Pedro Calderon de la Barca - "The Purgatory of St. Patrick"

Charlotte M. Yonge - "My Young Alcides"

Richard Bradley - "The Country Housewife and Lady's Director"

Voltaire - "Jeannot et Colin"

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




There had been a few moments' silence, when Constance asked:

"Do you ever hear of Mr. Yabsley?"

Was the woman a thought-reader? At that instant May had been
thinking--the first time for weeks, perhaps--of her Admirable
Crichton in the old Northampton days, and reflecting with
gratification on the vast change which had come upon her life and
her mind since she followed Mr. Yabsley's spiritual direction.
Startled, she gazed at the speaker.

"How odd that you should have remembered his name!"

"Not at all. I heard it so often when you first came here."

"Did you?" said May, pretending to be amused. "Mr. Yabsley is a
remarkable man, and I value his friendship. You remind me that I
really ought to write to him."

Constance seemed to lose all her interest in the matter, and spoke
of something trivial.

In the course of the morning there happened a singular thing.

Lady Ogram rose earlier than usual. Before leaving her room, she
read in the _Hollingford Express_ all about the sudden death of Mr.
Robb. The event had kept her awake all night. Though on the one side
a disappointment, for of late she had counted upon Robb's defeat at
the next election as an all but certain thing, the fact that she had
outlived her enemy, that he lay, as it were, at her feet, powerless
ever again to speak an insulting word, aroused all the primitive
instincts of her nature. With the exultation of a savage she gloated
over the image of Robb stricken to the ground. Through the hours of
darkness, she now and then sang to herself, and the melodies were
those she had known when a girl, or a child, common songs of the
street. It was her chant of victory and revenge.

Having risen, she went into the drawing-room on the same floor as
her bedchamber, and summoned two menservants. After her first
serious illness, she had for a time been carried up and down stairs
in a chair made for that purpose; she now bade her attendants fetch
the chair, and convey her to the top story of the house. It was
done. In her hand she had a key, and with this she unlocked the door
of that room which had been closed for half a century. Having stood
alone within the garret for a few minutes, she called to the men,
who, on entering, looked with curiosity at dust-covered forms in
clay and in marble. Their mistress pointed to a bust which stood on
a wooden pedestal some three feet high.

"You are to clean that. Bring water and soap. I will wait here
whilst you do it."

The task was quickly performed; the marble shone once more, and its
pedestal of lustrous black looked little the worse for long
seclusion. Lady Ogram sat with her eyes fixed upon the work of art,
and for a minute or two neither moved nor spoke.

"Who is that?" she inquired suddenly, indicating the head, and
turning her look upon the two men.

"I think it is yourself, my lady," answered the bolder of the two.

Lady Ogram smiled. That use of the present tense was agreeable to
her.

"You are to take it down to the green drawing-room. Carry me there,
first, and I will show you where to place it."

Arrived at the ground-floor, she quitted her chair and walked into
the drawing-room with step which was almost firm. Here, among the
flowers and leafage, sat May Tomalin, who, surprised at her aunt's
early appearance, rose forward with an exclamation of pleasure.

"How well you look this morning, aunt!"

"I'm glad you think so, my dear," was the pleased and dignified
reply. "Be so kind, May, as to go into the library, and wait there
until I send for you."

The girl turned pale. For a moment, she thought her escapade of this
morning had been discovered, and that terrible things were about to
happen. Her fright could not escape Lady Ogram's observation.

"What, have I frightened you? Did it remind you of being sent into
the corner when you were a little girl?"

She laughed with discordant gaiety.

"Really, for the moment I thought I was being punished," replied
May. And she too laughed, a melodious trill.

A quarter of an hour passed. Lady Ogram presented herself at the
library door, and saw May reading, whilst Constance Bride sat
writing at the table.

"Come, both of you!"

Surprised at the look and tone with which they were summoned, the
two followed into the drawing-room, where, guided by Lady Ogram's
glance, they became aware of a new ornament. They approached; they
gazed; they wondered.

"Who is that?" asked their conductress, turning to Miss Bride.

Constance felt no doubt as to the person whom the bust was supposed
to represent, and her disgust at what she thought the shameless
flattery practised by the sculptor hardly allowed her to reply.

"Of course," she said, in as even a voice as possible, "it is a
portrait of Miss Tomalin."

Lady Ogram's eyes shone; on the point of laughing, she restrained
herself, and looked at her niece.

"May, what do _you_ think?"

