LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

other—I can write to Mr. Wrybolt."—

      "Tell me plainly," said Dyce, leaning towards her. "What was your reason for giving way at once? You really think, don't you, that it will be better for the boy?"

      "Oh, how could I think so, Mr. Lashmar! You know what a high opinion—"

      "Exactly. I am quite ready to believe all that. But you will be easier in mind with Len at school, taught in the ordinary way? Now be honest—make an effort."

      "I—perhaps—one has to think of a boy's future—"

      The pale face was suffused with rose, and for a moment looked pretty in its half-tearful embarrassment.

      "Good. That's all right. We'll talk no more of it."

      There was a brief silence. Dyce gazed slowly about him. His eyes fell on nothing of particular value, nothing at all unusual in the drawing-room of a small house of middle-suburb type. There were autotypes and etchings and photographs; there was good, comfortable furniture; the piano stood for more than mere ornament, as Mrs. Woolstan had some skill in music. Iris's widowhood was of five years' duration. At two and twenty she had married a government-office clerk, a man nearly twice her age, exasperated by routine and lack of advancement; on her part it was a marriage of generosity; she did not love the man, but was touched by his railing against fate, and fancied she might be able to aid his ambitions. Woolstan talked of a possible secretaryship under the chief of his department; he imagined himself gifted for diplomacy, lacking only the chance to become a power in statecraft. But when Iris had given herself and her six hundred a year, she soon remarked a decline in her husband's aspiration. Presently Woolstan began to complain of an ailment, the result of arduous labour and of disillusion, which might make it imperative for him to retire from the monotonous toil of the Civil Service; before long, he withdrew to a pleasant cottage in Surrey, where he was to lead a studious life and compose a great political work. The man had, in fact, an organic disorder, which proved fatal to him before he could quite decide whether to write his book on foolscap or on quarto paper. Mrs. Woolstan devoted herself to her child, until, when Leonard was nine, she entrusted him to a tutor very highly spoken of by friends of hers, a young Oxford man, capable not only of instructing the boy in the most efficient way, but of training whatever force and originality his character might possess. She paid a hundred and fifty pounds a year for these invaluable services—in itself not a large stipend, but large in proportion to her income. And Iris had never grudged the expenditure, for in Dyce Lashmar she found, not merely a tutor for her son, but a director of her own mind and conscience. Under Dyce's influence she had read or tried to read—many instructive books; he had fostered, guided, elevated her native enthusiasm; he had emancipated her soul. These, at all events, were the terms in which Iris herself was wont to describe the results of their friendship, and she was eminently a sincere woman, ever striving to rise above the weakness, the disingenuousness, of her sex.

      "If you knew how it pains me!" she murmured, stealing a glance at Lashmar. "But of course it won't make any difference—between us."

      "Oh, I hope not. Why should it?" said Dyce, absently. "Now I'll tell you something that has happened since I saw you last."

      "Yes—yes—your own news! Oh, I'm afraid it is something bad!"

      "Perhaps not. I rather think I'm at a crisis in my life—probably the crisis. I shouldn't wonder if these things prove to have happened just at the right time. My news is this. Things are going rather badly down at the vicarage. There's serious diminution of income, which I knew nothing about. And the end of it is, that I mustn't count on any more supplies; they have no more money to spare for me. You see, I am thoroughly independent."

      He laughed; but Mrs. Woolstan gazed at him in dismay.

      "Oh! Oh! How very serious! What a dreadful thing!"

      "Pooh! Not at all. That's a very feminine way of talking."

      "I'm afraid it is. I didn't mean to use such expressions. But really—what are you going to do?"

      "That'll have to be thought about."

      Iris, with fluttering bosom, leaned forward.

      "You'll talk it over with me? You'll treat me as a real friend—just like a man friend? You know how often you have promised to."

      "I shall certainly ask your advice."

      "Oh! that's kind, that's good of you! We'll talk it over very seriously."

      How many hours had they spent in what Iris deemed "serious" conversation? When Dyce stayed to luncheon, as he did about once a week, the talk was often prolonged to tea-time. Subjects of transcendent importance were discussed with the most hopeful amplitude. Mrs. Woolstan could not be satisfied with personal culture; her conscience was uneasy about the destinies of mankind; she took to herself the sorrows of the race, and burned with zeal for the great causes of civilisation. Vast theories were tossed about between them; they surveyed the universe from the origin to the end of all things. Of course it was Dyce who led the way in speculation; Iris caught at everything he propounded with breathless fervour and a resolute liberality of mind, determined to be afraid of no hypothesis. Oh, the afternoons of endless talk! Iris felt that this was indeed to live the higher life.

      "By the bye," fell from Lashmar, musingly, "did you ever hear of a Lady Ogram?"

      "I seem to know the name," answered Mrs. Woolstan, keenly attentive. "Ogram?—Yes, of course; I have heard Mrs. Toplady speak of her; but I know nothing more. Who is she? What about her?"

      A maidservant entered with the tea-tray. Dyce lay back in his chair, gazing vacantly, until his hostess offered him a cup of tea. As he bent forward to take it, his eyes for a moment dwelt with unusual intentness on the face and figure of Iris Woolstan. Then, as he sipped, he again grew absent-minded. Iris, too, was absorbed in thought.

      "You were speaking of Lady Ogram," she resumed, gently.

      "Yes. A friend of mine down at Alverholme knows her very well, and thought I might like to meet her. I half think I should. She lives at Hollingford; a rich old woman, going in a good deal for social questions. A widow, no children. Who knows?" he added, raising his, eyebrows and looking straight at Iris. "She might interest herself in—in my view of things."

      "She might," replied the listener, as if overcoming a slight reluctance. "Of course it all depends on her own views."

      "To be sure, I know very little about her. It's the vaguest suggestion. But, you see, I'm at the moment, when any suggestion, however vague, has a possible value. One point is certain; I shan't take any more pupils. Without meaning it, you have decided this question for me; it's time I looked to other things."

      "I felt that!" exclaimed Mrs. Woolstan, her eyes brightening. "That was what decided me; I see now that it was—though perhaps. I hardly understood myself at the time. No more pupils! It is time that your serious career began."

      Lashmar smiled, nodding in reflective approval. His eyes wandered, with an upward tendency; his lips twitched.

      "Opportunity, opportunity," he murmured. "Of course it will come. I'm not afraid."

      "Oh it will come!" chanted his companion. "Only make yourself known to people of influence, who can appreciate you."

      "That's it." Dyce nodded again. "I must move about. For the present, I have read and thought enough; now I have to make myself felt as a force."

      Mrs. Woolstan gazed at him, in a rapture of faith. His countenance wore its transforming light; he had passed into a dream of conquest. By constitution very temperate in the matter of physical indulgence, Lashmar found exciting stimulus even in a cup of tea. For the grosser drinks he had no palate; wine easily overcame him; tea and coffee were the chosen aids of his imagination.

      "Yes, I think I shall go down to Hollingford."

      "Who," asked Iris, "is the friend who promised to introduce you?"

      There was a scarcely perceptible pause before his reply.

      "A parson—once my father's curate," he added, vaguely. "A liberal-minded man, as so many parsons are nowadays."

      Iris was satisfied. She gave the project her full approval, and

Скачать книгу