Richard Mutimer had strong domestic affections. The English artisan is
not demonstrative in such matters, and throughout his life Richard
had probably exchanged no word of endearment with any one of his kin,
whereas language of the tempestuous kind was common enough from him to
one and all of them; for all that he clung closely to the hearth,
and nothing in truth concerned him so nearly as the well-being of his
mother, his sister, and his brother. For them he had rejoiced as much
as for himself in the blessing of fortune. Now that the excitement of
change had had time to subside, Richard found himself realising the fact
that capital creates cares as well as removes them, and just now the
centre of his anxieties lay in the house at Highbury to which his family
had removed from Wilton Square.
He believed that as yet both the Princess and ‘Arry were ignorant of the
true state of affairs. It had been represented to them that he had ‘come
in for’ a handsome legacy from his relative in the Midlands, together
with certain business responsibilities which would keep him much away
from home; they were given to understand that the change in their own
position and prospects was entirely of their brother’s making. If Alice
Maud was allowed to give up her work, to wear more expensive gowns, even
to receive lessons on the pianoforte, she had to thank Dick for it. And
when ‘Arry was told that his clerkship at the drain-pipe manufactory was
about to terminate, that he might enter upon a career likely to be more
fruitful of distinction, again it was Dick’s brotherly kindness. Mrs.
Mutimer did her best to keep up this deception.
But Richard was well aware that the deception could not be lasting,
and had the Princess alone been concerned he would probably never have
commenced it. It was about his brother that he was really anxious. ‘Arry
might hear the truth any day, and Richard gravely feared the result of
such a discovery. Had he been destined to future statesmanship, he
could not have gone through a more profitable course of experience and
reasoning than that into which he was led by brotherly solicitude. For
‘Arry represented a very large section of Demos, alike in his natural
characteristics and in the circumstances of his position; ‘Arry, being
‘Arry, was on the threshold of emancipation, and without the smallest
likelihood that the event would change his nature. Hence the nut to
crack: Given ‘Arry, by what rapid process of discipline can he be
prepared for a state in which the ‘Arrian characteristics will surely
prove ruinous not only to himself but to all with whom he has dealings?
Richard saw reason to deeply regret that the youth had been put
to clerking in the first instance, and not rather trained for some
handicraft, clerkships being about the least hopeful of positions for a
working-class lad of small parts and pronounced blackguard tendencies.
He came to the conclusion that even now it was not too late to remedy
this error. ‘Arry must be taught what work meant, and, before he came
into possession of his means, he must, if possible, be led to devote his
poor washy brains to some pursuit quite compatible with the standing of
a capitalist, to acquire knowledge of a kind which he could afterwards
use for the benefit of his own pocket. Deficient bodily vigour had
had something to do with his elevation to the office of the drain-pipe
factory, but that he appeared to have outgrown. Much pondering enabled
Richard to hit at length on what he considered a hopeful scheme; he
would apprentice ‘Arry to engineering, and send him in the evenings to
follow the courses of lectures given to working men at the School of
Mines. In this way the lad would be kept constantly occupied, he would
learn the meaning of work and study, and when he became of age would be
in a position to take up some capitalist enterprise. Thus he might
float clear of the shoals of black-guardism and develop into a tolerable
member of society, at all events using his wealth in the direct
employment of labour.
We have seen Richard engaged in asthetic speculation; now we behold him
busied in the training of a representative capitalist. But the world
would be a terrible place if the men of individual energy were at all
times consistent. Richard knew well enough that in planning thus for
his brother’s future he was inconsistency itself; but then the matter at
issue concerned someone in whom he had a strong personal interest, and
consequently he took counsel of facts. When it was only the world at
large that he was bent on benefiting, too shrewd a sifting of arguments
was not called for, and might seriously have interfered with his
oratorical effects. In regulating private interests one cares singularly
little for anything but hard demonstration and the logic of cause and
effect.
It was now more than a month since ‘Arry had been removed from the
drain-pipes and set going on his new course, and Richard was watching
the experiment gravely. Connected with it was his exceptional stay
at Wanley over the Sunday; he designed to go up to London quite
unexpectedly about the middle of the ensuing week, that he might see
how things worked in his absence. It is true there had been another
inducement to remain in the village, for Richard had troubles of his own
in addition to those imposed upon him by his family. The Manor was now
at his disposal; as soon as he had furnished it there was no longer
a reason for delaying his marriage. In appearance, that is to say;
inwardly there had been growing for some weeks reasons manifold. They
tormented him. For the first time in his life he had begun to sleep
indifferently; when he had resolutely put from his mind thought of Alice
and ‘Arry, and seemed ready for repose, there crept out of less obvious
lurking-places subtle temptations and suggestions which fevered his
blood and only allured the more, the more they disquieted him. This
Sunday night was the worst he had yet known. When he left the Walthams,
he occupied himself for an hour or two in writing letters, resolutely
subduing his thoughts to the subjects of his correspondence. Then he
ate supper, and after that walked to the top of Stanbury Hill, hoping to
tire himself. But he returned as little prepared for sleep as he had set
out. Now he endeavoured to think of Emma Vine; by way of help, he
sat down and began a letter to her. But composition had never been so
difficult; he positively had nothing to say. Still he must think of her.
When he went up to town on Tuesday or Wednesday one of his first duties
would be to appoint a day for his marriage. And he felt that it would be
a duty harder to perform than any he had ever known. She seemed to have
drifted so far from him, or he from her. It was difficult even to see
her face in imagination; another face always came instead, and indeed
needed no summoning.
He rose next morning with a stern determination to marry Emma Vine in
less than a month from that date.
