Our Friend The Charlatan — Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI
It was a week after the departure of Dyce Lashmar.
Lady Ogram had lived in agitation, a state which she knew to be the worst possible for her health.
Several times she had taken long drives to call upon acquaintances, a habit suspended during the past twelvemonth; it exhausted her, but she affected to believe that the air and movement did her good, and met with an outbreak of still more dangerous choler the remonstrances which her secretary at length ventured to make.
On the day following this characteristic scene, Constance was at work in the library, when the door opened, and Lady Ogram came in.
Walking unsteadily, a grim smile on her parchment visage, she advanced and stood before the writing-table.
"I made a fool of myself yesterday," sounded in a hollow voice, of tremulous intonation.
"Is it enough for me to say so?"
"Much more than I like to hear you say, Lady Ogram," answered Constance, hastening to place a chair for her.
"I have been afraid that something had happened which troubled you."
"Nothing at all.
The contrary.
Look at that photo, and tell me what you think of it."
It was the portrait of a girl with features finely outlined, but rather weak in expression; a face pleasant to look upon, and at the first glance possessing a quality of distinction, which tended however to fade as the eye searched for its constituents, and to lose itself in an ordinary prettiness.
"I was going to say," began Constance, "that it seemed to remind me of" She hesitated.
"Well?
Of what?"
"Of your own portrait in the dining-room.
Yes, I think there is a resemblance, though far-away."
Lady Ogram smiled with pleasure.
The portrait referred to was a painting made of her soon after her marriage, when she was in the prime of her beauty; not good as a work of art, and doing much less than justice to the full-blooded vigour of the woman as she then lived, but still a picture that drew the eye and touched the fancy.
"No doubt you are right.
This girl is a grand-niece of mine, my brother's son's daughter.
I only heard of her a week ago.
She is coming to see me."
Constance now understood the significance of Mr. Kerchever's visit, and the feverish state of mind in which Lady Ogram had since been living.
She felt no touch of sympathetic emotion, but smiled as if the announcement greatly interested her; and in a sense it did.
"I can quite understand your impatience to see her."
"Yes, but one shouldn't make a fool of oneself.
An old fool's worse than a young one.
Don't think I build my hopes on the girl.
I wrote to her, and she has written to menot a bad sort of letter; but I know nothing about her, except that she has been well enough educated to pass an examination at London University.
That means something, I suppose, doesn't it?"
"Certainly it does," answered Constance, noting a pathetic self-subdual in the old lady's look and tone.
"For a girl, it means a good deal."
"You think so?"
The bony hands were restless and tremulous; the dark eyes glistened.
"It isn't quite ordinary, is it?
But then, of course, it tells nothing about her character.
She is coming to stay for a day or two coming on Saturday.
If I don't like her, no harm's done.
Back she goes to her people, that's allher mother's familyI know nothing about them, and care less.
At all events, she looks endurabledon't you think?"
"Much more than that," said Constance.
"A very nice girl, I should imagine."
"Ha!
You mean that?
Of course you do, or you wouldn't say it.
But then, if she's only a 'nice girl'pooh!
She ought to be more than that.
What's the use of a photograph?
Every photo ever taken of me made me look a simpering idiot."
This was by no means true, but Lady Ogram had always been a bad sitter to the camera, and had destroyed most of its results.
The oil painting in the dining-room she regarded with a moderate complacency.
Many a time during the latter years of withering and enfeeblement her memory had turned to that shining head in marble, which was hidden away amid half a century's dust under the roof at Rivenoak.
There, and there only, survived the glory of her youth, when not the face alone, but all her faultless body made the artist's rapture.
"Well," she said, abruptly, "you'll see the girl.
Her name is May Tomalin.
You're not obliged to like her.
You're not obliged to tell me what you think of her.
Most likely I shan't ask you.
By the bye, I had a letter from Dyce Lashmar this morning."
"Indeed?"
said the other, with a careless smile.
"I like his way of writing.
It's straight-forward and sharp-cut, like his talk.
