‘I met her in the wood here a few weeks ago,’ he replied, mentioning the

incident for the first time. ‘She wanted to make a Socialist of me.’

‘Was that after the will came to light?’

‘The day after. She pleaded for New Wanley--hoped I should keep it up.’

‘Then she has really accepted her husband’s views?’

‘It seems so. I am afraid she thought me an obstinate tyrant.’

He spoke carelessly.

‘But she must not suffer, dear. How can they be helped?’

‘They can’t fall into absolute want. And I suppose his Socialist friends

will do something for him. I have been as considerate as it was

possible to be. I dare say he will make me a commonplace in his lectures

henceforth, a type of the brutal capitalist.’

He laughed when he had said it, and led the conversation to another

subject.

About the workmen, too, Mrs. Eldon was kindly thoughtful. Hubert spared

her his prejudices and merely described what he was doing. She urged him

to be rather too easy than too exacting with them. It was the same in

everything; the blessing which had fallen upon her made her full of

gentleness and sweet charity.

The fortnight’s grace was at an end, and it was announced to Hubert

that the last family had left New Wanley. The rain still continued;

as evening set in Hubert returned from an inspection of the deserted

colony, his spirits weighed upon by the scene of desolation. After

dinner he sat as usual with his mother for a couple of hours, then went

to his own room and read till eleven o’clock. Just as he had thrown

aside his book the silence of the night was riven by a terrific yell,

a savage cry of many voices, which came from the garden in the front

of the house, and at the same instant there sounded a great crashing

of glass. The windows behind his back were broken and a couple of heavy

missiles thundered near him upon the floor--stones they proved to be.

He rushed from the room. All the lights in the house except his own and

that in Mrs. Eldon’s room were extinguished. He reached his mother’s

door. Before he could open it the yell and the shower of stones were

repeated, again with ruin of windows, this time on the east side of the

Manor. In a moment he was by his mother’s bed; he saw her sitting up in

terror; she was speechless and unable even to stretch her arms towards

him. An inner door opened and the woman who was always in attendance

rushed in half dressed. At the same time there were sounds of movement

in other parts of the house. Once more the furious voices and the

stone-volley Hubert put his arms about his mother and tried to calm her.

‘Don’t be frightened; it’s those cowardly roughs. They have had their

three shots, now they’ll take to their heels. Mrs. Winter is here,

mother: she will stay with you whilst I go down and see what has to be

done. I’ll be back directly if there is no more danger.’

He hastened away. The servants had collected upon the front staircase,

with lamps and candles, in fright and disorder unutterable. Hubert

repeated to them what he had said to his mother, and it seemed to be the

truth, for the silence outside was unbroken.

‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ he cried, ‘if they’ve made an attempt to set the

house on fire. We must go about and examine.’

The door-bell was rung loudly. The servants rushed back up the stairs;

Hubert went into the dining-room, carrying no light, and called through

the shattered windows asking who had rung. It was the vicar; the shouts

had brought him forth.

‘They are gone,’ he said, in his strong, deep voice, in itself

reassuring. ‘I think there were only some ten or a dozen; they’ve made

off up the hill. Is anybody hurt?’

‘No, they have only broken all the windows,’ Hubert replied. ‘But I am

terribly afraid for the effect upon my mother. We must have the doctor

round at once.’

The vicar was admitted to the house, and a messenger forthwith

despatched for the medical man, who resided halfway between Wanley and

Agworth. On returning to his mother’s room Hubert found his fears

only too well justified; Mrs. Eldon lay motionless, her eyes open, but

seemingly without intelligence. At intervals of five minutes a sigh was

audible, else she could scarcely be perceived to breathe. The attendant

said that she had not spoken.

It was some time before the doctor arrived. After a brief examination,

he came out with Hubert; his opinion was that the sufferer would not see

daybreak.

She lived, however, for some twelve hours, if that could be called life

which was only distinguishable from the last silence by the closest

scrutiny. Hubert did not move from the bedside, and from time to time

Mr. Wyvern came and sat with him. Neither of them spoke. Hubert had

no thought of food or rest; the shadow of a loss, of which he only

understood the meaning now that it was at hand, darkened him and all the

world. Behind his voiceless misery was immeasurable hatred of those who

had struck him this blow; at moments a revengeful fury all but maddened

him. He held his mother’s band; if he could but feel one pressure of

the slight fingers before they were impotent for ever! And this much

was granted him. Shortly before midday the open eyes trembled to

consciousness, the lips moved in endeavour to speak. To Hubert it seemed

that his intense gaze had worked a miracle, effecting that which his

will demanded. She saw him and understood.

‘Mother, can you speak? Do you know me, dear?’

She smiled, and her lips tried to shape words. He bent over her, close,

close. At first the faint whisper was unintelligible, then he heard:

‘They did not know what they were doing.’

Something followed, but he could not understand it. The whisper ended in

a sigh, the smiling features quivered. He held her, but was alone.

A hand was laid gently upon his shoulder. Through blinding tears he

discerned Mr. Wyvern’s solemn countenance. He resisted the efforts to

draw him away, but was at length persuaded.

Early in the evening he fell asleep, lying dressed upon his bed, and

the sleep lasted till midnight. Then he left his room, and descended the

stairs, for the lower part of the house was still lighted. In the hall

Mr. Wyvern met him.

‘Let us go into the library,’ he said to the clergyman. ‘I want to talk

to you.’

He had resumed his ordinary manner. Without mention of his mother, he

began at once to speak of the rioters.

‘They were led by that man Redgrave; there can be no doubt of that. I

shall go to Agworth at once and set the police at work.’

‘I have already done that,’ replied the vicar. ‘Three fellows have been

arrested in Agworth.’

‘New Wanley men?’

‘Yes; but Redgrave is not one of them.’

‘He shall be caught, though!’

Hubert appeared to have forgotten everything but his desire of revenge.

It supported him through the wretched days that followed--even at the

funeral his face was hard-set and his eyes dry. But in spite of every

effort it was impossible to adduce evidence against any but the

three men who had loitered drinking in Agworth. Redgrave came forward

voluntarily and proved an alibi; he was vastly indignant at the charge

brought against him, declared that window-breaking was not his business,

and that had he been on the spot he should have used all his influence

to prevent such contemptible doings. He held a meeting in Belwick of all

the New Wanleyers he could gather together: those who came repudiated

the outrage as useless and unworthy. On the whole, it seemed probable

that only a handful of good-for-nothings had been concerned in the

affair, probably men who had been loafing in the Belwick public-houses,

indisposed to look for work. The ‘Fiery Cross’ and the ‘Tocsin’

commented on the event in their respective ways. The latter organ

thought that an occasional demonstration of this kind was not amiss;

it was a pity that apparently innocent individuals should suffer (an

allusion to the death of Mrs. Eldon); but, after all, what member of the

moneyed classes was in reality innocent? An article on the subject in

the ‘Fiery Cross’ was signed ‘Richard Mutimer.’ It breathed righteous

indignation and called upon all true Socialists to make it known that

they pursued their ends in far other ways than by the gratification of

petty malice. A copy of this paper reached Wanley Manor. Hubert glanced

over it.

