Books: Our Friend the Charlatan
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George Gissing >> Our Friend the Charlatan
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"Tire him?" May exclaimed. "Way, he was delighted!"
"But he seems to have been satisfied with the one talk."
"Oh, he went away because Mr. Lashmar came up, that was all. He's
very modest; perhaps he thought he oughtn't to prevent me from
talking to other people."
Lady Ogram looked annoyed and worried.
"If I were you, May, I shouldn't talk about Old English next time
you see Lord Dymchurch. Men don't care to find themselves at school
in a drawing-room."
"I assure you, aunt, that is not my only subject of conversation,"
replied May, amused and dignified. "And I'm perfectly certain that
it was just the thing for Lord Dymchurch. He has a serious mind, and
I like him to know that mine is the same."
"That's all right, of course. I dare say you know best what pleases
him. And I think it very probable indeed, May, that he went to Pont
Street just in the hope of meeting you."
"Perhaps so."
May smiled, and seemed to take the thing as very natural; whereupon
Lady Ogram again looked puzzled.
"Well, go to bed, May. I'm very glad Lord Dymchurch was there; very
glad. Go to bed, and sleep as late as you like. I'm glad you've
enjoyed yourself, and I'm very glad Lord Dymchurch was there--
very."
The voice had become so senile, so indistinct, that May could hardly
catch what it said. She lightly kissed her aunt's cheek--a
ceremony that passed between them only when decorum seemed to demand
it--and left the room.
On the following morning, Dyce Lashmar received a telegram, couched
thus:
"Please call at Bunting's Hotel at 3 this afternoon."
In order to respond to this summons, he had to break an engagement;
but he did it willingly. Around the hotel in Albemarle Street
circled all his thoughts, and he desired nothing more than to direct
his steps thither. Arriving with perfect punctuality, he was shown
into Lady Ogram's drawing-room, and found Lady Ogram alone.
Artificial complexion notwithstanding, the stern old visage wore
to-day a look as of nature all but spent. At Lashmar's entrance, his
hostess did not move; sunk together in her chair, head drooping
forward, she viewed him from under her eyebrows: even to give her
hand when he stood before her seemed almost too great an effort, and
the shrivelled lips scarce made audible her bidding that he should
be seated.
"You are well, I hope?" said Dyce, feeling uncomfortable, but
affecting to see nothing unusual in the face before him.
Lady Ogram nodded, impatiently. There was a moment's silence; then,
turning her gaze upon him, she said abruptly, in a harsh croak:
"What are you waiting for?"
Lashmar felt a cold touch along his spine. He thought the ghastly
old woman had lost her senses, that she was either mad or delirious.
Yet her gaze had nothing wild; on the contrary, it searched him with
all the wonted keenness.
"Waiting--? I'm afraid I don't understand--"
"Why haven't you done what you know I wish?" pursued the untuneful
voice, now better controlled. "I'm speaking of Constance Bride."
Relieved on one side, Dyce fell into trouble on the other.
"To tell you the truth, Lady Ogram," he answered, with his air of
utmost candour, "I have found no encouragement to take the step of
which you are thinking. I'm afraid I know only too well what the
result would be."
"You know nothing about it."
Lady Ogram moved. As always, a hint of opposition increased her
force. She was suffering acute physical pain, which appeared in
every line of her face, and in the rigid muscles of her arms as she
supported herself on the arms of the chair.
"Answer me this," she went on--and her utterance had something
which told of those far-off days before education and refined
society had softened her tongue. "Will you see Miss Bride this
afternoon, and make her an offer of marriage? Are you willing? Just
answer me yes or no."
Dyce replied mechanically and smiled as he replied.
"I am quite willing, Lady Ogram. I only wish I could feel assured
that Miss Bride--"
He was rudely interrupted.
"Don't talk, but listen to me." For a moment the lips went on
moving, yet gave no sound; then words came again. "I've told you
once already about Constance, what I think of her, and what I intend
for her. I needn't go over all that again. As for you, I think I've
given proof that I wish you well. I was led to it at first because I
saw that Constance liked you; now I wish you well for your own sake,
and you may trust me to do what I can to help you on. But till a man
a married, no one can say what he'll make of his life. You've plenty
of brains, more than most men, but I don't think you've got too much
of what I call backbone. If you make a fool of yourself--as most
men do--in marriage, it's all up with you. I want to see you safe.
Go where you will, you'll find no better wife, better in every way
for _you_, than Constance Bride. You want a woman with plenty of
common sense as well as uncommon ability; the kind of woman that'll
keep you going steadily--up--up! Do you understand me?"
