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Our Friend The Charlatan

<h1> Our Friend the Charlatan </h1> <h3> by </h3> <h2> George Gissing </h2> <table ALIGN="center" WIDTH="100%"> <tr> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="20%"> CHAPTER I </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="20%"> CHAPTER II </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="20%"> CHAPTER III </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="20%"> CHAPTER IV </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="20%"> CHAPTER V </td> </tr> <tr> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER VI </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER VII </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER VIII </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER IX </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER X </td> </tr> <tr> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XI </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XII </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XIII </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XIV </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XV </td> </tr> <tr> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XVI </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XVII </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XVIII </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XIX </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XX </td> </tr> <tr> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XXI </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XXII </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XXIII </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XXIV </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XXV </td> </tr> <tr> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XXVI </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XXVII </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XXVIII </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XXIX </td> <td ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> CHAPTER XXX </td> </tr> </table> <h3> CHAPTER I </h3> As he waited for his breakfast, never served to time, Mr. Lashmar drummed upon the window-pane, and seemed to watch a blackbird lunching with much gusto about the moist lawn of Alverholme Vicarage. But his gaze was absent and worried. The countenance of the reverend gentleman rarely wore any other expression, for he took to heart all human miseries and follies, and lived in a ceaseless mild indignation against the tenor of the age. Inwardly, Mr. Lashmar was at this moment rather pleased, having come upon an article in his weekly paper which reviewed in a very depressing strain the present aspect of English life. He felt that he might have, and ought to have, written the article himself—a loss of opportunity which gave new matter for discontent. The Rev. Philip was in his sixty-seventh year; a thin, dry, round-shouldered man, with bald occiput, straggling yellowish beard, and a face which recalled that of Darwin. The resemblance pleased him. Privately he accepted the theory of organic evolution, reconciling it with a very broad Anglicanism; in his public utterances he touched upon the Darwinian doctrine with a weary disdain. This contradiction involved no insincerity; Mr. Lashmar merely held in contempt the common understanding, and declined to expose an esoteric truth to vulgar misinterpretation. Yet he often worried about it—as he worried over everything. Nearer causes of disquiet were not lacking to him. For several years the income of his living had steadily decreased; his glebe, upon which he chiefly depended, fell more and more under the influence of agricultural depression, and at present he found himself, if not seriously embarrassed, likely to be so in a very short time. He was not a good economist; he despised everything in the nature of parsimony; his ideal of the clerical life demanded a liberal expenditure of money no less than unsparing personal toil. He had generously exhausted the greater part of a small private fortune; from that source there remained to him only about a hundred pounds a year. His charities must needs be restricted; his parish outlay must be pinched; domestic life must proceed on a narrower basis. And all this was to Mr. Lashmar supremely distasteful. Not less so to Mr. Lashmar's wife, a lady ten years his junior, endowed with abundant energies in every direction save that of household order and thrift. Whilst the vicar stood waiting for breakfast, tapping drearily on the window-pane, Mrs. Lashmar entered the room, and her voice sounded the deep, resonant note which announced a familiar morning mood. "You don't mean to say that breakfast isn't ready! Surely, my dear, you could ring the bell?" "I have done so," replied the vicar, in a tone of melancholy abstraction. Mrs. Lashmar rang with emphasis, and for the next five minutes her contralto swelled through the vicarage, rendering inaudible the replies she kept demanding from a half rebellious, half intimidated servant. She was not personally a coarse woman, and her manners did not grossly offend against the convention of good-breeding; but her nature was self-assertive. She could not brook a semblance of disregard for her authority, yet, like women in general, had no idea of how to rule. The small, round face had once been pretty; now, with its prominent eyes, in-drawn lips, and obscured chin, it inspired no sympathetic emotion, rather an uneasiness and an inclination for retreat. In good humour or in ill, Mrs. Lashmar was aggressive. Her smile conveyed an amiable defiance; her look of grave interest alarmed and subdued. "I have a line from Dyce," remarked the vicar, as at length he applied himself to his lukewarm egg and very hard toast. "He thinks of running down." "When?" "He doesn't