Henry Thomas Hamblin - "Within You is the Power"

Virginia Woolf - "Jacob's Room"

Aubrey de Vere - "The Legends of Saint Patrick"

Thornton W. Burgess - "Mrs. Peter Rabbit"

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




"I will live there myself. I will get some practical man to live
with me, until I understand farming. For profit, I don't care; all
will be well if I keep myself alive and furnish food for a certain
number of other mortals. This is the work ready to my hand. No
preaching, no theorising, no trying to prove that the earth should
be parcelled out and every man turn delver. I will cultivate this
ground because it is mine, and because no other way offers of living
as a man should--taking some part, however humble, in the eternal
strife with nature."

The idea had before now suggested itself to him, but not as the
result of a living conviction. If he had then turned to farming, it
would have been as an experiment in life; more or less vague
reflections on the needs of the time would have seemed to justify
him. Now he was indifferent to all "questions" save that prime
solicitude of the human race, how to hold its own against the
hostile forces everywhere leagued against it. Life was a perpetual
struggle, and, let dreamers say what they might, could never be
anything else; he, for one, perceived no right that he had to claim
exemption from the doom of labour. Had he felt an impulse to any
other kind of work, well and good, he would have turned to it; but
nothing whatever called to him with imperative voice save this task
of tilling his own acres. It might not always satisfy him; he took
no vow of one sole vocation; he had no desire to let his mind rust
whilst his hands grew horny. Enough that for the present he had an
aim which he saw as a reality.

On his return home, he found a London letter awaiting him. It was
with a nervous shrug that he saw the writing of Mrs. Toplady.
Addressing him at his club, she invited him to dine on an evening a
fortnight hence, if he chanced to be in town.

"You heard, of course," she added, "of the defeat of Mr. Lashmar at
Hollingford. It seems to have been inevitable."

So Lashmar had been defeated. The Hollingford election interested
Dymchurch so little that he had never inquired as to its result; in
truth, he had forgotten all about it.

"I fear Mr. Lashmar is rather disappointing. Rumour says that the
philosophical theory of life and government which he put before us
as original was taken word for word from a French book which he took
for granted no one would have read. I hope this is not true; it has
a very unpleasant sound."

Quite as unpleasant, thought Dymchurch, was Mrs. Toplady's zeal in
spreading the rumour. He found no difficulty in crediting it. The
bio-sociological theory had occupied his thoughts for a time, and,
in reflecting upon it now, he found it as plausible as any other;
but it had no more power to interest him. Lashmar, perhaps, was mere
sophist, charlatan, an unscrupulous journalist who talked instead of
writing. Words, words! How sick he was of the universal babble! The
time had taken for its motto that counsel of Mephisto: _Vor allem
haltet euch an Worte_! And how many of these loud talkers believed
the words they uttered, or had found them in their own minds?

And how many preachers of Socialism--in this, that or the other
form, had in truth the socialistic spirit? Lashmar, with his
emphasis on the obligation of social service--was he not simply an
ambitious struggler and intriguer, careless of everything but his
own advancement? Probably enough. And, on the whole, was there ever
an age so rank with individualism as this of ours, which chatters
ceaselessly of self-subdual to the common cause?

"I, too," thus he thought, "am as much an individualist as the
others. If I said that I cared a rap for mankind at large, I should
be phrase-making. Only, thank heaven! I don't care to advertise
myself, I don't care to make money. I ask only to be left alone, and
to satisfy in quiet my sense of self-respect."

On the morrow, he was gone.





CHAPTER XXIX




"When you receive this letter, you will have already seen the
result. I knew how it would be, but tried to hope because you were
hoping. My poll is better than that of the last Liberal candidate,
but Hollingford remains a Tory stronghold. Shall I come to see you?
I am worn out, utterly exhausted, and can scarcely hold the pen.
Perhaps a few days at the sea-side would do me good, but what right
have I to idle? If you would like me to come, please wire to
Alverholme Rectory. Possibly you would rather I didn't bring my
gloom, now you have Len with you and are enjoying yourself. Above
all, be quite frank. If you are too disappointed to care to see me,
in heaven's name, say so! You needn't fear its effect upon me. I
should be glad to have done with the world, but I have duties to
discharge. I wish you could have heard my last speech, there were
good things in it. You shall see my address of thanks to those who
voted for me; I must try to get it widely circulated, for, as you
know, it has more than local importance. Breakspeare, good fellow,
says that I have a great career before me; I grin, and can't tell
him the squalid truth. There are many things I should like to speak
about; my brain is feverishly active. I must try to rest; another
twenty-four hours of this strain, and the results would be serious.
In any case, wire to me--yes or no. If it is _no_, I shall say 'so
be it,' and begin at once to look out for some way of earning bread
and cheese. We shall be friends all the same."

