Our Friend the Charlatan

Constance approved. Yes, their aim, undoubtedly, was the common good, and, whilst keeping this in view, they need not, perhaps, be over-fastidious as to the means they employed. She had for years regarded herself as at war with society, in the narrow sense of the word; its creeds, great or small, had no validity for her; she had striven for what she deemed her rights, the rights of a woman born with intellect and will and imagination, yet condemned by poverty to rank among subordinates. The struggle appeared to have brought her within view of triumph, and was it not to herself, her natural powers and qualities, that she owed all? At this moment she felt her right to pursue any object which seemed to her desirable. What was good for her, was good for the world at large.

The next morning they started at the usual hour for their ride, but the sky was cloudy, and, as they were leaving the park, spots of rain fell. It was not by the lodge gates that they usually set forth; more convenient for their purpose was a postern in the wall which enclosed the greater part of Rivenoak; the approach to it was from the back of the house, across a paddock, and through a birch copse, where stood an old summer-house, now rarely entered. Constance, with her own key, had just unlocked the door in the wall; she paused and glanced cloudward.

"I think it'll be a shower," said Lashmar. "Suppose we shelter in the summer-house."

They did so, and stood talking under the roof of mossy tiles.

"What have you worked at this morning?" asked Constance.

"Nothing particular. I've been thinking."

"I wish you would try to tell me how you worked out your bio-sociology. You must have had a great deal of trouble to get together your scientific proofs and illustrations."

"A good deal, of course," answered Dyce modestly. "I had read for years, all sorts of scientific and historical books."

"I rather wonder you didn't write a book of your own. Evidently you have all the material for one. Don't you think it might be well?"

"We have spoken of that, you know," was Dyce's careless reply. "I prefer oral teaching."

"Still, a solid book, such a one as you could easily write, would do you a great deal of good. Do think about it, will you?"

Her voice had an unusual quality; it was persuasive, and almost gentle. In speaking, she looked at him with eyes of unfamiliar expressiveness, and all the lines of her face had softened.

"Of course if you really think—" began Lashmar, affecting to ponder the matter.

"I should so like you to do it," Constance pursued, still with the markedly feminine accent, which she certainly did not assume. "Will you—to please me?"

Her eyes fell before the other's quick, startled look. There was a silence; rain pattered on the tiles.

"I'll think about it," Dyce replied at length, moving and speaking uneasily. "It's raining quite hard, you know," he added, moving into the doorway. "The roads will be no good after this."

"No. We had better go in," said Constance, with sudden return to dry, curt speech.

It was evident that, in his anomalous situation, Lashmar's method with women could not have fair play. He was in no small degree beholden to Constance, and her odd behaviour of late kept him in mind of his obligation. Doubtless, he thought, she intended that; and his annoyance at what he considered a lack of generosity outweighed the satisfaction his vanity might have found in her new manner towards him. That manner, especially this morning, reminded him of six years ago. Was Constance capable of exacting payment of a debt which she imagined him to have incurred at Alverholme? Women think queerly, and are no less unaccountable in their procedure.

His curiosity busied itself with the vaguely indicated compact between Constance and Lady Ogram, but no word on the subject, not even a distant allusion to it, ever fell from his nominally betrothed, and the old lady herself, however amiable, spoke not at all of the things he desired to know. Was it not grossly unjust to him? Until he clearly understood Constance's future position, how could he decide upon his course with regard to her? Conceivably, the proposed marriage might carry advantages which it behooved him to examine with all care; conceivably also, it might at a given moment be his sole rescue from embarrassment or worse. Meanwhile, ignorance of the essential factors of the problem put him at a grave disadvantage. Constance was playing a game (so Dyce saw it) with all the cards visible before her, and, to such a profound observer as he, it was not unnatural to suppose that she played for something worth the while. Curiously enough, Dyce did not presume to believe that he himself, his person, his mind, his probable career, were gain sufficient. A singular modesty ruled his meditations at this juncture.