say." "Then why did he write? I've no patience with those vague projects. Why did he write until he had decided on the day?" "Really, I don't know," answered Mr. Lashmar, feebly. His wife, in this mood, had a dazing effect upon him. "Let me see the letter." Mrs. Lashmar perused the half-dozen lines in her son's handwriting. "Why, he does say!" she exclaimed in her deepest and most disdainful chord. "He says 'before long.'" "True. But I hardly think that conveys—" "Oh, please don't begin a sophistical argument He says when he is coming, and that's all I want to know. Here's a letter, I see, from that silly Mrs. Barker—her husband has quite given up drink, and earns good wages, and the eldest boy has a place—pooh!" "All very good news, it seems to me," remarked the vicar, slightly raising his eyebrows. But one of Mrs. Lashmar's little peculiarities was that, though she would exert herself to any extent for people whose helpless circumstances utterly subjected them to her authority, she lost all interest in them as soon as their troubles were surmounted, and even viewed with resentment that result of her own efforts. Worse still, from her point of view, if the effort had largely been that of the sufferers themselves—as in this case. Mrs. Barker, a washerwoman who had reformed her sottish husband, was henceforth a mere offence in the eyes of the vicar's wife. "As silly a letter as ever I read!" she exclaimed, throwing aside the poor little sheet of cheap note-paper with its illiterate gratitude. "Oh, here's something from Lady Susan—pooh! Another baby. What do I care about her babies! Not one word about Dyce—not one word. Now, really!" "I don't remember what you expected," remarked the vicar, mildly. Mrs. Lashmar paid no heed to him. With a resentful countenance, she had pushed the letters aside, and was beginning her meal. Amid all the so-called duties which she imposed upon herself—for, in her own way, she bore the burden of the world no less than did the Rev. Philip—Mrs. Lashmar never lost sight of one great preoccupation, the interests of her son. He, Dyce Lashmar, only child of the house, now twenty-seven years old, lived in London, and partly supported himself as a private tutor. The obscurity of this existence, so painful a contrast to the hopes his parents had nourished, so disappointing an outcome of all the thought that had been given to Dyce's education, and of the not inconsiderable sums spent upon it, fretted Mrs. Lashmar to the soul; at times she turned in anger against the young man himself, accusing him of ungrateful supineness, but more often eased her injured feelings by accusation of all such persons as, by any possibility, might have aided Dyce to a career. One of these was Lady Susan Harrop, a very remote relative of hers. Twice or thrice a year, for half-a-dozen years at least, Mrs. Lashmar had urged upon Lady Susan the claims of her son to social countenance and more practical forms of advancement; hitherto with no result—save, indeed, that Dyce dined once every season at the Harrops' table. The subject was painful to Mr. Lashmar also, but it affected him in a different way, and he had long ceased to speak of it. "That selfish, frivolous woman!" sounded presently from behind the coffee-service, not now in accents of wrath, but as the deliberate utterance of cold judgment. "Never in all her life has she thought of anyone but herself. What right has such a being to bring children into the world? What can be expected of them but meanness and hypocrisy?" Mr. Lashmar smiled. He had just broken an imperfect tooth upon a piece of toast, and, as usual when irritated, his temper became ironic. "Sweet are the uses of disappointment," he observed. "How it clears one's vision!" "Do you suppose I ever had any better opinion of Lady Susan?" exclaimed his wife. It was a principle of Mr. Lashmar's never to argue with a woman. Sadly smiling, he rose from the table. "Here's an article you ought to read," he said, holding out the weekly paper. "It's full of truth, well expressed. It may even have some bearing on this question." The vicar went about his long day's work, and took with him many uneasy reflections. He had not thought of it before breakfast, but now it struck him that much in that pungent article on the men of to-day might perchance apply to the character and conduct of his own son. "A habit of facile enthusiasm, not perhaps altogether insincere, but totally without moral value . . . convictions assumed at will, as a matter of fashion, or else of singularity . . . the lack of stable purpose, save only in matters of gross self-interest . . . an increasing tendency to verbose expression . . . an all but utter lack of what old-fashioned people still call principle. . . ." these phrases recurred to his memory, with disagreeable significance. Was that in truth a picture of his son, of the boy whom he had loved and watched over and so zealously hoped for? Possibly he wronged Dyce, for the young man's mind and heart had long ceased to be clearly legible to him. "Worst, perhaps, of all these frequent traits is the affectation of—to use a silly word—altruism. The most radically selfish of men seem capable of persuading themselves into the belief that their prime motive is to 'live for others.' Of truly persuading themselves—that is the strange thing. This, it seems to us, is morally far worse than the unconscious hypocrisy which here and there exists in professors of the old religion; there is something more nauseous about self-deceiving 'altruism' than in the attitude of a man who, thoroughly worldly in fact, believes himself a hopeful candidate for personal salvation." Certain recent letters of Dyce appeared in a new light when seen from this point of view. It was too disagreeable a subject; the vicar strove to dismiss it from his mind. In the afternoon, he had to visit a dying man, an intelligent shopkeeper, who, while