A man who means what he says, and knows how to say it; that's a great deal nowadays."
Constance assented with all good-humour to Lady Ogram's praise.
"You must answer him for me," the old lady continued.
"No need, of course, to show me what you write; just put it into a letter of your own."
"I hardly think I shall be writing to Mr. Lashmar," said Miss Bride, very quietly.
"Do you mean that?"
Their eyes met, and Constance bore the other's gaze without flinching.
"We are not such great friends, Lady Ogram.
You will remember I told you that I knew him but slightly."
"All right.
It has nothing to do with me, whether you're friends or not.
You can answer as my secretary, I suppose?"
And Lady Ogram, with her uncertain, yet not undignified, footfall, went straightway from the room.
There was a suspicion of needless sound as the door closed behind her.
Constance sat for a minute or two in a very rigid attitude, displeasure manifest on her lips.
She did not find it easy to get to work again, and when the time came for her bicycle ride, she was in no mind for it, but preferred to sit over a book.
At luncheon Lady Ogram inclined to silence.
Later in the day, however, they met on the ordinary terms of mutual understanding, and Constance, after speaking of other things, asked whether she should write Lady Ogram's reply to Mr. Lashmar.
"Mr. Lashmar?
Oh, I have written to him myself," said the old lady, as if speaking of a matter without importance.
Three days went by, and it was Saturday.
Lady Ogram came down earlier than usual this morning, but did not know how to occupy herself; she fretted at the rainy sky which kept her within doors; she tried to talk with her secretary of an important correspondence they had in hand (it related to a projected society for the invigoration of village life), but her thoughts were too obviously wandering.
Since that dialogue in the library, not a word regarding Miss Tomalin had escaped her; all at once she said: "My niece is due here at four this afternoon.
I want you to be with me when she comes into the room.
You won't forget that?"
Never before had Constance seen the old autocrat suffering from nervousness; it was doubtful whether anyone at any time had enjoyed the privilege.
Strange to say, this abnormal state of things did not irritate Lady Ogram's temper; she was remarkably mild, and for once in her life seemed to feel it no indignity to stand in need of moral support.
Long before the time for Miss Tomalin's arrival, she established herself on her throne amid the drawing-room verdure.
Constance tried to calm her by reading aloud, but this the old lady soon found unendurable.
"I wonder whether the train will be late?"
she said.
"No doubt it will; did you ever know a train punctual?
It may be half an hour late.
The railways are scandalously managed.
They ought to be taken over by the government."
"I don't think that would improve matters," said the secretary, glad of a discussion to relieve the tedium.
She too was growing nervous.
"Nonsense!
Of course it would."
Constance launched into argument, and talked for talking's sake.
She knew that her companion was not listening.
"It's four o'clock," exclaimed Lady Ogram presently.
"There may be an accident with the brougham.
Leggatt sometimes drives very carelessly" no more prudent coachman existed"and the state of the roads about here is perfectly scandalous"they were as good roads as any in England.
"What noise was that?"
"I heard nothing."
"I've often noticed that you are decidedly dull of hearing.
Has it always been so?
You ought to consult awhat are the men called who see to one's ears?"
Lady Ogram was growing less amiable, and with much ado Constance restrained herself from a tart reply.
Three minutes more, and the atmosphere of the room would have become dangerously electric.
But before two minutes had elapsed, the door opened, and a colourless domestic voice announced: "Miss Tomalin."
There entered very much the kind of figure that Constance had expected to see; a young lady something above the middle height, passably, not well, dressed, moving quickly and not ungracefully, but with perceptible lack of that self-possession which is the social testimonial.
She wore a new travelling costume, fawn-coloured, with a slightly inappropriate hat (too trimmy), and brown shoes which over-asserted themselves.
Her collar was of the upright sort, just turned down at the corners; her tie, an ill-made little bow of red.
About her neck hung a pair of eye-glasses; at her wrist were attached a silver pencil-case and a miniature ivory paper-knife.