Other things were happening which interfered with the confident calm essential to his comfort. Since the vexatious little incident at Mrs. Toplady's, he had not seen Iris Woolstan. On the eve of his departure for Rivenoak, he wrote to her, a friendly letter in the usual strain, just to acquaint her with his movements, and to this letter there came no reply. It was unlikely that Iris's answer had somehow failed to reach hi in; of course she would address to Rivenoak. No doubt she had discovered his little deception, and took it ill. Iris was quite absurd enough to feel jealousy, and to show it. Of all the women he knew, she had the most essentially feminine character. Fortunately she was as weak as foolish; at any time, he could get the upper hand of her in a private interview. But his sensibility made him restless in the thought that she was accusing him of ingratitude—perhaps of behaviour unworthy a gentleman. Yes, there was the true sting. Dyce Lashmar prided himself on his intellectual lucidity, but still more on his possession of the instincts, of the mental and moral tone, which are called gentlemanly. It really hurt him to think that anyone could plausibly assail his claims in this respect.

When he had been a week at Rivenoak, he again wrote to Mrs. Woolstan. Of her failure to answer his last letter, he said nothing. She had of course received the Hollingford Express, with the report of his speech on the 20th. How did she like it? Could she suggest any improvement? She knew that he valued her opinion. "Write," he concluded, "as soon as you have leisure. I shall be here, I think, for another week or so. By the bye, I have taken to cycling, and I fancy it will be physically good for me."

To this communication, Mrs. Woolstan replied She began with a few formal commendations of his speech. "You are so kind as to ask if I can suggest any way in which it could have been improved, but of course I know that that is only a polite phrase. I should not venture to criticise anything of yours now, even if I had the presumption to think that I was capable of saying anything worth your attention. I am sure you need no advice from me, nor from anyone else, now that you have the advantage of Miss Bride's counsels. I regret very much that I have so slight an acquaintance with that lady, but Mrs. Toplady tells me that she is admirably suited to be your companion, and to encourage and help you in your career. I shall have the pleasure of watching you from a distance, and of sincerely wishing you happiness as well as success."

The formal style of this letter, so different from Iris's ordinary effusions, made sufficient proof of the mood in which it was written. Dyce bit his lips over it. He had foreseen that Mrs. Woolstan would hear of his engagement, but had hoped it would not be just yet. There was for the present no help; in her eyes he stood condemned of some thing more than indelicacy. Fortunately, she was not the kind of woman—he felt sure—to be led into any vulgar retaliation. All he could do was to write a very brief note, in which he expressed a hope of seeing her very soon. "I shall have much to tell you," he added, and tried to think that Iris would accept this as a significant promise.

After all, were not man and woman, disguise the fact as one might, condemned by nature to mutual hostility? Useless to attempt rational methods with beings to whom reason was fundamentally repugnant. Dyce fell from mortification into anger, and cursed the poverty which forbade him to act in full accordance with his ideal of conduct.

He had spent nearly a fortnight at Rivenoak, when Lady Ogram, now seemingly restored to her ordinary health, summoned him at eleven in the morning to the green drawing-room.

"I hope I didn't disturb your work," she began, kindly. "As you are leaving so soon—" Dyce had said nothing whatever about departure—"I should like to have a quiet word with you, whilst Constance is in the town. All goes well at Hollingford, doesn't it?"

"Very well indeed, I think. Breakspeare gets more hopeful every day."

Lady Ogram nodded and smiled. Then a fit of abstraction came upon her; she mused for several minutes, Dyce respectfully awaiting her next words.

"What are your own wishes about the date?"

Imagining that she referred to the election, and that this was merely another example of failing intelligence, Dyce answered that, for his own part, he was ready at any time; if a dissolution—

"Pooh!" Lady Ogram interrupted, "I'm talking about your marriage."

"Ah! Yes—yes. I haven't asked Constance—"

"Suppose we say the end of October? You could get away for a month or two."

"One thing is troubling me, Lady Ogram," said Dyce, in tone of graceful hesitancy. "I feel that it will be a very ill return for all your kindness to rob you of Constance's help and society, which you prize so."

The keen old eyes were fixed upon him.

"Do you think I am going to live for ever?" sounded abruptly and harshly, though, it was evident, with no harsh intention.

"I'm sure I hope—"

"Well, we won't talk about it. I must do without Constance, that's all. You'll of course have a house in London, but both of you will often be down here. It's understood. About the end of October. Time enough to make arrangements. I'll settle it with Constance. So to-morrow morning you leave us, on a visit to your parents. I suppose you'll spend a couple of days there?"