On Tuesday he went to London. A hansom put him down before the house
in Highbury about six o’clock. It was a semidetached villa, stuccoed,
bow-windowed, of two storeys, standing pleasantly on a wide road skirted
by similar dwellings, and with a row of acacias in front. He admitted
himself with a latch-key and walked at once into the front room; it was
vacant. He went to the dining-room and there found his mother at tea
with Alice and ‘Arry.
Mrs. Mutimer and her younger son were in appearance very much what
they had been in their former state. The mother’s dress was of better
material, but she was not otherwise outwardly changed. ‘Arry was attired
nearly as when we saw him in a festive condition on the evening of
Easter Sunday; the elegance then reserved for high days and holidays
now distinguished him every evening when the guise of the workshop was
thrown off. He still wore a waistcoat of pronounced cut, a striking
collar, a necktie of remarkable hue. It was not necessary to approach
him closely to be aware that his person was sprinkled with perfumes. A
recent acquisition was a heavy-looking ring on the little finger of his
right hand. Had you been of his intimates, ‘Arry would have explained
to you the double advantage of this ring; not only did it serve as an
adornment, but, as playful demonstration might indicate, it would prove
of singular efficacy in pugilistic conflict.
At the sight of his elder brother, ‘Arry hastily put his hands beneath
the table, drew off the ornament, and consigned it furtively to his
waistcoat pocket.
But Alice Maud was by no means what she had been. In all that concerned
his sister, Mutimer was weak; he could quarrel with her, and abuse
her roundly for frailties, but none the less was it one of his keenest
pleasures to see her contented, even in ways that went quite against
his conscience. He might rail against the vanity of dress, but if Alice
needed a new gown, Richard was the first to notice it. The neat little
silver watch she carried was a gift from himself of some years back;
with difficulty he had resisted the temptation to replace it with a gold
one now that it was in his power to do so. Tolerable taste and handiness
with her needle had always kept Alice rather more ladylike in appearance
than the girls of her class are wont to be, but such comparative
distinction no longer sufficed. After certain struggles with himself,
Richard had told his mother that Alice must in future dress ‘as a lady’;
he authorised her to procure the services of a competent dressmaker,
and, within the bounds of moderation, to expend freely. And the result
was on the whole satisfactory. A girl of good figure, pretty face, and
moderate wit, who has spent some years in a City showroom, does not need
much instruction in the art of wearing fashionable attire becomingly.
Alice wore this evening a gown which would not have been out of place at
five o’clock in a West-end drawing-room; the sleeves were rather short,
sufficiently so to exhibit a very shapely lower arm. She had discovered
new ways of doing her hair; at present it was braided on either side of
the forehead--a style which gave almost a thoughtful air to her face.
When her brother entered she was eating a piece of sponge-cake, which
she held to her lips with peculiar delicacy, as if rehearsing graces.
‘Why, there now!’ cried Mrs. Mutimer, pleased to see her son. ‘If I
wasn’t saying not five minutes ago as Dick was likely to come some day
in the week! Wasn’t I, Alice? What’ll you have for your tea? There’s
some chops all ready in the ‘ouse, if you’d care for them.’
Richard was not in a cheerful mood. He made no reply immediately, but
went and stood before the fireplace, as he had been accustomed to do in
the old kitchen.
‘Will you have a chop?’ repeated his mother.
‘No; I won’t eat just yet. But you can give me a cup of tea.’
Mrs. Mutimer and Alice exchanged a glance, as the former bent over the
teapot. Richard was regarding his brother askance, and it resulted in a
question, rather sharply put--
‘Have you been to work to-day?’
‘Arry would have lied had he dared; as it was, he made his plate
revolve, and murmured, ‘No; he ‘adn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I didn’t feel well,’ replied the youth, struggling for self-confidence
and doing his best to put on an air of patient suffering.
Richard tapped his tea-cup and looked the look of one who reserves
discussion for a more seasonable time.
‘Daniel called last night,’ remarked Mrs. Mutimer. ‘He says he wants to
see you. I think it’s something particular; he seemed disappointed you
weren’t at the meeting on Sunday.’
‘Did he? I’ll see if I can get round to-night. If you like to have
something cooked for me about eight o’clock, mother,’ he added,
consulting his watch, ‘I shall be ready for it then.’
He turned to his brother again.
‘Is there a class to-night? No? Very well, when they’ve cleared away,
get your books out and show me what you’ve been doing. What are _you_
going to do with yourself, Alice?’
The two addressed, as well as their mother, appeared to have some
special cause for embarrassment. Instead of immediately replying, Alice
played with crumbs and stole glances on either side.
‘Me and ‘Arry are going out,’ she said at length, with a rather timid
smile and a poise of the head in pretty wilfulness.
‘Not ‘Arry,’ Richard observed significantly.
‘Why not?’ came from the younger Mutimer, with access of boldness.
‘If you’re not well enough to go to work you certainly don’t go out at
night for your pleasure.’
‘But it’s a particular occasion,’ explained Mice, leaning back with
crossed arms, evidently prepared to do battle. ‘A friend of ‘Arry’s is
going to call and take us to the theatre.’
‘Oh, indeed! And what friend is that?’
Mrs. Mutimer, who had been talked over to compliance with a project she
felt Richard would not approve--she had no longer the old authority,
and spent her days in trying to piece on the present life to the
former--found refuge in a habit more suitable to the kitchen than the
dining-room; she had collected all the teaspoons within reach and was
pouring hot-water upon them in the slop-basin, the familiar preliminary
to washing up.
‘A gen’leman as lives near here,’ responded ‘Arry. ‘He writes for the
newspapers. His name’s Keene.’