accepting the visit as a proof of kindness, altogether refused spiritual comfort, and would speak of nothing but the future of his children. Straightway Mr. Lashmar became the practical consoler, lavish of kindly forethought. Only when he came forth did he ask himself whether he could possibly fulfil half of what he had undertaken. "It is easier," he reflected, "to make promises for the world to come. Is it not also better? After all, can I not do it with a clearer conscience?" He walked slowly, worrying about this and fifty other things, feeling a very Atlas under the globe's oppression. His way took him across a field in which there was a newly bourgeoned copse; he remembered that, last spring, he had found white violets about the roots of the trees. A desire for their beauty and odour possessed him; he turned across the grass. Presently a perfume guided him to a certain mossy corner where pale sweet florets nestled amid their leaves. He bent over them, and stretched his hand to pluck, but in the same moment checked himself; why should he act the destroyer in this spot of perfect quietness and beauty? "Dyce would not care much about them," was another thought that came into his mind. He rose from his stooping posture with ache of muscles and creaking of joints. Alas for the days when he ran and leapt and knew not pain! Walking slowly away, he worried himself about the brevity of life. By a stile he passed into the highroad, at the lower end of the long village of Alverholme. He had an appointment with his curate at the church school, and, not to be unpunctual, he quickened his pace in that direction. At a little distance behind him was a young lady whom he had not noticed; she, recognizing the vicar, pursued with light, quick step, and soon overtook him. "How do you do, Mr. Lashmar!" "Why—Miss Bride!" exclaimed the vicar. "What a long time since we saw you! Have you just come?" "I'm on a little holiday. How are you? And how is Mrs. Lashmar?" Miss Bride had a soberly decisive way of speaking, and an aspect which corresponded therewith; her figure was rather short, well-balanced, apt for brisk movement; she held her head very straight, and regarded the world with a pair of dark eyes suggestive of anything but a sentimental nature. Her grey dress, black jacket, and felt hat trimmed with a little brown ribbon declared the practical woman, who thinks about her costume only just as much as is needful; her dark-brown hair was coiled in a plait just above the nape, as if neatly and definitely put out of the way. She looked neither more nor less than her age, which was eight and twenty. At first sight her features struck one as hard and unsympathetic, though tolerably regular; watching her as she talked or listened, one became aware of a mobility which gave large expressiveness, especially in the region of the eyebrows, which seemed to move with her every thought. Her lips were long, and ordinarily compressed in the line of conscious self-control. She had a very shapely neck, the skin white and delicate; her facial complexion was admirably pure and of warmish tint. "And where are you living, Miss Bride?" asked Mr. Lashmar, regarding her with curiosity. "At Hollingford; that is to say, near it. I am secretary to Lady Ogram—I don't know whether you ever heard of her?" "Ogram? I know the name. I am very glad indeed to hear that you have such a pleasant position. And your father? It is very long since I heard from him." "He has a curacy at Liverpool, and seems to be all right. My mother died about two years ago." The matter-of-fact tone in which this information was imparted caused Mr. Lashmar to glance at the speaker's face. Though very little of an observer, he was comforted by an assurance that Miss Bride's features were less impassive than her words. Indeed, the cold abruptness with which she spoke was sufficient proof of feeling roughly subdued. Some six years had now elapsed since the girl's father, after acting for a short time as curate to Mr. Lashmar, accepted a living in another county. The technical term, in this case, was rich in satiric meaning; Mr. Bride's incumbency quickly reduced him to pauperism. At the end of the first twelvemonth in his rural benefice the unfortunate cleric made a calculation that he was legally responsible for rather more than twice the sum of money represented by his stipend and the offertories. The church needed a new roof; the parsonage was barely habitable for long lack of repairs; the church school lost its teacher through default of salary—and so on. With endless difficulty Mr. Bride escaped from his vicarage to freedom and semi-starvation, and deemed himself very lucky indeed when at length he regained levitical harbourage. These things had his daughter watched with her intent dark eyes; Constance Bride did not feel kindly disposed towards the Church of England as by law established. She had seen her mother sink under penury and humiliation and all unmerited hardship; she had seen her father changed from a vigorous, hopeful, kindly man to an embittered pessimist. As for herself, sound health and a good endowment of brains enabled her to make a way in the world. Luckily, she was a sole child: her father managed to give her a decent education till she was old enough to live by teaching. But teaching was not her vocation. Looking round for possibilities, Constance hit upon the idea of studying pharmaceutics and becoming a dispenser; wherein, with long, steady effort, she at length succeeded. This project had already been shaped whilst the Brides were at Alverholme; Mrs. Lashmar had since heard of Constance as employed in the dispensary of a midland hospital. "Hollingford?" remarked the vicar, as they walked on. "I think I remember that you have relatives there." "I was born there, and I have an old aunt still living in the town—she keeps a little baker's shop." Mr. Lashmar, though a philosopher, was not used to this bluntness of revelation; it gave him a slight shock, evinced in a troublous rolling of the eyes. "Ha! yes!