Thomas D'Arcy McGee - "A Popular History of Ireland V1"

William Morris - "The Pilgrims of Hope"

Compiled and edited by Elias Lönnrot - "The Kalevala"

Willa Cather - "My Antonia"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Our Friend the Charlatan

G >> George Gissing >> Our Friend the Charlatan




Dyce examined his companion's face. She did not meet his look, and
bore it with some uneasiness. In the minds of both was a memory
which would have accounted for much more constraint between them
than apparently existed. Six years ago, in the days of late summer,
when Dyce Lashmar was spending his vacation at the vicarage, and
Connie Bride was making ready to go out into the world, they had
been wont to see a good deal of each other, and to exhaust the
topics of the time in long conversations, tending ever to a closer
intimacy of thought and sentiment. The companionship was not very
favourably regarded by Mr. Lashmar, and to the vicar's wife was a
source of angry apprehension. There came the evening when Dyce and
Constance had to bid each other good-bye, with no near prospect of
renewing their talks and rambles together. What might be in the
girl's thought, she alone knew; the young man, effusive in vein of
friendship, seemed never to glance beyond a safe borderline, his
emotions satisfied with intellectual communion. At the moment of
shaking hands, they stood in a field behind the vicarage; dusk was
falling and the spot secluded.--They parted, Constance in a
bewilderment which was to last many a day; for Dyce had kissed her,
and without a word was gone.

There followed no exchange of letters. From that hour to this the
two had in no way communicated. Mr. Bride, somewhat offended by what
he had seen and surmised of Mr. and Mrs. Lashmar's disposition, held
no correspondence with the vicar of Alverholme; his wife had never
been on friendly terms with Mrs. Lashmar. How Dyce thought of that
singular incident it was impossible to infer from his demeanour;
Constance might well have supposed that he had forgotten all about
it.

"Is your work interesting?" were his next words. "What does Lady
Ogram go in for?"

"Many things."

"You prefer it to the other work?"

"It isn't so hard, and it's much more profitable."

"By the bye, who is Lady Ogram?" asked Dyce, with a smiling glance.

"A remarkable old lady. Her husband died ten years ago; she has no
children, and is very rich. I shouldn't think there's a
worse-tempered person living, yet she has all sorts of good
qualities. By birth, she belongs to the working class; by
disposition she's a violent aristocrat. I often hate her; at other
times, I like her very much."

Dyce listened with increasing attention.

"Has she any views?" he inquired.

"Oh, plenty!" Constance answered, with a dry little laugh.

"About social questions--that kind of thing?"

"Especially."

"I shouldn't be surprised if she called herself a socialist."

"That's just what she does--when she thinks it will annoy people
she dislikes."

Dyce smiled meditatively.

"I should like to know her. Yes, I should very much like to know
her. Could you manage it for me?"

Constance did not reply. She was comparing the Dyce Lashmar of
to-day with him of the past, and trying to understand the change
that had come about in his talk, his manner. It would have helped
her had she known that, in the ripe experience of his seven and
twentieth year, Dyce had arrived at certain conclusions with regard
to women, and thereupon had based a method of practical behaviour
towards them. Women, he held, had never been treated with elementary
justice. To worship them was no less unfair than to hold them in
contempt. The honest man, in our day, should regard a woman without
the least bias of sexual prejudice; should view her simply as a
fellow-being, who, according to circumstances, might or not be on
his own plane. Away with all empty show and form, those relics of
barbarism known as chivalry! He wished to discontinue even the habit
of hat-doffing in female presence. Was not civility preserved
between man and man without such idle form? Why not, then, between
man and woman? Unable, as yet, to go the entire length of his
principles in every-day life, he endeavoured, at all events, to
cultivate in his intercourse with women a frankness of speech, a
directness of bearing, beyond the usual. He shook hands as with one
of his own sex, spine uncrooked; he greeted them with level voice,
not as one who addresses a thing afraid of sound. To a girl or
matron whom he liked, he said, in tone if not in phrase, "Let us be
comrades." In his opinion this tended notably to the purifying of
the social atmosphere. It was the introduction of simple honesty
into relations commonly marked--and corrupted--by every form of
disingenuousness. Moreover, it was the great first step to that
reconstruction of society at large which every thinker saw to be
imperative and imminent.

But Constance Bride knew nothing of this, and in her ignorance could
not but misinterpret the young man's demeanor. She felt it to be
brusque; she imagined it to imply a purposed oblivion of things in
the past. Taken together with Mrs. Lashmar's way of receiving her at
the vicarage, it stirred in her heart and mind (already prone to
bitterness) a resentment which, of all things, she shrank from
betraying.