‘Oh? And how came you to know him?’
‘Met him,’ was the airy reply.
‘And you’ve brought him here?’
‘Well, he’s been here once.’
‘He said as he wanted to know you, Dick,’ put in Mrs. Mutimer. ‘He was
really a civil-spoken man, and he gave ‘Arry a lot of help with his
books.’
‘When was he here?’
‘Last Friday.’
‘And to-night he wants to take you to the theatre?’
The question was addressed to Alice.
‘It won’t cost him anything,’ she replied. ‘He says he can always get
free passes.’
‘No doubt. Is he coming here to fetch you? I shall be glad to see him.’
Richard’s tone was ambiguous. He put down his cup, and said to Alice--
‘Come and let me hear how you get on with your playing.’ Alice followed
into the drawing-room. For the furnishing of the new house Richard had
not trusted to his own instincts, but had taken counsel with a firm
that he knew from advertisements. The result was commonplace, but not
intolerable. His front room was regarded as the Princess’s peculiar
domain; she alone dared to use it freely--declined, indeed, to sit
elsewhere. Her mother only came a few feet within the door now and then;
if obliged by Alice to sit down, she did so on the edge of a chair as
near to the door as possible. Most of her time Mrs. Mutimer still
spent in the kitchen. She had resolutely refused to keep more than one
servant, and everything that servant did she all Alice’s objections she
opposed an obstinate silence. What herself performed over again, even
to the making of beds. To was the poor woman to do? She had never in her
life read more than an occasional paragraph of police news, and could
not be expected to take up literature at her age. Though she made
no complaint, signs were not wanting that she had begun to suffer in
health. She fretted through the nights, and was never really at peace
save when she anticipated the servant in rising early, and had an honest
scrub at saucepans or fireirons before breakfast. Her main discomfort
came of the feeling that she no longer had a house of her own; nothing
about her seemed to be her property with the exception of her old
kitchen clock, and one or two articles she could not have borne to part
with. From being a rather talkative woman she had become very reticent;
she went about uneasily, with a look of suspicion or of fear. Her
children she no longer ventured to command; the secret of their wealth
weighed upon her, she was in constant dread on their behalf. It is a
bad thing for one such as Mrs. Mutimer to be thrown back upon herself in
novel circumstances, and practically debarred from the only relief
which will avail her--free discussion with her own kind. The result is
a species of shock to the system, sure to manifest itself before long in
one or other form of debility.
Alice seated herself at the piano, and began a finger exercise,
laboriously, imperfectly. For the first week or two it had given her
vast satisfaction to be learning the piano; what more certain sign
of having achieved ladyhood? It pleased her to assume airs with her
teacher--a very deferential lady--to put off a lesson for a fit of
languidness; to let it be understood how entirely time was at her
command. Now she was growing rather weary of flats and sharps, and much
preferred to read of persons to whom the same nomenclature was very
applicable in the books she obtained from a circulating library. Her
reading had hitherto been confined to the fiction of the penny papers;
to procure her pleasure in three gaily-bound volumes was another
evidence of rise in the social scale; it was like ordering your wine by
the dozen after being accustomed to a poor chance bottle now and then.
At present Alice spent the greater part of her day floating on the
gentle milky stream of English romance. Her brother was made a little
uneasy by this taste; he had not studied the literature in question.
At half-past six a loud knock at the front door announced the expected
visitor. Alice turned from the piano, and looked at her brother
apprehensively. Richard rose, and established himself on the hearthrug,
his hands behind him.
‘What are you going to say to him, Dick?’ Alice asked hurriedly.
‘He says he wants to know me. I shall say, “Here I am.”’
There were voices outside. ‘Arry had opened the door himself, and now he
ushered his acquaintance into the drawing-room. Mr. Keene proved to be
a man of uncertain age--he might be eight-and-twenty, but was more
probably ten years older. He was meagre, and of shrewd visage; he wore a
black frock coat--rather shiny at the back--and his collar was obviously
of paper. Incipient baldness endowed him in appearance with a noble
forehead; he carried eye-glasses.
Whilst ‘Arry mumbled a form of introduction, the journalist--so Mr.
Keene described himself--stood in a bowing attitude, one hand to
his glasses, seeming to inspect Richard with extreme yet respectful
interest. When he spoke, it was in a rather mincing way, with
interjected murmurs--the involuntary overflow, as it were, of his deep
satisfaction.
‘There are few persons in England whose acquaintance I desire more
than that of Mr. Richard Mutimer; indeed, I may leave the statement
unqualified and say at once that there is no one. I have heard you speak
in public, Mr. Mutimer. My profession has necessarily led me to hear
most of our platform orators, and in one respect you distance them
all--in the quality of sincerity. No speaker ever moved me as you did.
I had long been interested in your cause; I had long wished for time
and opportunity to examine into it thoroughly. Your address--I speak
seriously--removed the necessity of further study. I am of your party,
Mr. Mutimer. There is nothing I desire so much as to give and take the
hand of brotherhood.’
He jerked his hand forward, still preserving his respectful attitude.
Richard gave his own hand carelessly, smiling as a man does who cannot
but enjoy flattery yet has a strong desire to kick the flatterer out of
the room.
‘Are you a member of the Union?’ he inquired.
‘With pride I profess myself a member. Some day--and that at no remote
date--I may have it in my power to serve the cause materially.’ He
smiled meaningly. ‘The press--you understand?’ He spread his fingers to
represent wide dominion. ‘An ally to whom the columns of the _bourgeois_
press are open--you perceive? It is the task of my life.’
