Our Friend the Charlatan | Page 8

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." Re 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.

CHAPTER II

In the moments when Dyce Lashmar was neither aware of being
observed nor consciously occupied with the pressing problems of his
own existence, his face expressed a natural amiability, inclining to
pensiveness. The features were in no way remarkable; they missed the
vigour of his father's type without attaining the regularity which had
given his mother a claim to good looks. Such a visage falls to the lot of
numberless men born to keep themselves alive and to propagate their
insignificance. But Dyce was not insignificant. As soon as his
countenance lighted with animation, it revealed a character rich in
various possibility, a vital force which, by its bright indefiniteness,
made some appeal to the imagination. Often he had the air of a lyric
enthusiast; often, that of a profound thinker; not seldom there came into
his eyes a glint of stern energy which seemed a challenge to the world.
Therewithal, nothing perceptibly histrionic; look or speak as he might,
the young man exhaled an atmosphere of sincerity, and persuaded
others because he seemed so thoroughly to have convinced himself.
He did not give the impression of high breeding. His Oxford voice, his
easy self-possession, satisfied the social standard, but left a defect to
the finer sense. Dyce had not the self-oblivion of entire courtesy; it
seemed probable that he would often err in tact; a certain awkwardness
marred his personal bearing, which aimed at the modern ideal of

flowing unconstraint.
Sipping the cup of tea which his mother had handed to him, Dyce
talked at large. Nothing, he declared, was equal to the delight of leaving
town just at this moment of the year, when hedge and meadow were
donning their brightest garments and the sky gleamed with its purest
blue. He spoke in the tone of rapturous enjoyment, and yet one might
have felt a doubt whether his sensibility was as keen as he professed or
imagined; all the time, he appeared to be thinking of something else.
Most of his remarks were addressed to Miss Bride, and with that
manner of intimate friendliness which he alone of the family used
towards their visitor. He inquired about the events of her life, and
manifested a strong interest in the facts which Constance briefly
repeated.
"Let me walk with you as