"Is Lady Ogram approachable?" Dyce asked, when his companion had
walked a few paces without speaking. "Does she care to make new
acquaintances?"

"It depends. She likes to know interesting people."

"Well"--Dyce murmured a laugh--"perhaps she might think me
interesting, in a way. Her subject is mine. I'm working at
sociology; have been for a long time. I'm getting my ideas into
shape, and I like to talk about them."

"Do you write?" asked the girl, without raising her eyes to his.

"No. People write too much; we're flooded with print. I've grown out
of my old ambitions that way. The Greek philosophers taught by word
of mouth, and it was better. I want to learn how to talk--to talk
well--to communicate what I have to say in a few plain words. It
saves time and money; I'm convinced, too, that it carries more
weight. Everyone nowadays can write a book, and most people do; but
how many can talk? The art is being utterly forgotten. Chatter and
gabble and mumble--an abuse of language. What's your view?"

"I think perhaps you are right."

"Come, now, I'm glad to hear you say that. If I had time, I would
tell you more; but here's the station, and there's the smoke of the
train. We've cut it rather close. Across the line; you'll have to
run--sharp!"

They did so, reaching the platform as the train drew up. Dyce
allowed his companion to open a carriage-door for herself. That was
quite in accord with his principles, but perhaps he would for once
have neglected them had he been sure by which class Miss Bride would
travel. She entered the third.

"You wouldn't care to introduce me to Lady Ogram?" he said, standing
by the window, and looking straight into the girl's eyes.

"I will if you wish," she answered, meeting his look with hard
steadiness and a frown as of pain.

"Many thanks! Rivenoak, Hollingford, the address? Suppose I call in
a few days?"

"If you like."

The train moved. Dyce bared his head, and, as he turned away,
thought how contemptible was the practice.

Walking briskly against a cold wind, he busied his imagination about
Lady Ogram. The picture he made to himself of this wealthy and
original old lady was very fertile of suggestion; his sanguine
temper bore him to heights of brilliant possibility. Dyce Lashmar
had a genius for airy construction; much of his time was spent in
deducing imaginary results from some half presented opportunity. As
his fancy wrought, he walked faster and faster, and he reached the
vicarage in a physical glow which corresponded to his scintillating
state of mind.

Of Constance Bride he thought hardly at all. She did not interest
him; her proximity left him cold. She might be a useful instrument;
apart from his "method," that was the light in which he regarded all
the women he knew. Experience had taught him that he possessed a
certain power over women of a certain kind; it seemed probable that
Constance belonged to the class; but this was a fact which had no
emotional bearing. With a moment's idle wonder he remembered the
circumstances of their former parting. He was then a boy, and who
shall account for a boy's momentary impulses? Constance was a
practical sort of person, and in all likelihood thought no more of
that foolish incident than he did.

"Why are you so eccentric in your movements, Dyce?" said Mrs.
Lashmar, irritably, when he entered the drawing-room again. "You
write one day that you're coming in a week or two, and on the next
here you are. How could you know that it was convenient to us to
have you just now?"

"The Woolstan boy has a cold," Dyce replied, "and I found myself
free for a few days. I'm sorry to put you out."

"Not at all. I say that it _might_ have done."

Dyce's bearing to his mother was decently respectful, but in no way
affectionate. The knowledge that she counted for little or nothing
with him was an annoyance, rather than a distress, to Mrs. Lashmar.
With tenderness she could dispense, but the loss of authority
wounded her.

Dinner was a rather silent meal. The vicar seemed to be worrying
about something even more than usual. When they had risen from
table, Mrs. Lashmar made the remark which was always forthcoming on
these occasions.

"So you are still doing nothing, Dyce?"

"I assure you, I'm very busy," answered the young man, as one
indulgent to an inferior understanding.

"So you always say. When did you see Lady Susan?"

"Oh, not for a long time."

"What vexes me is, that you don't make the slightest use of your
opportunities. It's really astonishing that, with your talents, you
should be content to go on teaching children their A. B. C. You have
no energy, Dyce, and no ambition. By this time you might have been
in the diplomatic service, you might have been in Parliament. Are
you going to waste your whole life?"

"That depends on the view one takes of life," said Dyce, in a
philosophical tone which he sometimes adopted--generally after
dinner. "Why should one always be thinking about 'getting on?' It's
the vice of the time. Why should I elbow and hustle in a vulgar
crowd? A friend of mine, Lord Dymchurch--"

"What! You have made friends with a lord?" cried Mrs. Lashmar, her
face illumined.

