Books: Our Friend the Charlatan

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Lashmar was disconcerted. He had to confess that he knew nothing
whatever about the will.

"Indeed? Then I bring you news."

They were interrupted by a waiter who appeared with tea. The visitor
graciously accepted a cup.

"Funerals exhaust one so, _don't_ they?" she remarked. "I don't know
your opinion, but I think people should be married and buried far
more quietly. For my own part, I grieve sincerely for the death of
Lady Ogram. It's a great loss to me. I liked her, and I owed her
gratitude for very much kindness. But I certainly shouldn't have
gone to her funeral, if it hadn't been a social duty. I should have
liked to sit quietly at home, thinking about her."

"I thoroughly agree with you," replied Dyce, absently. "You came
down yesterday?"

"In the evening.--You know that Miss Tomalin is at my house?"

"I had no idea of it."

"Yes. She arrived the day before yesterday. She left Rivenoak as
soon as she knew about Lady Ogram's will. I'm very glad indeed that
she came to me; it was a great mark of confidence. Under the
circumstances, she could hardly remain here."

"The circumstances--?"

"Lady Ogram's will does not mention her."

Lashmar felt a spasm in his breast. The expression of his features
was so very significant that Mrs. Toplady's smile threatened to
become a laugh.

"It's rather startling, isn't it?" she continued. "The will was made
t year ago. Lady Ogram didn't mean it to stand. When she was in
town, she talked over her affairs with her solicitor; a new will was
to be made, by which Miss Tomalin would have come into possession of
Rivenoak, and of a great deal of money. You can probably guess why
she put off executing it. She hoped her niece's marriage-settlement
would come first. But the old will remains, and is valid."

"Will you tell me its provisions?" asked Lashmar, deliberately.

"In confidence. It won't be made public till the executors--Sir
William Amys and Mr. Kerchever--have proved it. I never knew a
more public-spirited will. Hollingford gets a hospital, to be called
the Lady Ogram; very generously endowed. Rivenoak is to be sold, and
the proceeds to form a fund for a lot of Lady Ogram Scholarships. A
working-girl's home is to be founded in Camden Town (it seems she
was born there), and to be called Lady Ogram House. A lady named
Mrs. Gallantry, here at Hollingford, becomes trustee for a
considerable sum to be used in founding a training school for
domestic servants--to be named the Lady Ogram. Then there's a long
list of minor charitable bequests. All the servants are most
liberally treated, and a few friends in humble circumstances receive
annuities. There is not much fear of Lady Ogram being forgotten just
yet, is there?"

"No, indeed," said Lashmar, with studious control of his voice.
"And"--he paused a moment--"is that all?"

"Let me see--Oh, I was forgetting. Some money is left to Miss
Bride; not to her absolutely, but in trust for certain purposes not
specified."

Mrs. Toplady's smile had never been more eloquent of mischievous
pleasure. She was watching Lashmar as one watches a comedian on the
stage, without the least disguise of her amusement.

"I had heard something of that," said Dyce, the tension of whose
feelings began to show itself in a flush under the eyes. "Can you
tell me--"

"Oh," broke in the other, "I've forgotten a detail that will
interest you. In the entrance hall of the Lady Ogram Hospital is to
be preserved that beautiful bust which you have seen at the
Rivenoak. By the bye, there are odd stories about it. I hear that it
was brought out of concealment only the day before her death."

"Yes. I know nothing more about it. With regard to Miss Bride's
trusteeship--"

"Oh, and I forgot that Hollingford is to have a fine market-hall, on
condition that the street leading to it is called Arabella Street--
her name, you know."

"Oh, indeed!" murmured Dyce, and became mute.

Mrs. Toplady amused herself for a moment with observation of the
play of his muscles. She finished her tea.

"I'll have another cup, if you please.--Oh yes, we were speaking
of Miss Bride. Naturally, that interests you. An odd bequest, isn't
it? She is spoken of as a trustee, but evidently the disposal of the
money is quite at her own discretion. If I remember, there are words
to the effect that Lady Ogram wishes Miss Bride to use this money
just as she herself would have done, for the purposes in which they
were both particularly interested. By the bye, it isn't money only;
Miss Bride becomes owner of the paper-mill at the village by
Rivenoak."

"I had heard of this," said Lashmar, with a brusque movement as
though he felt cramp in his leg. He had begun to look cheerful. "I
knew all about Lady Ogram's intentions. You don't remember," he
added carelessly, "the amount of the bequest?"