It lay by him when he received a visit from Mr. Wyvern the same evening.

‘How is it to be explained,’ he asked; ‘a man like Westlake mixing

himself up with this crew?’

‘Do you know him personally?’ the vicar inquired.

‘I have met him. But I have seen more of Mrs. Westlake. She is a tenth

muse, the muse of lyrical Socialism. From which of them the impulse came

I have no means of knowing, but surely it must have been from her. In

her case I can understand it; she lives in an asthetic reverie; she

idealises everything. Naturally she knows nothing whatever of real life.

She is one of the most interesting women I ever met, but I should say

that her influence on Westlake has been deplorable.’

‘Mrs. Mutimer is greatly her friend, I believe,’ said the vicar.

‘I believe so. But let us speak of this paper. I want, if possible, to

understand Westlake’s position. Have you ever read the thing?’

‘Frequently.’

‘Now here is an article signed by Westlake. You know his books? How has

he fallen to this? His very style has abandoned him, his English smacks

of the street corners, of Radical clubs. The man is ruined; it is next.

to impossible that he should ever again do good work, such as we used to

have from him. The man who wrote “Daphne”! Oh, it is monstrous!’

‘It is something of a problem to me,’ Mr. Wyvern admitted. ‘Had he been

a younger man, or if his writing had been of a different kind. Yet his

sincerity is beyond doubt.’

‘I doubt it,’ Hubert broke in. ‘Not his sincerity in the beginning; but

he must long since have ached to free himself. It is such a common thing

for a man to commit himself to some pronounced position in public life

and for very shame shrink from withdrawing. He would not realise what

it meant. Now in the revolutionary societies of the Continent there is

something that appeals to the imagination. A Nihilist, with Siberia or

death before him, fighting against a damnable tyranny--the best might

sacrifice everything for that. But English Socialism! It is infused with

the spirit of shopkeeping; it appeals to the vulgarest minds; it keeps

one eye on personal safety, the other on the capitalist’s strong-box;

it is stamped commonplace, like everything originating with the English

lower classes. How does it differ from Radicalism, the most contemptible

claptrap of politics, except in wanting to hurry a little the rule of

the mob? Well, I am too subjective. Help me, if you can, to understand

Westlake.’

Hubert was pale and sorrow-stricken; his movements were heavy with

weariness, but he had all at once begun to speak with the old fire,

the old scorn. He rested his chin upon his hand and waited for his

companion’s reply.

‘At your age,’ said Mr. Wyvern, smiling half sadly, ‘I, too, had a habit

of vehement speaking, but it was on the other side. I was a badly

paid curate working in a wretched parish. I lived among the vilest

and poorest of the people, and my imagination was constantly at

boiling-point. I can only suppose that Westlake has been led to look

below the surface of society and has been affected as I was then. He has

the mind of a poet; probably he was struck with horror to find over what

a pit he had been living in careless enjoyment. He is tender-hearted;

of a sudden he felt himself criminal, to be playing with beautiful toys

whilst a whole world lived only to sweat and starve. The appeal of the

miserable seemed to be to him personally. It is what certain sects call

conversion in religion, a truth addressing itself with unwonted and

invincible force to the individual soul.’

‘And you, too, were a Socialist?’

‘At that age and under those conditions it was right and good. I should

have been void of feeling and imagination otherwise. Such convictions

are among relative truths. To be a social enthusiast is in itself

neither right nor wrong, neither praiseworthy nor the opposite; it is a

state to be judged in relation to the other facts of a man’s life.

You will never know that state; if you affected it you would be purely

contemptible. And I myself have outgrown it.’

‘But you must not think that I am inhuman,’ said Hubert. ‘The sight of

distress touches me deeply. To the individual poor man or woman I would

give my last penny. It is when they rise against me as a class that I

become pitiless.’

‘I understand you perfectly, though I have not the same prejudices. My

old zeal lingers with me in the form of tolerance. I can enter into the

mind of a furious proletarian as easily as into the feeling which you

represent.’

‘But how did your zeal come to an end?’

‘In this way; I worked under the conditions I have described to you till

I was nearly thirty. Then. I broke down physically. At the same time it

happened that I inherited a small competency. I went abroad, lived in

Italy for a couple of years. I left England with the firm intention

of getting my health and then returning to work harder than ever. But

during those two years I educated myself. When I reached England again

I found that it was impossible to enter again on the old path; I should

have had to force myself; it would have been an instance of the kind of

thing you suggest in explanation of Westlake’s persistence. Fortunately

I yielded to my better sense and altogether shunned the life of towns.

I was no longer of those who seek to change the world, but of those who

are content that it should in substance remain as it is.’

‘But how can you be content, if you are convinced that the majority of

men live only to suffer?’

‘It is, you who attribute the conviction to me,’ said the vicar, smiling

good-naturedly. ‘My conviction is the very opposite. One of the pet

theories I have developed for myself in recent years is, that happiness

is very evenly distributed among all classes and conditions. It is

the result of sober reflection on my experience of life. Think of it

a moment. The bulk of men are neither rich nor poor, taking into

consideration their habits and needs; they live in much content, despite

social imperfections and injustices, despite the ills of nature.

Above and below are classes of extreme characterisation; I believe the

happiness assignable to those who are the lowest stratum of civilisation

is, relatively speaking, no whit less than that we may attribute to the

thin stratum of the surface, using the surface to mean the excessively

rich. It is a paradox, but anyone capable of thinking may be assured of

its truth. The life of the very poorest is a struggle to support their

bodies; the richest, relieved of that one anxiety, are overwhelmed with

such a mass of artificial troubles that their few moments of genuine

repose do not exceed those vouchsafed to their antipodes. You would urge

the sufferings of the criminal class under punishment? I balance against

it the misery of the rich under the scourge of their own excesses. It

is a mistake due to mere thoughtlessness, or ignorance, to imagine the

labouring, or even the destitute, population as ceaselessly groaning

beneath the burden of their existence. Go along the poorest street in

the East End of London, and you will hear as much laughter, witness as

much gaiety, as in any thoroughfare of the West. Laughter and gaiety

of a miserable kind? I speak of it as relative to the habits and

capabilities of the people. A being of superior intelligence regarding

humanity with an eye of perfect understanding would discover that life

was enjoyed every bit as much in the slum as in the palace.’

‘You would consider it fair to balance excessive suffering of the body

in one class against excessive mental suffering in another?’