The effort with which she spoke was terrible. Her face began to
shine with moisture, and her mouth seemed to be parched. Lashmar
must have been of much sterner stuff for these vehement and
rough-cut sentences to make no impression upon him; he was held by
the dark, fierce eye, and felt in his heart that he had heard
truths.
"And mind this," continued Lady Ogram, leaning towards him.
"Constance's marriage alters nothing in what I had planned for her
before I knew you. She'll have her duties quite apart from your
interests and all you aim at. I know her; I'm not afraid to trust
her, even when she's married. She's honest--and that's what can be
said of few women. This morning I had a talk with her. She knows,
now, the responsibility I want her to undertake, and she isn't
afraid of it. I said nothing to her about _you_; not a word: but,
when you speak to her, she'll understand what was in my mind. So let
us get things settled, and have no more bother about it. On
Saturday"--it was three days hence--"I go back to Rivenoak; I've
enough of London; I want to be quiet. You are to come down with us.
You've business at Hollingford on the 20th, and you ought to see
more of the Hollingford people."
Whatever Lady Ogram had proposed (or rather dictated) Dyce would
have agreed to. He was under the authority of her eye and voice. The
prospect of being down at Rivenoak, and there, of necessity, living
in daily communication with May Tomalin, helped him to disregard the
other features of his position. He gave a cheerful assent.
"Now go away for half an hour," said Lady Ogram. "Then come back,
and ask for Miss Bride, and you'll find her here."
She was at the end of her strength, and could barely make the last
words audible. Dyce pressed her hand silently, and withdrew.
After the imposed interval, he returned from a ramble in Piccadilly,
where he had seen nothing, and was conducted again to the
drawing-room. There Constance sat reading. She was perfectly calm,
entirely herself, and, as Lashmar entered, she looked up with the
usual smile.
"Have you been out this afternoon?" he began by asking.
"Yes. Why?"
"You went on business of Lady Ogram's?"
"Yes. Why?"
Dyce gave no answer. He laid aside his hat and stick, sat down not
far from Constance, and looked at her steadily.
"I have something rather odd to say to you. As we are both rational
persons, I shall talk quite freely, and explain to you exactly the
position in which I find myself. It's a queer position, to say the
least. When I was at Rivenoak, on the last day of my visit, Lady
Ogram had a confidential talk with me; your name came prominently
into it, and I went away with certain vague impressions which have
kept me, ever since, in a good deal of uneasiness. This afternoon, I
have had another private conversation with Lady Ogram. Again your
name had a prominent part in it, and this time there was no
vagueness whatever in the communication made to me. I was bidden, in
plain terms, to make you an offer of marriage."
Constance drooped her eyes, but gave no other sign of disturbance.
"Now," resumed Dyce, leaning forward with hands clasped between his
knees, "before I say anything more about this matter as it concerns
you, I had better tell you what I think about our friend. I feel
pretty sure that she has a very short time to live; it wouldn't
surprise me if it were a question of days, but in any case I am
convinced she won't live for a month. What is your opinion?"
"I fancy you are right," answered the other, gravely. "If so, this
rather grotesque situation becomes more manageable. It is fortunate
that you and I know each other so well, and have the habit of
straightforward speech. I may assume, no doubt, that, from the very
first, our friendship was misinterpreted by Lady Ogram; reasonable
relations between man and woman are so very rare, and, in this case,
the observer was no very acute psychologist. I feel sure she is
actuated by the kindest motives; but what seems to her my
inexplicable delay has been too much for her temper, and at last
there was nothing for it but to deal roundly with me. One may
suspect, too, that she feels she has not much time to spare. Having
made up her mind that we are to marry, she wants to see the thing
settled. Looking at it philosophically, I suppose one may admit that
her views and her behaviour are intelligible. Meanwhile, you and I
find ourselves in a very awkward position. We must talk it over--
don't you think?--quite simply, and decide what is best to do."
Constance listened, her eyes conning the carpet. There was silence
for a minute, then she spoke.
"What did Lady Ogram tell you about me?"
"She repeated in vague terms something she had already said at
Rivenoak. It seems that you are to undertake some great
responsibility--to receive some proof of her confidence which will
affect all the rest of your life. More than that I don't know, but I
understand that there has been a conversation between you, in which
everything was fully explained."
Constance nodded. After a moment's reflection she raised her eyes to
Lashmar's, and intently regarded him; her expression was one of
anxiety severely controlled.