"Mr. Kerchever tells me it represents about seventy thousand
pounds."

Lashmar involuntarily heaved a sigh. Mrs. Toplady watched him over
the rim of her teacup, the hand which held it shaking a little with
subdued mirth.

"As you say," he observed, "it's a most remarkable will. But it
seems rather too bad that the poor lady's real wishes should be
totally neglected."

"Indeed it does. I have been wondering what Miss Bride will think
about it. Of course I couldn't speak to her on the subject. One
almost feels as if she ought at all events to give half that money
to Miss Tomalin, considering the terms on which she receives it."

"But," objected Dyce, "that wouldn't be fulfilling the conditions of
the bequest, which, I happen to know, were very specific. Really,
it's a most unfortunate thing that Lady Ogram died so suddenly, most
unfortunate. What a serious injustice is done to that poor girl!"

"After all, Mr. Lashmar," fell sweetly from the other's lips, "her
position might be worse."

"How? Has she an income of her own?"

"Oh, a trifling annuity, not worth mentioning. But I didn't speak of
that. I meant that, happily, her future is in the hands of an
honourable man. It would have been sad indeed if she had owed this
calamity to the intrigues of a mere fortune-hunter. As it is, a girl
of her spirit and intelligence will very soon forget the
disappointment. Indeed, it is much more on another's account than on
her own that she grieves over what has happened."

Lashmar was perusing the floor. Slowly he raised his eyes, until
they met Mrs. Toplady's. The two looked steadily at each other.

"Are you speaking of me?" Dyce inquired, in a low voice.

"Of whom else could I be speaking, Mr. Lashmar?"

"Then Miss Tomalin has taken you entirely into her confidence?"

"Entirely, I am happy to say. I am sure you won't be displeased. It
goes without saying that she does not know I am having this
conversation with you."

"I think, Mrs. Toplady," said Dyce, with deliberation, "that you had
better tell me, if you will, exactly what you have heard from Miss
Tomalin. We shall be more sure of understanding each other."

"That's easily done. She told me of your railway journey together,
of your subsequent meetings, of what happened with Lord Dymchurch,
and, last of all, what happened with Lady Ogram."

"Probably," said Dyce, "not all that happened with Lady Ogram. Did
she mention that, instead of remaining loyal to me, as I was all
through to her, she did her best to injure me with Lady Ogram by
betraying a secret I had entrusted to her?"

"I know what you refer to. Yes, she told me, of that unfortunate
incident, and spoke of it with deep regret. The poor girl simply
lost her head; for a moment she could think of nothing but
self-preservation. Put yourself in her place. She saw utter ruin
before her, and was driven almost crazy. I can assure you that she
was not responsible for that piece of disloyalty. I am afraid not
many girls would have been more heroic in such a terrible situation.
You, a philosopher, must take account of human. weakness."

"I hope I can do that," said Lashmar, with a liberal air. "Under
other circumstances, I should hardly have mentioned the thing. But
it convinced me at the time that Miss Tomalin had deceived herself
as to her feeling for me, and now that everything is necessarily at
an end between us, I prefer to see it still in the same light, for
it assures me that she has suffered no injury at _my_ hands."

"But, pray, why should everything be necessarily at an end?"

"For two or three reasons, Mrs. Toplady. One will suffice. After
Miss Tomalin had left the room, Lady Ogram insisted on my making
offer of immediate marriage to Miss Bride. Being plainly released
from the other obligation, I did so--and Miss Bride gave her
consent."

Mrs. Toplady arched her eyebrows, and rippled a pleasant laugh.

"Ah! That, of course, May could not know. I may presume that, _this_
time, the engagement is serious?"

"Undoubtedly," Lashmar replied, grave yet bland.

"Then I can only ask you to pardon my interference."

"Not at all. You have shown great kindness, and, under other
circumstances, we should not have differed for a moment as to the
course it behooved me to follow."

Dyce had never heard himself speak so magnanimously; he smiled with
pleasure, and continued in a peculiarly suave voice.

"I am sure Miss Tomalin will find in you a steadfast friend."

"I shall do. what I can for her, of course," was the rather dry
answer. "At the same time, I hold to my view of Miss Bride's
responsibility. The girl has really nothing to live upon; a
miserable hundred a year; all very well when she belonged to the
family at Northampton, but useless now she is adrift. To tell you
the truth, I shall wait with no little curiosity for Miss Bride's--
and your--decision."

"Need I say that Miss Bride will be absolutely free to take any step
she likes?"