The face corresponded fairly well with its photographic presentment so long studied by Lady Ogram, and so well remembered by Constance Bride; its colour somewhat heightened and the features mobile under nervous stress, it offered a more noticeable resemblance to that ancestral portrait in the dining-room.
Lady Ogram had risen; she took a tremulous step or two from the throne, and spoke in a voice much more senile than its wont.
"I am glad to see you, Mayglad to see you!
This is my friend and secretary, Miss Bride, whom I mentioned to you."
Constance and the new-comer bowed, hesitated, shook hands.
Miss Tomalin had not yet spoken; she was smiling timidly, and casting quick glances about the room.
"You had an easy journey, I hope," said Miss Bride, aware that the old lady was sinking breathless and feeble into her chair.
"Oh, it was nothing at all."
Miss Tomalin's utterance was not markedly provincial, but distinct from that of the London drawing-room; the educated speech of the ubiquitous middle-class, with a note of individuality which promised to command itself better in a few minutes.
The voice was pleasantly clear.
"You had no difficulty in finding the carriage?"
said Lady Ogram, speaking with obvious effort.
"Oh, none whatever, thank you!
So kind of you to send it for me."
"I wanted to see you for a moment, as soon as you arrived.
Now they shall take you to your room.
Come down again as soon as you like; we will have tea."
"Thank you; that will be very nice."
Miss Tomalin stood up, looked at the plants and flowers about her, and added in a voice already more courageous: "What a charming room!
Green is so good for the eyes."
"Are your eyes weak?"
inquired Lady Ogram, anxiously.
"Oh, not really weak," was the rapid answer (Miss Tomalin spoke more quickly as she gained confidence), "I use glasses when I am studying or at the piano, but they're not actually necessary.
Still, I have been advised to be careful.
Of course I read a great deal."
There was a spontaneity, a youthful vivacity, in her manner, which saved it from the charge of conceit; she spoke with a naive earnestness pleasantly relieved by the smile in her grey eyes and by something in the pose of her head which suggested a latent modesty.
"I know you are a great student," said Lady Ogram, regarding her amiably.
"But run and take off your hat, and come back to tea."
She and Constance sat together, silent.
They did not exchange glances.
"Well?"
sounded at length from the throne, a tentative monosyllable.
Constance looked up.
She saw that Lady Ogram was satisfied, happy.
"I'm glad Miss Tomalin was so punctual," was all she could find to say.
"So am I. But we were talking about your deafness: you must have it seen to.
Young people nowadays!
They can't hear, they can't see, they have no teeth" "Miss Tomalin, I noticed, has excellent teeth."
"She takes after me in that.
Her eyes, too, are good enough, but she has worn them out already.
She'll have to stop that reading; I am not going to have her blind at thirty.
She didn't seem to be deaf, did she?"
"No more than I am, Lady Ogram."
"You are not deaf?
Then why did you say you were?"
"It was you, not I, that said so," answered Constance, with a laugh.
"And what do you think of her?"
asked Lady Ogram sharply.
"I think her interesting," was Miss Bride's reply, the word bearing a sense to her own thought not quite identical with that which it conveyed to the hearer.
"So do I. She's very young, but none the worse for that.
You think her interesting.
So do I." Constance noticed that Lady Ogram's talk to-day had more of the characteristics of old age than ordinarily, as though, in her great satisfaction, the mind relaxed and the tongue inclined to babble.
Though May was absent less than a quarter of an hour, the old lady waxed impatient.
"I hope she isn't a looking-glass girl.
But no, that doesn't seem likely.
Of course young people must think a little about dressOh, here she comes at last."
Miss Tomalin had made no change of dress, beyond laying aside her hat and jacket.
One saw now that she had plenty of light brown hair, naturally crisp and easily lending itself to effective arrangement; it was coiled and plaited on the top of her head, and rippled airily above her temples.
The eyebrows were darker of hue, and accentuated the most expressive part of her physiognomy, for when she smiled it was much more the eyes than the lips which drew attention.
