Anthony Trollope - "The Man Who Kept His Money In A Box"

Goldwin Smith - "Lectures and Essays"

Constant - "The Private Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, v8"

Alfred Lord Tennyson - "Queen Mary and Harold"

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




Never was woman more genuinely surprised. That this prosperous
financier, who had already made one advantageous marriage and might
probably, if he wished, wed a second fortune--that such a man as
Mr. Wrybolt would think of _her_ for his wife, was a thing which had
never entered her imagination. She was fluttered, and flattered, and
pleased, but not for a moment did she think of accepting him. Her
eyes fell, in demurest sadness. Never, never could she marry again;
the past was always with her, and the future imposed upon her the
most solemn of duties. She lived for the memory of her husband and
for the prospects of her child. Naturally, Mr. Wrybolt turned at
first an incredulous ear; he urged his suit, simply and directly,
with persuasion derived partly from the realm of sentiment, partly
from Lombard Street--the latter sounding the more specious. But
Mrs. Woolstan betrayed no sign of wavering; in truth, the more
Wrybolt pleaded, the firmer she grew in her resolve of refusal. When
decency compelled the man to withdraw, he was very warm of
countenance and lobster-hued at the back of his neck; an impartial
observer would have thought him secretly in a towering rage. His
leave-taking was laconic, though he did his best to smile.

Of course Mrs. Woolstan soon sat down to write him a letter, in
which she begged him to believe how grateful she was, how much
honoured by his proposal and how deeply distressed at not being able
to accept it. Surely this would make no difference between them? Of
course they would be friends as ever--nay, more than ever? She
could never forget his nobly generous impulse. But let him reflect
on her broken life, her immutable sadness; he would understand how
much she would have wronged such a man as he in taking advantage of
that moment's heroic weakness. To this effusive epistle came
speedily a brief response. Of course all was as before, wrote
Wrybolt. He was wholly at her service, and would do anything she
wished in the matter of her money. By all means let her send him
full particulars in writing, and he would lose no time; the yield of
her capital might probably be doubled.

Mrs. Woolstan, after all, went no further in that business. She had
her own reasons for continuing to think constantly of it, but for
the present felt she would prefer not to trouble Mr. Wrybolt.
Impatiently she looked forward to Thursday and the coming of Dyce
Lashmar.

He came, with a countenance of dubious import. He was neither merry
nor sad, neither talkative nor taciturn. At one moment his face
seemed to radiate hope; the next, he appeared to fall under a shadow
of solicitude. When his hostess talked of her son, he plainly gave
no heed; his replies were mechanical. When she asked him for an
account of what he had been doing down in the country, he answered
with broken scraps of uninteresting information. Thus passed the
quarter of an hour before luncheon, and part of luncheon itself; but
at length Dyce recovered his more natural demeanour. Choosing a
moment when the parlour-maid was out of the room, he leaned towards
Mrs. Woolstan, and said, with the smile of easy comradeship:

"I have a great deal to tell you."

"I'm so glad!" exclaimed Iris, who had been sinking into a
disheartened silence. "I began to fear nothing interesting had
happened."

"Have patience. Presently."

After that, the meal was quickly finished; they passed into the
drawing-room, and took comfortable chairs on either side of the
hearth. May had brought cold, clammy weather; a sky of billowing
grey and frequent gusts against the window made it pleasant here by
this bright fireside. Lashmar stretched his legs, smiled at the
gimcracks shelved and niched above the mantelpiece, and began
talking. His description of Lady Ogram was amusing, but not
disrespectful; be depicted her as an old autocrat of vigorous mind
and original character, a woman to be taken quite seriously, _d well
worth having for a friend, though friendship with her would not be
found easy by ordinary people.

"As luck would have it, I began by saying something which might have
given her mortal offence." He related the incident of the
paper-mill. "Nothing could have been better. She must be sickened
with toadyism, and I could see she found my way a refreshing
contrast. It made clear to her at once that I met her in a perfectly
independent spirit. If we didn't like each other, good-bye, and no
harm done. But, as it proved, we got on very well indeed. In a
fortnight's time I am to go down and stay at Rivenoak."

"Really? In a fortnight? She must have taken to you wonderfully."

"My ideas interested the old lay as I thought perhaps they might.
She's very keen on political and social science. It happens, too,
that she's looking about for a Liberal candidate to contest
Hollingford at the next election."

Dyce added this information in a very quiet, matter-of-fact voice,
his eyes turned to the fire. Upon his hearer they produced no less
an effect than he anticipated.

