Books: Our Friend the Charlatan

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"I am an old, old woman," she said, not without genuine pathos in
her utterance. "I have long outlived the few who were my enemies and
spoke ill of me, as well as those who knew the truth and held me in
respect. I fear no one. I wanted to see how I looked when I was a
girl, and I confess I am glad for others to see it, too."

Dymchurch murmured that nothing could be more natural.

"I was almost as good-looking as May, don't you think?" she asked,
with a not very successful affectation of diffidence.

"There is a likeness," answered Dymchurch. "But--"

She interrupted his effort to describe the points of difference.

"You very much prefer the other face. That doesn't surprise me and
you needn't be afraid to confess it. May is much better-tempered
than I was, and she looks it. Did I ever tell you how she is related
to me? I call her my niece, but she is really the grand-daughter of
my brother, who emigrated to Canada."

Thereupon Lady Ogram sketched a portrait of that brother, depicting
him as a fine specimen of the colonising Briton, breezy, sturdy,
honest to the core. She traced the history of the Canadian family,
which in the direct line had now no representative but May. Of her
long search for the Tomalins she did not think it necessary to
speak; but, turning hack to her own history, she told of the son she
had lost, and how all her affections were now bestowed upon this
young girl, who in truth had become to her as a daughter. Then,
discreetly, with no undue insistence, she made known her intention
to endow May Tomalin with the greater part of her fortune.

"I have lived long enough to know that money is not happiness, but
in the right hands it is a great and good thing. I have no fear of
the use May will make of it, and you can't know what a pleasure it
is to be able to give it to her, to one of my own blood, my own
name, instead of leaving it to strangers, as I once feared I
must.--But," she broke off suddenly in a changed voice, "here I keep
you listening to my old tales, when you ought to be asleep. Good-night,
Lord Dymchurch! To-morrow you must see Rivenoak. Good-night!"

For her, there was again no sleep. The weather had changed; through
the open window breathed a cool, sweet air, very refreshing after
the high temperature of the last few days; but Lady Ogram in vain
closed her eyes and tried to lull her thoughts to rest. It
disappointed her that Dymchurch, in reply to her confidences, had
spoken no decisive word. Of course he would declare himself on the
morrow; he would have every opportunity for private talk with May,
and of the issue there could be no serious doubt. But Lady Ogram's
nerves were tortured with impatience. In the glimmer of dawn, she
wished to rise and walk about, but found herself unequal to the
effort. Her head ached; her blood was feverish. Though it was a
thing she hated to do, she summoned the attendant who lay in an
adjoining room.

At mid-day she was able to descend At the foot of the stairs, she
encountered Constance Bride, who stood glancing over a book.

"What are they all doing?" was her first question. And, before
Constance could reply, she asked "Where is Lord Dymchurch?"

"I saw him not long ago in the garden."

"Alone?"

"No, with Miss Tomalin."

"Why didn't you say so at once? Where are the others? Tell them I am
down."

Constance delayed replying for a moment, then said with cold
respectfulness:

"You will find Sir William and Lady Amys in the drawing-room."

"I shall find them there, shall I? And what if I don't wish to go
into the drawing-room?"

Constance looked into the angry face. In the book she was carrying,
a French volume arrived by post this morning, she had found things
which troubled her mind and her temper; she was in no mood for
submitting to harsh dictatorship. But those blood-shot eyes and
shrivelled lips, the hollow temples and drawn cheeks which told of
physical suffering, stilled her irritation.

"I will tell them at once, Lady Ogram."

Dymchurch and May Tomalin had strayed from the garden into the park.
They were sitting on a bench which encircled a great old tree. For
some minutes neither had spoken. Dymchurch held in his hand a last
year's leaf, brown, crisp, but still perfect in shape; he smiled
dreamily, and, as his eyes wandered to the girl's face, said in a
soft undertone:

"How easily one loses oneself in idle thoughts! I was asking myself
where this grew--on which branch, which twig; and it seemed
strange to me that by no possibility could anyone discover it."

May had not a very high opinion of her companion's intelligence, but
it struck her this morning he was duller than usual. She humoured
him, replying with her philosophical air:

"No, indeed! Yet we try to find out how life began, and what the
world means."

Dymchurch was pleased. He liked to find her capable of such a
reflection. It encouraged the movements of vague tenderness which
had begun to justify a purpose formed rather in the mind than in the
heart.

"Yes! Amusing, isn't it? But you, I think, don't trouble much about
such questions."