‘What papers do you write for?’ asked Mutimer bluntly.
‘Several, several. Not as yet in a leading capacity. In fact, I am
feeling my way. With ends such as I propose to myself it won’t do to
stand committed to any formal creed in politics. Politics, indeed! Ha,
ha!’
He laughed scornfully. Then, turning to Alice--
‘You will forgive me, I am sure, Miss Mutimer, that I address myself
first to your brother--I had almost said your illustrious brother. To be
confessed illustrious some day, depend upon it. I trust you are well?’
‘Thanks, I’m very well indeed,’ murmured Alice, rather disconcerted by
such politeness.
‘And Mrs. Mutimer? That is well. By-the-by,’ he proceeded to Richard,
‘I have a piece of work in hand that will deeply interest you. I am
translating the great treatise of Marx, “Das capital.” It occurs to me
that a chapter now and then might see the light in the “Fiery Cross.”
How do you view that suggestion?’
Richard did not care to hide his suspicion, and even such an
announcement as this failed to move him to cordiality.
‘You might drop a line about it to Mr. Westlake,’ he said.
‘Mr. Westlake? Oh! but I quite understood that you had practically the
conduct of the paper.’
Richard again smiled.
‘Mr. Westlake edits it,’ he said.
Mr. Keene waved his hand in sign of friendly intelligence. Then he
changed the subject.
‘I ventured to put at Miss Mutimer’s disposal certain tickets I
hold--professionally--for the Regent’s Theatre to-night--the dress
circle. I have five seats in all. May I have the pleasure of your
company, Mr. Mutimer?’
‘I’m only in town for a night,’ Richard replied; ‘and I can’t very well
spare the time.’
‘To be sure, to be sure; I was inconsiderate. Then Miss Mutimer and my
friend Harry--’
‘I’m sorry they’re not at liberty,’ was Richard’s answer to the murmured
interrogation. ‘If they had accepted your invitation be’ so good as to
excuse them. I happen to want them particularly this evening.’
‘In that case, I have of course not a word to say, save to express my
deep regret at losing the pleasure of their company. But another time,
I trust. I--I feel presumptuous, but it is my earnest hope to be allowed
to stand on the footing not only of a comrade in the cause, but of a
neighbour; I live quite near. Forgive me if I seem a little precipitate.
The privilege is so inestimable.’
Richard made no answer, and Mr. Keene forthwith took his leave, suave to
the last. When he was gone, Richard went to the dining-room, where his
mother was sitting. Mrs. Mutimer would have given much to be allowed to
sit in the kitchen; she had a room of her own upstairs, but there
she felt too remote from the centre of domestic operations, and the
dining-room was a compromise. Her chair was always placed in a rather
dusky corner; she generally had sewing on her lap, but the consciousness
that her needle was not really in demand, and that she might just as
well have sat idle, troubled her habits of mind. She often had the face
of one growing prematurely aged.
‘I hope you won’t let them bring anyone they like,’ Richard said to her.
‘I’ve sent that fellow about his business; he’s here for no good. He
mustn’t come again.’
‘They won’t heed me,’ replied Mrs. Mutimer, using the tone of little
interest with which she was accustomed to speak of details of the new
order.
‘Well, then, they’ve _got_ to heed you, and I’ll have that
understood.--Why didn’t ‘Arry go to work to-day?’
‘Didn’t want to, I s’pose.’
‘Has he stayed at home often lately?’
‘Not at ‘ome, but I expect he doesn’t always go to work.’
‘Will you go and sit with Alice in the front room? I’ll have a talk with
him.’
‘Arry came whistling at the summons. There was a nasty look on his face,
the look which in his character corresponded to Richard’s resoluteness.
His brother eyed him.
‘Look here, ‘Arry,’ the elder began, ‘I want this explaining. What do
you mean by shirking your work?’
There was no reply. ‘Arry strode to the window and leaned against the
side of it, in the attitude of a Sunday loafer waiting for the dram-shop
to open.
‘If this goes on,’ Richard pursued, ‘you’ll find yourself in your old
position again. I’ve gone to a good deal of trouble to give you a start,
and it seems to me you ought to show a better spirit. We’d better have
an understanding; do you mean to learn engineering, or don’t you?’
‘I don’t see the use of it,’ said the other.
‘What do you mean? I suppose you must make your living somehow?’
‘Arry laughed, and in such a way that Richard looked at him keenly, his
brow gathering darkness.
‘What are you laughing at?’
‘Why, at you. There’s no more need for me to work for a living than
there is for you. As if I didn’t know that!’
‘Who’s been putting that into your head?’
No scruple prevented the lad from breaking a promise he had made to Mr.
Keene, the journalist, when the latter explained to him the disposition
of the deceased Richard Mutimer’s estate; it was only that he preferred
to get himself credit for acuteness.
‘Why, you don’t think I was to be kept in the dark about a thing like
that? It’s just like you to want to make a fellow sweat the flesh off
his bones when all the time there’s a fortune waiting for him. What have
I got to work for, I’d like to know? I don’t just see the fun of it, and
you wouldn’t neither, in my case. You’ve took jolly good care you don’t
work yourself, trust you! I ain’t a-going to work no more, so there it
is, plain and flat.’
Richard was not prepared for this; he could not hit at once on a new
course of procedure, and probably it was the uncertainty revealed in
his countenance that brought ‘Arry to a pitch of boldness not altogether
premeditated. The lad came from the window, thrust his hands more firmly
into his pockets and stood prepared to do battle for his freeman’s
rights It is not every day that a youth of his stamp finds himself
gloriously capable of renouncing work. There was something like a glow
of conscious virtue on his face.