Mrs. Woolstan was at Eastbourne. Having read Lashmar's letter, she
brooded for a few minutes, then betook herself to the post-office,
and telegraphed "Come at once." A few hours later she received a
telegram informing her that Lashmar would reach Eastbourne at eleven
o'clock on the next morning. At that hour, she waited in her
lodgings on the sea-front. A cab drove up; Lashmar was shown into
the room.

He looked, indeed, much the worse for his agitations. His hand was
hot; he moved languidly, and seemed to be too tired to utter more
than a few words.

"Are you alone?"

"Quite. Len is down on the shore, and won't be back till half-past
one."

"Would you--mind--if I lay down--on the sofa?"

"Of course not," replied Iris, regarding him anxiously. "You're not
ill, I hope?"

He took her hand, and pressed it against his forehead, with the most
melancholy of smiles. Having dropped onto the couch, he beckoned
Iris to take a chair beside him.

"What can I get for you?" she asked. "You must have some refreshment--"

"Sleep, sleep!" he moaned musically. "If I could but sleep a
little!--But I have so much to say. Don't fuss; you know how I hate
fuss. No, no, I don't want anything, I assure you. But I haven't
slept for a week Give me your hand. How glad I am to see you again!
So you still have faith in me? You don't despise me?"

"What nonsense!" said Iris, allowing him to hold her hand against
his breast as he lay motionless, his eyes turned to the ceiling.
"You must try again, that's all. At Hollingford, it was evidently
hopeless."

"Yes. I made a mistake. If I could have stood as a Conservative, I
should have carried all before me. It was Lady Ogram's quarrel with
Robb which committed me to the other side."

Iris was silent, panting a little as if she suppressed words which
had risen to her lips. He turned his head to look at her.

"Of course you understand that party names haven't the least meaning
for me. By necessity, I wear a ticket, but it's a matter of total
indifference to me what name it bears. My object has nothing to do
with party politics. But for Lady Ogram's squabbles, I should at
this moment be Member for Hollingford."

"But would it be possible?" asked Iris, with a flutter, "to call
yourself a Conservative next time?"

"I have been thinking about that." He spoke absently, his eyes still
upwards. "It is pretty certain that the Conservative side gives me
more chance. It enrages me to think how I should have triumphed at
Hollingford! I could have roused the place to such enthusiasm as it
never knew! The great mistake of my life--but what choice had I?
Lady Ogram was fatal to me."

He groaned, and let his eyelids droop.

"It is possible that, at the general election, a Liberal
constituency may invite me. In that case, of course--" He broke off
with a weary wave of the band. "But what's the use of thinking about
it? I must look for work. Do you know, I have thoughts of going to
New Zealand."

"Oh! That's nonsense!"

"Try to realise my position." He raised himself on his elbow. "After
my life of the last few months, will it be very enjoyable to become
a subordinate, to work for wages, to sink into obscurity? Does it
seem to you natural? Do you think I shall be able to bear it?"

He had begun to quiver with excitement. As Iris kept silence, he
rose to a sitting position, and continued more vehemently.

"Don't you understand that death would be preferable, a thousand
times? Imagine me--_me_ at the beck and call of paltry every-day
people! Does it seem to you fitting that I should pay by such
degradation for one or two trivial errors? How I shall bear it, I
don't know; but bear it I must. I keep reminding myself that I am
not a free man. If once I could pay my debt--"

"Oh, _don't_ talk about that!" exclaimed Iris, on a note of
distress. "What do I care about the money?"

"No, but _I_ care about my honour!" cried Lashmar. "If I had won the
election, all would have been different; my career would have begun.
Do you know what I should have done in that case? I should have come
to you, and have said: 'I am a Member of Parliament. It is to you
that I owe this, more than to anyone else. Will you do yet more for
me? Will you be my companion in the life upon which I am entering--
share all my hopes--help me to conquer?'--_That_ is what I meant
to do. But I am beaten, and I can only ask you to have patience with
your miserable debtor."

He let his face fall onto the head of the sofa, and shook with
emotion. There was a short silence, then Iris, her cheeks flushing,
lightly touched his hair. At once he looked up, gazed into her face.

