Henry van Dyke - "Music and Other Poems"

Anthony Trollope - "La Mere Bauche from Tales of All Countries"

Unknown - "Sangharakshita, Vision and Transformation"

Alfred de Musset - "Child of a Century, v1"

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




The vicar just gave a glance of surprise, but said nothing. Every
day made him an older man in look and bearing. His head was turning
white. He had begun to mutter to himself as he walked about the
parish. Not a man in England who worried more about his own affairs
and those of the world.

In an obscure lodging, Dyce awaited the day of destiny. One evening
he went to dine at West Hampstead; though he was rather late, Iris
had not yet come home, and she had left no message to explain her
absence. He waited a quarter of an hour. When at length his
betrothed came hurrying into the room, she wore so strange a
countenance that Dyce could not but ask what had happened. Nothing,
nothing--she declared. It was only that she had been obliged to
hurry so, and was out of breath, and--and--. Whereupon she
tottered to a chair, death-pale, all but fainting.

"What the _devil_ is the matter with you?" cried Lashmar, whose
over-strong nerves could not endure this kind of thing.

His violence had an excellent effect. Iris recovered herself, and
came towards him with hands extended.

"It's nothing at all, dearest. I couldn't bear to keep you waiting,
and fretted myself into a fever when I saw what time it was. Don't
be angry with me, will you?"

Dyce was satisfied. It seemed to him a very natural explanation; a
caress put him into his gracious mood.

"After all, you know," he said, "you're a very womanly woman. I
think we shall have to give up pretending that you're not."

"But I've given it up long since!" Iris exclaimed, with large eyes.
"Didn't you know that?"

"I'm not sure--" he laughed--"that I'm not glad of it."

And they passed a much more tranquil evening than usual. Iris seemed
tired; she sat with her head on Dyce's shoulder, thrilling when his
lips touched her hair. He had assured her that her hair was
beautiful--that he had always admired its hue of the autumn
elm-leaf. Her face, too, he was beginning to find pretty, and seldom
did he trouble to reflect that she was seven years older than he.

Already he regarded this house as his own. His books had been
transferred hither, and many of his other possessions. Very
carefully had Iris put out of sight or got rid of, everything which
could remind him of her former marriage. Certain things (portraits
and the like) which must be preserved for Leonard's sake were locked
away in the boy's room. Of course Lashmar had given her no presents;
she, on the other hand, had been very busy in furnishing a study
which should please him, buying the pictures and ornaments he liked,
and many expensive books of which he said that he had need. Into
this room Dyce was not allowed to peep; it waited as a surprise for
him on the return from the honeymoon. Drawing-room and dining-room
he trod as master, and often felt that, after all, a man could be
very comfortable here for a year or two. A box of good cigars
invited him after dinner. A womanly woman, the little mistress of
the house; and, all things considered, he couldn't be sure that he
wasn't glad of it.

One more day only before that of the wedding. Dyce had been on the
point of asking whether all the business with Wrybolt was
satisfactorily settled; but delicacy withheld him. Really, there was
nothing to do; Iris's money simply passed into her own hands on the
event of her marriage. It would be time enough to talk of such
things presently.

They spent nearly all the last day together. Iris was in the
extremity of nervousness; she looked as if she had not slept for two
or three nights; often she hid her face against Dyce's shoulder, and
shook as if sobbing, but no tears followed.

"Do you love me?" she asked, again and again. "Do you really, really
love me?"

"But you know I do," Dyce answered, at length irritably. "How many
times must I tell you? It's all very well to be womanly, but don't
be womanish."

"You're not sorry you're going to marry me?"

"You're getting hysterical, and I can't stand that."

Hysterical she became as soon as Lashmar had left her. One of the
two servants, looking into the dressing-room before going to bed,
saw her lying, half on the floor, half against the sofa, in a
lamentable state. She wailed incoherent phrases.

"I can't help it--too late--I can't, _can't_ help it oh! oh!"