"Really, aunt, I don't know what to think," answered the girl, in a
happy confusion. "If Miss Bride is right--it's very, very kind of
you. But how was it done without my sitting?"

This time, the old lady's mirth had its way.

"How, indeed! There's a mystery for you both, my dears!--May, it's
true you are like me, but don't let Constance make you conceited. Go
near, and look at the date carved on the marble."

"Why, aunt, of course it is you yourself!" exclaimed the girl, her
averted face long-drawn in mortification; she saw the smile with
which Miss Bride had received this disclosure. "How wonderful!"

"You can hardly believe it?"

Some incredulity might have been excused in one who turned from that
superb head, with its insolent youth and beauty, to the painted
death-mask grinning there before it. Yet the marble had not
flattered, and, looking closely enough, you saw a reminiscence of
its contour in the bloodless visage which, since that proud moment,
had chronicled the passions of three-score years.

"How stupid not to have understood at once," said May, the epithet
privately directed towards Constance.

"It's a magnificent bust!" declared Miss Bride, examining it now
with sincere interest. "Who was the sculptor, Lady Ogram?"

"My husband," answered the old lady, with pride. "Sir Quentin had
much talent, and this was the best thing he ever did."

"And it has just come into your possession?" asked May.

"No, my dear. But I thought you would like to see it."

An hour later, Dyce Lashmar arrived. He was conducted at once to the
drawing-room, where Lady Ogram still sat with May and Constance.

"I expected you," cried the senile voice, on a high note.

"I heard the news at dinner-time yesterday;" said Lashmar. "Just
caught the last train, and sat up half the night with Breakspeare."

"I sent you a telegram the first thing this morning," said Lady
Ogram. "Had you left Alverholme before it arrived?"

"I was in town," answered Dyce, only now remembering that he had to
account for his movements. "A letter called me up yesterday
morning."

The old autocrat was in no mood for trifling explanations. She
passed the point, and began to ask the news from Hollingford. Who
would be the Conservative candidate? They talked, said Dyce, of a
stranger to the town, a man named Butterworth, one of Robb's private
friends.

"It's Butterworth of the hoardings--Butterworth's jams and
pickles, you know. He's made a million out of them, and now thinks
of turning his energies to the public service. Robb, it seems,
didn't mean to face another election, and of late had privately
spoken here and there of Butterworth."

"Jams and pickles!" cried Lady Ogram, with a croaking laugh. "Will
the Hollingford Tories stand that?"

"Why not? Robb evidently thought they would, and he knew them.
Butterworth is a stout Unionist, I'm told, and if he makes another
million he may look for a peerage. Jam has not hitherto been thought
so respectable as ale or stout, but that's only a prejudice. Robb's
enlightened mind saw the budding aristocrat. Breakspeare is thinking
out an article on the deceased champion of aristocratic traditions,
to be followed by another on the blazonry of the jam-pot and
pickle-jar. We shall have merry reading when decorum releases our
friend's pen."

As his eyes stole towards May Tomalin, Dyce perceived the marble
bust. He gazed at it in silent surprise. The looks of all were upon
him; turning, he met smiles of inquiry.

"Well?" said Lady Ogram, bluntly.

"Who is that? Is it a new work?" he inquired, with diffidence.

"It looks new, doesn't it?"

"I should have thought," said Dyce, reflectively, "that it
represented Lady Ogram at about the same age as in the painting."

"Constance," exclaimed the old lady, vastly pleased, "congratulate
Mr. Lashmar."

"Then I am right," cried Dyce, encountering Constance's look. "What
a fine bit of work! What a magnificent head!"

He moved nearer to it, and continued freely to express his
admiration. The resemblance to May Tomalin had struck him, he
thought it probable that some sculptor had amused himself by
idealising the girl's suggestive features; but at this juncture it
seemed to him more prudent, as in any case it would be politic, to
affect to see only a revival of Lady Ogram's youth. It startled him
to find that his tact had guided him so well.

He continued to behave with all prudence, talking through luncheon
chiefly with the hostess, and directing hardly a remark to May, who,
on her side, maintained an equal discretion. Afterwards, he saw Lady
Ogram in private.

"You mean to stay on at the hotel, no doubt," she said. "Yes, it'll
be more convenient for you than if you came here. But look in and
let us know how things go on. Let me see, to-morrow is Wednesday;
don't come to-morrow. On Thursday I may have something to tell you;
yes, come and lunch on Thursday. You understand--on Thursday. And
there's something else I may as well say at once; the expenses of
the election are my affair."