"Come and sit here, May," said Lady Ogram, indicating a chair near the throne.
"You're not tired?
You don't easily get tired, I hope?"
"Oh, not very easily.
Of course I make a point of physical exercise; it is a part of rational education."
"Do you cycle?"
asked Constance.
"Indeed I do!
The day before yesterday I rode thirty miles.
Not scorching, you know; that's weak-minded."
Lady Ogram seemed to be reflecting as to whether she was glad or not that her relative rode the bicycle.
She asked whether May had brought her machine.
"No," was the airy reply, "I'm not a slave to it."
The other nodded approval, and watched May as she manipulated a tea-cup.
Talk ran on trivialities for a while; the new-comer still cast curious glances about the room, and at moments stole a quick observation of her companions.
She was not entirely at ease; self-consciousness appeared in a furtive change of attitude from time to time; it might have been remarked, too, that she kept a guard upon her phrasing and even her pronunciation, emphasising certain words with a sort of academic pedantry.
Perhaps it was this which caused Lady Ogram to ask at length whether she still worked for examinations.
"No, I have quite given that up," May replied, with an air of well-weighed finality.
"I found that it led to one-sidednessto narrow aims.
It's all very well when one is very young.
I shouldn't like to restrict my study in that way now.
The problems of modern life are so full of interest.
There are so many books that it is a duty to read, a positive duty.
And one finds so much practical work."
"What sort of work?"
"In the social direction.
I take a great interest in the condition of the poor."
"Really?"
exclaimed Lady Ogram.
"What do you do?"
"We have a little society for extending civilisation among the ignorant and the neglected.
Just now we are trying to teach them how to make use of the free library, to direct their choice of books.
I must tell you that a favourite study of mine is Old English, and I'm sure it would be so good if our working classes could be brought to read Chaucer and Langland and Wycliffe and so on.
One can't expect them to study foreign languages, but these old writers would serve them for a philological training, which has such an excellent effect on the mind.
I know a familyshockingly poor living, four of them, in two roomswho have promised me to give an hour every Sunday to 'Piers the Plowman'I have made them a present of the little Clarendon Press edition, which has excellent notes.
Presently, I shall set them a little examination papervery simple, of course."
Miss Bride's countenance was a study of subdued expression.
Lady Ogramwho probably had never heard of 'Piers the Plowman'glanced inquiringly at her secretary, and seemed to suspend judgment.
"We, too, take a good deal of interest in that kind of thing," she remarked.
"I see that we shall understand each other.
Do your relatives, Mr. and Mrs. Rooke, work with you?"
"They haven't quite the same point of view," said Miss Tomalin, smiling indulgently.
"I'm afraid they represent rather the old way of thinking about the poorthe common-sense way, they call it; it means, as far as I can see, not thinking much about the poor at all.
Of course I try to make them understand that this is neglect of duty.
We have no right whatever to live in enjoyment of our privileges and pay no heed to those less fortunate.
Every educated person is really a missionary, whose duty it is to go forth and spread the light.
I feel it so strongly that I could not, simply could not, be satisfied to pursue my own culture; it seems to me the worst kind of selfishness.
The other day I went, on the business of our society, into a dreadfully poor home, where the people, I'm sure, often suffer from hunger.
I couldn't give moneyfor one thing, I have very little, and then it's so demoralising, and one never knows whether the people will be offendedbut I sat down and told the poor woman all about the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, and you can't think how interested she was, and how grateful!
It quite brightened the day for her.
One felt one had done some good."
There was silence.
Lady Ogram looked admiringly at the girl.
If anyone else had talked to her in this way, no vehemence of language would have sufficed to express her scorn; but in May Tomalin such ideals seemed to her a very amiable trait.
She was anxious to see everything May said or did in a favourable light.
"Have you tried the effect of music?"
asked Constance, gravely, when Miss Tomalin chanced to regard her.
"Oh, we haven't forgotten that.
Next winter we hope to give a few concerts in a schoolroom.
Of course it must be really good music; we shan't have anything of a popular kindat least, we shan't if my view prevails.