Unobserved, the domestic drew back, and went to gossip with her
fellow-servant of this strange incident.

The hours drove on. Lashmar found himself at the church, accompanied
by his father, his mother, his old friend the Home Office clerk.
They waited the bride's coming; she was five minutes late, ten
minutes late; but came at last. With her were two ladies, kinsfolk
of hers. Had Iris risen from a sick bed to go through this ceremony,
she could not have shown a more disconcerting visage. But she held
herself up before the altar. The book was opened; the words of fate
were uttered; the golden circlet slipped onto her trembling hand;
and Mrs. Dyce Lashmar passed forth upon her husband's arm to the
carriage that awaited them.

A week went by. They were staying at Dawlish, and Lashmar, who had
quite come round to his wife's opinion on the subject of the
honeymoon, cared not how long these days of contented indolence
lulled his ambitious soul; at times he was even touched by the
devotion which repaid his sacrifice. A certain timidity which clung
to Iris, a tremulous solicitude which marked her behaviour to him,
became her, he thought, very well indeed. Constance Bride was right;
he could not have been thus at his ease with a woman capable of
reading his thoughts, and of criticising them. He talked at large of
his prospects, which took a hue from the halcyon sea and sky.

One morning they had strolled along the cliffs, and in a sunny
hollow they sat down to rest. Dyce took from his pocket a newspaper
he had bought on coming forth.

"Let us see what fools are doing," he said genially.

Iris watched him with uneasy eye. The sight of a newspaper was
dreadful to her: yet she always eagerly scanned those that came
under her notice. Lying now on the dry turf, she was able to read
one page whilst Dyce occupied himself with another. Of a sudden she
began to shake; then a half-stifled cry escaped her.

"What is it?" asked her husband, startled.

"Oh, look, Dyce! Look at this!"

She pointed him to a paragraph headed: "Disappearance of a City
Man." When Lashmar had read it, he met his wife's anguished look
with surprise and misgiving.

"You've had a precious narrow escape. Of course this is nothing to
_you_, now?"

"Oh but I'm afraid it is--I'm afraid it is, Dyce--"

"What do you mean? Didn't you get everything out of his hands?"

"I thought it was safe--I left it till we were back at home--"

Lashmar started to his feet, pale as death.

"What? Then all your money is lost?"

"Oh, surely not? How can it be? We must make inquiries at once--"

"Inquiries? Inquiries enough have been made, you may depend upon it,
before this got into the papers. Why, read! The fellow has bolted;
the police are after him; he has robbed and swindled right and left.
Do you imagine _your_ money has escaped his clutches?"

They stood face to face.

"Dear, don't be angry with me!" sounded from Iris in a choking
voice. "I am not to blame--I couldn't help it--oh don't look at
me like that, dear husband!"

"But you have been outrageously careless! What right had you to
expose us to this danger? Ass that I was ass, _ass_ that I was! I
wanted to speak of it, and my cursed delicacy prevented me. What
right had you to behave so idiotically?"

He set off at a great speed towards Dawlish. Iris ran after him,
caught his arm, clung to him.

"Where are you going? You won't leave me?"

"I'm going to London, of course," was his only reply, as he strode
on.

Running by his side, Iris told with broken breath of the offer of
marriage she had received from Wrybolt not long ago. She understood
now why he wished to marry her; no doubt he already found himself in
grave difficulties, and saw this as a chance either of obtaining
money, or of concealing a fraud he had already practised at her
expense.

"Why didn't you fell me that before?" cried Lashmar, savagely. "What
right had you to keep it from me?"

"I ought to have told you. Oh, do forgive me! Don't walk so quickly,
Dyce! I haven't the strength to keep up with you.--You know that
he hadn't everything--most fortunately not everything--"

With an exclamation of wrathful contempt, the man pursued his way.
Iris fell back; she tottered; she sank to her knee upon the grass,
moaning, sobbing. Only when he was fifty yards ahead did Dyce pause
and look back. Already she was running after him again. He turned,
and walked less quickly. At length there was a touch upon his arm.