‘Undoubtedly. It is a fair application of my theory. But let me preach

a little longer. It is my belief that, though this equality of

distribution remains a fact, the sum total of happiness in nations is

seriously diminishing. Not only on account of the growth of population;

the poor have more to suffer, the rich less of true enjoyment, the mass

of comfortable people fall into an ever-increasing anxiety. A Radical

will tell you that this is a transitional state. Possibly, if we

accept the Radical theories of progress. I held them once in a very

light-hearted way; I am now far less disposed to accept them as even

imaginably true. Those who are enthusiastic for the spirit of the age

proceed on the principle of countenancing evil that good may some day

come of it. Such a position astonishes me. Is the happiness of a man now

alive of less account than that of the man who shall live two hundred.

years hence? Altruism is doubtless good, but only so when it gives pure

enjoyment; that is to say, when it is embraced instinctively. Shall I

frown on a man because he _cannot_ find his bliss in altruism and bid

him perish to make room for a being more perfect? What right have we to

live thus in the far-off future? Thinking in this way, I have a

profound dislike and distrust of this same progress. Take one feature

of it--universal education. That, I believe, works most patently for the

growing misery I speak of. Its results affect all classes, and all for

the worse. I said that I used to have a very bleeding of the heart for

the half-clothed and quarter-fed hangers-on to civilisation; I think far

less of them now than of another class in appearance much better off. It

is a class created by the mania of education, and it consists of those

unhappy men and women whom unspeakable cruelty endows with intellectual

needs whilst refusing them the sustenance they are taught to crave.

Another generation, and this class will be terribly extended, its

existence blighting the whole social state. Every one of these poor

creatures has a right to curse the work of those who clamour progress,

and pose as benefactors of their race.

‘All that strikes me as very good and true,’ remarked Hubert; ‘but can

it be helped? Or do you refuse to believe in the modern conception of

laws ruling social development?’

‘I wish I could do so. No; when I spoke of the right to curse, I should

have said, from their point of view. In truth, I fear we must accept

progress. But I cannot rejoice in it; I will even do what little I can

in my own corner to support the old order of things. You may be aware

that I was on very friendly terms with the Mutimers, that I even seemed

to encourage them in their Socialism. Yes, and because I felt that in

that way I could best discharge my duty. What I really encouraged was

sympathy and humanity. When Mutimer came asking me to be present at his

meetings I plainly refused. To have held apart from him and his

wife would have been as wrong in me as to publicly countenance their

politics.’

Mr. Wyvern was on the point of referring to his private reasons for

befriending Adela, but checked himself.

‘What I made no secret of approving was their substitution of human

relations between employer and employed for the detestable “nexus of

cash payment,” as Carlyle calls it. That is only a return to the good

old order, and it seems to me that it becomes more impossible every day.

Thus far I am with the Socialists, in that I denounce the commercial

class, the _bourgeois_, the capitalists--call them what you will--as the

supremely maleficent. They hold us at their mercy, and their mercy is

nought. Monstrously hypocritical, they cry for progress when they mean

increased opportunities of swelling their own purses at the expense of

those they employ, and of those they serve; vulgar to the core, they

exalt a gross ideal of well-being, and stink in their prosperity. The

very poor and the uncommercial wealthy alike suffer from them; the

intellect of the country is poisoned by their influence. They it is

who indeed are oppressors; they grow rich on the toil of poor girls

in London garrets and of men who perish prematurely to support their

children. I won’t talk of these people; I should lose my calm views of

things and use language too much like this of the “Fiery Cross.”’

Hubert was thoughtful.

‘What is before us?’ he murmured.

‘Evil; of that I am but too firmly assured. Progress will have its way,

and its path will be a path of bitterness. A pillar of dark cloud leads

it by day, and of terrible fire by night. I do not say that the promised

land may not lie ahead of its guiding, but woe is me for the desert

first to be traversed! Two vices are growing among us to dread

proportions--indifference and hatred: the one will let poverty anguish

at its door, the other will hound on the vassal against his lord. Papers

like the “Fiery Cross,” even though such a man as Westlake edit them,

serve the cause of hatred; they preach, by implication at all

events, the childish theory of the equality of men, and seek to make

discontented a whole class which only needs regular employment on the

old conditions to be perfectly satisfied.’

‘Westlake says here that they have no _right_ to be satisfied.’

‘I know. It is one of the huge fallacies of the time; it comes of the

worship of progress. I am content with the fact that, even in our

bad day, as a class they _are_ satisfied. No, these reforms address

themselves to the wrong people; they begin at the wrong end. Let us

raise our voices, if we feel impelled to do so at all, for the old

simple Christian rules, and do our best to get the educated by the ears.

I have my opinion about the clergy; I will leave you to guess it.’

‘Have you any belief in the possibility of this revolution they

threaten?’

‘None whatever. Changes will come about, but not of these men’s making

or devising. And for the simple reason that they are not sincere. I

put aside an educated enthusiast such as Westlake. The proletarian

Socialists do not believe what they say, and therefore they are so

violent in saying it. They are not themselves of pure and exalted

character; they cannot ennoble others. If the movement continue we

shall see miserable examples of weakness led astray by popularity, of

despicable qualities aping greatness.’

He paused somewhat abruptly, for he was thinking of Mutimer, and did not

wish to make the application too obvious. Hubert restrained a smile.

They parted shortly after, but not till Hubert had put one more

question.

‘Do you, or do you not, approve of what I am doing down in the valley?’

Mr. Wyvern thought a moment, and replied gravely:

‘You being yourself, I approve it heartily. It will gladden my eyes to

see the grass growing when spring comes round.’

He shook Hubert’s hand affectionately and left him.

CHAPTER XXX

We must concern ourselves for a little with the affairs of our old

acquaintance, Daniel Dabbs.

Daniel’s disillusionment with regard to Richard Mutimer did not affect

his regularity of attendance at the Socialist lectures, in most things

a typical English mechanic, he was especially so in his relation to the

extreme politics of which he declared himself a supporter. He became

a Socialist because his friend Dick was one; when that was no longer

a reason, he numbered himself among the followers of Comrade

Roodhouse--first as a sort of angry protest, against Mutimer’s private

treachery, then again because he had got into the habit of listening to

inflammatory discourses every Sunday night, and on the whole found it a

pleasant way of passing the evening. He enjoyed the oratory of Messrs.

Cowes and Cullen; he liked to shout ‘Hear, hear!’ and to stamp when

there was general applause; it affected him with an agreeable sensation,

much like that which follows upon a good meal, to hear himself pitied as

a hard-working, ill-used fellow, and the frequent allusion to his noble

qualities sweetly flattered him. When he went, home to the public-house

after a lively debate, and described the proceedings to his brother

Nicholas, he always ended by declaring that it was ‘as good as a play.’

He read the ‘Tocsin,’ that is to say, he glanced his eye up and down the

columns and paused wherever he caught words such as ‘villains,’ ‘titled

scoundrels,’ ‘vampires,’ and so on. The expositions of doctrine he

passed over; anything in the nature of reasoning muddled him. From

hearing them incessantly repeated he knew the root theories of

Socialism, and could himself hold forth on such texts as ‘the community

of the means of production’ with considerable fluency and vehemence;

but in very fact he concerned himself as little with economic reforms as

with the principles of high art, and had as little genuine belief in the

promised revolution as in the immortality of his own soul. Had he been

called upon to suffer in any way for the ‘cause of the people,’ it would

speedily have been demonstrated of what metal his enthusiasm was made.