‘You’re not going to work any more, eh?’ said his brother, half to
himself. ‘And who’s going to support you?’ he asked, with rather forced
indignation.
‘There’s interest per cent. coming out of my money.’
‘Arry must not be credited with conscious accuracy in his use of terms;
he merely jumbled together two words which had stuck in his memory.
‘Oh? And what are you going to do with your time?’
‘That’s my business. How do other men spend their time?’
The reply was obvious, but Richard felt the full seriousness of the
situation and restrained his scornful impulses.
‘Sit down, will you?’ he said quietly, pointing to a chair.
His tone availed more than anger would have done.
‘You tell me I take good care not to do any work myself? There you’re
wrong. I’m working hard every day.’
‘Oh, we know what kind of work that is!’
‘No, I don’t think you do. Perhaps it would be as well if you were to
see. I think you’d better go to Wanley with me.’
‘What for?’
‘I dare say I can give you a job for awhile.’
‘I tell you I don’t want a job.’
Richard’s eye wandered rather vacantly. From the first it had been
a question with him whether it would not be best to employ ‘Arry at
Wanley, but on the whole the scheme adopted seemed more fruitful. Had
the works been fully established it would have been a different thing.
Even now he could keep the lad at work at Wanley, though not exactly
in the way he desired. But if it came to a choice between a life of
idleness in London and such employment as could be found for him at the
works, ‘Arry must clearly leave town at once. In a few days the Manor
would be furnished; in a few weeks Emma would be there to keep house.
There was the difficulty of leaving his mother and sister alone.
It looked as if all would have to quit London. Yet there would be
awkwardness in housing the whole family at the Manor; and besides--
What the ‘besides’ implied Richard did not make formal even in his own
thoughts. It stood for a vague objection to having all his relatives
dwelling at Wanley. Alice he would not mind; it was not impossible to
picture Alice in conversation with Mrs. and Miss Waltham; indeed, he
desired that for her. And yet--
Richard was at an awkward pass. Whithersoever he looked he saw
stumbling-blocks, the more disagreeable in that they rather loomed in a
sort of mist than declared themselves for what they were. He had not the
courage to approach and examine them one by one; he had not the audacity
to imagine leaps over them; yet somehow they had to be surmounted. At
this moment, whilst ‘Arry was waiting for the rejoinder to his last
reply, Richard found himself wrestling again with the troubles which had
kept him wakeful for the last two nights. He had believed them finally
thrown and got rid of. Behold, they were more stubborn than ever.
He kept silence so long that his brother spoke.
‘What sort of a job is it?’
To his surprise, Richard displayed sudden anger.
‘If you weren’t such a young fool you’d see what’s best for you, and go
on as I meant you to! What do you mean by saying you won’t work? If you
weren’t such a thickhead you might go to school and be taught how to
behave yourself, and how a man ought to live; but it’s no use sending
_you_ to any such place. Can’t you understand that a man with money
has to find some sort of position in the world? I suppose you’d like to
spend the rest of your life in public-houses and music-halls?’
Richard was well aware that to give way to his temper was worse than
useless, and could only defeat every end; but something within him just
now gnawed so intolerably that there was nothing for it but an outbreak.
The difficulties of life were hedging him in--difficulties he could
not have conceived till they became matter of practical experience.
And unfortunately a great many of them were not of an honest kind; they
would not bear exposing. For a man of decision, Mutimer was getting
strangely remote from practical roads.
‘I shall live as I like,’ observed ‘Arry, thrusting out his legs and
bending his body forward, a combination of movements which, I know not
why, especially suggests dissoluteness.
Richard gave up the contest for the present, and went in silence from
the room. As he joined his mother and sister they suddenly ceased
talking.
‘Don’t cook anything for me,’ he said, remaining near the door. ‘I’m
going out.’
‘But you must have something to eat,’ protested his mother. ‘See’--she
rose hastily--‘I’ll get a chop done at once.’
‘I couldn’t eat it if you did. I dare say you’ve got some cold meat.
Leave it out for me; I don’t know what time I shall get back.’
‘You’re very unkind, Dick,’ here remarked Alice, who wore a mutinous
look. ‘Why couldn’t you let us go to the theatre?’
Her brother vouchsafed no reply, but withdrew from the room, and almost
immediately left the house. He walked half a mile with his eyes turned
to the ground, then noticed a hansom which was passing empty, and had
himself driven to Hoxton. He alighted near the Britannia Theatre,
and thence made his way by foul streets to a public-house called the
‘Warwick Castle.’ Only two customers occupied the bar; the landlord
stood in his shirt-sleeves, with arms crossed, musing. At the sight of
Mutimer he brightened up, and extended his hand.
‘How d’you do; how d’you do, sir?’ he exclaimed. ‘Glad to see you.’
The shake of the hands was a tribute to old times, the ‘sir’ was a
recognition of changed circumstances. Mr. Nicholas Dabbs, the brother of
Daniel, was not a man to lose anything by failure to acknowledge social
distinctions. A short time ago Daniel had expostulated with his brother
on the use of ‘sir’ to Mutimer, eliciting the profound reply, ‘D’you
think he’d have ‘ad that glass of whisky if I’d called him Dick?’
‘Dan home yet?’ Mutimer inquired.
‘Not been in five minutes. Come round, sir, will you? I know he wants to
see you.’
A portion of the counter was raised, and Richard passed into a parlour
behind the bar.
‘I’ll call him,’ said the landlord.
Daniel appeared immediately.
‘I want a bit of private talk,’ he said to his brother. ‘We’ll have this
door shut, if you don’t mind.’