"Why not?--I was going to say that Dymchurch, though he's poor,
and does nothing at all, is probably about the most distinguished
man in the peerage. He is distinguished by nature, and that's enough
for him. You'd like Dymchurch, father."

The vicar looked up from a fit of black brooding, and said "Ah! no
doubt." Mrs. Lashmar, learning the circumstances of Lord Dymchurch,
took less pride in him, but went on to ask questions. Had his
lordship no interest, which might serve a friend? Could he not
present Dyce to more influential people.

"I should be ashamed to hint that kind of thing to him," answered
Dyce. "Don't be so impatient, mother. If I am to do anything--in
your sense of the word the opportunity will come. If it doesn't,
well, fate has ordered it so."

"All I know is, Dyce, that you might be the coming man, and you're
content to be nobody at all."

Dyce laughed.

"The coming man! Well, perhaps, I _am_; who knows? At all events,
it's something to know that you believe in me. And it may be that
you are not the only one."

Later, Dyce and his father went into the study to smoke. The young
man brought with him a large paperbacked volume which he had taken
out of his travelling bag.

"Here's a book I'm reading. A few days ago I happened to be at
Williams & Norgates'. This caught my eyes, and a glance at a page or
two interested me so much that I bought it at once. It would please
you, father."

"I've no time for reading nowadays," sighed the vicar. "What is it?"

He took the volume, a philosophical work by a French writer, bearing
recent date. Mr. Lashmar listlessly turned a few pages, whilst Dyce
was filling and lighting his pipe.

"It's uncommonly suggestive," said Dyce, between puffs. The best
social theory I know. He calls his system Bio-sociology; a theory of
society founded on the facts of biology--thoroughly scientific and
convincing. Smashing socialism in the common sense that is, social
democracy; but establishing a true socialism in harmony with the
aristocratic principle. I'm sure you'd enjoy it. I fancy it's just
your view."

"Yes--perhaps so--"

"Here's the central idea. No true sociology could be established
before the facts of biology were known, as the one results from the
other. In both, the ruling principle is that of association, with
the evolution of a directing power. An animal is an association of
cells. Every association implies division of labour. Now, progress
in organic development means the slow constitution of an organ--
the brain--which shall direct the body. So in society--an
association of individuals, with slow constitution of a directing
organ, called the Government. The problem of civilisation is to
establish government on scientific principles--to pick out the fit
for rule--to distinguish between the Multitude and the Select, and
at the same time to balance their working. It is nonsense to talk
about Equality. Evolution is engaged in _cephalising_ the political
aggregate--as it did the aggregate of cells in the animal
organism. It makes for the differentiation of the Select and of the
Crowd--that is to say, towards Inequality."

"Very interesting," murmured the vicar, who listened with an effort
whilst mechanically loading his pipe.

"Isn't it? And the ideas are well marked out; first the
bio-sociological theory,--then the psychology and ethics which
result from it. The book has given me a stronger impulse than
anything I've read for years. It carries conviction with it. It
clears one's mind of all sorts of doubts and hesitations. I always
kicked at the democratic idea; now I know that I was right."

"Ah! Perhaps so. These questions are very difficult--By the bye,
Dyce, I want to speak to you about a matter that has been rather
troubling me of late. Let us get it over now, shall we?"

Dyce's animated look faded under a shadow of uneasiness. He regarded
the vicar steadily, with eyes which gathered apprehension.

"It's very disagreeable," pursued Mr. Lashmar, after puffing a pipe
unlit. "I'm afraid it'll be no less so to you than to me. I've
postponed the necessity as long as I could. The fact is, Dyce, I'm
getting pinched in my finances. Let me tell you just how matters
stand."

The son listened to an exposition of his father's difficulties; he
had his feet crossed, his head bent, and the pipe hanging from his
mouth. At the first silence, he removed his pipe and said quietly:

"It's plain that my allowance must stop. Not another word about
that, father. You ought to have spoken before; I've been a burden to
you."

"No, no, my dear boy! I haven't felt it till now. But, as you see,
things begin to look awkward. Do you think you can manage?"

"Of course I can. Don't trouble about me for a moment. I have my
hundred and fifty a year from Mrs. Woolstan, and that's quite enough
for a bachelor. I shall pick up something else. In any case, I've no
right to sponge on you; I've done it too long. If I had had the
slightest suspicion--"

A sense of virtue lit up Dyce's countenance again. Nothing was more
agreeable to him than the uttering of generous sentiments. Having
reassured his father, he launched into a larger optimism.