"It seems to me waste of time."

She was thinking of Dyce Lashmar, asking herself whether she would
meet him, or not, to-morrow morning. Certainly she wished to do so.
Lashmar at a distance left her coolly reasonable; she wanted to
recover the emotional state of mind which had come about during
their stolen interview. With Lord Dymchurch, though his attentions
were flattering, she could not for a moment imagine herself touched
by romantic feeling.

"So it is," he was saying. "To waste time in that way has always
been one of my bad habits. But I am going to get rid of it."

He seemed on the point of adding more significant words. May heard
the sound fail in his throat; saw without looking at him--his
sudden embarrassment. When the words came, as surely they would,
what was to be her answer? She hoped for inspiration. Why should it
be necessary for her to make precise reply? No! She would not.
Freedom and the exercise of power were what she wanted. Enough to
promise her answer a month, or half a year, hence. If the old lady
didn't like it, let her learn patience.

Dymchurch sat bending forward. The dry leaf crackled between his
fingers; he was crushing it to powder.

"Who," he asked, "is the lady Miss Bride was speaking of, in
connection with the servant's training-school?"

"Mrs. Gallantry. A good, active sort of woman at Hollingford."

"That scheme doesn't interest you much?"

"Not very much, I confess. I quite approve of it. It's just the kind
of thing for people like Miss Bride, plodding and practical; no
doubt they'll make it very useful. But I have rather lost my
keenness for work of that sort. Perhaps I have grown out of it. Of
course I wish as much as ever for the good of the lower classes, but
I feel that my own work will lie in another direction."

"Tell me what you have in mind," said Dymchurch, meeting her look
with soft eyes.

"What I really care about now is the spirit of the educated class.
There's such a great deal to be done among people of our own kind.
Not of course by direct teaching and preaching, but by personal
influence, exercised in all sorts of ways. I should like to set the
intellectual tone in my own circle. I should like my house to--as
it were, to radiate light."

The listener could not but smile. Yet his amusement had no tincture
of irony. He himself would not have used these phrases, but was not
the thought exactly what he had in mind? He, too, felt his
inaptitude for the ordinary forms of "social" usefulness; in his
desire and his resolve to "do something," he had been imagining just
this sort of endeavour, and May's words seemed to make it less
vague.

"I quite understand you," he exclaimed, with some fervour. "There's
plenty of scope for that sort of influence. You would do your best
to oppose the tendencies of vulgar and selfish society. If only in a
little circle one could set the fashion of thought, of living for
things that are worth while! And I see no impossibility. It has been
done before now."

"I'm very glad you like the idea," said May, graciously. Again--
without looking at him--she saw his lips shaping words which they
could not sound; she saw his troubled, abashed smile, and his uneasy
movement which ended in nothing at all.

"We have some fine trees at Rivenoak," fell from her, as her eyes
wandered.

"Indeed you have!"

"You like trees, don't you?"

"Very much. When I was a boy, I once saw a great many splendid oaks
and beeches cut down, and it made me miserable."

"Where was that?"

"On land that had belonged to my father, and, which, for a year or
two, belonged to me."

He spoke with an uneasy smile, again crushing a brown leaf between
his fingers. May's silence compelled him to proceed.

"I have no trees now." He tried to laugh. "Only a bit of a farm,
which seems to be going out of cultivation."

"But why do you let it do so?"

"It's in the hands of a troublesome tenant. If I had been wise, I
should have learnt to farm it myself, years ago. Perhaps I shall
still do so."

"That would be interesting," said May. "Tell me about it, will you?
It's in Kent, I think?"

The impoverished peer spoke freely of the matter. He had been
seeking this opportunity since the beginning of their talk. Yet,
before he had ceased, moral discomfort took hold upon him, and his
head drooped in shame. The silence which followed--May was saying
to herself that now, now the moment had come did but increase his
embarrassment. He wished to speak of his sisters, to hint at their
circumstances, but the thing was impossible. In desperation, he
broke into some wholly foreign subject, and for this morning, all
hope of the decisive step had passed.

The day brought no other opportunity. Towards midnight, Dymchurch
sat at the open window of his chamber, glad to be alone, anxious,
self-reproachful. To-morrow he must discharge what had become an
obvious duty, however difficult it might be.