‘You may as well bring us a drop of something first, Nick,’ put in
Richard. ‘Give the order, Dan.’
‘Wouldn’t have ‘ad it but for the “sir,”’ chuckled Nicholas to himself.
‘Never used to when he come here, unless I stood it.’
Daniel drew a chair to the table and stirred his tumbler thoughtfully,
his nose over the steam.
‘We’re going to have trouble with ‘Arry,’ said Richard, who had seated
himself on a sofa in a dispirited way. ‘Of course someone’s been telling
him, and now the young fool says he’s going to throw up work. I suppose
I shall have to take him down yonder with me.’
‘Better do so,’ assented Daniel, without much attention to the matter.
‘What is it you want to talk about, Dan?’
Mr. Dabbs had a few minutes ago performed the customary evening
cleansing of his hands and face, but it had seemed unnecessary to brush
his hair, which consequently stood upright upon his forehead, a wiry
rampart, just as it had been thrust by the vigorously-applied towel.
This, combined with an unwonted lugubriousness of visage, made Daniel’s
aspect somewhat comical. He kept stirring very deliberately with his
sugar-crusher.
‘Why, it’s this, Dick,’ he began at length. ‘And understand, to begin
with, that I’ve got no complaint to make of nobody; it’s only _things_
as are awk’ard. It’s this way, my boy. When you fust of all come and
told me about what I may call the great transformation scene, you said,
“Now it ain’t a-goin’ to make no difference, Dan,” you said. Now wait
till I’ve finished; I ain’t complainin’ of nobody. Well, and I tried to
‘ope as it wouldn’t make no difference, though I ‘ad my doubts. “Come
an’ see us all just as usu’l,” you said. Well, I tried to do so, and
three or four weeks I come reg’lar, lookin’ in of a Sunday night. But
somehow it wouldn’t work; something ‘ad got out of gear. So I stopped it
off. Then comes ‘Arry a-askin’ why I made myself scarce, sayin’ as th’
old lady and the Princess missed me. So I looked in again; but it was
wuss than before, I saw I’d done better to stay away. So I’ve done ever
since. Y’ understand me, Dick?’
Richard was not entirely at his ease in listening. He tried to smile,
but failed to smile naturally.
‘I don’t see what you found wrong,’ he returned, abruptly.
‘Why, I’m a-tellin’ you, my boy, I didn’t find nothing wrong except in
myself, as you may say. What’s the good o’ beatin’ about the bush? It’s
just this ‘ere, Dick, my lad. When I come to the Square, you know very
well who it was as I come to see. Well, it stands to reason as I can’t
go to the new ‘ouse with the same thoughts as I did to the old. Mind,
I can’t say as she’d ever a’ listened to me; it’s more than likely she
wouldn’t But now that’s all over, and the sooner I forget all about
it the better for me. And th’ only way to forget is to keep myself to
myself,--see, Dick?’
The listener drummed with his fingers on the table, still endeavouring
to smile.
‘I’ve thought about all this, Dan,’ he said at length, with an air of
extreme frankness. ‘In fact, I meant to have a talk with you. Of course
I can’t speak for my sister, and I don’t know that I can even speak to
her about it, but one thing I can say, and that is that she’ll never be
encouraged by me to think herself better than her old friends.’ He gave
a laugh. ‘Why, that ‘ud be a good joke for a man in my position! What am
I working for, if not to do away with distinctions between capital and
labour? You’ll never have my advice to keep away, Do you suppose I shall
cry off with Emma Vine just because I’ve and that you know. Why, who am
I going to marry myself? got more money than I used to have?’
Daniel’s eye was upon him as he said these words, an eye at once
reflective and scrutinising. Richard felt it, and laughed yet more
scornfully.
‘I think we know you better than that,’ responded Dabbs. ‘But it ain’t
quite the same thing, you see. There’s many a man high up has married a
poor girl. I don’t know how it is; perhaps because women is softer than
men, and takes the polish easier. And then we know very well how it
looks when a man as has no money goes after a girl as has a lot. No, no;
it won’t do, Dick.’
It was said with the voice of a man who emphasises a negative in the
hope of eliciting a stronger argument on the other side. But Richard
allowed the negative finality in fact, if not in appearance.
‘Well, it’s for your own deciding, Dan. All I have to say is that you
don’t stay away with my approval. Understand that.’
He left Daniel idly stirring the dregs of his liquor, and went off to
pay another visit. This was to the familiar house in Wilton Square.
There was a notice in the window that dress-making and millinery were
carried on within.
Mrs. Clay (Emma’s sister Kate) opened to him. She was better dressed
than in former days, but still untidy. Emma was out making purchases,
but could not be many minutes. In the kitchen the third sister, Jane,
was busy with her needle; at Richard’s entrance she rose from her chair
with evident feebleness: her illness of the spring had lasted long, and
its effects were grave. The poor girl--she closely resembled Emma in
gentleness of face, but the lines of her countenance were weaker--now
suffered from pronounced heart disease, and the complicated maladies
which rheumatic fever so frequently leaves behind it in women. She
brightened at sight of the visitor, and her eyes continued to rest on
his face with quiet satisfaction.
One of Kate’s children was playing on the floor. The mother caught it up
irritably, and began lamenting the necessity of washing its dirty little
hands and face before packing it off to bed. In a minute or two she went
up stairs to discharge these duties. Between her and Richard there was
never much exchange of words.
‘How are you feeling, Jane?’ Mutimer inquired, taking a seat opposite
her.
‘Better--oh, very much better! The cough hasn’t been not near so
troublesome these last nights.’