"Don't Suppose that I have taken your money year after year without
thinking about it. I couldn't have gone on like that if I hadn't
felt sure that some day I should pay my debt. It's natural enough
that you and mother should feel a little disappointed about me, I
seem to have done nothing, but, believe me, I am not idle.
Money-making, I admit, has never been much in my mind; all the same,
I shall have money enough one of these days, and before very long.
Try to have faith in me. If it were necessary, I shouldn't mind
entering into an obligation to furnish such and such a sum yearly by
when I am thirty years old. It's a thing I never said to anyone, but
I know perfectly well that a career--perhaps rather a brilliant
one--is opening before me. I know it--just as one knows that one
is in good health; it's an intimate sense, needing no support of
argument."

"Of course I'm glad to hear you speak like that," said the vicar,
venturing only a glance at his son's face.

"Don't, I beg, worry about your affairs," pursued Dyce, with
kindling eye. "Cut off my supplies, and go quietly on." He stretched
out a soothing hand, palm downwards. "The responsibility for the
future is mine; from to-night I take it upon myself."

Much more in the same vein did Dyce pour forth, obviously believing
every word he said, and deriving great satisfaction from the sound
of his praises. He went to bed, at length, in such a self-approving
frame of mind that no sooner had he laid his head on the pillow than
sweet sleep lapped him about, and he knew nothing more till the
sunlight shimmered at his window.

A letter awaited him at the breakfast table; it had been forwarded
from his London address, and he knew at a glance that it came from
Mrs. Woolstan, the mother of his pupil. The lady, dating from a
house at West Hampstead, wrote thus:

"Dear Mr. Lashmar,
"You will be surprised to hear from me so soon again. I particularly
want to see you. Something has happened which we must talk over at
once. I shall be alone tomorrow afternoon. Do come if you possibly can.

"Sincerely yours,

"IRIS WOOLSTAN."

Dyce had come down in a mood less cheerful than that of over-night.
As happened sometimes, he had slept too soundly; his head was not
quite clear, and his nerves felt rather unsteady. This note from
Mrs. Woolstan, he knew not why, caused him uneasiness; a vague
prevision of ill was upon him as he read.

He had intended passing the day at Alverholme, and, on the morrow,
travelling to Hollingford. Now he felt no inclination to hazard a
call upon Lady Ogram; he would return to London forthwith.

"No bad news, I hope?" said his father, when this purpose was
announced.

"Mrs. Woolstan wants me back sooner than I expected, that's all."

His mother's lips curled disdainfully. To be at the beck and call of
a Mrs. Woolstan, seemed to her an ignoble thing. However, she had
learnt the tenor of Dyce's discourse of the evening before, and
tried once more to see a radiance in his future.





CHAPTER III




Hair the hue of an autumn elm-leaf; eyes green or blue, as the light
fell upon them; a long, thin face, faintly freckled over its creamy
pallor, with narrow arch of eyebrow, indifferent nose, childlike
lips and a small, pointed chin;--thus may one suggest the portrait
of Iris Woolstan. When Dyce Lashmar stepped into her drawing-room,
she had the air of one who has been impatiently expectant. Her eyes
widened in a smile of nervous pleasure; she sprang up, and offered
her hand before the visitor was near enough to take it.

"So kind of you to come! I was half afraid you might have gone out
of town not that it would have mattered. I did really want to see
you as soon as possible, but Monday would have done just as well."

She spoke rapidly in a high, but not shrill, voice, with a
drawing-in of the breath before and after her speech, and a nervous
little pant between the sentences, her bosom fluttering like that of
a frightened bird.

"As a matter of fact," cried Lashmar, with brusque cordiality,
dropping into a chair before his hostess was seated, "I _had_ gone
out of town. I got your letter at Alverholme, and came back again
sooner than I intended."

"Oh! Oh!" panted Mrs. Woolstan, on her highest note, "I shall never
forgive myself! Why _didn't_ you telegraph--or just do nothing at
all, and come when you were ready? Oh! When there wasn't the least
hurry."

"Then why did you write as if something alarming had happened?"
cried the other, laughing, as he crossed his legs, and laid his silk
hat aside.

"Oh, did I? I'm sure I _didn't_ mean to. There's nothing alarming at
all--at least--that is to say--well, it's something
troublesome and disagreeable and very unexpected, and I'm rather
afraid you won't like it. But we've plenty of time to talk about it.
I'm at home to nobody else--It was really unkind of you to come
back in a hurry! Besides, it's against your principles. You wouldn't
have done that if I had been a man."

"A man would have said just what he meant," replied Dyce, smiling at
her with kindly superiority. "He wouldn't have put me in doubt."