"What! You still believe in me? Enough for _that_?"

"Yes," replied Iris, her eyes down, and her bosom fluttering.
"Enough for that."

"Ah! But be careful--think!" He looked at her with impressive
sadness. "Your friends will tell you that you are marrying a
penniless adventurer. Have you the courage to face all that kind of
thing?"

"I know you better than my friends do," replied Iris, taking in both
her own the hand he held to her. "My fear," she added, again
dropping her eyes and fluttering, "is that you will some day
repent."

"Never! Never! It would be the blackest ingratitude!"

He spoke so fervently that the freckled face became rosy with joy.
It was so near to his, that the man in him claimed warmer tribute,
and Iris grew rosier still.

"Haven't you always loved me a little?" she whispered.

"If I had only known it!" answered Lashmar, the victor's smile
softened with self-reproach. "My ambition has much to answer for.
Forgive me, Iris."

"There's something else I must say, dear," she murmured. "After all,
I have so little--and there is Len, you know--"

"Why, of course. Do you imagine I should wish to rob him?"

"No, no, no!" she panted. "But it is such a small income, after all.
I'm afraid we ought to--to be careful, at first--"

"Of course we must. We shall live as simply as possible. And then,
you mustn't suppose that I shall never earn money. It's only waiting
for one's opportunity."

A silence fell between them. Lashmar's amorous countenance had an
under-note of thoughtfulness; Iris, smiling blissfully, none the
less reflected.

"What are you thinking of?" he asked, gently.

"Only how happy I am. I haven't the slightest fear. I know you have
great things before you. Of course we must make use of our friends.
May I write to Mrs. Toplady, and tell her?"

She spoke without looking at him, and so was spared the
interpretation of muscular twitches.

"Certainly. Do you know whether she is still in London?"

"I don't know, but probably not. Don't you think she may be very
useful to us? I have always found her very nice and kind, and she
knows such hosts of people."

Lashmar had his own thoughts about Mrs. Toplady, but the advantage
of her friendship was undeniable. Happily, he had put it out of her
power to injure him by any revelations she might make concerning May
Tomalin; his avowal to Iris that May had been undisguisedly in love
with him would suffice to explain anything she might hear about the
tragi-comedy at Rivenoak. Whether the lady of Pont Street could be
depended upon for genuine good will, was a question that must remain
unsettled until he had seen her again. She had bidden him to call
upon her, at all events, and plainly it would be advisable to do so
as soon as possible.

"Yes," he answered, reflectively. "She is a person to be reckoned
with. It's possible her advice might he worth something in the
difficulty about Liberal or Conservative. She is intelligent enough,
I think, to understand me on that point. Yes, you might write to her
at once. If I were you, I would speak quite frankly. You know her
well enough for that, don't you?"

"Frankly? How?"

"Oh, I mean that you might say we have really been fond of each
other for a long time--and that--well, that fate has brought us
together in spite of everything that kind of thing, you know."

"Yes, yes!" exclaimed Iris. "That's just what I should like to say."

Their talk grew calmly practical; the last half hour of it was
concerned with pecuniary detail. Her eye on the clock--for Leonard
was sure to enter very soon--Mrs. Woolstan gave a full account of
her income, enumerating the securities which were in the hands of
her trustee, Mr. Wrybolt, and those which she had under her own
control. In the event of her re-marriage, Mr. Wrybolt's
responsibility came to an end, a circumstance very pleasing to
Lashmar. When the schoolboy interrupted them, their conversation was
by no means finished. After a cheerful lunch, they resumed it on the
sea-shore, Leonard being sent off to amuse himself as he would. By
tea-time, it had been agreed that Lashmar should at once give up his
expensive London rooms, and come down to Eastbourne, to recruit his
health and enjoy Iris's society, until Leonard went back to school.
The house at West Hampstead should be their home for the first
twelvemonth; by that time they would see how things were going, and
be able to make plans. Early in the evening, Lashmar took a train
for town.

At his lodgings he found several letters; two of them were
important. Constance Bride's handwriting indicated the envelope to
be first torn open. She wrote concisely and with her usual
clearness. The ill news from Hollingford had been a grief to her,
but it was very satisfactory to see that Lashmar had reduced the
Conservative majority. "You have gained some very useful experience,
which I hope you may before long have an opportunity of using.
Please send me a statement of the election expenses as soon as you
can; you remember the understanding between us in that matter. I am
soon leaving England for a few weeks, but a letter directed as above
will always reach me." The address referred to was that of a
well-known Society for Social Reform in the west of London.