"You shall know what that responsibility is," she said, with a just
perceptible tremor in her voice. "Lady Ogram, like a good many other
people nowadays, has more money than she knows what to do with. For
many years, I think, she has been troubled by a feeling that a woman
rich as she ought to make some extraordinary use of her riches--
ought to set an example, in short, to the wealthy world. But she
never could discover the best way of doing this. She has an
independent mind, and likes to strike out ways for herself. Ordinary
Charities didn't satisfy her; to tell the truth, she wanted not only
to do substantial good, but to do it in a way which should
perpetuate her name--cause her to be more talked about after her
death than she has been in her lifetime. Time went on, and she still
could hit upon nothing brilliant; all she had decided was to build
and endow a great hospital at Hollingford, to be called by her name,
and this, for several reasons, she kept postponing. Then came her
acquaintance with me--you know the story. She was troubling about
the decay of the village, and trying to hit on remedies. Well, I had
the good luck to suggest the paper-mill, and it was a success, and
Lady Ogram at once had a great opinion of me. From that day--she
tells me--the thought grew in her mind that, instead of devoting
all her wealth, by will, to definite purposes, she would leave a
certain portion of it to _me_, to be used by me for purposes of
public good. I, in short"--Constance smiled nervously--"was to
be sole and uncontrolled trustee of a great fund, which would be
used, after her death, just as it might have been had she gone on
living. The idea is rather fine, it seems to me; it could only have
originated in a mind capable of very generous thought, generous in
every sense of the word. It implied remarkable confidence, such as
few people, especially few women, are capable of. It strikes me as
rather pathetic, too--the feeling that she would continue to live
in another being, not a mere inheritor of her money, but a true
representative of her mind, thinking and acting as she would do,
always consulting her memory, desiring her approval. Do you see what
I mean?"
"Of course I do," answered Dyce, meditatively. "Yes, it's fine. It
increases my respect for our friend."
"I have always respected her," said Constance, "and I am sorry now
that I did not respect her more. Often she has irritated me, and in
bad temper I have spoken thoughtlessly. I remember that letter I
wrote you, before you first came to Rivenoak; it was silly, and, I'm
afraid, rather vulgar."
"Nothing of the kind," interposed Lashmar. "It was very clever. You
couldn't be vulgar if you tried."
"Have you the letter still?"
"Of course I have."
"Then do me the kindness to destroy it--will you?"
"If you wish."
"I do, seriously. Burn the thing, as soon as you get home."
"Very well."
They avoided each-other's look, and there was a rather long pause.
"I'll go on with my story," said Constance, in a voice still under
studious control. "All this happened when Lady Ogram thought she had
no living relative. One fine day, Mr. Kerchever came down with news
of Miss Tomalin, and straightway the world was altered. Lady Ogram
had a natural heiress, and one in whom she delighted. Everything had
to be reconsidered. The great hospital became a dream. She wanted
May Tomalin to be rich, very rich, to marry brilliantly. I have
always suspected that Lady Ogram looked upon her life as a sort of
revenge on the aristocratic class for the poverty and ignorance of
her own people; did anything of the kind ever occur to you?"
"Was her family really mean?"
"Everyone says so. Mrs. Gallantry tells me that our illustrious M.
P. has made laborious searches, hoping to prove something
scandalous. Of course she tells it as a proof of Mr. Robb's
unscrupulous hatred of Lady Ogram. I daresay the truth is that she
came of a low class. At all events, Miss Tomalin, who represents the
family in a progressive stage, is to establish its glory for ever.
One understands. It's very human."
Lashmar wore the Toplady smile.
"It never occurred to our friend," he said, "that her niece might
undertake the great trust instead of you?"
"She has spoken to me quite frankly about that. The trust cannot be
so great as it would have been, but it remains with me. Miss
Tomalin, it 'nay be hoped, will play not quite an ordinary part in
the fashionable world; she has ideas of her own, and"--the voice
was modulated--"some faith in herself. But my position is
different, and perhaps my mind. Lady Ogram assures me that her faith
in me, and her hopes, have suffered no change. For one thing, the
mill is to become my property. Then--"
She hesitated, and her eyes passed over the listener's face. Lashmar
was very attentive.
"There's no need to go into details," she added quickly. "Lady Ogram
told me everything, saying she felt that the time had come for doing
so. And I accepted the trust."
"Without knowing, however," said Dyce, "the not unimportant
condition which her mind attached to it."
"There was no condition, expressed or reserved."
Constance's tone had become hard again. Her eyes were averted, her
lips set in their firmest lines.
"Are you quite sure of that?"
"Quite," was the decisive reply.