In his confused mind, Dyce could only fix the thought that Constance had evidently told Lady Ogram of his intention to go to Alverholme. It was plain that those two held very intimate colloquies.

"A couple of days," he murmured in reply.

"Good. Of course you'll write to me when you're in town again."

At luncheon, Lady Ogram talked of Lashmar's departure. Constance, he felt sure, already knew about it. Really, he was treated with somewhat scant ceremony. An obstinate mood fell upon him; he resolved that he would say not a word to Constance of what had passed this morning. If she wished to speak of the proposed date of their marriage, let her broach the subject herself. Through the meal he was taciturn.

Miss Bride and he dined alone together that evening. They had not met since mid-day. Dyce was still disinclined for talk; Constance, on the other hand, fell into a cheerful vein of chat, and seemed not at all to notice her companion's lack of amiability.

"I shall go by the 8.27," said Dyce, abruptly, towards the end of the meal.

"Yes, that's your best train. You'll be at Alverholme before ten o'clock."

After dinner, they sat together for scarcely a quarter of an hour, Constance talking of politics. Dyce absolutely silent. Then Miss Bride rose, and offered her hand.

"So, good-bye!"

She spoke so pleasantly, and looked so kindly, that Lashmar for a moment felt ashamed of himself. He pressed her hand, and endeavoured to speak cordially.

"Shall I hear from you?" Constance asked, trying to meet his eyes.

"Why, of course, very soon."

"Thank you. I shall be very glad."

Thus they parted. And Dyce, for a couple of hours, sat smoking and brooding.

On the morrow, at luncheon, Lady Ogram mentioned to Constance that May Tomalin would arrive on the following afternoon. She added, presently, that Lord Dymchurch had accepted an invitation to Rivenoak for a day or two in the ensuing week.

That morning, the post had brought Constance a letter and a packet. The letter was from Mrs. Toplady, who wrote thus:

"Dear Miss Bride,

"This morning I came across an article in an American magazine which it struck me would interest you. The subject is: 'Recent Sociological Speculations.' It reviews several books, among them one by a French author which seems to be very interesting. When I showed the article to Miss Tomalin, she agreed with me that there seemed a striking resemblance between the theories of this French sociologist and those which Mr. Lashmar has independently formed. Probably Mr. Lashmar would like to see the book. In any case, you and he will, I am sure, be interested in reading this article together.

"To my great regret, Miss Tomalin—or May, as I have come to call her—leaves me the day after to-morrow. But the advantage is yours at Rivenoak. Please give my love to dear Lady Ogram, who I hope is now quite well again. With kindest regards.

"Sincerely yours,"GERALDINE TOPLADY."

Constance had read the article in question, and, immediately after doing so, had dispatched an order to London for the French sociological work therein discussed.

CHAPTER XVII

Pillow-propped at her morning studies, the humourist of Pont Street, as she glanced rapidly over the close-printed pages of a trans-Atlantic monthly, had her eye caught by the word "bio-sociological." Whom had she heard using that sonorous term? It sounded to her with the Oxford accent, and she saw Lashmar. The reading of a few lines in the context seemed to remind her very strongly of Lashmar's philosophic eloquence. She looked closer; found that there was question of a French book of some importance, recently published; and smilingly asked herself whether it could be that Lashmar knew this book. That he was capable of reticence regarding the source of his ideas, she had little doubt; and what would be more amusing than to see "the coming man" convicted of audacious plagiarism? She wished him no harm; none whatever. It delighted her to see a man make his way in the stupid world by superiority of wits, and Dyce Lashmar was a favourite of hers; she had by no means yet done with him. All the same, this chance of entertainment must not be lost.

Having gone down rather earlier than usual, she found Miss Tomalin also studiously engaged, a solid tome open before her.

"My dear May, what waste of time that is! If you would only believe me that all the substance of big books is to be found in little ones! One gets on so much more quickly, and has a much clearer view of things. Why, no end of poor people nowadays make their living by boiling down these monsters to essence. It's really a social duty to make use of their work. Look, for instance, at this article I have just been reading—'Recent Sociological Speculations.' Here the good man gives us all that is important in half a dozen expensive and heavy volumes. Here's all about bio-sociology. Haven't I heard you talk of bio-sociology?"