His hand tremulous with the anger which this curt epistle had
excited, Lashmar broke an envelope on the flap of which was printed
in red letters the Pont Street address so familiar to him. Mrs.
Toplady wrote more at length; she took the trouble to express her
disappoint ment at the result of the Hollingford election in
courteously rounded terms--"Our dear old friend of Rivenoak would
have found some apt phrase to describe such a man as Butterworth.
Wasn't she good at that kind of thing! How I have laughed to hear
her talk of the late lamented Robb! You have the satisfaction of
knowing that you got more votes than any Liberal has done at
Hollingford for many years so the papers tell me. In fact, you have
made a very good start indeed, and I am sure the eye of the party
will be on you."

Lashmar glowed. He had not expected such words from Mrs. Toplady.
After all, Iris had given him good advice. Who knew but this woman
might be more useful to him than Lady Ogram had been?

"Do you care for news of Miss Tomalin?" the latter continued. "After
spending two or three days with me, she grew restless, and took
rooms for herself. I am afraid, to tell you the truth, that she is a
little disappointing; it is perhaps quite as well that a certain
romantic affair which was confided to me came to nothing. A week
after she left my house, I received a very stiff (not to say
impertinent) letter, in which the young lady informed me that she
was about to marry a Mr. Yabsley of Northampton, a man (to quote her
words) 'of the highest powers and with a brilliant future already
assured to him.' This seemed to me, I confess, a little sudden, but
at least it had the merit of being amusing. Perhaps I may venture to
hope that you are already quite consoled? Remember me, I beg. to
Miss Bride. Are you likely to be in this part of the world during
the holidays? If anywhere near, do come and see me, and we will talk
about that striking philosophical theory of yours."

Lashmar bit his lip. All at once he saw Mrs. Toplady's smile, and it
troubled him. None the less did he ponder her letter, re-reading it
several times. Presently he mused with uneasiness on the fact that
Iris might even now be writing to Mrs. Toplady. Would her interest
in him--she seemed indeed to be genuinely interested survive the
announcement that, after all, he was not going to marry Constance
Bride, but had declined upon an insignificant little widow with a
few hundreds a year? Was not this upshot of his adventures too
beggarly? Had Mrs. Toplady been within easy reach, he would have
gone to see her; but she wrote from the north of Scotland. He could
only await the result of Iris's letter.

To the news concerning May Tomalin, he gave scarcely a thought. Mr.
Yabsley, of Northampton!

Exceeding weariness sank him for a few hours in sleep; but before
dawn he was tossing again on the waves of miserable doubt. Why had
he not waited a little before going to see Iris? If only he had
received this letter of Mrs. Toplady in time, it would have checked
him--or so he thought. Was it the malice of fate which had
ordained that, on his way to Eastbourne, he should not have troubled
to look in at his lodgings? How many such wretched accidents he
could recall! Was he, instead of being fortune's favourite, simply a
poor devil hunted by ill luck, doomed to lose every chance? Why not
he as well as another? Such men abound.

He had not yet taken the irretrievable step. Until he was actually
married, a hope remained to him. He might postpone the fatal day;
his purse was not yet empty. Why should he be too strict in the
report of his election expenses to Constance? Every pound in his
pocket meant a prolongation of liberty, a new horizon of the
possible--

Two days later he was back again at Eastbourne. He had taken a cheap
little lodging, and yielded himself to sea-side indolence. A week
passed, then Iris heard from Mrs. Toplady. She did not at once show
Lashmar the letter; she awaited a moment when he was lulled by
physical comfort into a facile and sanguine humour.

"Mrs. Toplady must have been in a hurry when she wrote this," was
her remark, as, with seeming carelessness, she produced the letter.
"Of course she has an enormous correspondence. I shall hear again
from her, no doubt, before long."

One side only of the note-paper was covered. In formal phrase, the
writer said that she was glad to hear of her friend's engagement,
and wished her all happiness. Not a word about their future meeting;
not an allusion to Lashmar's prospects. If Iris had announced her
coming marriage with some poor clerk, Mrs. Toplady could not have.
written less effusively.

"There's an end of her interest in _me_," Dyce remarked, with a
nervous shrug.

Iris protested, and did her best to put another aspect on the
matter, but without success. For twenty-four hours, Lashmar kept
away from her; she, offended, tried to disregard his absence, but at
length sped to make inquiries, fearful lest he should be driven to
despair. At the murky end of a wet evening, they paced the esplanade
together.