—I trust you will dine with us this evening, Miss Bride?" "Thank you, I can't dine; I want to leave by an early evening train. But I should like to see Mrs. Lashmar, if she is at home." "She will be delighted. I must beg you to pardon me for leaving you—an appointment at the schools; but I will get home as soon as possible. Pray excuse me." "Why, of course, Mr. Lashmar. I haven't forgotten the way to the vicarage." She pursued it, and in a few minutes rang the bell. Mrs. Lashmar was in the dining-room, busy with a female parishioner whose self-will in the treatment of infants' maladies had given the vicar's wife a great deal of trouble. "It's as plain as blessed daylight, mum," the woman was exclaiming, "that this medicine don't agree with her." "Mrs. Dibbs," broke in the other severely, "you will allow me to be a better judge—what is it?" The housemaid had opened the door to announce Miss Bride. "Miss Bride?" echoed the lady in astonishment. "Very well; show her into the drawing-room." The visitor waited for nearly a quarter of an hour. She had placed herself on one of the least comfortable chairs, and sat there in a very stiff attitude, holding her umbrella across her knees. After a rather nervous survey of the room, (it had changed very little in appearance since her last visit six years ago), she fell into uneasy thoughtfulness, now and then looking impatiently towards the door. When the hostess at length appeared, she rose with deliberation, her lips just relaxed in a half-smile. "So it is really you!" exclaimed Mrs. Lashmar, in a voice of forced welcome. "I thought you must have altogether forgotten us." "It's the first time I have returned to Alverholme," replied the other, in a contrasting tone of calmness. "And what are you doing? Where are you living? Tell me all about yourself. Are you still at the hospital? You did get a place at a hospital, I think? We were told so." Mrs. Lashmar's patronage was a little more patronizing than usual, her condescension one or two degrees more condescending. She had various reasons for regarding Constance Bride with disapproval, the least of them that sense of natural antipathy which was inevitable between two such women. In briefest sentences Miss Bride made known that she had given up dispensing two years ago, and was now acting as secretary to a baronet's widow. "A baronet's widow?" repeated the hostess, with some emphasis of candid surprise. "How did you manage that? Who is she?" "An old friend of my family," was the balanced reply. "Lady Ogram, of Rivenoak, near Hollingford." "Oh! Indeed! I wasn't aware—" Mrs. Lashmar thought better of her inclination to be trenchantly rude, and smoothed off into commonplaces. Presently the vicar entered, and found his wife conversing with the visitor more amiably than he had expected. "You have seen Miss Bride already," said Mrs. Lashmar. "I am trying to persuade her to stay over-night with us. Is it really impossible?" Constance civilly but decidedly declined. Addressing herself to the vicar, she spoke with more ease and friendliness than hitherto; nevertheless, it was obvious that she counted the minutes dictated by decency for the prolongation of her stay. Once or twice her look wandered to a certain part of the wall where hung a framed photograph—a portrait of Dyce Lashmar at the age of one and twenty; she regarded it for an instant with cold fixity, as though it interested her not at all. Just as she was on the point of rising, there came a sound of wheels on the vicarage drive. "Who's that, I wonder?" said Mrs. Lashmar. "Why—surely it isn't—?" A voice from without had reached her ears; surprise and annoyance darkened her countenance. "It's certainly Dyce," said the vicar, who for his part, recognized the voice with pleasure. "Impossible! He said he was coming in a week's time." Mr. Lashmar would not have cared to correct this statement, and remark was rendered superfluous by the opening of the door and the appearance of Dyce himself. "Afraid I'm taking you rather at unawares," said the young man, in a suave Oxford voice. "Unexpectedly I found myself free—" His eyes fell upon Constance Bride, and for a moment he was mute; then he stepped towards her, and, with an air of peculiar frankness, of comrade-like understanding, extended his hand. "How do you do, Miss Connie! Delighted to find you here—Mother, glad to see you." He touched Mrs. Lashmar's forehead with his lips. "Well, father? Uncommonly pleasant to be at the vicarage again!" Miss Bride had stood up, and was now advancing towards the hostess. "You must go?" said Mrs. Lashmar, with her most agreeable smile. "What, going?" exclaimed Dyce. "Why? Are you staying in the village?" "No. I must catch a train." "What train?" "'The six forty-five." "Why, then you have plenty of time! Mother, bid Miss Connie be seated; I haven't had a moment's talk with her; it's absurd. Six forty-five? You needn't leave here for twenty minutes. What a lucky thing that I came in just now." For certain ticks of the clock it was a doubtful matter whether Miss Bride would depart or remain. Glancing involuntarily at Mrs. Lashmar, she saw the gloom of resentment and hostility hover upon that lady's countenance, and this proved decisive. "I'll have some tea, please," cried the young man, cheerfully, as Constance with some abruptness resumed her seat. "How is your father, Miss Connie? Well? That's right. And Mrs. Bride?" "My mother is dead," replied the girl, quite simply, looking away. A soft murmur of pain escaped Dyce's lips; he leaned forward, uttered gently a "Pray forgive me!" and was silent. The vicar interposed with a harmless remark about the flight of years. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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