"But," cried May, "that's Mr. Lashmar's theory! Has he been publishing it?"

"No. Someone else seems to have got hold of the same idea. Perhaps it's like Darwin and Wallace—that kind of thing."

May took the periodical, and read.

"Why, this is astonishing!" she exclaimed. "There's a passage quoted which is exactly like Mr. Lashmar—almost the very words I have heard him use!"

"Yet, you see, it's from a French book. This would certainly interest him. Perhaps he doesn't see the American reviews. Suppose I sent it to Miss Bride? They can read it together, and it will amuse them."

May assented, and the periodical was addressed to Rivenoak.

Friends came to lunch with them. In the afternoon, they made three calls. At dinner some score of persons were Mrs. Toplady's guests. Only as the clock pointed towards midnight did they find an opportunity of returning to the subject of bio-sociology. Mrs. Toplady wished for an intimate chat with her guest, who was soon to leave her; she reclined comfortably in a settee, and looked at the girl, who made a pretty picture in a high-backed chair.

"I hear that Mr. Lashmar leaves Rivenoak to-morrow," she said, referring to a letter that had arrived from Lady Ogram this evening. "I hope he won't be gone when the magazine arrives."

"Indeed? He comes back to-morrow?" said May.

"Not to London. He goes to spend a day or two with his people, it seems. You don't know them?"

"Not at all. I only know that his father is a rural clergyman."

Mrs. Toplady had observed that May's tone in speaking of Lashmar lacked something of its former vivacity. The change had been noticeable since the announcement of the philosopher's betrothal. More than that; the decline of interest was accompanied by a tendency to speak of Lashmar as though pityingly, or perhaps even slightingly; and this it was that manifested itself in May's last remark.

"I don't think it's very common;" Mrs. Toplady let fall, "for the country clergy—or indeed the clergy anywhere—to have brilliant sons."

"It certainly isn't," May agreed. And, after reflecting, she added: "I suppose one may call Mr. Lashmar brilliant?"

Miss Tomalin had continued to profit by her opportunities. Before coming to London, it would have been impossible for her to phrase a thought thus, and so utter it. That easy superciliousness smacked not at all of provincial breeding.

"On the whole, I think so," was Mrs. Toplady's modulated reply. "He has very striking ideas. How odd that somebody else should have hit upon his theory of civilisation! He ought to have written a book, as I told him."

"But suppose," suggested May, with some uneasiness, "that he knew about that French book?"

"Oh, my dear, we can't suppose that! Besides, we haven't read the book. It may really be quite different in its tendency from Mr. Lashmar's view."

"I don't see how it can be, Mrs. Toplady. Judging from those quotations, and the article, it's Mr. Lashmar from beginning to end."

"Then it's a most curious case of coincidence. Poor Mr. Lashmar will naturally be vexed. It's hard upon him, isn't it?"

May did not at once respond. The friend, watching her with the roguish smile, let fall another piece of intelligence.

"I hear that his marriage is to be in the autumn."

"Indeed?" said May, indifferently.

"Between ourselves," pursued the other, "didn't you feel just a little surprised?"

"Surprised?"

"At his choice. Oh, don't misunderstand me. I quite appreciate Miss Bride's cleverness and seriousness. But one couldn't help thinking that a man of Mr. Lashmar's promise—. Perhaps you don't see it in that way?"

"I really think they are rather well suited," said May, again calmly supercilious.

"It may be so. I had almost thought that—how shall I express it?" Mrs. Toplady searched for a moment. "Perhaps Lady Ogram might have made a suggestion, which Mr. Lashmar, for some reason, did not feel able to disregard. He has quite a chivalrous esteem for Lady Ogram, haven't you noticed? I like to see it. That kind of thing is rare nowadays. No doubt he feels reason for gratitude; but how many men does one know who can be truly grateful? That's what I like in Mr. Lashmar; he has character as well as intellect."

"But how do you mean, Mrs. Toplady?" inquired May, losing something of her polish in curiosity. "Why should my aunt have wanted him to marry Miss Bride?"

"Ah, that I don't know. Possibly she thought it, knowing him as she does, really the best thing for him. Possibly—one could make conjectures. But one always can."