‘Mind you don’t do too much work. You ought to have put your sewing
aside by now.’
‘Oh, this is only a bit of my own. I’m sorry to say there isn’t very
much of the other kind to do yet.’
‘Comes in slowly, does it?’ Richard asked, without appearance of much
interest.
‘It’ll be better soon, I dare say. People want time, you see, to get to
know of us.’
Richard’s eyes wandered.
‘Have you finished the port wine yet?’ he asked, as if to fill a gap.
‘What an idea! Why, there’s four whole bottles left, and one as I’ve
only had three glasses out of.’
‘Emma was dreadfully disappointed when you didn’t come as usual,’ she
said presently.
Richard nodded.
‘Have you got into your house?’ she asked timidly.
‘It isn’t quite ready yet; but I’ve been seeing about the furnishing.’
Jane dreamed upon the word. It was her habit to escape from the
suffering weakness of her own life to joy in the lot which awaited her
sister.
‘And Emma will have a room all to herself?’
Jane had read of ladies’ boudoirs; it was her triumph to have won a
promise from Richard that Emma should have such a chamber.
‘How is it going to be furnished? Do tell me.’
Richard’s imagination was not active in the spheres of upholstery.
‘Well, I can’t yet say,’ he replied, as if with an effort to rouse
himself. ‘How would you like it to be?’
Jane had ever before her mind a vague vision of bright-hued drapery, of
glistening tables and chairs, of nobly patterned carpet, setting which
her heart deemed fit for that priceless jewel, her dear sister. But to
describe it all in words was a task beyond her. And the return of Emma
herself saved her from the necessity of trying.
Hearing her enter the house, Richard went up to meet Emma, and they sat
together in the sitting-room. This room was just as it had been in Mrs.
Mutimer’s day, save for a few ornaments from the mantelpiece, which the
old lady could not be induced to leave behind her. Here customers were
to be received--when they came; a room upstairs was set apart for work.
Emma wore a slightly anxious look; it showed even through her happiness.
None the less, the very perceptible change which the last few months had
wrought in her was in the direction of cheerful activity; her motives
were quicker, her speech had less of self-distrust, she laughed more
freely, displayed more of youthful spontaneity in her whole bearing.
The joy which possessed her at Richard’s coming was never touched with
disappointment at his sober modes of exhibiting affection. The root of
Emma’s character was steadfast faith. She did not allow herself to judge
of Richard by the impulses of her own heart; those, she argued, were
womanly; a man must be more independent in his strength. Of what a man
ought to be she had but one criterion, Richard’s self. Her judgment on
this point had been formed five or six years ago; she felt that nothing
now could ever shake it. All of expressed love that he was pleased
to give her she stored in the shrine of her memory; many a light word
forgotten by the speaker as soon as it was uttered lived still as a part
of the girl’s hourly life, but his reticences she accepted with no less
devout humility. What need of repetitions? He had spoken to her the
decisive word, and it was a column established for ever, a monument
of that over which time had no power. Women are too apt to make their
fondness a source of infinite fears; in Emma growth of love meant growth
of confidence.
‘Does all go well at the works?’ was her first question. For she had
made his interests her own, and was following in ardent imagination the
undertaking which stamped her husband with nobility.
Richard talked on the subject for some moments; it was easier to do so
than to come at once to the words he had in mind. But he worked round by
degrees, fighting the way hard.
‘The house is empty at last.’
‘Is it? And you have gone to live there?’
‘Not yet. I must get some furniture in first.’
Emma kept silence; the shadows of a smile journeyed trembling from her
eyes to her lips.
The question voiced itself from Richard:
‘When will you be ready to go thither?’
‘I’m afraid--I don’t think I must leave them just yet--for a little
longer.’
He did not look at her. Emma was reading his face; the characters had
become all at once a little puzzling; her own fault, of course, but the
significance she sought was not readily discoverable.
‘Can’t they manage without you?’ he asked. He believed his tone to
express annoyance: in fact, it scarcely did so.
‘I think it won’t be very long before they can,’ Emma replied; ‘we have
some plain sewing to do for Mrs. Robinson at the “Queen’s Head,” and
she’s promised to recommend us. I’ve just called there, and she really
seems anxious to help. If Jane was stronger I shouldn’t mind so much,
but she mustn’t work hard just yet, and Kate has a great deal to do with
the children. Besides, Kate can’t get out of the slop sewing, and of
course that won’t do for this kind of work. She’ll get the stitch very
soon.’
Richard seemed to be musing.
‘You see’--she moved nearer to his side,--‘it’s only just the beginning.
I’m so afraid that they wouldn’t be able to look about for work if
I left them now. Jane hasn’t the strength to go and see people; and
Kate--well, you know, Richard, she can’t quite suit herself to people’s
fancies. I’m sure I can do so much in a few weeks; just that’ll make all
the difference. The beginning’s everything, isn’t it?’
Richard’s eye travelled over her face. He was not without understanding
of the nobleness which housed in that plain-clad, simple-featured woman
there before him. It had shot a ray to the secret places of his heart
before now; it breathed a passing summer along his veins at this
present.
‘What need is there to bother?’ he said, of purpose fixing his eye
steadily on hers. ‘Work ‘ll come in time, I dare say. Let them look
after their house.’
Perhaps Emma detected something not wholly sincere in this suggestion.
She let her eyes fall, then raised them more quickly.
‘Oh, but it’s far better, Richard; and we really have made a beginning.
Jane, I’m sure, wouldn’t hear of giving it up. It’s wonderful what
spirits she has. And she’d be miserable if she wasn’t trying to work--I
know so well how it would be. Just a few weeks longer. She really does
get much better, and she says it’s all “the business.” It gives her
something to occupy her mind.’