Dyce began a grateful protest, but was cut short.

"I say that is my affair. We'll talk about it when the fight is
over. No petty economies! In a day or two, when things are in order,
we must have Breakspeare here. Perhaps you had better go away for
the day of Robb's funeral. Yes, don't be seen about on that day.
Spare no useful expense; I give you a free hand. Only win; that's
all I ask of you. I shan't like it if you're beaten by jams and
pickles. And lunch here on Thursday--you understand?"

Dyce had never known the old autocrat so babblingly iterative. Nor
had he ever beheld her in such a mood of gaiety, of exultation.

"Go and have a word with Constance," she said at length. "I rather
think she's going into the town; if so, you can go together. She's
in great spirits. It isn't her way to talk much, but I can see she
feels very hopeful. By the bye, I'm expecting Sir William before
dinner--Sir William Amys, you know. He may be here still when you
come on Thursday."

Why Lady Ogram should be so careful to conceal the fact' that Lord
Dymchurch was expected, Dyce found it difficult to understand. But
it was clear that Dymchurch had been invited in the hope, perhaps
the certainty, that he would propose to May Tomalin. That he was
coming at all seemed, indeed, decisive as to his intentions.
Plainly, the old schemer had formed this project at the time of her
visit to London, and, improbable as the thing would have appeared to
any one knowing Dymchurch, she was carrying it successfully through.
On the one side; but how about May? Dyce tried to assure himself
that, being in love with _him_, May would vainly be wooed by anyone
else. But had she the courage to hold out against her imperious
relative? Could she safely do so? The situation was extremely
disquieting. He wished it were possible to see May alone, even for a
minute. But he did not see her at all, and, as Lady Ogram had
suggested, he found himself obliged to return to Hollingford in
Constance's company. They drove in the landau. On the way, Dyce made
known to his companion Lady Ogram's generous intentions.

"I knew she would do that," said Constance, regarding him with the
smile which betrayed her inmost thoughts.

Because of the proximity of their coachman, they talked in subdued
tones, their heads close together. To Lashmar this intimacy meant
nothing at all; Constance, in his busy thoughts, was as good as
non-existent. He had remarked with vexation the aspect of renewed
vigour presented by Lady Ogram, and would have spoken of it, but
that he felt ashamed to do so.

"Don't you think," asked his companion, "that everything is going
wonderfully well with you?"

"It looks so, for the present."

"And, after all, whom have you to thank for it?"

"I don't forget," Dyce replied, wondering whether she alluded to the
fact of her having introduced him to the mistress of Rivenoak, or to
the terms of their engagement.

"If you win the election, don't you think it would be graceful not
only to feel, but to show, a little gratitude?"

She spoke in a voice which once more reminded him of the
summer-house on that rainy morning, a voice very unlike her ordinary
utterance, soft and playfully appealing.

"Don't be so severe on me," answered Dyce, with a laugh. "I am not
_all_ self-interest."

He added what was meant for a reassuring look, and began to talk of
electioneering details.





CHAPTER XXI




Lady Ogram's life had been much guided by superstition. No one knew
it, or suspected it, for this was among the tokens of her origin
which she carefully kept out of sight. Through all the phases of her
avowed belief, she remained subject to a private religion of omens
and auspices, which frequently influenced her conduct. Thus, she
would long ago have brought forth and displayed that marble visage
of her beauty in its prime, but for a superstitious fear which
withheld her. On the night before Sir Quentin's death, she dreamt
that she ascended to the garret, took the bust in her arms, and
carried it downstairs. Many years went by, and again she had the
same dream; the next day her first serious illness fell upon her,
and, remembering the vision, she gave herself up for lost; but the
sign this time had less than fatal significance. Now once more, on
the Sunday night of the present week, she seemed to enter the locked
garret, and to carry away the marble. All Monday she lived in a
great dread, but at evening came the news that her arch-enemy was no
more, and behold the vision explained!