But there came a different kind of test. In the winter which followed

upon Mutimer’s downfall, Nicholas Dabbs fell ill and died. He was

married but had no children, and his wife had been separated from him

for several years. His brother Daniel found himself in flourishing

circumstances, with a public-house which brought in profits of forty

pounds a week It goes without saying that Daniel forthwith abandoned his

daily labour and installed himself behind the bar. The position suited

him admirably; with a barmaid and a potman at his orders (he paid them

no penny more than the market rate), he stood about in his shirt sleeves

and gossiped from morn to midnight with such of his friends as had

leisure (and money) to spend in the temple of Bacchus. From the day

that saw him a licensed victualler he ceased to attend the Socialist

meetings; it was, of course, a sufficient explanation to point to the

fact that he could not be in two places at the same time, for Sunday

evening is a season of brisk business in the liquor trade. At first he

was reticent on the subject of his old convictions, but by degrees he

found it possible to achieve the true innkeeper’s art, and speak freely

in a way which could offend none of his customers. And he believed

himself every bit as downright and sincere as he had ever been.

Comfortably established on a capitalist basis, his future assured

because it depended upon the signal vice of his class, it one day

occurred to Daniel that he ought to take to himself a helpmeet, a

partner of his joys and sorrows. He had thought of it from time to time

during the past year, but only in a vague way; he had even directed his

eyes to the woman who might perchance be the one most suitable, though

with anything but assurance of his success if he seriously endeavoured

to obtain her. Long ago he had ceased to trouble himself about his first

love; with characteristic acceptance of the accomplished fact, he never

really imagined that Alice Mutimer, after she became an heiress,

could listen to his wooing, and, to do him justice, he appreciated the

delicacy of his position, if he should continue to press his suit. It

cost him not a little suffering altogether to abandon his hopes, for the

Princess had captivated him, and if he could have made her his wife he

would--for at least twelve months--have been a proud and exultant man.

But all that was over; Daniel was heart-free, when he again began to

occupy himself with womankind; it was a very different person towards

whom he found himself attracted. This was Emma Vine.

After that chance meeting with Mrs. Clay in the omnibus he lost sight of

the sisters for a while, but one day Kate came to the public-house

and desired to see him. She was in great misery. Emma had fallen ill,

gravely ill, and Kate had no money to pay a doctor. The people in the

house, where she lodged were urging her to send for the parish doctor,

but that was an extremity to be avoided as long as a single hope

remained. She had come to borrow a few shillings> in order that she

might take Emma in a cab to the hospital; perhaps they would receive her

as an in-patient. Daniel put his hand in his pocket. He did more; though

on the point of returning from breakfast to his work, he sacrificed the

morning to accompany Mrs. Clay and help her to get the sick girl to

the hospital. Fortunately it was found possible to give her a bed; Emma

remained in the hospital for seven weeks.

Daniel was not hasty in forming attachments. During the seven weeks he

called three or four times to inquire of Mrs. Clay what progress her

sister was making, but when Emma came home again, and resumed her usual

work, he seemed to have no further interest in her. At length Kate came

to the public-house one Saturday night and wished to pay back half

the loan. Daniel shook his head. ‘All right, Mrs. Clay; don’t you hurt

yourself. Let it wait till you’re a bit better off.’ Nicholas was

behind the bar, and when Kate had gone he asked his brother if he hadn’t

observed something curious in Mrs. Clay’s behaviour. Daniel certainly

had; the brothers agreed that she must have been drinking rather more

than was good for her.

‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Daniel, ‘if she started with the whole o’ the

money.’

Which, indeed, was a true conjecture.

Time went on, and Daniel had been six months a licensed victualler. It

was summer once more, and thirsty weather. Daniel stood behind the

bar in his shirt sleeves, collarless for personal ease, with a white

waistcoat, and trousers of light tweed. Across his stomach, which

already was more portly than in his engineering days, swayed a heavy

gold chain; on one of his fingers was a demonstrative ring. His face

and neck were very red; his hair, cropped extremely short, gleamed with

odorous oils. You could see that he prided himself on the spotlessness

of his linen; his cuffs were turned up to avoid alcoholic soilure; their

vast links hung loose for better observance by customers. Daniel was a

smiling and a happy man.

It was early on Sunday evening; Hoxton had shaken itself from the

afternoon slumber, had taken a moderate tea, and was in no two minds

about the entirely agreeable way of getting through the hours till

bedtime. Daniel beamed on the good thirsty souls who sought refuge under

his roof from the still warm rays of the sun. Whilst seeing that no

customer lacked due attention, he conversed genially with a group of

his special friends. One of these had been present at a meeting held

on Clerkenwell Green that morning, a meeting assembled to hear Richard

Mutimer. Richard, a year having passed since his temporary eclipse, was

once more prominent as a popular leader. He was addressing himself to

the East End especially, and had a scheme to propound which, whatever

might be its success or the opposite, kept him well before the eyes of

men.

‘What’s all this ‘ere about?’ cried one of the group in an impatiently

contemptuous tone. ‘I can’t see nothin’ in it myself.’

‘I can see as he wants money,’ observed another, laughing. ‘There’s a

good many ways o’ gettin’ money without earnin’ it, particular if you’ve

got a tongue as goes like a steam engine.’

‘I don’t think so bad of him as all that,’ said the man who had attended

the meeting. ‘’Tain’t for himself as he wants the money. What do _you_

think o’ this ‘ere job, Dan?’

‘I’ll tell you more about that in a year’s time,’ replied Dabbs,

thrusting his fingers into his waistcoat pockets. ‘’Cording to Mike,

we’re all goin’ to be rich before we know it. Let’s hope it’ll come

true.’

He put his tongue in his cheek and let his eye circle round the group.

‘Seems to me,’ said the contemptuous man, ‘he’d better look after his

own people first. Charity begins at ‘ome, eh, mates?’

‘What do you mean by that?’ inquired a voice.

‘Why, isn’t his brother--what’s his name? Bill--Jack--’

‘’Arry,’ corrected Daniel.

‘To be sure, ‘Arry; I don’t know him myself, but I ‘eard talk of him.

It’s him as is doin’ his three months’ ‘ard labour.’

‘That ain’t no fault o’ Dick Mutimer’s,’ asserted the apologist. ‘He

always was a bad ‘un, that ‘Arry. Why, you can say so much, Dan? No, no,

I don’t ‘old with a man’s bein’ cried down cause he’s got a brother as

disgraces himself. It was Dick as got him his place, an’ a good place it

was. It wasn’t Dick as put him up to thievin’, I suppose?’

‘No, no, that’s right enough,’ said Dabbs. ‘Let a man be judged by

his own sayin’s and doin’s. There’s queer stories about Dick Mutimer

himself, but--was it Scotch or Irish, Mike?’

Mike had planted his glass on the counter in a manner suggesting

replenishment.

‘Now that’s what I call a cruel question!’ cried Mike humorously. ‘The

man as doesn’t stick to his country, I don’t think much of him.’

The humour was not remarkable, but it caused a roar of laughter to go

up.

‘Now what I want to know,’ exclaimed one, returning to the main subject,

‘is where Mutimer gets his money to live on. He does no work, we know

that much.’

‘He told us all about that this mornin’,’ replied the authority. ‘He has

friends as keeps him goin’, that’s all. As far as I can make out it’s a

sort o’ subscription.’

‘Now, there you are!’ put in Daniel with half a sneer. ‘I don’t call

that Socialism. Let a man support himself by his own work, then he’s got

a right to say what he likes. No, no, _we_ know what Socialism means,

eh, Tom?’