He had received a long letter from the younger of his sisters. It
spoke of the other's ill health, a subject of disquiet for the past
month, and went on to discuss a topic which frequently arose in this
correspondence the authority of the Church of Rome. A lady who had
just been passing a fortnight at the house in Somerset was a
Catholic, and Dymchurch suspected her of proselytism; from the tone
of the present letter it appeared that her arguments had had
considerable success. Though impartial in his judgment of the old
faith, Dymchurch felt annoyed and depressed at the thought that one
of his sisters, or both, might turn in that direction; he explained
their religious unrest by the solitude and monotony of their lives,
for which it seemed to him that he himself was largely to blame.
Were he to marry May Tomalin, everything would at once, he thought,
be changed for the better; his sisters might come forth from their
seclusion, mingle with wholesome society, and have done with more or
less morbid speculation.

He had gone so far that honour left him no alternative. And he had
gone thus far because it pleased him to do a thing which broke
utterly with his habits and prejudices, which put him into a
position such as he had never foreseen. He was experimenting in
life.

May, he told himself, behaved very well. Never for a moment had she
worn the air of invitation; a smirk was a thing unknown to her; the
fact of his titular dignity she seemed wholly to disregard. Whatever
her faults he saw most of them--she had the great virtue of
unaffectedness. Assuredly he liked her; he could not feel certain
that even a warmer sentiment had not begun to breathe within him. As
for May's willingness to marry him, why, at all events, it appeared
a probability. They had some intellectual sympathies, which were
likely to increase rather than diminish. And, if the marriage would
be for him a great material benefit, he hoped that May also might
profit by it.

Lady Ogram desired their union, that was clear. That she should have
made choice of _him_, was not easy to explain, for surely she might
have wedded her niece more advantageously. But then, Lady Ogram was
no mere intriguer; he thought her, on the whole, a woman of fine
character, with certain defects so obvious that they could never be
the means of misleading anyone. She was acting, undoubtedly, in what
she deemed the best interests of her young relative--and _he_
could hardly accuse her of having made a mistake.

Pacing the room, he took up a review, opened at a philosophical
article, and tried to read.

"Why does man exist? Why does _anything_ exist? Manifestly because
the operations of the energies of nature, under the particular group
of conditions, compel it, just in the same way that they cause
everything else to happen."

He paused, and re-read the passage. Was it satire or burlesque? No,
he saw that the writer meant it for a serious contribution to human
knowledge. In disgust he flung the periodical aside. This was the
kind of stuff that people feed upon nowadays, a result of the craze
for quasi-scientific phraseology, for sonorous explanations of the
inexplicable. Why does man exist, forsooth!--To guard his lips
against the utterances of foolishness, and to be of what use in the
world he may.

Before mid-day on the morrow, he would offer May Tomalin his heart
and hand, offer both with glad sincerity, disregarding all else but
the fact that to this point had destiny brought him.

He thought of her humble origin, and rejoiced in it. His own family
history was an illustration of how a once genuinely noble house
might fall into decay if not renewed by alliances with more vigorous
blood. May Tomalin had perfect health: she represented generations
of hardy, simple folk, their energy of late recruited in the large
air of Canada. Why, had he gone forth deliberately to seek the kind
of wife best suited to him, he could not have done better than
chance had done for him in his indolent shirking existence. If he
had children, they might be robust and comely. In May's immediate
connections, there was nothing to cause embarrassment; as to her
breeding it would compare more than favourably with that of many
high-born young ladies whom Society delights to honour. Of such
young ladies he had always thought with a peculiar dread. If ever he
allowed himself to dream of love and marriage, his mind turned to
regions where fashion held no sway, where ambitions were humble. May
Tomalin stood between the two worlds, representing a mean which
would perchance prove golden.

So determined and courageous was his mood when he fell asleep that
it did not permit him long slumbers. A bright sunrise gleaming on a
sky which in the night had shed cool showers tempted him to rise
much before his usual time. He turned over a volume or two from the
shelves in the bedroom, seeking thus to keep his nerves steady and
to tune his mind. Presently he thought he would take a stroll before
breakfast. It was nearly eight o'clock; servants would be about and
the door open. He left his room.

Passing a great window at the end of the corridor, he glanced out
upon the garden lying behind the house. Some one was walking there
it was no other than May herself. She moved quickly, in the
direction of the park; evidently bent on a ramble before her friends
were stirring. Better chance could not have befallen him. He went
quickly downstairs.

But, when he had made his way to that part of the grounds where May
had appeared, she was no longer discoverable. He strode on in what
seemed the probable direction, taking, as a matter of fact, the
wrong path; it brought him into the park, but at a point whence he
looked in vain for the girl's figure. This was vexatious. Should he
linger here for her return, or step out at a venture? He strolled
vaguely for some minutes, coming at length into a path which
promised pleasant things. Perhaps May had gone to the basky hollow
yonder. If he missed her, they were sure of meeting after breakfast.