‘Well, it’s just as you like,’ said Richard, rather absently.
‘But you do think it best, don’t you, dear?’ she urged. ‘It’s good to
finish things you begin, isn’t it? I should feel rather dissatisfied
with myself if I gave it up, and just when everything’s promising. I
believe it’s what you really would wish me to do.’
‘All right. I’ll get the house furnished. But I can’t give you much
longer.’
He continued to talk in a mechanical way for a quarter of an hour,
principally of the works; then said that he had promised to be home
for supper, and took a rather hasty leave. He called good-night to the
sisters from the top of the kitchen stairs.
Jane’s face was full of joyous questioning as soon as her sister
reappeared, but Emma disclosed nothing till they two were alone in the
bed-room. To Emma it was the simplest thing in the world to put a duty
before pleasure; she had no hesitation in telling her sister how matters
stood. And the other accepted it as pure love.
‘I’m sure it’ll only be a week or two before we can manage for
ourselves,’ Jane said. ‘Of course, people are far readier to give you
work than they would be to me or Kate. But it’ll be all right when we’re
once started.’
‘I shall be very sorry to leave you, dear,’ murmured Emma. ‘You’ll have
to be sure and let me know if you’re not feeling well, and I shall come
at once.’
‘As if you could do that!’ laughed the other. ‘Besides, it’ll be quite
enough to keep me well to know you’re happy.’
‘I do hope Kate won’t be trying.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she won’t. Why, it’s quite a long time since she had one
of her worst turns. It was only the hard work and the trouble as worried
her. And now that’s all over. It’s you we have to thank for it all, Em.’
‘You’ll have to come and be with me sometimes, Jane. I know there’ll
always be something missing as long as you’re out of my sight. And you
must see to it yourself that the sheets is always aired; Kate’s often
so careless about that. You will promise me now, won’t you? I shall be
dreadfully anxious every washing day, I shall indeed. You know that the
least thing’ll give you a chill.’
‘Yes, I’ll be careful,’ said the other, half sadly. She was lying in her
bed, and Emma sat on a chair by the side. ‘But you know it’s not much
use, love. I don’t suppose as I shall live so very long. But I don’t
care, as soon as I know you’re happy.’
‘Jane, I should never know happiness if I hadn’t my little sister to
come and talk to. Don’t think like that, don’t for my sake, Janey dear!’
They laid their cheeks together upon the pillows.
‘He’ll be a good husband,’ Jane whispered. ‘You know that, don’t you,
Emmy?’
‘No better in all this world! Why do you ask so?’
‘No--no--I didn’t mean anything. He said you mustn’t wait much longer,
didn’t he?’
‘Yes, he did. But he’d rather see me doing what’s right. I often feel
myself such a poor thing by him. I must try and show him that I do my
best to follow his example. I’m ashamed almost, sometimes, to think I
shall be his wife. It ought to be some one better than me.’
‘Where would he find any one better, I’d like to know? Let him come and
ask me about that! There’s no man good enough for you, sister Emmy.’
Richard was talking with his sister Alice; the others had gone to bed,
and the house was quiet.
‘I wasn’t at all pleased to see that man here to-night,’ he said. ‘You
shouldn’t have been so ready to say yes when he asked you to go to the
theatre. It was like his impudence!’
‘Why, what ever’s the harm, Dick? Besides, we must have some friends,
and--really he looks a gentleman.’
I’ll tell you a secret,’ returned her brother, with a half-smile,
half-sneer. ‘You don’t know a gentleman yet, and you’ll have to be very
careful till you do.’
‘How am I to learn, then?’
‘Just wait. You’ve got enough to do with your music and your reading.
Time enough for getting acquainted with gentlemen.’
‘Aren’t you going to let anybody come and see us, then?’
‘You have the old friends,’ replied Richard, raising his chin.
‘You’re thinking of Mr. Dabbs, I suppose. What did he want to see you
for, Dick?’
Alice looked at him from the corner of her eye.
‘I think I’ll tell you. He says he doesn’t intend to come here again.
You’ve made him feel uncomfortable.’
The girl laughed.
‘I can’t help how he feels, can I? At all events, Mr. Dabbs isn’t a
gentleman, is he, now?’
‘He’s an honest man, and that’s saying a good deal, let me tell you. I
rather thought you liked him.’
‘Liked him? Oh, in a way, of course. But things are different.’
‘How different?’
Alice looked up, put her head on one side, smiled her prettiest, and
asked--
‘Is it true, what ‘Arry says--about the money?’
He had wanted to get at this, and was, on the whole, not sorry to hear
it. Richard was studying the derivation of virtue from necessity.
‘What if it is?’ he asked.
‘Well, it makes things more different even than I thought, that’s all.’
She sprang to her feet and danced across the room, one hand bent over
her head. It was not an ungraceful picture. Her brother smiled.
‘Alice, you’d better be guided by me. I know a little of the world, and
I can help you where you’d make mistakes. Just keep to yourself for a
little, my girl, and get on with your piano and your books. You can’t do
better, believe me. Never mind whether you’ve any one to see you or not;
there’s time enough. And I’ll tell you another secret. Before you can
tell a gentleman when you see him, you’ll have to teach yourself to be a
lady. Perhaps that isn’t quite so easy as you think.’
‘How am I to learn then?’
‘We’ll find a way before long. Get on with your playing and reading.’
Presently, as they were about to leave the room, the Princess inquired:
‘Dick, how soon are you going to be married?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ was the answer. ‘Emma wants to put it off.’