Our Friend the Charlatan | Page 9

far as the station," he said, when the time
came for her departure.
"Please don't trouble," Constance replied, with a quick glance at Mrs.
Lashmar's face, still resentful under the conventional smile.
Dyce, without more words, took his hat and accompanied her; the vicar
went with them to the garden gate, courteous but obviously
embarrassed.
"Pray remember me to your father, Miss Bride," he said. "I should
much like to hear from him."
"It's chilly this evening," remarked Dyce, as he and his companion
walked briskly away. "Are you going far?"
"To Hollingford."
"But you'll be travelling for two or three hours. What about your
dinner?"
"Oh, I shall eat something when I get home."
"Women are absurd about food," exclaimed Dyce, with laughing
impatience. "Most of you systematically starve yourselves, and wonder
that you get all sorts of ailments. Why wouldn't you stay at the vicarage
to-night? I'm quite sure it would have made no difference if you had
got back to Hollingford in the morning."
"Perhaps not, but I don't care much for staying at other people's
houses."
Dyce examined his companion's face. She did not meet his look, and
bore it with some uneasiness. In the minds of both was a memory

which would have accounted for much more constraint between them
than apparently existed. Six years ago, in the days of late summer,
when Dyce Lashmar was spending his vacation at the vicarage, and
Connie Bride was making ready to go out into the world, they had been
wont to see a good deal of each other, and to exhaust the topics of the
time in long conversations, tending ever to a closer intimacy of thought
and sentiment. The companionship was not very favourably regarded
by Mr. Lashmar, and to the vicar's wife was a source of angry
apprehension. There came the evening when Dyce and Constance had
to bid each other good-bye, with no near prospect of renewing their
talks and rambles together. What might be in the girl's thought, she
alone knew; the young man, effusive in vein of friendship, seemed
never to glance beyond a safe borderline, his emotions satisfied with
intellectual communion. At the moment of shaking hands, they stood in
a field behind the vicarage; dusk was falling and the spot
secluded.--They parted, Constance in a bewilderment which was to last
many a day; for Dyce had kissed her, and without a word was gone.
There followed no exchange of letters. From that hour to this the two
had in no way communicated. Mr. Bride, somewhat offended by what
he had seen and surmised of Mr. and Mrs. Lashmar's disposition, held
no correspondence with the vicar of Alverholme; his wife had never
been on friendly terms with Mrs. Lashmar. How Dyce thought of that
singular incident it was impossible to infer from his demeanour;
Constance might well have supposed that he had forgotten all about it.
"Is your work interesting?" were his next words. "What does Lady
Ogram go in for?"
"Many things."
"You prefer it to the other work?"
"It isn't so hard, and it's much more profitable."
"By the bye, who is Lady Ogram?" asked Dyce, with a smiling glance.
"A remarkable old lady. Her husband died ten years ago; she has no
children, and is very rich. I shouldn't think there's a worse-tempered
person living, yet she has all sorts of good qualities. By birth, she
belongs to the working class; by disposition she's a violent aristocrat. I
often hate her; at other times, I like her very much."
Dyce listened with increasing attention.
"Has she any views?" he inquired.

"Oh, plenty!" Constance answered, with a dry little laugh.
"About social questions--that kind of thing?"
"Especially."
"I shouldn't be surprised if she called herself a socialist."
"That's just what she does--when she thinks it will annoy people she
dislikes."
Dyce smiled meditatively.
"I should like to know her. Yes, I should very much like to know her.
Could you manage it for me?"
Constance did not reply. She was comparing the Dyce Lashmar of
to-day with him of the past, and trying to understand the change that
had come about in his talk, his manner. It would have helped her had
she known that, in the ripe experience of his seven and twentieth year,
Dyce had arrived at certain conclusions with regard to women, and
thereupon had based a method of practical behaviour towards them.
Women, he held, had never been treated with elementary justice. To
worship them was no less unfair than to hold them in contempt. The
honest man, in our day, should regard a woman without the least bias
of sexual prejudice; should view her simply as a fellow-being, who,
according to circumstances, might or not be on his own plane. Away
with all empty show and