"How do you reconcile that with what has passed today between Lady
Ogram and me?"
"It was between Lady Ogram and _you_," said Constance, subduing her
voice.
"I see. You mean that I alone am concerned; that your position will
in no case be affected?"
"Yes, I mean that," answered Constance, quietly.
Lashmar thought for a moment, then moved on his chair, and spoke in
a low tone, which seemed addressed to his hearer's sympathy.
"Perhaps you are right. Probably you are. But there is one thing of
which _I_ feel every assurance. If it becomes plain that her project
must come to nothing, Lady Ogram's interest in me is at an end. I
may say good-bye to Hollingford."
"You are mistaken," replied Constance, in a voice almost of
indifference.
"Well, the question will soon be decided." Lashmar seemed to submit
himself to the inevitable. "I shall write to Lady Ogram, telling her
the result of our conversation. We shall see how she takes it."
He moved as if about to rise, but only turned his chair slightly
aside. Constance was regarding him from under her brows. She spoke
in her most businesslike tone.
"It was this that you came to tell me?"
"Why, no. It wasn't that at all."
"What had you in mind, then?"
"I was going to ask if you would marry me--or rather, if you would
promise to--or rather, if you would make believe to marry me. I
thought that, under the circumstances, it was a justifiable thing to
do, for I fancied your future, as well as mine, was at stake. Seeing
our friend's condition, it appeared to me that a formal engagement
between us would be a kindness to her, and involve no serious
consequences for us. But the case is altered. You being secure
against Lady Ogram's displeasure, I have, of course, no right to ask
you to take a part in such a proceeding--which naturally you would
feel to be unworthy of you. All I have to do is to thank you for
your efforts on my behalf. Who knows? I _may_ hold my own at
Hollingford. But at Rivenoak it's all over with me."
He stood up, and assumed an attitude of resigned dignity, smiling to
himself. But Constance kept her seat, her eyes on the ground.
"I believe you were going down on Saturday?" she said.
"So it was arranged. Well, I mustn't stay--"
Constance rose, and he offered his hand.
"Between us, it makes no difference, I hope?" said Dyce, with an
emphasised effort of cheeriness. "Unless you think me a paltry
fellow, ready to do anything to get on?"
"I don't think that," replied Constance, quietly.
"But you feel that what I was going to ask would have been rather a
severe test of friendship?"
"Under the circumstances, I could have pardoned you."
"But you wouldn't have got beyond forgiveness?"
Constance smiled coldly, her look wandering.
"How can I tell?"
"But--oh, never mind! Good-bye, for the present."
He pressed her hand again, and turned away. Before he had reached
the door, Constance's voice arrested him.
"Mr. Lashmar--"
He looked at her as if with disinterested inquiry.
"Think well before you take any irreparable step. It would be a
pity."
Dyce moved towards her again.
"Why, what choice have I? The position is impossible. If you hadn't
said those unlucky words about being so sure--"
"I don't see that they make the slightest difference," answered
Constance, her eyebrows raised. "If you had intended a genuine offer
of marriage--yes, perhaps. But as all you meant was to ask me to
save the situation, with no harm to anybody, and the certainty of
giving great pleasure to our friend--"
"You see it in that light?" cried Lashmar, flinging away his hat.
"You really think I should be justified? You are not offended?"
"I credit myself with a certain measure of common sense," answered
Constance.
"Then you will allow me to tell Lady Ogram that there is an
engagement?"
"You may tell her so, if you like."
He seized her hand, and pressed his lips upon it. But, scarce had he
done so, when Constance drew it brusquely away.
"There is no need to play our comedy in private," she said, with
cold reproof. "And I hope that at all times you will use the
discretion that is owing to me."
"If I don't, I shall deserve to fall into worse difficulties than
ever," cried Lashmar.
"As, for instance, to find yourself under the necessity of making
your mock contract a real one--which would be sufficiently
tragic."
Constance spoke with a laugh, and thereupon, before Dyce could make
any rejoinder, walked from the room.
The philosopher stood embarrassed. "What did she mean by that?" he
asked himself. He had never felt on very solid ground in his
dealings with Constance; had never felt sure in his reading of her
character, his interpretation of her ways and looks and speeches. An
odd thing that he should have been betrayed by his sense of
triumphant diplomacy into that foolish excess. And he remembered
that it was the second such indiscretion, though this time, happily,
not so compromising as his youthful extravagance at Alverholme.
What if Lady Ogram, feeling that her end drew near, called for their
speedy marriage? Was it the thought of such possibility that had
supplied Constance with her sharp-edged jest? If she could laugh,
the risk did not seem to her very dreadful. And to him?