The man appealed to answered with a laugh.

‘Well, blest if I do, Dan! There’s so many kinds o’ Socialism nowadays.

Which lot does he pretend to belong to? There’s the “Fiery Cross,”

and there’s Roodhouse with his “Tocsin,” and now I s’pose Dick’ll be

startin’ another paper of his own.’

‘No, no,’ replied Mutimer’s supporter. ‘He holds by the “Fiery Cross”

still, so he said this mornin’. I’ve no opinion o’ Roodhouse myself. He

makes a deal o’ noise, but I can’t ‘see as he _does_ anything.’

‘You won’t catch Dick Mutimer sidin’ with Roodhouse,’ remarked Daniel

with a wink. ‘That’s an old story, eh, Tom?’

Thus the talk went on, and the sale of beverages kept pace with it.

About eight o’clock the barmaid informed Daniel that Mrs. Clay wished to

see him. Kate had entered the house by the private door, and was sitting

in the bar-parlour. Daniel went to her at once.

She was more slovenly in appearance than ever, and showed all the signs

of extreme poverty. Her face was not merely harsh and sour, it indicated

a process of degradation. The smile with which she greeted Daniel was

disagreeable through excessive anxiety to be ingratiating. Her eyes were

restless and shrewd. Daniel sat down opposite to her, and rested his

elbows on the table.

‘Well, how’s all at ‘ome?’ he began, avoiding her look as he spoke.

‘Nothing much to boast of,’ Kate replied with an unpleasant giggle. ‘We

keep alive.’

‘Emma all right?’

‘She’s all right, except for her bad ‘ead-aches. She’s had another of

‘em this week. But I think it’s a bit better to-day.’

‘She’ll have a rest to-morrow.’

The following day was the August bank-holiday.

‘No, she’ll have no rest. She’s going to do some cleaning in Goswell

Road.’

Daniel drummed with his fingers on the table.

‘She isn’t fit to do it, that’s quite certain,’ Mrs. Clay continued. ‘I

wish I could get her out for an hour or two. She wants fresh air, that’s

what it is. I s’pose you’re going somewhere to-morrow?’

It was asked insinuatingly, and at the same time with an air of weary

resignation.

‘Well, I did think o’ gettin’ as far as Epping Forest. D’you think you

could persuade Emma to come? you and the children as well, you know.

I’ll have the mare out if she will.’

‘I can ask her and see. It ‘ud be a rare treat for us. I feel myself as

if I couldn’t hold up much longer, it’s that hot!’

She threw a glance towards the bar.

‘Will you have a bottle o’ lemonade?’ Daniel asked.

‘It’s very kind of you. I’ve a sort o’ fainty feeling. If you’d just put

ever such a little drop in it, Mr. Dabbs.’

Daniel betrayed a slight annoyance. But he went to the door and gave the

order.

‘Still at the same place?’ he asked on resuming his seat.

‘Emma, you mean? Yes, but it’s only been half a week’s work, this last.

And I’ve as good as nothing to do. There’s the children runnin’ about

with no soles to their feet.’

The lemonade--with a dash in it--was brought to her, and she refreshed

herself with a deep draught. Perhaps the dash was not perceptible

enough; she did not seem entirely satisfied, though pretending to be so.

‘Suppose I come round to-night and ask her myself?’ Daniel said, as the

result of a short reflection.

‘It ‘ud be kind of you if you would, Mr. Dabbs. I’m afraid she’ll tell

me she can’t afford to lose the day.’

He consulted his watch, then again reflected, still drumming on the

table.

‘All right, we’ll go,’ he said, rising from his chair.

His coat was hanging on a peg behind the door. He drew it on, and went

to tell the barmaid that he should be absent exactly twenty minutes.

It was Daniel’s policy to lead his underlings to expect that he might

return at any moment, though he would probably be away a couple of

hours.

The sisters were now living in a street crossing the angle between

Goswell Road and the City Road. Daniel was not, as a rule, lavish in his

expenditure, but he did not care to walk any distance, and there was no

line of omnibuses available. He took a hansom.

It generally fell to Emma’s share to put her sister’s children to bed,

for Mrs. Clay was seldom at home in the evening. But for Emma, indeed,

the little ones would have been sadly off for motherly care. Kate had

now and then a fit of maternal zeal, but it usually ended in impatience

and slappings; for the most part she regarded her offspring as

encumbrance, and only drew attention to them when she wished to impress

people with the hardships of her lot. The natural result was that the

boy and girl only knew her as mother by name; they feared her, and would

shrink to Emma’s side when Kate began to speak crossly.

All dwelt together in one room, for life was harder than ever. Emma’s

illness had been the beginning of a dark and miserable time. Whilst she

was in the hospital her sister took the first steps on the path which

leads to destruction; with scanty employment, much time to kill, never a

sufficiency of food, companions only too like herself in their distaste

for home duties and in the misery of their existence, poor Kate got into

the habit of straying aimlessly about the streets, and, the inevitable

consequence, of seeking warmth and company in the public-house. Her

children lived as the children of such mothers do: they played on the

stairs or on the pavements, had accidents, were always dirty, cried

themselves to sleep in hunger and pain. When Emma returned, still only

fit for a convalescent home, she had to walk about day after day in

search of work, conciliating the employers whom Mrs. Clay had neglected

or disgusted, undertaking jobs to which her strength was inadequate,

and, not least, striving her hardest to restore order in the wretched

home. It was agreed that Kate should use the machine at home, whilst

Emma got regular employment in a workroom.

Emma never heard of that letter which her sister wrote to Mutimer’s

wife. Kate had no expectation that help would come of it; she hoped that

it had done Mutimer harm, and the hope had to satisfy her. She durst not

let Emma suspect that she had done such a thing.

Emma heard, however, of the loan from Daniel Dabbs, and afterwards

thanked him for his kindness, but she resolutely set her face against

the repetition of such favours, though Daniel would have willingly

helped when she came out of the hospital. Kate, of course, was for

accepting anything that was offered; she lost her temper, and accused

Emma of wishing to starve the children. But she was still greatly under

her sister’s influence, and when Emma declared that there must be

a parting between them if she discovered that anything was secretly

accepted from Mr. Dabbs, Kate sullenly yielded the point.

Daniel was aware of all this, and it made an impression upon him.

To-night Emma was as usual left alone with the children. After tea, when

Kate left the house, she sat down to the machine and worked for a couple

of hours; for her there was small difference between Sunday and week

day. Whilst working she told the children stories; it was a way of

beguiling them from their desire to go and play in the street. They were

strange stories, half recollected from a childhood which, had promised

better things than a maidenhood of garret misery, half Emma’s own

invention. They had a grace, a spontaneity, occasionally an imaginative

brightness, which would have made them, if they had been taken down from

the lips, models of tale-telling for children. Emma had two classes

of story: the one concerned itself with rich children, the other with

poor; the one highly fanciful, the other full of a touching actuality,

the very essence of a life such as that led by the listeners themselves.