It isn't our object to amuse people; it would be really humiliating to play and sing the kind of things the ignorant poor like.
We want to train their intelligence.
Some of our friends say it will be absurd to give them classical music, which will weary and discontent them.
But they must be made to understand that their weariness and discontent is wrong.
We have to show them how bad and poor their taste is, that they may strive to develop a higher and nobler.
I, for one, shall utterly decline to have anything to do with the concerts if the programme doesn't consist exclusively of the really great, Bach and Beethoven and so on.
Don't you agree with me?"
"In principle," replied Lady Ogram, "certainly.
We shall have lots of things to talk about, I see."
"I delight in talk about serious things!"
cried May.
But Lady Ogram's physical strength was not equal to the excitement she had gone through.
Long before dinner-time her voice failed, and she had no choice but to withdraw into privacy, leaving Constance Bride to play the hostess.
Alone with a companion of not much more than her own age, Miss Tomalin manifested relief; she began to move about, looking at things with frank curiosity, and talking in a more girlish way.
The evening was cloudy, and did not tempt forth, but May asked whether they could not walk a little in the garden.
"This is a beautiful place!
I shall enjoy myself here tremendously!
And it's all so unexpected.
Of course you know, Miss Bride, that I had never heard of Lady Ogram until a few days ago?"
"Yes, I have heard the story."
"Do let us get our hats and run out.
I want to see everything."
They went into the garden, and May, whilst delighting in all she saw, asked a multitude of questions about her great-aunt.
It was only in the intellectual domain that she evinced pretentiousness and grew grandiloquent; talking of her private affairs, she was very direct and simple, with no inclination to unhealthy ways of thought.
She spoke of her birth in Canada, and her childish recollections of that country.
"I used to be rather sorry that we had come back to England, for the truth is I don't much care for Northampton, and I have never been quite comfortable with my relatives there.
But now, of course, everything is different.
It seems a great pity that I should have had such a relative as Lady Ogram and known nothing about it doesn't it?
Strange how the branches of a family lose sight of each other?
Can you tell me Lady Ogram's age?"
Constance replied that it was not far from eighty.
"Really, I should have taken her for older still.
She seems very nice; I think I shall like her.
I wonder whether she will ask me often to Rivenoak?
Do you know whether she means to?"
When she came down after dressing for dinner, Constance found Miss Tomalin in the dining-room, standing before her great-aunt's portrait.
"Surely that isn'tcan that be Lady Ogram?"
exclaimed the girl.
"Yes; more than fifty years ago."
"Do you know, I think she was rather like me!"
Constance smiled, and said that there was certainly a family resemblance.
It appeared more strongly in the girl's face attired as she now was, her neck at liberty from the white linen collar, and her features cast into relief by a dress of dark material.
Having felt a little apprehensive about the young lady's evening garb, Constance was surprised to find that it erred, if anything, on the side of simplicity.
Though, for several reasons, not at all predisposed to like Miss Tomalin, she began to feel her prejudice waning, and by the end of dinner they were conversing in a very friendly tone.
May chatted of her friends at Northampton, and several times mentioned a Mr. Yabsley, whom it was evident she held in much esteem.
Mr. Yabsley, it appeared, was the originator of the society for civilising the ignorant poor; Mr. Yabsley lectured on very large subjects, and gave readings from very serious authors; Mr. Yabsley believed in the glorious destinies of the human race, especially of that branch of it known as Anglo-Saxon.
"He is an elderly gentleman?"
asked Constance, with a half-smile of mischief.
"Old!
Oh dear, no!
Mr. Yabsley is only about thirtynot quite that, I think."
And May suddenly turned to talk of Browning, whom she felt it a "positive duty" to know from end to end.
Had Miss Bride really mastered "Sordello?"
"I never tried to," Constance answered.
"Why should I worry about unintelligible stuff that would give me no pleasure even if I could understand it?"
"Oh!
Oh!
Don't speak like that!"
cried the other, distressfully.