"A Liberal candidate!" echoed Iris, a-quiver with joyous excitement.
"She wants you to go into Parliament!"

"I fancy she has that idea. Don't make a fuss about it; there's
nothing startling in the suggestion. It was probably her reason for
inviting me to Rivenoak."

"Oh, this is splendid--splendid!"

"Have the goodness to be quiet," said Dyce. "It isn't a thing to
scream about, but to talk over quietly and sensibly. I thought you
had got out of that habit."

"I'm very sorry. Don't be cross. Tell me more about it. Who is the
present member?"

Dyce gave an account of the state of politics at Hollingford,
sketching the character of Mr. Robb on the lines suggested by
Breakspeare. As she listened, Mrs. Woolstan had much ado to preserve
outward calm; she was flushed with delight; words of enthusiasm
trembled on her lips.

"When will the election be?" she asked in the first pause.

"Certainly not this year. Possibly not even next There's plenty of
time."

"Oh, you are _sure_ to win! How can a wretched old Tory like that
stand against you? Go and make friends with everybody. You only need
to be known. How I should like to hear you make a speech! Of course
I must be there when you do. How does one get to Hollingford? What
are the trains?"

"If you leave Euston by the newspaper train to-morrow morning," said
Dyce, gravely, "you may be just in time to hear the declaration of
the poll.--Meanwhile," he added, "suppose we think for a moment of
the trifling fact that my income is nothing a year. How does that
affect my chances in a political career, I wonder?"

Mrs. Woolstan's countenance fell.

"Oh--but--it's impossible for that to stand in your way. You
said yourself that you didn't seriously trouble about it. Of course
you will get an income--somehow. Men who go in for public life
always do--don't they?"

She spoke timidly, with downcast eyes, a smile hovering about her
lips. Dyce did not look at her. He had thrust his hands into his
trouser pockets, and crossed his legs; he smiled frowningly at the
fire.

"Does Lady Ogram know your circumstances?" Iris asked, in a lower
voice.

"I can't be sure. She may have heard something about them from--my
friend. Naturally, I didn't tell her that I was penniless."

"But--if she is bent on having you for a candidate don't you think
she will very likely make some suggestion? A wealthy woman--"

The voice failed; the speaker had an abashed air.

"We can't take anything of that kind into account," said Lashmar,
with masculine decision. "If any such suggestion were made, I should
have to consider it very carefully indeed. As yet I know Lady Ogram
very slightly. We may quarrel, you know; it would be the easiest
thing in the world. My independence is the first consideration. You
mustn't imagine that I _clutch_ at this opportunity. Nothing of the
kind. It's an opening, perhaps; but in any case I should have found
one before long. I don't even know yet whether Hollingford will suit
me. It's a very unimportant borough; I may decide that it would be
better to look to one of the large, intelligent constituencies. I'm
afraid--" he became rather severe--"you are inclined to weigh my
claims to recognition by the fact that I happen to have no money--"

"Oh, Mr. Lashmar! Oh, don't!" exclaimed Iris, in a pained voice.
"How can you be so unkind--so unjust!"

"No, no; I merely want to guard myself against misconception. The
very freedom with which I speak to you might lead you to misjudge
me. If I thought you were ever tempted to regard me as an adventurer--"

"Mr. Lashmar!" cried Iris, almost tearfully. "This is dreadful. How
could such a thought enter my mind? Is _that_ your opinion of me?"

"Pray don't be absurd," interposed Dyce, with an impatient gesture.
"I detest this shrillness, as I've told you fifty times."

Iris bridled a little.

"I'm sure I wasn't _shrill_. I spoke in a very ordinary voice. And I
don't know why you should attribute such thoughts to me."

Lashmar gave way to nervous irritation.

"What a feminine way of talking! Is it impossible for you to follow
a logical train of ideas? I attributed no thought whatever to you.
All I said was, that I must take care not to be misunderstood. And I
see that I had very good reason; you have a fatal facility in
misconceiving even the simplest things."

Mrs. Woolstan bridled still more. There was a point of colour on her
freckled cheeks, her lower lip showed a tooth's pressure.

"After all," she said, "you must remember that I am a woman, and if
women don't express themselves quite as men do, I see no great harm
in it. I don't think mannishness is a very nice quality. After all,
I am myself, and I can't become somebody else, and certainly
shouldn't care to, if I could."

Dyce began to laugh forbearingly.