Unlike the novel which commends itself to the world’s grown children,

these narratives had by no means necessarily a happy ending; for one

thing Emma saw too deeply into the facts of life, and was herself too

sad, to cease her music on a merry chord; and, moreover, it was half

a matter of principle with her to make the little ones thoughtful

and sympathetic; she believed that they would grow up kinder and more

self-reliant if they were in the habit of thinking that we are ever

dependent on each other for solace and strengthening under the burden

of life. The most elaborate of her stories, one wholly of her own

invention, was called ‘Blanche and Janey.’ It was a double biography.

Blanche and Janey were born on the same day, they lived ten years,

and then died on the same day. But Blanche was, the child of wealthy

parents; Janey was born, in a garret. Their lives were recounted in

parallel, almost year by year, and, there was sadness in the contrast.

Emma had chosen the name of the poor child in memory of her own sister,

her ever dear Jane, whose life had been a life of sorrow.

The story ended thus:

‘Yes, they died on the same day, and they were buried, on the same day.

But not in the same cemetery, oh no! Blanche’s grave is far away over

there’--she pointed to the west--‘among tombstones covered with flowers,

and her father and mother go every Sunday to read her name, and think

and talk of her. Janey was buried far away over yonder’--she pointed

to the east--‘but there is no stone on her grave, and no one knows the

exact place where she lies, and no one, no one ever goes to think and

talk of her.’

The sweetness of the story lay in the fact that the children were both

good, and both deserved to be happy; it never occurred to Emma to teach

her hearers to hate little Blanche just because hers was the easier lot.

Whatever might be her secret suffering, with the little ones Emma was

invariably patient and tender. However dirty they had made, themselves

during the day, however much they cried when hunger made them irritable,

they went to their aunt’s side with the assurance of finding gentleness

in reproof and sympathy with their troubles. Yet once she was really

angry. Bertie told her a deliberate untruth, and she at once discovered

it. She stood silent for a few moments, looking as Bertie had never seen

her look. Then she said:

‘Do you know, Bertie, that it is wrong to try and deceive?’

Then she tried to, make him understand why falsehood was evil, and as

she spoke to the child her voice quivered, her breast heaved. When the

little fellow was overcome, and began to sob, Emma checked herself,

recollecting that she had lost sight of the offender’s age, and was

using expressions which he could not understand. But the lesson was

effectual. If ever the brother and sister were tempted to hide anything

by a falsehood they remembered ‘Aunt Emma’s’ face, and durst not incur

the danger of her severity.

So she told her stories to the humming of the machine, and when it was

nearly the children’s bedtime she broke off to ask them if they would

like some bread and butter. Among all the results of her poverty the

bitterest to Emma was when she found herself _hoping that the children

would not eat much_. If their appetite was poor it made her anxious

about their health, yet it happened sometimes that she feared to ask

them if they were hungry lest the supply of bread should fail. It was so

to-night. The week’s earnings had been three shillings; the rent itself

was four. But the children were as ready to eat as if they had had no

tea. It went to her heart to give them each but one half-slice and tell

them that they could have no more. Gladly she would have robbed herself

of breakfast next morning on their account, but that she durst not do,

for she had undertaken to scrub out an office in Goswell Road, and she

knew that her strength would fail if she went from home fasting.

She put them to bed--they slept together on a small bedstead, which was

a chair during the day--and then sat down to do some patching at a

dress of Kate’s. Her face when she communed with her own thoughts was

profoundly sad, but far from the weakness of self-pity. Indeed she

did her best not to think of herself; she knew that to do so cost her

struggles with feelings she held to be evil, resentment and woe of

passion and despair. She tried to occupy herself solely with her sister

and the children, planning how to make Kate more home-loving and how to

find the little ones more food.

She had no companions. The girls whom she came to know in the workroom

for the most part took life very easily; she could not share in their

genuine merriment; she was often revolted by their way of thinking and

speaking. They thought her dull; and paid no attention to her. She was

glad to be relieved of the necessity of talking.

Her sister thought her hard. Kate believed that she was for ever

brooding over her injury. This was not true, but a certain hardness in

her character there certainly was. For her life, both of soul and body,

was ascetic; she taught herself to expect, to hope for, nothing. When

she was hungry she had a sort of pleasure in enduring; when weary she

worked on as if by effort she could overcome the feeling. But Kate’s

chief complaint against her was her determination to receive no help

save in the way of opportunity to earn money. This was something more

than, ordinary pride. Emma suffered intensely in the recollection that

she had lived at Mutimer’s expense during the very months when he

was seeking the love of another woman, and casting about for means of

abandoning herself. When she thought of Alice coming with the proposal

that she and her sister should still occupy the house in Wilton Square,

and still receive money, the heat of shame and anger never failed to

rise to her cheeks. She could never accept from anyone again a penny

which she had not earned. She believed that Daniel Dabbs had been

repaid, otherwise she could not have rested a moment.

It was her terrible misfortune to have feelings too refined for the

position in which fate had placed her. Had she only been like those

other girls in the workroom! But we are interesting in proportion to our

capacity for suffering, and dignity comes of misery nobly borne.

As she sat working on Kate’s dress, she was surprised to hear a

heavy step approaching. There came a knock at the door; she answered,

admitting Daniel.

He looked about the room, partly from curiosity, partly through

embarrassment. Dusk was falling.

‘Young ‘uns in bed?’ he said, lowering his voice.

‘Yes, they are asleep,’ Emma replied.

‘You don’t mind me coming up?’

‘Oh no!’

He went to the window and looked at the houses opposite, then at the

flushed sky.

‘Bank holiday to-morrow. I thought I’d like to ask you whether you and

Mrs. Clay and the children ‘ud come with me to Epping Forest. If it’s

a day like this, it’ll be a nice drive--do you good. You look as if you

wanted a breath of fresh air, if you don’t mind me sayin’ it.’

‘It’s very kind of you, Mr. Dabbs,’ Emma replied. ‘I am very sorry I

can’t come myself, but my sister and the children perhaps--’

She could not refuse for them likewise, yet she was troubled to accept

so far.

‘But why can’t _you_ come?’ he asked good-naturedly, slapping his hat

against his leg.

‘I have some work that’ll take me nearly all day.’

‘But you’ve no business to work on a bank holiday. I’m not sure as it

ain’t breakin’ the law.’

He laughed, and Emma did her best to show a smile. But she said nothing.

‘But you _will_ come, now? You can lose just the one day? It’ll do you

a power o’ good. You’ll work all the better on Tuesday, now see if you

don’t. Why, it ain’t worth livin’, never to get a holiday.’

‘I’m very sorry. It was very kind indeed of you to think of it, Mr.

Dabbs. I really can’t come.’

He went again to the window, and thence to the children’s bedside. He

bent a little and watched them breathing.

‘Bertie’s growin’ a fine little lad.’

‘Yes, indeed, he is.’

‘He’ll have to go to school soon, I s’pose--I’m afraid he gives you a

good deal of trouble, that is, I mean--you know how I mean it.’

‘Oh, he is very good,’ Emma said, looking at the sleeping face

affectionately.

‘Yes, yes.’

Daniel had meant something different; he saw that Emma would not

understand him.