On Monday night she dreamt not at all, being kept awake by
exultation in what had happened and forecast of triumphs soon to be
enjoyed. But her thoughts turned constantly to the graven image
which she longed to see, and, by a process of reasoning natural to
such a mind as hers, she persuaded herself that now was the moment
to fulfil her desire. The bust once brought down, she would not
again dream of going to seek it, and, consequently, it could not
serve again to augur evil. Not without tremors, she executed her
resolve, and, the thing once done, her joy was boundless. Looking on
that marble face, she seemed to recover something of the strength
and spirit it had immortalised. Notwithstanding her restless night,
she felt so clear in mind, so well in body, that the forebodings
which had perturbed her since her exhausting visit to London were
quite dismissed. To-day Lord Dymchurch was coming; to-morrow May's
betrothal would be a fact to noise abroad. She would then summon
Kerchever, and in the presence of Sir William Amys, the trusty
friend sure to outlive her, would complete that last will and
testament which was already schemed out. Twice already had she
executed a will, the second less than a year ago. When in town, she
had sufficiently discussed with her man of law the new situation
brought about by her discovery of May Tomalin; but the hope which
she connected with Lord Dymchurch bade her postpone awhile the
solemn signature. All had come to pass even as she desired, as she
resolved it should. To the end she was supreme in her own world.

When her guests arrived--all travelled from London by the same
train--she received them royally. She had clad herself with
unusual magnificence; on the shrivelled parchment of her cheeks
shone an audacious bloom; her eyes gleamed as if in them were
concentrated all the proud life which still resisted age and malady.
Rising from her bowered throne in the drawing-room, she took a step
towards Lady Amys, pressed her hand cordially--not at all feebly--and
welcomed her with affectionate words. The baronet she
addressed as "Willy," but with such a dignity of kindness in the
familiar name that it was like bestowal of an honour. Towards the
peer her bearing was marked with grave courtesy, softening to
intimate notes as their conversation progressed. Scarce a touch of
senility sounded in her speech; she heard perfectly, indulged in no
characteristic brusquerie of phrase, fulfilled every formality
proper to the occasion.

Sir William and his wife were the only people of their world who had
always seen the lady of Rivenoak in her better aspect; who, whilst
appreciating the comedy of her life, regarded her with genuine
friendship. They understood the significance of Lord Dymchurch's
visit, and, like Mrs. Toplady, though in a much more human spirit,
awaited with amusement the successful issue of Lady Ogram's scheme.
They saw no harm in it. Dymchurch, it might well be, had fallen in
love with the handsome girl, and it was certain that her wealth
would be put to much better use in his hands than in those of the
ordinary man who weds money. Lady Ogram's deliberate choice of this
landless peer assuredly did her credit. She wanted the peerage for
her niece; but it would not have been difficult to gratify her
ambition in a more brilliant way, had she cared less for the girl's
welfare. Society being what it is, they did not see how their
energetic old friend could have acted more prudently and kindly.

At dinner there was much pleasant talk. The baronet's vein of
humourous criticism flowed freely. Walking through London streets
this morning, his eye had caught sight of a couple of posters which
held him in meditation.

"One was a huge picture of an ox, and beneath it one read in great
letters that sixty thousand bullocks are annually slaughtered for
the manufacture of Nokes's beef-tea. The other advertised Stokes's
pills, and informed the world, in still bigger lettering, that,
every minute of the day, seven of these pills 'reached their
destination.' Delightful phrase! 'Reached their destination.' And
this, you see, is how we adorn the walls of our cities. It is not
only permitted, but favoured. I am quite sure that a plebiscite, if
some more civilised alternative were offered, would pronounce in
favor of the bullocks and the pills, as much more interesting. Yet
to my mind, spoilt by pottering among old pictures, that bit of wall
was so monstrous in its hideousness that I stood moon-stricken, and
even yet I haven't got over it. I shall dream to-night of myriads of
bullocks massacred for beef-tea, and of an endless procession of
pills--reaching their destination. I ask myself, in my foolish
theoretic way, what earthly right we have to lay claim to
civilisation. How much better it would be always to speak of
ourselves as barbarians. We should then, perhaps, make some
endeavour to improve. The barbarian who imagines himself on the
pinnacle of refinement is in a parlous state--far more likely to
retrograde than to advance."

"There should be a league of landowners," said Miss Tomalin,
"pledged to forbid any such horror on their own property."

"I don't know that I have much faith in leagues," returned Sir
William. "I am a lost individualist. Let everyone try to civilise
himself; depend upon it, it's the best work he can do for the world
at large."

"And yet," put in Lord Dymchurch, "the world can't do without
apostles. Do you think mere example has ever availed much?"