He could not make up his mind on the point.
CHAPTER XV
Lord Dymchurch was at a critical moment of his life.
Discontent, the malady of the age, had taken hold upon him. No
ignoble form of the disease; for his mind, naturally in accord with
generous thoughts, repelled every suggestion which he recognised as
of unworthy origin, and no man saw more clearly how much there was
of vanity and of evil in the unrest which rules our time. He was
possessed by that turbid idealism which, in the tumult of a day
without conscious guidance, is the peril of gentle souls. Looking
out upon the world, he seemed to himself to be the one idle man in a
toiling and aspiring multitude; for, however astray the energy of
most, activity was visible on every side, and in activity--so he
told himself--lay man's only hope. He alone did nothing. Wearing
his title like a fool's cap, he mooned in by-paths which had become
a maze. Was it not the foolish title that bemused and disabled him?
Without it, would he not long ago have gone to work like other men,
and had his part in the onward struggle? Discontented with himself,
ill at ease in his social position, reproachfully minded towards the
ancestors who had ruined him, he fell into that most dangerous mood
of the cultured and conscientious man, a feverish inclination for
practical experiment in life.
His age was two and thirty. A decade ago he had dreamt of
distinguishing himself in the Chamber of Peers; why should poverty
bar the way of intellect and zeal? Experience taught him that,
though money might not be indispensable to such a career as he
imagined, the lack of it was only to be supplied by powers such as
he certainly did not possess. Abashed at the thought of his
presumption he withdrew altogether from the seat to which his birth
entitled him, and at the same time ceased to appear in Society. He
had the temper of a student, and among his books he soon found
consolation for the first disappointments of youth. Study, however,
led him by degrees to all the questions rife in the world about him;
with the inevitable result that his maturer thought turned back upon
things he fancied himself to have outgrown. His time had been
wasted. At thirty-two all he had clearly learnt was a regret for
vanished years.
He resisted as a temptation the philosophic quietism which had been
his strength and his pride. From the pages of Marcus Aurelius, which
he had almost by heart, one passage only was allowed to dwell with
him: "When thou art hard to be stirred up and awaked out of thy
sleep, admonish thyself and call to mind that to perform actions
tending to the common good is that which thine own proper
constitution, and that which the nature of man, do require." Morning
and night, the question with him became, what could he do in the
cause of civilisation? And about this time it chanced that he made
the acquaintance of Dyce Lashmar. He listened, presently, to the
bio-sociological theory of human life, believing it to be Lashmar's
own, and finding in it a great deal that was not only intellectually
fruitful, but strong in appeal to his sympathies. Here he saw the
reconciliation of his aristocratic prejudices--which he had little
hope of ever overcoming--with the humanitarian emotion and
conviction which were also a natural part of his being. All this did
but contribute to his disquiet. No longer occupied with definite
studies, he often felt time heavy on his hands, and saw himself more
obnoxious than ever to the charge of idleness. Lashmar, though
possibly his ambition had some alloy of self-seeking, gave an
example of intellect applied to the world's behoof; especially did
his views on education, developed in a recent talk at the club,
strike Dymchurch as commendable and likely to have influence. He
asked nothing better than an opportunity of devoting himself to a
movement for educational reform. The abstract now disgusted him well
nigh as much as the too grossly actual. Thus, chancing to open
Shelley, he found with surprise that the poet of his adolescence not
merely left him cold, but seemed verbose and tedious.
Some anxiety about his private affairs aided this mental tendency.
Some time ago, he had been appealed to by the tenant of his Kentish
farm for a reduction of rent, which, on consideration of the facts
submitted to him, he felt unable to refuse. The farmer was now dead,
and it was not without trouble that the land had been leased again
on the same reduced terms; moreover, the new tenant seemed to be a
not very satisfactory man, and Dymchurch had to consider the
possibility that this part of his small income might become
uncertain, or fail him altogether. Now and then he entertained the
thought of studying agriculture, living upon his farm, and earning
bread in the sweat of his brow; but a little talk with practical men
showed him all the difficulties of such an undertaking. So far as
his own day-to-day life was concerned, he felt small need of money;
but it constantly worried him to think of his sisters down in
Somerset, their best years going by, not indeed in actual want, but
with so little of the brightness or hope natural to ladies of their
birth. They did not appear unhappy; like him, they had a preference
for the tranquil mode of life; none the less, he saw how different
everything would have been with them but for their narrow means,
and, after each visit to the silent meadow-circled house, he came
away reproaching himself for his inertness.
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