"How could I doubt it?" exclaimed the lady, with her most expressive
smile. "Do you allow me to make known the--the renewal. of your
engagement?"

"Certainly," Dyce answered, beaming upon her.

Mrs. Toplady rose.

"I am so happy to have been the first to bring you the news. But it
a little surprises me that you had not learnt it already from Miss
Bride, who knew all about the will two days ago."

"Why should it surprise you?" said Lashmar, gently, as he took her
hand. "Naturally I have kept away from Rivenoak, supposing Miss
Tomalin to be still there; and Miss Bride was not likely to be in
haste to communicate a piece of news which, strictly speaking,
hardly concerns me at all."

"Be sure you come to see me when you are in town," were Mrs.
Toplady's last words.

And her eyes twinkled with appreciation of Lashmar's demeanour.

CHAPTER XXVI

Dyce walked about the room. Without knowing it, he sang softly to
himself. His countenance was radiant.

So, after all, Constance would be his wife. One moment's glimpse of
a dread possibility that neither she nor May Tomalin benefited by
Lady Ogram's will had sufficed to make him more than contented with
the actual issue of his late complications. He had seen himself
overwhelmed with disaster, reduced to the alternative of withdrawing
into ignominious obscurity or of again seeking aid from Mrs.
Woolstan, aid which might or not be granted, and in any case would
only enable him to go through with the contest at Hollingford, a
useless effort if he had nothing henceforth to live upon. As it was,
he saw Constance and seventy thousand pounds, with the prosperous
little paper-mill to boot. He did not love Constance, but the
feeling of dislike with which he had recently come to regard her had
quite passed away. He did not love Constance, but what a capable
woman she was!--and what a help she would be to him in his career!
Her having detected his philosophic plagiarism seemed to him now
rather a good thing than otherwise; it spared him the annoyance of
intellectual dishonesty in his domestic life, and put them in a
position to discuss freely the political and social views by which
he was to stand. After all, Constance was the only woman he knew
whose intelligence he really respected. After all, remembering their
intimacy long ago at Alverholme, he felt a fitness in this fated
sequel. It gave him the pleasant sense of honourable conduct.

He smiled at the thought that he had fancied himself in love with
May Tomalin. The girl was a half-educated simpleton, who would only
have made him ridiculous. Her anonymous letter pointed to a grave
fault of breeding; it would always have been suggestive of
disagreeable possibilities. May was thoroughly plebeian in origin,
and her resemblance to Lady Ogram might develop in a way it made him
shudder to think of. Constance Bride came of gentlefolk, and needed
only the favour of circumstances to show herself perfectly at ease
in whatever social surroundings. She had a natural dignity, which,
now he came to reflect upon it, he had always observed with
pleasure. What could have been more difficult than her relations
with Lady Ogram? Yet she had always borne herself with graceful
independence.

Poor girl! She had gone through a hard time these last four weeks,
and no wonder if she broke down under the strain of a situation such
as that which ended in Lady Ogram's death. He would make up to her
for it all. She should understand him, and rest in perfect
confidence. Yes, he would reveal to her his whole heart and mind, so
that no doubt of him, no slightest distrust, could ever disturb her
peace. Not only did he owe her this complete sincerity; to him it
would be no less delightful, no less tranquillising.

He sat down to write a note.

"Dear Constance--" yes, that sufficed. "When can I see you? Let it
be as soon as possible. Of course you have understood my silence. Do
you stay at Rivenoak a little longer? Let me come to-morrow, if
possible."

After a little reflection, he signed himself, "Ever yours, D. L."

Having despatched this by private messenger, he went out and took a
walk, choosing the direction away from Rivenoak. As he rambled along
an uninteresting road, it occurred to him that he ought to write to
Mrs. Woolstan. No need, of course, to say anything about the results
of Lady Ogram's decease, but he really owed Iris a letter, just to
show that he was not unmindful of her kindness. The foolish little
woman had done her best for him; indeed, without her help, where
would he have been now? He must pay his debt to her as soon as
possible, and it would of course be necessary to speak of the matter
to Constance. Not, perhaps, till after their marriage. Well, he
would see; he might possibly have an impulse. Happily this was the
very last of the unpleasant details he would have to dismiss. The
luxury of living without concealment, unembarrassed, and unafraid!

By the bye, how would Constance understand the duties of her
trusteeship? What portion of her income would she feel at liberty to
set apart for personal uses? In all likelihood, she had spoken of
that with Lady Ogram; at their coming interview, she would fully
explain her position.