‘We see changes in life,’ he resumed, musingly. ‘Now who’d a’ thought I

should end up with having more money than I. know how to use? The ‘ouse

has done well for eight years now, an’ it’s likely to do well for a good

many years yet, as far as I can see.’

‘I am glad to hear that,’ Emma replied constrainedly.

‘Miss Vine, I wanted you to come to Epping Forest to-morrow because I

thought I should have a chance of a little talk. I don’t mean that was

the only reason; it’s too bad you never get a holiday, and I should

like it to a’ done you good. But I thought I might a’ found a chance o’

sayin’ something, something I’ve thought of a long time, and that’s the

honest truth. I want to help you and your sister and the young ‘uns,

but _you_ most of all. I don’t like to see you livin’ such a hard life,

‘cause you deserve something better, if ever anyone did. Now will you

let me help you? There’s only one way, and it’s the way I’d like best of

any. The long an’ the short of it is, I want to ask you if you’ll come

an’ live at the ‘ouse, come and bring Mrs. Clay an’ the children?’

Emma looked at him in surprise and felt uncertain of his meaning, though

his speech had painfully prepared her with an answer.

‘I’d do my right down best to make you a good ‘usband, that I would,

Emma!’ Daniel hurried on, getting flustered. ‘Perhaps I’ve been a bit

too sudden? Suppose we leave it till you’ve had time to think over? It’s

no good talking to you about money an’ that kind o’ thing; you’d marry a

poor man as soon as a rich, if only you cared in the right way for

him. I won’t sing my own praises, but I don’t think you’d find much to

complain of in me. I’d never ask you to go into the bar, ‘cause I know

you ain’t suited for that, and, what’s more, I’d rather you didn’t. Will

you give it a thought?’

It was modest enough, and from her knowledge of the man Emma felt that

he was to be trusted for more than his word. But he asked an impossible

thing. She could not imagine herself consenting to marry any man, but

the reasons why she could not marry Daniel Dabbs were manifold. She felt

them all, but it was only needful to think of one.

Yet it was a temptation, and the hour of it might have been chosen.

With a scarcity of food for the morrow, with dark fears for her sister,

suffering incessantly on the children’s account, Emma might have been

pardoned if she had taken the helping hand. But the temptation, though

it unsteadied her brain for a moment, could never have overcome her. She

would have deemed it far less a crime to go out and steal a loaf from

the baker’s shop than to marry Daniel because he offered rescue from

destitution.

She refused him, as gently as she could, but with firmness which left

him no room for misunderstanding her. Daniel was awed by her quiet

sincerity.

‘But I can wait,’ he stammered; ‘if you’d take time to think it over?’

Useless; the answer could at no time be other.

‘Well, I’ve no call to grumble,’ he said. ‘You say straight out what you

mean. No woman can do fairer than that.’

His thought recurred for a moment to Alice, whose fault had been that

she was ever ambiguous.

‘It’s hard to bear. I don’t think I shall ever care to marry any other

woman. But you’re doin’ the right thing and the honest thing; I wish all

women was like you.’

At the door he turned.

‘There’d be no harm if I take Mrs. Clay and the children, would there?’

‘I am sure they will thank you, Mr. Dabbs.’

It did not matter now that there was a clear understanding.

At a little distance from the house door Daniel found Mrs. Clay waiting.

‘No good,’ he said cheerlessly.

‘She won’t go?’

‘No. But I’ll take you and the children, if you’ll come.’

Kate did not immediately reply. A grave disappointment showed itself in

her face.

‘Can’t be helped,’ Daniel replied to her look. ‘I did my best’

Kate accepted his invitation, and they arranged the hour of meeting. As

she approached the house to enter, flow looking ill-tempered, a woman of

her acquaintance met her. After a few minutes’ conversation they walked

away together.

Emma sat up till twelve o’clock. The thought on which she was brooding

was not one to make the time go lightly; it was--how much and how

various evil can be wrought by a single act of treachery. And the

instance in her mind was more fruitful than her knowledge allowed her to

perceive.

Kate appeared shortly after midnight. She had very red cheeks and very

bright eyes, and her mood was quarrelsome. She sat down on the bed

and began to talk of Daniel Dabbs, as she had often done already, in a

maundering way. Emma kept silence; she was beginning to undress.

‘There’s a man with money,’ said Kate, her voice getting louder; ‘money,

I tell you, and you’ve only to say a word. And you won’t even be civil

to him. You’ve got no feeling; you don’t care for nobody but yourself.

I’ll take the children and leave you to go your own way, that’s what

I’ll do!’

It was hard to make no reply, but Emma succeeded in commanding herself.

The maundering talk went on for more than an hour. Then came the

wretched silence of night.

Emma did not sleep. She was too wobegone to find a tear. Life stood

before her in the darkness like a hideous spectre.

In the morning she told her sister that Daniel had asked her to marry

him and that she had refused. It was best to have that understood. Kate

heard with black brows. But even yet she knew something of shame when

she remembered her return home the night before; it kept her from giving

utterance to her anger.

There followed a scene such as had occurred two or three times during

the past six months. Emma threw aside all her coldness, and with

passionate entreaty besought her sister to draw back from the gulf’s

edge whilst there was yet time. For her own sake, for the sake of Bertie

and the little girl, by the memory of that dear dead one who lay in the

waste cemetery!

‘Pity me, too! Think a little of me, Kate dear! You are driving me to

despair.’

Kate was moved, she had not else been human. The children were looking

up with frightened, wondering eyes. She hid her face and muttered

promises of amendment.

Emma kissed her, and strove hard to hope.

CHAPTER XXXI

With his five hundred pounds lodged in the bank, Mutimer felt ill at

ease in the lodgings in Pentonville. He began to look bout for an abode

more suitable to the dignity of his position, and shortly discovered

a house in Holloway, the rent twenty-eight pounds, the situation

convenient for his purposes. By way of making some amends to Adela for

his less than civil behaviour, he took the house and had it modestly

furnished (at the cost of one hundred and ten pounds) before saying

anything to her of his plans. Then, on the pretext of going to search

for pleasanter lodgings, he one day took her to Holloway and led her

into her own dwelling. Adela was startled, but did her best to seem

grateful.

They returned to Pentonville, settled their accounts, packed their

belongings, and by evening were able to sit down to a dinner cooked by

their own servant--under Adela’s supervision. Mutimer purchased a couple

of bottles of claret on the way home, that the first evening might be

wholly cheerful. Of a sudden he had become a new man; the sullenness had

passed, and he walked from room to room with much the same air of lofty

satisfaction as when he first surveyed the interior of Wanley Manor.

He made a show of reading in the hour before dinner, but could not keep

still for more than a few minutes at a time; he wanted to handle the

furniture, to survey the prospect from the windows, to walk out into the

road and take a general view of the house. When their meal had begun,

and the servant, instructed to wait at table, chanced to be out of the

room, he remarked:

‘We’ll begin, of course, to dine at the proper time again. It’s far

better, don’t you think so?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘And, by-the-by, you’ll see that Mary has a cap.’

Adela smiled.

‘Yes, I’ll see she has.’

Mary herself entered. Some impulse she did not quite understand led

Adela to look at the girl in her yet capless condition. She said

something which would require Mary to answer, and found herself

wondering at the submissive tone, the repeated ‘Mum.’

