" asked Constance, gravely, when
Miss Tomalin chanced to regard her.

"Oh, we haven't forgotten that. Next winter we hope to give a few
concerts in a schoolroom. Of course it must be really good music; we
shan't have anything of a popular kind--at least, we shan't if my
view prevails. It isn't our object to _amuse_ people; it would be
really humiliating to play and sing the kind of things the ignorant
poor like. We want to train their intelligence. Some of our friends
say it will be absurd to give them classical music, which will weary
and discontent them. But they must be made to understand that their
weariness and discontent is _wrong_. We have to show them how bad
and poor their taste is, that they may strive to develop a higher
and nobler. I, for one, shall utterly decline to have anything to do
with the concerts if the programme doesn't consist exclusively of
the really great, Bach and Beethoven and so on. Don't you agree with
me?"

"In principle," replied Lady Ogram, "certainly. We shall have lots
of things to talk about, I see."

"I delight in talk about serious things!" cried May.

But Lady Ogram's physical strength was not equal to the excitement
she had gone through. Long before dinner-time her voice failed, and
she had no choice but to withdraw into privacy, leaving Constance
Bride to play the hostess. Alone with a companion of not much more
than her own age, Miss Tomalin manifested relief; she began to move
about, looking at things with frank curiosity, and talking in a more
girlish way. The evening was cloudy, and did not tempt forth, but
May asked whether they could not walk a little in the garden.

"This is a beautiful place! I shall enjoy myself here tremendously!
And it's all so unexpected. Of course you know, Miss Bride, that I
had never heard of Lady Ogram until a few days ago?"

"Yes, I have heard the story."

"Do let us get our hats and run out. I want to see everything."

They went into the garden, and May, whilst delighting in all she
saw, asked a multitude of questions about her great-aunt. It was
only in the intellectual domain that she evinced pretentiousness and
grew grandiloquent; talking of her private affairs, she was very
direct and simple, with no inclination to unhealthy ways of thought.
She spoke of her birth in Canada, and her childish recollections of
that country.

"I used to be rather sorry that we had come back to England, for the
truth is I don't much care for Northampton, and I have never been
quite comfortable with my relatives there. But now, of course,
everything is different. It seems a great pity that I should have
had such a relative as Lady Ogram and known nothing about it doesn't
it? Strange how the branches of a family lose sight of each other?
Can you tell me Lady Ogram's age?"

Constance replied that it was not far from eighty.

"Really, I should have taken her for older still. She seems very
nice; I think I shall like her. I wonder whether she will ask me
often to Rivenoak? Do you know whether she means to?"

When she came down after dressing for dinner, Constance found Miss
Tomalin in the dining-room, standing before her great-aunt's
portrait.

"Surely that isn't--_can_ that be Lady Ogram?" exclaimed the girl.

"Yes; more than fifty years ago."

"Do you know, I think she was rather like _me_!"

Constance smiled, and said that there was certainly a family
resemblance. It appeared more strongly in the girl's face attired as
she now was, her neck at liberty from the white linen collar, and
her features cast into relief by a dress of dark material. Having
felt a little apprehensive about the young lady's evening garb,
Constance was surprised to find that it erred, if anything, on the
side of simplicity. Though, for several reasons, not at all
predisposed to like Miss Tomalin, she began to feel her prejudice
waning, and by the end of dinner they were conversing in a very
friendly tone. May chatted of her friends at Northampton, and
several times mentioned a Mr. Yabsley, whom it was evident she held
in much esteem. Mr. Yabsley, it appeared, was the originator of the
society for civilising the ignorant poor; Mr. Yabsley lectured on
very large subjects, and gave readings from very serious authors;
Mr. Yabsley believed in the glorious destinies of the human race,
especially of that branch of it known as Anglo-Saxon.

"He is an elderly gentleman?" asked Constance, with a half-smile of
mischief.

"Old! Oh dear, no! Mr. Yabsley is only about thirty--not quite
that, I think."

And May suddenly turned to talk of Browning, whom she felt it a
"positive duty" to know from end to end. Had Miss Bride really
mastered "Sordello?"

"I never tried to," Constance answered. "Why should I worry about
unintelligible stuff that would give me no pleasure even if I could
understand it?"

"Oh! Oh! _Don't_ speak like that!" cried the other, distressfully.
"I'm sure you don't mean it!"

"I care very little for poetry of any kind," said Constance, in all
sincerity.

"Oh, how I grieve to hear that!--But then, of course we all have
our special interests. Yours is science, I know. I've worked a good
deal at science; of course one can't possibly neglect it; it's a
simple duty to make oneself as many-sided as possible, don't you
think? Just now, I'm giving half an hour before breakfast every day
to Huxley's book on the Crayfish. Mr. Yabsley suggested it to me.
Not long ago he was in correspondence with Huxley about something--
I don't quite know what but he takes a great interest in Evolution.
Of course you know that volume on the Crayfish?"