He walked towards the clustered trees.

CHAPTER XXII

Piqued by the uneventfulness of the preceding day, May Tomalin stole
forth this morning in a decidedly adventurous frame of mind. She
scorned danger; she desired excitement. Duplicity on her part was no
more than Lord Dymchurch merited after that deliberate neglect of
opportunity under the great tree. Of course nothing irrevocable must
come to pass; it was the duty of man to commit himself, the
privilege of woman to guard an ambiguous freedom. But, within
certain limits, she counted on dramatic incidents. A brisk answer to
her tap on the door in the park wall made her nerves thrill
delightfully. No sooner had she turned the key than the door was
impatiently pushed open from without.

"Quick!" sounded Lashmar's voice. "I hear wheels on the road.--Ha!
Just in time! It might be someone who would recognise me."

He had grasped May's hand. He was gazing eagerly, amorously into her
face. His emotions had matured since the meeting two days ago.

"Tell me all the news," he went on. "Is Dymchurch here?"

"Yes. And the others. You come to lunch to-day, of course? You will
see them."

She recovered her hand, though not without a little struggle, which
pleased her. For all her academic modernism, May belonged to the
class which has primitive traditions, unsophisticated instincts.

"And what has happened?" asked Dyce, advancing as she stepped back.
He spoke like one who has a right to the fullest information.

"Happened? Nothing particular. What could have happened?"

"I have been tormenting myself. Of course I know why Dymchurch has
come, and so do you. I can't go away in a horrible uncertainty. If I
do, I shall betray myself when I come to luncheon, so I give you
warning."

"What do you mean!" exclaimed the girl, with an air of dignity
surprised.

"Tell me the truth. Has Dymchurch spoken?"

"Many times," answered May; smiling with excessive ingenuousness.
"He is not very talkative, but he doesn't keep absolute silence--I
hear that you have been to see Mrs. Gallantry."

"What do I care about Mrs. Gallantry! I've seen no end of people,
but all the time I was thinking of you. Yesterday morning, I all but
wrote to you."

"What about?"

"All sorts of things. Of course I should have disguised my
handwriting in the address."

May avoided his look, and shaped her lips to severity. "If you had
done such a thing--I should have been greatly displeased. I'm very
glad you didn't so far forget yourself."

"So am I, now. Won't you tell me if anything has happened. Won't you
put my mind at ease?"

"I can stay only for a few minutes. There's really nothing to
tell--nothing. But _you_ must have plenty of news. How are things
going on?"

Lashmar hurriedly told of two or three circumstances which seemed to
favour him in the opening campaign. There was now no doubt that
Butterworth would be the Conservative candidate, and, on the whole,
his name appeared to excite but moderate enthusiasm. He broke off
with an impatient gesture.

"I can't talk about that stuff! It's waste of time, whilst I am with
you."

"But it interests me very much," said May, who seemed to grow calmer
as Dyce yielded to agitation. "Lord Dymchurch says he would gladly
help you, if it were in his power. Don't you think he _might_ be of
some use?"

"No, I don't. Dymchurch is a dreaming nobody."

"What a strange way to speak of him!" said May, as if slightly
offended. "You used to have quite a different opinion."

"Perhaps so. I didn't know him so well. There's nothing whatever in
the man, and he'll never do anything as long as he lives. You know
that as well as I do."

"I think you are mistaken," May answered, in an absent voice, her
look betraying some travail of the mind, as if she were really
debating with herself the question of Dymchurch's prospects.

"Do you mean that?" cried Lashmar, with annoyance.

"I certainly shouldn't call him a 'dreaming nobody,'" replied May,
in the tone of dignified reproof. "Lord Dymchurch is very
thoughtful, and very well-informed, and has very high principles."

"One may admit all that. All I meant was that there is no career
before him. Would anyone dream of comparing him, for instance, with
me? You needn't smile. You remember the talk we had at Mrs.
Toplady's, that evening. I know my own qualities, and see no use in
pretending that I don't.--But what are we talking about! Of course
you care nothing for Dymchurch. I know that very well. If you did,
you wouldn't be here."