"No, no! But did I really write like that? I thought it was just a
plain little business-like note--indeed I did! It will be a lesson
to me--indeed it will! And how did you find your people? All well,
I hope?"

"Well in one way; in another--but I'll tell you about that
presently."

Dyce had known Mrs. Woolstan for about a couple of years; it was in
the second twelvemonth of their acquaintance that he matured his
method with regard to women, and since then he had not only
practised it freely, but had often discussed it, with her. Iris gave
the method her entire approval, and hailed it as the beginning of a
new era for her sex. She imagined that her own demeanour was no less
direct and unconstrained than that of the philosopher himself; in
reality, the difference was considerable. Though several years older
than Dyce--her age being thirty-four--she showed nothing of the
seniority in her manner towards him, which, for all its
impulsiveness, had a noticeable deference, at moments something of
subdued homage.

"You don't mean to say you have bad news?" she exclaimed,
palpitating. "You, too?"

"Why, then _you_ have something of the same kind to tell me?" said
Dyce, gazing at her anxiously.

"Tell me your's first--please do!"

"No. It's nothing very important. So say what you've got to say, and
be quick about it--come!"

Mrs. Woolstan's bosom rose and fell rapidly as she collected her
thoughts. Unconventional as were the terms in which Lashmar
addressed her, they carried no suggestion of an intimacy which
passed the limits of friendship. When his eyes turned to her, their
look was unemotional, purely speculative, and in general spoke
without looking at her at all.

"It's something about Mr. Wrybolt," Iris began, with a face of
distress. "You know he is my trustee--I told you, didn't I? I see
him very seldom, and we don't take much interest in each other; he's
nothing but a man of business, the kind I detest; he can't talk of
anything but money and shares and wretched things of that sort. But
you know him you understand."

The name of Wrybolt set before Dyce's mind a middle-aged man,
red-necked, heavy of eyelid, with a rather punctilious hearing and
authoritative mode of speech. They had met only once, here at Mrs.
Woolstan's house.

"I'm sure I don't know why, but just lately he's begun to make
inquiries about Len, and to ask when I meant to send him to school.
Of course I told him that Len was doing very well indeed, and that I
didn't see the slightest necessity for making a change at all events
just yet. Well, yesterday he came, and said he wanted to see the
boy. Len was in bed--he's in bed still, though his cold's much
better and Mr. Wrybolt would go up to his room, and talk to him.
When he came down again, you know I'm going to tell you the whole
truth, and of course you won't mind it--he began talking in a very
nasty way--he _has_ a nasty way when he likes. 'Look here, Mrs.
Woolstan,' he said, 'Leonard doesn't seem to me to be doing well at
all. I asked him one or two questions in simple arithmetic, and he
couldn't answer.' 'Well,' I said, 'for one thing Len isn't well, and
it isn't the right time to examine a boy; and then arithmetic isn't
his subject; he hasn't that kind of mind.' But he wouldn't listen,
and the next thing he said was still nastier. 'Do you know,' he
said, 'that the boy is being taught _atheism_?'--Well, what could
I answer? I got rather angry, and said that Len's religious teaching
was my own affair, and I couldn't see what _he_ had to do with it;
and besides, that Len _wasn't_ being taught atheism, but that people
who were not in the habit of thinking Philosophically couldn't be
expected to understand such things. I think that was rather good,
wasn't it? Didn't I put it rather well?"

Iris panted in expectation of approval. But merely a nod was
vouchsafed to her.

"Go on," said Dyce, drily.

"You're not vexed, I hope? I'm going to be quite frank, you know,
just as you like people to be. Well, Mr. Wrybolt went on, and would
have it that Len was badly taught and altogether led in the wrong
way, and that he'd grow up an immoral and an irreligious man. 'You
must remember, Mr. Wrybolt,' I said, rather severely, 'that people's
ideas about morality and religion differ very much, and I can't
think you have sufficiently studied the subject to be capable of
understanding my point of view'--It was rather severe, wasn't it?
But I think it was rather well put."

"Go on," said Dyce, with another nod.

"Well now, I'm quite sure you'll understand me. We _do_ generally
understand each other. You see, I was put into a most difficult
position. Mr. Wrybolt is my trustee, and he has to look after Len--
though he's never given a thought to him till now--and he's a man
of influence; that is to say, in his own wretched, vulgar world, but
unfortunately it's a kind of influence one's obliged to think about.
Len, you know, is just eleven, and one has to begin to think about
his future, and it isn't as if he was going to be rich and could do
as he liked. I'm sure you'll understand me. With a man like Mr.
Wrybolt--"