He returned to the hotel, and dined alone. To his disappointment,
there came no answer from Rivenoak. Was it possible that Constance
had already gone away? Very unlikely, so soon after the funeral. She
would reply, no doubt, by post; indeed, there was no hurry, and a
little reserve on her part would be quite natural.

Morning brought him the expected letter. "Dear Mr. Lashmar--" Oh,
that was nothing; merely the reserve he had anticipated: he liked
her the better for it. "I shall be at home all to-morrow, busy with
many things. Could you come about three o'clock? Sincerely yours,
Constance Bride." What could be in better taste? How else could she
write, under the circumstances? His real wooing had not yet begun,
and she merely reminded him of that, with all gentleness.

So, in the afternoon he once more presented himself at Rivenoak, and
once more followed the servant into the drawing-room; Constance sat
there; she rose as he approached, and silently gave her hand. He
thought she looked rather pale; that might be the effect of black
attire, which made a noticeable change in her appearance. But a
certain dignity of which the visitor was very sensible, a grace of
movement and of bearing which seemed new to her, could not be
attributed to the dress she wore. In a saddened voice, he hoped that
she was well, that she had not suffered from the agitations of the
past week; and, with courtesy such as she might have used to anyone,
Constance replied that she felt a little tired, not quite herself.
They talked for some minutes in this way. Lashmar learnt that the
Amyses had returned to London.

"For the present, you stay here?" he said, the interrogative accent
only just perceptible.

"For a day or two. My secretaryship goes on, of course. I have a
good deal of correspondence to see to."

On his way hither, Lashmar had imagined quite a different meeting;
he anticipated an emotional scene, beginning with forced calm on
Constance's side, leading OR to reproaches, explanations, and
masculine triumph. But Constance was strangely self-possessed, and
her mind seemed to be not at all occupied with agitating subjects.
Lashmar was puzzled; he felt it wise to imitate her example, to
behave as quietly and naturally as possible, taking for granted that
she viewed the situation even as he did.

He turned his eyes to the marble bust on its pedestal behind
Constance. The note of scorn in its fixed smile caught his
attention.

"So that is to stand in the Hospital," he murmured.

"Yes, I believe so," replied Constance, absently, with a glance
towards the white face.

"What strange stories it will give rise to, in days to come! She
will become a legendary figure. I can hardly believe that I saw and
talked with her only a few days ago. Have you the same feeling at
all? Doesn't she seem to you more like someone you have read of,
than a person you really knew?"

"I understand what you mean," said Constance, smiling thoughtfully.
"It's certain one will never again know anyone like her."

"Are all the provisions of her will practicable?"

"Perfectly, I think. She took great trouble to make them so. By the
bye, from whom did you get your information?"

It was asked in a disinterested voice, the speaker's look resting
for a moment on Lashmar with unembarrassed directness.

"Mrs. Toplady told me about the will."

Dyce paused for a moment, then continued, with an obvious effort
indeed, but in an even voice.

"She came to see me, after the funeral. Mrs. Toplady has a
persevering curiosity; she wanted to know what had happened, and, I
have no doubt, had recourse to me after finding that you were not
disposed to talk as freely as she wished. I was able to enlighten
her on one point."

"May I ask what point?"

"She began by telling me that Miss Tomalin was at her house. She had
heard Miss Tomalin's story, with the result that she supposed me in
honour bound to marry that young lady. I explained that this was by
no means the case."

"How did you explain it?" asked Constance, still in her
disinterested tone.

"By telling the simple truth, that Miss Tomalin had herself
cancelled the engagement existing between us."

"I see."

Constance leaned back in her chair. She looked like one who is
sitting alone, occupied with tranquil reflection. Dyce allowed a
moment to elapse before he again spoke; he was smiling to himself.

"How strange it all is!" he at length resumed, as though starting
from a reverie. "This past fortnight seems already as dim and vague
to me as the recollection of something that happened long years ago.
I never believed myself capable of such follies. Tell me frankly."
He leaned towards Constance, gazing at her in an amused,
confidential way. "Could you have imagined that I should ever lose
my head like that, and run off into such vagaries?"

Constance also smiled, but very faintly. Her eyebrows rose, ever so
little. Her lips just moved, but uttered no sound.

"You know me better than anyone else ever did or ever will," he went
on. "It is quite possible that you know me better than I know
myself. Did you ever foresee such a possibility?"

"I can't say that it astonished me," was the deliberate reply,
without any ironic note.