"Come, come," he said, "what's all this wrangling about? Row did it
begin? That's the extraordinary thing with women; one gets so easily
off the track, and runs one doesn't know where. What was I saying?
Oh, simply that I couldn't be sure, yet, whether Hollingford would
suit me. Let us keep to the higher plane. It's safer than too
familiar detail."

Iris was not to be so easily composed. She remarked a change in her
friend since he had ceased to be Leonard's tutor; he seemed to hold
her in slighter esteem, a result, no doubt, of the larger prospects
opening before him. She was jealous of old Lady Ogram, whose place
and wealth gave her such power to shape a man's fortunes. For some
time now, Iris had imagined herself an influence in Lashmar's life,
had dreamed that her influence might prevail over all other. In
marrying, she had sacrificed herself to an illusory hope; but she
was now an experienced woman, able to distinguish the phantasmal
from the genuine, and of Lashmar's powers there could be no doubt.
Her own judgment she saw confirmed by that of Lady Ogram. Sharp
would be her pang if the aspiring genius left her aside, passed
beyond her with a careless nod. She half accused him of ingratitude.

"I'm not at all sure," she said, rather coldly, "that you think me
capable of rising to the higher plane. Perhaps trivial details are
more suited to my intelligence."

Dyce had relieved himself of a slight splenetic oppression, and felt
that he was behaving boorishly. He brightened and grew cordial,
admitted a superfluous sensitiveness, assured his companion that he
prized her sympathy, counted seriously upon her advice; in short,
was as amiable as he knew how to be. Under his soothing talk, Mrs.
Woolstan recovered herself; but she had a preoccupied air.

"If you regard me as a serious friend," she said at length with some
embarrassment, "you can easily prove it, and put my mind at ease."

"How?" asked Dyce, with a quick, startled look.

"You have said more than once that a man and woman who were really
friends should be just as men are with each other--plain-spoken
and straightforward and--and no nonsense."

"That's my principle. I won't have any woman for a friend on other
terms."

"Then--here's what I want to say. I'm your friend call me Jack or
Harry, if you like--and I see a way in which I can be of use to
you. It happens that I have rather more money than I want for my own
use. I want to lend you some--until your difficulties are over--
just as one man would to another--"

Her speech had become so palpitant that she was stopped by want of
breath; a rosy shamefacedness subdued her; trying to brave it out,
she achieved only an unconscious archness of eye and lip which made
her for the moment oddly, unfamiliarly attractive. Dyce could not
take his eyes from her; he experienced a singular emotion.

"That's uncommonly good of you, Iris," he said, with all the
directness at his command. "You see, I call you by your name, just
to show that I take our friendship seriously. If I could borrow from
anyone I would from you. But I don't like the idea. You're a good
fellow--" he laughed--"and I thank you heartily."

Iris winced at the "good fellow."

"Why can't you consent to borrow?" she asked, in a note of
persistence. "Would you refuse if Lady Ogram made such a
suggestion?"

"Oh, Lady Ogram! That would depend entirely--"

"But you must have money from somewhere," Iris urged, her manner
becoming practical. "I'm not rich enough to lend very much, but I
could help you over a year, perhaps. Wouldn't you rather go back to
Rivenoak with a feeling of complete independence?--I see what it
is. You don't really mean what you say; you're ashamed to be
indebted to a woman. Yes, I can see it in your face."

"Look at the thing impartially," said Dyce, fidgetting in his chair.
"How can I be sure that I should ever be able to pay you back? In
money matters there is just that difference a man can go to work and
earn; a woman generally can't do anything of the kind. That's why it
seems unjust to take a woman's money; that's the root of all our
delicacy in the matter. Don't trouble about my affairs; I shall pull
through the difficult time."

"Yes," exclaimed Iris, "with somebody else's help. And _why_ should
it be somebody else? I'm not in such a position that I should be
ruined if I lost a few hundred pounds. I have money I can do what I
like with. If I want to have the pleasure of helping you, why should
you refuse me? You know very well--at least, I hope you do--that
I should never have hinted at such a thing if we had been just
ordinary acquaintances. We're trying to be more sensible than
everyday people. And just when there comes a good chance of putting
our views into practice, you draw back, you make conventional
excuses. I don't like that! It makes me feel doubtful about your
sincerity--Be angry, if you like. I feel inclined to be angry too,
and I've the better right!"

Again her panting impulsiveness ended in extinction of voice, again
she was rosily self-conscious, though, this time, not exactly
shamefaced; and again the young man felt a sort of surprise as he
gazed at her.