He ended on a little laugh of triumph, and therewith, catching hold
of both her hands, he drew her gently forward, looked close into her
face, murmured "May! My beautiful May!" In that moment there came
the strangest look upon May's countenance, a look of alarm, almost
of terror. Her eyes were turned to a spot among the trees, some ten
yards away. Dyce, seeing the sudden change of her expression, turned
in the direction of her gaze. He was just in time to perceive the
back of a retreating figure, which disappeared behind bushes.

"Who was that?" he asked in a startled voice.

May could only whisper.

"It was Lord Dymchurch."

"I thought so. Confound that fellow! What is he doing here at this
time of the morning?"

"He saw us," said May, her cheeks burning. "Oh, who could have
expected--! He saw us distinctly. I shouldn't wonder if he heard
what you were saying Why," she added, angrily, "did you speak so
loud?"

"Nonsense! He couldn't hear at that distance."

"But he had been nearer."

"Then the fellow is a sneak! What right has he to steal upon us?"

"He didn't!" cried the girl. "I saw him as he stopped. I saw his
face, and how astonished he looked. He turned away instantly."

"Well, what does it matter?" exclaimed Dyce, who was quivering with
excitement. "What do I care? What need you care? Haven't we perfect
liberty to meet? After all, what _does_ it matter?"

"But you forget," said May, "that he knows of your engagement."

"My engagement! Let him know, and let him think what he likes! My
engagement, indeed! Why, I haven't once thought of it since I left
London--not once! There'll have to be an end to this intolerable
state of things. Dymchurch isn't likely to tell anyone what he sees;
he's a gentleman."

"I must go in at once," cried May, losing her head. "Somebody else
may come. Go away, please! Don't stay another minute."

"But it's impossible. We have to come to an understanding. Listen to
me, May!"

He grasped her hand, passed his other arm around her. There was
resistance, but Dyce used his strength in earnest. The girl's beauty
fired him; he became the fervid lover, leaving her no choice between
high resentment and frank surrender. Indignation was dying out of
May's look. She ceased to struggle, she bent her head to his
shoulder.

"Isn't that much better?" he whispered, laughingly. "Isn't that the
way out of our difficulties?"

May allowed him to breathe a few more such soothing sentences, then
spoke with troubled accent.

"But you don't understand. What must Lord Dymchurch think of me--
believing that you are engaged?"

"I'll tell him the truth. I'll go and tell him at once."

"But still you don't understand. My aunt wants me to marry him."

"I know she does, and know she'll be disappointed," cried Dyce,
exultantly.

"But do you suppose that Lord Dymchurch will stay here any longer?
He will leave this very morning, I'm sure he will. My aunt will want
to know what it means. There'll be dreadful explanations."

"Keep calm, May. If we lose our courage, it's all over with us. We
have to deal boldly with Lady Ogram. Remember that she is very old
and weak; I'm perfectly sure she can't resist you and me if we speak
to her in the proper way--quietly and reasonably and firmly. We
have made up our minds, haven't we? You are mine, dearest May!
There's no more doubt about _that_!"

"Miss Bride will be our deadly enemy," said May, again yielding to
his caresses.

"Enemy!" Dyce exclaimed. "Why?"

"Surely you don't need to be told. She dislikes me already (as 1 do
her), and now she will hate me. She'll do her best to injure us with
Lady Ogram."

"You're mistaken. I have only to see her and talk to her--as I
will, this morning. Before luncheon, she shall be firmly on our
side, I promise you! Don't have the least anxiety about _her_. The
only serious difficulty is with Lady Ogram."

"You mean to tell Miss Bride the truth?" exclaimed May. "You mean to
tell her what has happened this morning? I forbid you to do so! I
_forbid_ you!"

"I didn't mean anything of the kind," replied Lashmar. "To Dymchurch
of course I shall speak quite freely: there's no choice. To Miss
Bride I shall only say that I want our sham engagement to come to an
end, because I am in love with _you_. The presence of Dymchurch here
will be quite enough to explain my sudden action don't you see? I
assure you, she must be made our friend, and I can do it."

"If you do, it'll be a miracle," said May, with a face of utter
misgiving.

"It would be, perhaps, for any other man. Now, we have no time to
lose. I must see Dymchurch immediately. I shall hurry round inside
the park wall, and come up to the front of the house, like an
ordinary visitor. Election business will account for the early hour,
if Lady Ogram hears about it; but she isn't likely to be down before
eleven, is she? Don't let us lose any more time, darling. Go back
quietly, and let no one see that anything has happened. Don't worry;
in a quarter of an hour, Dymchurch shall know that there's not a
shadow of blame upon you."

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