"Dear--dear--don't you love me?" panted a scarce audible voice.

"Don't be a greater idiot than you have been already," was his
fierce reply. "I have to get to London, and look after your
business; that's enough to think about just now."

In less than an hour they had taken train. By early evening they
reached Paddington Station, whence they set forth to call upon the
person whom Iris mentioned as most likely to be able to inform them
concerning Wrybolt. It was the athletic Mr. Barker, who dwelt with
his parents at Highgate. An interview with this gentleman, who was
caught at dinner, put an end to the faint hopes Lashmar had tried to
entertain. Wrybolt, said Barker, was not a very interesting
criminal; the frauds he had perpetrated were not great enough to
make his case sensational; but there could be no shadow of doubt
that he had turned his trusteeship to the best account.

"He has nothing but his skin to pay with," added the young City man,
"and I wouldn't give much for that. Don't distress yourself, Mrs.
Lashmar; I know a lady who is let in worse than you--considerably
worse."

The newly-married couple made their way to West Hampstead. The
servant who had been left in charge of the house did not conceal her
surprise as she admitted them. It was nearly ten o'clock in the
evening.

"I suppose we must have something to eat," said Dyce, sullenly.

"You must be very hungry," Iris answered, regarding him like a
frightened but affectionate dog that eyes its master. "Jane shall
get something at once."

They sat down to such a supper as could he prepared at a moment's
notice. By good fortune, a bottle of claret had been found, and,
excepting one glass, which his wife thankfully swallowed, Lashmar
drank it all. At an ordinary time, this excess would have laid him
prostrate; in the present state of his nerves, it did him nothing
but good; a healthier hue mantled on his cheeks, and he began to
look furtively at Iris with eyes which had lost their evil
expression. She, so exhausted that she could scarce support herself
on the chair, timidly met these glances, but as yet no word was
spoken.

"Why haven't you eaten anything?" asked Dyce at length, breaking the
silence with a voice which was almost natural.

"I have, dear."

"Yes, a bit of bread. Come, eat! You'll he ill if you don't."

She tried to obey. Tears began to trickle down her face.

"What's the use of going on like that?" Lashmar exclaimed,
petulantly rather than in anger. "You're tired to death. If you
really can't eat anything, better go to bed. We shall see how things
look in the morning."

Iris rose and came towards him.

"Thank you, dear, for speaking so kindly. I don't deserve it."

"Oh, we won't say anything about that," he replied, with an air of
generosity. Then, laughing, "Aren't you going to show me the study?"

"Dyce! I haven't the heart."

She began to weep in earnest.

"Nonsense! Let us go and look at it. I'll carry the lamp."

They left the room, and Iris, struggling with her tears, led the way
to the study door. As he entered Dyce gave an exclamation of
pleasure. The little room was furnished and adorned very tastefully;
hook-shelves, with all Lashmar's own books carefully arranged, and
many new volumes added, made a pleasant show; a handsome
writing-table and chair seemed to invite to penwork.

"I could have done something here," Dyce remarked, with a nodding of
the head.

Iris came nearer. Timidly she laid a hand upon his shoulder;
appealingly she gazed into his face.

"Dear"--it was a just audible whisper--"you are so clever--you
are so far above ordinary men--"

Lashmar smiled. His arm fell lightly about her waist. "We have still
nearly two hundred pounds a year," the whisper continued. "There's
Len--but I must take him from school--"

"Pooh! We'll talk about that."

A cry of gratitude escaped her.

"Dyce! How good you are! How bravely you hear it, my own dear
husband. I'll do anything, anything! We needn't have a servant. I'll
work--I don't care anything if you still love me. Say you still
love me!"

He kissed her hair.

"It's certain I don't hate you.--Well, we'll see how things look
to-morrow. Who knows? It may be the real beginning of my career!"