"In any case," he said, standing up and taking a step or two, "an
offer of this kind couldn't be accepted straightaway. All I can say
now is that I'm very grateful to you. No one ever gave me such a
proof of friendship, that's the simple fact. It's uncommonly good of
you, Iris--"

"It's not uncommonly good of _you_," she broke in, still seated, and
her arms crossed. "Do as you like. You said disagreeable things, and
I felt hurt, and when I ask you to make amends in a reasonable way--"

"Look here," cried Lashmar, standing before her with his hands in
his pockets, "you know perfectly well--_perfectly well_--that,
if I accept this offer, you'll think the worse of me."

Iris started up.

"It isn't true! I shall think the worse of you if you go down to
Lady Ogram's house, and act and speak as if you were independent.
What sort of face will you have when it comes at last to telling her
the truth?"

Dyce seemed to find this a powerful argument. He raised his brows,
moved uneasily, and kept silence.

"I shall _not_ think one bit the worse of you," Iris pursued,
impetuously. "You make me out, after all, to be a silly, ordinary
woman, and it's horribly unjust. If you go away like this, please
never come here again. I mean what I say. Never come to see me
again!"

Lashmar seemed to hesitate, looked uncomfortable, then stepped back
to his chair and sat down.

"That's right;" said Iris, with quiet triumph.

And she, too, resumed her chair.





CHAPTER VIII




Under the roof at Rivenoak was an attic which no one ever entered.
The last person who had done so was Sir Quentin Ogram; on a certain
day in eighteen hundred and--something, the baronet locked the
door and put key into his pocket, and during the more than forty
years since elapsed the room had remained shut. It guarded neither
treasure nor dire secret; the hidden contents were merely certain
essays in the art of sculpture, sundry shapes in clay and in marble,
the work of Sir Quentin himself when a very young man. Only one of
these efforts had an abiding interest; it was a marble bust
representing a girl, or young woman, of remarkable beauty, the head
proudly poised, the eyes disdainfully direct, on the lips a smile
which seemed to challenge the world's opinion. Not a refined or
nobly suggestive face, but stamped with character, alive with
vehement self-consciousness; a face to admire at a distance, not
without misgiving as one pictured the flesh and blood original.
Young Quentin had made a fine portrait. The model was his mistress,
and, soon after the bust was finished, she became his wife.

Naturally, Sir Spencer and Lady Ogram were not bidden to the
wedding; in fact, they knew nothing about it until a couple of years
after, when, on the birth to him of a son and heir, Quentin took his
courage in both hands and went down to Rivenoak to make the
confession. He avowed somewhat less than the truth, finding it quite
task enough to mitigate the circumstances of Mrs. Ogram's birth and
breeding. The exhibition of a portrait paved his way. This superbly
handsome creature, adorned as became her present and prospective
station, assuredly gave no shock at the first glance. By some freak
of fate she had for parents a plumber and a washerwoman--"poor but
very honest people," was Quentin's periphrase; their poverty of late
considerably relieved by the thoughtful son-in-law, and their
honesty perhaps fortified at the same time. Arabella (the beauty's
baptismal name) unfortunately had two brothers; sisters, most
happily, none. The brothers, however, were of a roaming disposition,
and probably would tend to a colonial life; Quentin had counselled
it, with persuasions which touched their sense of the fitting. So
here was the case stated; Sir Spencer and his lady had but to
reflect upon it, with what private conjectures might chance to enter
their minds. Quentin was an only child; he had provided already for
the continuance of the house; being of mild disposition, the baronet
bowed his head to destiny, and, after a moderate interval, Arabella
crossed the threshold of Rivenoak.