May puzzled over the hint, her brow knitted; Mrs. Toplady regarded her with veiled amusement, wondering whether it would really be necessary to use plainer words. The girl was not dull, but perhaps her small experience of life, and her generally naive habit of mind, obscured to her what to the more practised was so obvious.

"Do you mean," said May, diffidently, "that she planned it out of kindness to Miss Bride? Of course I know that she likes Miss Bride very much. Perhaps she thought there would never be a better opportunity."

"It might be so," replied the other, absently.

"Miss Bride is very nice, and very clever," pursued May, sounding the words on the thinnest possible note. "But one didn't think of her as very likely to marry."

"No; it seemed improbable."

There was a pause. As if turning to quite another subject, Mrs. Toplady remarked:

"You will have visitors at Rivenoak next week. Sir William Amys is to be there for a day or two, and Lord Dymchurch—"

"Lord Dymchurch?"

The girl threw off her air of cold concentration, and shone triumphantly.

"Does it surprise you, May?"

"Oh, I hadn't thought of it—I didn't know my aunt had invited him—"

"The wonder is that Lord Dymchurch should have accepted," said Mrs. Toplady, with a very mature archness. "Did he know, by the bye, that you were going down?"

"I fancy he did."

Their eyes met, and May relieved her feelings with a little laugh.

"Then perhaps the wonder ceases. And yet, in another way—" Mrs. Toplady broke off, and added in a lower voice, "Of course you know all about his circumstances?"

"No, in deed I don't. Tell me about him, please."

"But haven't you heard that he is the poorest man in the House of Lords?"

"I had no idea of it," cried May. "How should I have known? Really? He is so poor?"

"I imagine he has barely enough to live upon. The family was ruined long ago."

"But why didn't you tell me? Does my aunt know?" May's voice did not express resentment, nor, indeed, strong feeling of any kind. The revelation seemed merely to surprise her. She was smiling, as if at the amusingly unexpected.

"Lady Ogram certainly knows," said Mrs. Toplady.

"Then of course that's why he does nothing," May exclaimed. "Fancy!" Her provincialism was becoming very marked. "A lord with hardly enough to live upon! But I'm astonished that he seems so cheerful."

"Lord Dymchurch has a very philosophical mind," said the older lady, with gravity humorously exaggerated.

"Yes, I suppose he has. Now I shall understand him better. I'm glad he's going to be at Rivenoak. You know that he asked me to advise him about what he should do. It'll be rather awkward, though. I must get him to tell me the truth."

"You'll probably have no difficulty in that. It's pretty certain that he thinks you know all about him already. If he hadn't, I feel sure he wouldn't go to Rivenoak."

The girl mused, smiling self-consciously.

"I had better tell you the truth, Mrs. Toplady," were her next words, in a burst of confidence. "I think Lord Dymchurch is very nice—as a friend. But only as a friend."

"Thank you for your confidence, May. Do you know that I suspected something of the kind."

"I want to be friends with him," pursued May, impulsively. "I shall get him to tell me all about himself, and we shall see what he can do. Of course there mustn't be any misunderstanding."

Mrs. Toplady had not been prepared for this tranquil reasonableness. May was either more primitive, or much more sophisticated, than she had supposed. Her interest waxed keener.

"Between ourselves, my dear," she remarked, "that is exactly what I should have anticipated. You are very young, and the world is at your feet. Of money you have no need, and, if Lord Dymchurch had had the good fortune to please you—. But you are ambitious. I quite understand; trust me. Poor Dymchurch will never do anything. He is merely a bookish man. But, whilst we are talking of it, there's no harm in telling you that your aunt doesn't quite see the matter with our eyes. For some reason—I don't know exactly what it is—Lady Ogram is very favourable to poor Lord Dymchurch."

"I have noticed that," said May, quietly. "Of course it makes no difference."

"You think not?" asked Mrs. Toplady, beginning to be genuinely impressed by this young woman's self-confidence.

"I mean that my aunt couldn't do more than suggest," May answered, slightly throwing back her head. "I have only to let her know how I think about anything."

"You are sure of that?" asked the other, sweetly.

"Oh, quite!"

May's smile was ineffable. The woman of the world, the humourist and cynic, saw it with admiration.