"Perhaps not. I would say that I don't care. Do you really believe
that the world ever _will_ be much more civilised than it is? In
successive epochs, there are more or fewer persons of liberal
mind--that's all; the proportion rises and falls. Why should we trouble
about it? Let those of us who really dislike the ox and pill
placards, keep as much out of sight of them as possible, that's all.
It doesn't do to think over much about the problems of life.
Nowadays almost everybody seems to feel it a duty to explain the
universe, and with strange results. For instance, I read an article
last night, a most profound article, altogether too much for my poor
head, on the question of right and wrong. Really, I had supposed
that I knew the difference between right and wrong; in my blundering
way, I had always tried to act on the knowledge. But this writer
proves to me that I shall have to begin all over again. 'Morality,'
he says, 'depends upon cerebral oxidation.' That's a terrible dictum
for a simpleminded man. If I am not cerebrally oxidised, or oxidally
cerebrised, in the right degree, it's all over with my hopes of
leading a moral life. I'm quite sure that a large number of people
are worrying over that article, and asking how they can oxidise if
not their own cerebellum, at all events that of their offspring."

"Man and nature," said Lord Dymchurch presently, "have such
different views about the good of the world."

"That's," exclaimed the baronet, "is a very striking remark. Let me
give you an illustration of its truth. Years ago I had an intimate
friend, a wonderfully clever man, who wrote and published a
delightful little book. Few such books have ever been written; it
was a marvel of delicate thought and of exquisite style. The
half-dozen readers who could appreciate it cried aloud that this man
had a great future, that his genius was a jewel which the world
would for ever prize--and so on. Well, my friend married, and
since then he has written nothing, nor will he ever again. I know
people who lament his fate, who declare that marriage was his ruin,
and a crime against civilisation. The other day, I called upon
him--not having seen him for ages. I found a rather uncomfortable
little house, a pretty, dull little wife, and three beautiful
children in the most vigorous health. 'Alas!' said my friend to me
in private, 'I try to work, but I can do nothing. I need absolute
tranquillity, such as I had when I wrote my book. I try, but
domestic life is fatal to me.' Now, what better example of what you
say, Lord Dymchurch? To _us_ it seems a misfortune to the world that
this man didn't live on in bachelorhood and write more exquisite
books. But nature says 'What do I care for his _books_?' 'Look at
his _children_!' That's what she meant him for, and from Nature's
point of view he is a triumphant success."

Dymchurch seemed not only amused, but pleased. He grew thoughtful,
and sat smiling to himself whilst others carried on the
conversation.

The evening passed. Lady Amys gave the signal of retirement; May and
Constance followed; the baronet and the peer chatted for yet a few
minutes with their hostess, then bade her good-night. But, just as
he was leaving the room, Dymchurch heard Lady Ogram call his name;
he stepped back towards her.

"I forgot to tell you," she said, "that Mr. Lashmar will lunch with
us the day after to-morrow. Of course he is very busy at
Hollingford."

"I shall be glad to see him," replied the other, cordially. "I wish
I could help him in any way."

Lady Ogram resumed her seat. She was looking at the marble bust, and
Dymchurch, following the direction of her eyes, also regarded it.

"Until this morning," she said, "I hadn't seen that for more than
fifty years. I would tell you why--but I should only send you to
sleep."

Her guest begged to hear the story, and sat down to listen. Though
the day had been so unusually long and fatiguing, Lady Ogram seemed
to feel no effect of it; her eyes were still lustrous she held
herself with as much dignity as when the guests arrived. She began a
narrative of such clearness and vigour that the listener never
thought of doubting its truth; yet the story of her youth as the
lady of Rivenoak wished Lord Dymchurch to receive it differed in
very important points from that which her memory preserved. Not
solely, nor indeed chiefly, on her own account did Arabella thus
falsify the past; it was as the ancestress of May Tomalin that she
spoke, and on behalf of May's possible children. Dymchurch, looking
back into years long before he was born, saw a beautiful maiden of
humble birth loyally wooed and wedded by a romantic artist, son of a
proud baronet. Of course she became the butt of calumny, which found
its chief support in the fact that the young artist had sculptured
her portrait, and indiscreetly shown it to friends, before their
marriage. Hearing these slanderous rumours, she wished all the work
which represented her to be destroyed, and her husband led her to
believe that this was done; but on succeeding to the title, and
coming to live at Rivenoak, Sir Quentin confessed that he had not
been able to destroy that marble bust which was his joy and his
pride; he undertook, however, to keep it hidden under lock and key,
and only this day, this very day, had it come forth again into the
light.