"You don't love me," said Iris, on a sob.

"It is because I love you," he replied, glooming, "that I can't bear
to think of you married to such a luckless fellow as I am."

"Dearest!" she whispered. "Am I ruining you? Do you wish to be free
again? Tell me the truth; I think I can bear it."

The next day saw them rambling in sunshine, Lashmar amorous and
resigned, Iris flutteringly hopeful. And with such alternations did
the holiday go by. When Leonard returned to school, their marriage
was fixed for ten days later.

Shortly before leaving Eastbourne, Iris had written to Mr. Wrybolt.
Already they had corresponded on the subject of her marriage; this
last letter, concerning a point of business which required immediate
attention, remained without reply. Puzzled by her trustee's silence,
Iris, soon after she reached home, went to see him at his City
Office. She learnt that Mr. Wrybolt was out of town, but would
certainly return in a day or two.

Again she wrote. Again she waited in vain for a reply. On a dull
afternoon near the end of September, as she sat thinking of Lashmar
and resolutely seeing him in the glorified aspect dear to her heart
and mind, the servant announced Mr. Barker. This was the athletic
young man in whose company she had spent some time at Gorleston
before Lashmar's coming. His business lay in the City; he knew Mr.
Wrybolt, and through him had made Mrs. Woolstan's acquaintance. The
face with which he entered the drawing-room portended something more
than a friendly chat. Iris had at one time thought that this young
man felt disposed to offer her marriage; was that his purpose now,
and did it account for his odd look?

"I want to ask you," Mr. Barker began, abruptly, "whether you know
anything about Wrybolt? Have you heard from him lately?"

Iris replied that she herself wished to hear of that gentleman, who
did not answer her letters, and was said to be out of town.

"That's so, is it?" exclaimed the young man, with a yet stranger
look on his face. "You really have no idea where he is?"

"None whatever. And I particularly want to see him."

"So do I," said Mr. Barker, smiling grimly. "So do several people.
You'll excuse me, I hope, Mrs. Woolstan. I knew he was a friend of
yours, and thought you might perhaps know more about him than we did
in the City. I mustn't stay."

Iris stared at him as he rose. A vague alarm began to tremble in her
mind.

"You don't mean that anything's wrong?" she panted.

"We'll hope not, but it looks queer."

"Oh!" cried Iris. "He has money of mine. He is my trustee."

"I know that. Please excuse me; I really mustn't stay."

"Oh, but tell me, Mr. Barker!" She clutched at his coat sleeve. "Is
my money in danger?"

"I can't say, but you certainly ought to look after it. Get someone
to make inquiries at once; that's my advice. I really must go."

He disappeared, leaving Iris motionless in amazement and terror.





CHAPTER XXX




The wedding was to be a very quiet one. Lashmar would have preferred
the civil ceremony, at the table of the registrar, with musty
casuals for witnesses; but Iris shrank from this. It must be at a
church, and with a few friends looking on, or surely people would
gossip. Had he been marrying an heiress, Dyce would have called for
pomp and circumstance, with portraits in the fashion papers, and
every form of advertisement which society has contrived. As it was,
he desired to slink through the inevitable. He was ashamed; he was
confounded; and only did not declare it. To the very eve of the
wedding-day, his mind ferreted elusive hopes. Had men and gods
utterly forsaken him? In solitude, he groaned and gnashed his teeth.
And no deliverance came.

Reaction made him at times the fervent lover, and these interludes
supported Iris's courage. "Let it once be over!" she kept saying to
herself. She trusted in her love and in her womanhood.

"At all events," cried the bridegroom, "we needn't go through the
foolery of running away to hide ourselves. It's only waste of
money."

But Iris pleaded for the honeymoon. people would think it so strange
if they went straight from church to their home at West Hampstead.
And would not a few autumn weeks of Devon be delightful? Again he
yielded.

The vicar of Alverholme and his wife, when satisfied that Dyce's
betrothed was a respectable person, consented to be present at the
marriage. Not easily did Mrs. Lashmar digest her bitter
disappointment, which came so close upon that of Dyce's defeat at
Hollingford; but she was a practical woman, and, in the state of
things at Alverholme, six hundred a year seemed to her not
altogether to be despised.

"My fear was," she remarked one day to her husband, "that Dyce would
be tempted to marry money. I respect him for the choice he has made;
it shows character."