Of course there were one or two friends of Quentin's who knew all
the facts of the case; these comrades he saw no more, having
promised his wife never again to acknowledge or hold any intercourse
with them. With his bachelor life had ended the artistic aspirations
to which he had been wont to declare that he should for ever devote
himself; Mrs. Ogram (she had been for a year or two a professional
model) objected to that ungentlemanly pursuit with much more vigour
and efficacy than the young man's parents, who had merely regretted
that Quentin should waste his time and associate with a class of
persons not regarded as worthy of much respect. Whether the
dismissed cronies would talk or keep silence, who could say? Sir
Spencer affected to believe that Arabella, when his son came to know
her, was leading the life of a harmless, necessary sempstress, and
that only by long entreaty, and under every condition of decorum,
had she been induced to sit for her bust to the enthusiastic
sculptor. Very touching was the story of how, when the artist became
adorer and offered marriage, dear Arabella would not hear of such a
thing; how, when her heart began to soften, she one day burst into
tears and implored Mr. Ogram to prove his love, not by wildly
impossible sacrifice, but simply by sending her to school, so that
she might make herself less unworthy to think of him with pathetic
devotion, and from a great distance, to the end of her days. To
school, in very deed, she had been sent; that is to say, she had all
manner of teachers, first in England and then abroad, during the
couple of years before the birth of her child; and by this
instruction Arabella profited so notably that her language made no
glaring contrast with that of the civilised world, and her mind
seemed if anything more acute, more circumspective, than women's
generally in the sphere to which she was now admitted. Sir Spencer
and Lady Ogram did not love her; they made no pretence of doing so;
and it may be feared that the lives of both were shortened by
chagrin and humiliation. At the age of thirty or so, Quentin
succeeded to the baronetcy. In the same year his son died. No other
offspring had blessed, or was to bless, the romantic union.

Behold Arabella, erst of Camden Town, installed as mistress of a
house in Mayfair and reigning over Rivenoak. Inevitably, legends
were rife about her; where the exact truth was not known, people
believed worse. Her circle of society was but a narrow one; but for
two classes of well-dressed people, the unscrupulous snobs and the
cheerily indifferent, her drawing-room would have been painfully
bare. Some families knew her because Sir Quentin was one of the
richest men in his county; certain persons accepted her invitations
because she was not exactly like other hostesses, and could talk in
rather an amusing way. The years went on; scandal lost its verdure;
Lady Ogram was accepted as a queer woman with a queer history, a
rather vulgar eccentric, whose caprices and enterprises afforded
agreeable matter for gossip. No one had ever ventured to assail her
post-matrimonial reputation; she was fiercely virtuous, and would
hold no terms with any woman not wholly above reproach. It had to be
admitted that she bore herself with increasing dignity; moreover,
that she showed a disposition to use her means and influence for
what are called good ends. Towards the year 1870 the name of Lady
Ogram began to be mentioned with respect.

Then her husband died. Sir Quentin had doubtless fallen short of
entire happiness; before middle-age he was a taciturn, washed-out
sort of man, with a look of timid anxiety. Perchance he regretted
the visions of his youth, the dreams of glory in marble. When he
became master of Rivenoak, and gave up his London house, Arabella
wished him to destroy all his sculpture, that no evidence might
remain of the relations which had at first existed between them, no
visible relic of the time which she refused to remember. Sir Quentin
pleaded against this condemnation, and obtained a compromise. The
fine bust, and a few other of his best things, were to be
transferred to Rivenoak, and there kept under lock and key. Often
had the baronet felt that he would like to look at the achievements
of his hopeful time, but he never summoned courage to mount to the
attic. His years went by in a mouldering inactivity. Once or twice
he escaped alone to the Continent, and wandered for weeks about the
Italian sculpture-galleries, living in the sunny, ardent past; he
came back nerve-shaken and low in health. His death was sudden--
'failure of the heart's action,' said doctors, in their indisputable
phrase--and Lady Ogram shut herself up for a time that she might
not have the trouble of grieving before witnesses.

The baronet had behaved very generously to her in his last will and
testament. Certain sums went to kinsfolk, to charities, to servants;
his land and the bulk of his personal estate became Lady Ogram's
own. She was a most capable and energetic woman of affairs; by her
counsel, Sir Quentin had increased his wealth, and doubtless it
seemed to him that no one had so good a right as she to enjoy its
possession. The sacrifice he had made for her, though he knew it a
blight upon his life, did but increase the power exercised over him
by his arbitrary spouse; he never ceased to feel a certain pride in
her, pride in the beauty of her face and form, pride in the mental
and moral vigour which made her so striking an exception to the rule
that low-born English girls cannot rise above their native
condition. Arabella's family had given him no trouble; holding it a
duty to abandon them, she never saw parents or brothers after her
marriage, and never spoke of them. Though violent of temper, she had
never made her husband suffer from this characteristic; to be sure,
Sir Quentin was from the first, submissive, and rarely gave her
occasion for displeasure. Over the baronet's grave in the little
churchyard of Shawe she raised a costly monument. Its sole
inscription was the name of the deceased, with the dates of his
birth and death; Lady Ogram knew not, indeed, what else to add.