"Well, I am glad of that," said Dyce, with a little sign of relief.
"It's much better so. I like to think that you read me with so clear
an eye. For years I have studied myself, and I thought I knew how I
should act in any given circumstances; yet it was mere illusion.
What I regret is that I hadn't talked more to you about such things;
you would very likely have put me on my guard. I always felt your
power of reading character, it seemed to me that I concealed nothing
from you. We were always so frank with each other--yet not frank
enough, after all."

"I'm afraid not," assented the listener, absently.

"Well, it's an experience; though, as I say, more like a bit of
delirium than actual life. Happily, you know all about it; I shall
never have to tell you the absurd story. But I mustn't forget that
other thing which really did surprise and vex you--my bit of
foolish plagiarism. I have so wanted to talk to you about it. You
have read the whole book?"

"Very carefully."

"And what do you think of it?" he asked, with an air of keen
interest.

"Just what I thought of the large quotations I had heard from you.
The theory seems plausible; I should think there is a good deal of
truth in it. In any case, it helps one to direct one's life."

"Oh, you feel that? Now _there_," exclaimed Lashmar, his eye
brightening, "is the explanation of what seemed to you very
dishonourable behaviour in me. You know me, and you will understand
as soon as I hint at the psychology of the thing. When that book
fell into my hands, I was seeking eagerly for a theory of the world
by which to live. I have had many glimpses of the truth about
life--glimpses gained by my own honest thought. This book completed
the theory I had been shaping for myself; it brought me mental rest,
and a sense of fixed purpose such as I had never known. Its
reconciliation of the aristocratic principle with a true socialism
was exactly what I had been striving for; it put me at harmony with
myself, for you know that I am at the same time Aristocrat and
Socialist. Well now, I spoke of the book to my father, and begged
him to read it. It was when we met at Alverholme, in the spring, you
remember? How long ago does that seem to you? To me, several years.
Yes, I had the volume with me, and showed it to my father;
sufficient proof that I had no intention of using it dishonestly.
But--follow me, I beg--I had so absorbed the theory, so
thoroughly made it the directing principle of my mind, that I very
soon ceased to think of it as somebody else's work. I completed it
with all sorts of new illustrations, confirmations, which had been
hanging loose in my memory, and the result was that I one day found
myself talking about it as if it had originated with me. If I'm not
mistaken, I was talking with Dymchurch--yes, it was Dymchurch.
When I had time to reflect, I saw what I had unconsciously done
quite unconsciously, believe me. I thought it over, Ought I to let
Dymchurch know where I had got my central idea? And I decided at
length that I would say nothing."

Constance, leaning back in her chair, listened attentively, with
impartial countenance.

"You see why, don't you?" His voice thrilled with earnestness; his
eyes shone as if with the very light of truth. "To say calmly: By
the bye, I came across that bio-sociological theory in such and such
a book, would have been a flagrant injustice to myself. I couldn't
ask Dymchurch to listen whilst I elaborately expounded my mental and
spiritual history during the past year or two, yet short of that
there was no way of making him understand the situation. The thing
had become _mine_; I thought by it, and lived by it; I couldn't bear
to speak of it as merely an interesting hypothesis discovered in the
course of my reading. At once it would have seemed to me to carry
less weight; I should have been thrown back again into uncertainty.
This, too, just at the moment when a principle, a conviction, had
become no less a practical than a subjective need to me; for--
thanks to you--I saw a new hope in life, the possibility of an
active career which would give scope to all my energies. Do you
follow me? Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," replied Constance, with a slight inclination of her
head. She seemed both to listen and to be absorbed in thought.

"From that moment, I ceased to think of the book. I had as good as
forgotten its existence. Though, on the whole, it had done me so
great a service, there were many things in it I didn't like, and
these would now have annoyed me much more than at the first reading.
I should have felt as if the man had got hold of _my_ philosophy,
and presented it imperfectly. You will understand now why I was so
astonished at your charge of plagiarism. I really didn't know what
to say; I couldn't perceive your point of view: I don't remember how
I replied, I'm afraid my behaviour seemed only to confirm your
suspicion. In very truth, it was the result of genuine surprise. Of
course I had only to reflect to see how this discovery must have
come upon you, but then it was too late. We were in the thick of
extraordinary complications: no hope of quiet and reasonable talk.
Since the tragic end, I have worried constantly about that
misunderstanding. Is it quite cleared up? We must be frank with each
other now or never. Speak your thought as honestly as I have spoken
mine."

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