‘Yes,’ she mused with herself, ‘she is our creature. We pay her and she

must attire herself to suit our ideas of propriety. She must remember

her station.’

‘What is it?’ Mutimer asked, noticing that she had again smiled.

‘Nothing.’

His pipe lit, his limbs reposing in the easy-chair, Mutimer became

expansive. He requested Adela’s attention whilst he rendered a full

account of all the moneys he had laid out, and made a computation of the

cost of living on this basis.

‘The start once made,’ he said, ‘you see it isn’t a bit dearer than the

lodgings. And the fact is, I couldn’t have done much in that hole. Now

here, I feel able to go to work. It isn’t in reality spending money on

ourselves, though it may look like it. You see I must have a place where

people can call to see me; we’d no room before.’

He mused.

‘You’ll write and tell your mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t say anything about the money. You haven’t done yet, I suppose?’

‘No.’

‘Better not That’s our own business. You can just say you’re more

comfortable. Of course,’ he added, ‘there’s no secret. I shall let

people understand in time that I am carrying out the wishes of a

Socialist friend. That’s simple enough. But there’s no need to talk

about it just yet. I must get fairly going first.’

His face gathered light as he proceeded.

‘Ah, _now_ I’ll do something! see if I don’t. You see, the fact of the

matter is, there are some men who are cut out for leading in a movement,

and I have the kind of feeling--well, for one thing, I’m readier at

public speaking than most. You think so, don’t you?’

Adela was sewing together some chintzes. She kept her eyes closely on

the work.

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Now the first thing I shall get done,’ her husband pursued, a little

disappointed that she gave no warmer assent, ‘is that book, “My Work at

New Wanley.” The Union ‘ll publish it. It ought to have a good sale in

Belwick and round about there. You see I must get my name well known;

that’s everything. When I’ve got that off hand, then I shall begin on

the East End. I mean to make the East End my own ground. I’ll see if

something can’t be done to stir ‘em up. I haven’t quite thought it

out yet. There must be some way of getting them to take an interest in

Socialism. Now we’ll see what can be done in twelve months. What’ll you

bet me that I don’t add a thousand members to the Union in this next

year?’

‘I dare say you can.’

‘There’s no “dare say” about it. I mean to! I begin to think I’ve

special good luck; things always turn out right in the end. When I

lost my work because I was a Socialist, then came Wanley. Now I’ve lost

Wanley, and here comes five hundred a year for ten years! I wonder who

that poor fellow may be? I suppose he’ll die soon, and then no doubt we

shall hear his name. I only wish there were a few more like him.’

‘The East End!’ he resumed presently. ‘That’s my ground. I’ll make the

East End know me as well as they know any man in England. What we want

is personal influence. It’s no use asking them to get excited about

a _movement_; they must have a _man_. Just the same in _bourgeois_

politics. It isn’t Liberalism they care for; it’s Gladstone. Wait and

see!’

He talked for three hours, at times as if he were already on the

platform before a crowd of East Enders who were shouting, ‘Mutimer for

ever!’ Adela fell into physical weariness; at length she with difficulty

kept her eyes open. His language was a mere buzzing in her ears; her

thoughts were far away.

‘My Work at New Wanley’ was written and published; Keene had the glory

of revising the manuscript. It made a pamphlet of thirty-two pages, and

was in reality an autobiography. It presented the ideal working man; the

author stood as a type for ever of the noble possibilities inherent in

his class. Written of course in the first person, it contained passages

of monumental self-satisfaction. Adela, too, was mentioned; to her

horror she found a glowing description of the work she had done among

the women and children. After reading that page she threw the pamphlet

aside and hid her face in her hands. She longed for the earth to cover

her.

But the publication had no sale worth speaking of. A hundred copies were

got rid of at the Socialist centres, and a couple of hundred more when

the price was reduced from twopence to a penny. This would not satisfy

Mutimer. He took the remaining three hundred off the hands of the

Union and sowed them broadcast over the East End, where already he was

actively at work. Then he had a thousand more struck off, and at every

meeting which he held gave away numerous copies. Keene wrote to suggest

that in a new edition there should be a woodcut portrait of the author

on the front. Mutimer was delighted with the idea, and at once had it

carried out.

Through this winter and the spring that followed he worked hard. It had

become a necessity of his existence to hear his name on the lips of men,

to be perpetually in evidence. Adela saw that day by day his personal

vanity grew more absorbing. When he returned from a meeting he would

occupy her for hours with a recitation of the speeches he had made, with

a minute account of what others had said of him. He succeeded in forming

a new branch of the Union in Clerkenwell, and by contributing half the

rent obtained a room for meetings. In this branch he was King Mutimer.

In the meantime the suit against Rodman was carried through, it could

have of course but one result. Rodman was sold up; but the profit

accruing to Hubert Eldon was trifling, for the costs were paid out

of the estate, and it appeared that Rodman, making hay whilst the sun

shone, had spent all but the whole of his means. There remained the

question whether he was making fraudulent concealments. Mutimer was

morally convinced that this was the case, and would vastly have enjoyed

laying his former friend by the heels for the statutable six weeks, but

satisfactory proofs were not to be obtained. Through Mr. Yottle, Eldon

expressed the desire that, as far as he was concerned, the matter might

rest. But it was by no means with pure zeal for justice that Mutimer had

proceeded thus far. He began the suit in anger, and, as is wont to be

the case with litigants, grew more bitter as it went on. The selling up

of Rodman’s house was an occasion of joy to him; he went about singing

and whistling.

Adela marvelled that he could so entirely forget the sufferings of his

sister; she had had so many proofs of his affection for Alice. In fact

he was far from forgetting her, but he made strange distinction between

her and her husband, and had a feeling that in doing his utmost to

injure Rodman he was in a manner avenging Alice. His love for Alice

was in no degree weakened, but--if the state can be understood--he was

jealous of the completeness with which she had abandoned him to espouse

the cause of her husband. Alice had renounced her brother; she never saw

him, and declared that she never would speak to him again. And Mutimer

had no fear lest she should suffer want. Rodman had a position of some

kind in the City; he and his wife lived for a while in lodgings, then

took a house at Wimbledon.

One of Mutimer’s greatest anxieties had been lest he should have a

difficulty henceforth in supporting his mother in the old house. The

economical plan would have been for Adela and himself to go and live

with the old woman, but he felt that to be impossible. His mother would

never become reconciled to Adela, and, if the truth must be told, he was

ashamed to make known to Adela his mother’s excessive homeliness. Then

again he was still estranged from the old woman. Though he often thought

of what Alice had said to him on that point, month after month went by

and he could not make up his mind to go to Wilton Square. Having let

the greater part of her house, Mrs. Mutimer needed little pecuniary aid;

once she returned money which he had sent to her ‘Arry still lived with

her, and ‘Arry was a never-ending difficulty. After his appearance in

the police court, he retired for a week or two into private life; that

is to say, he contented himself with loafing about the streets of Hoxton

and the City, and was at home by eleven o’clock nightly, perfectly

sober. The character of this young man was that of a distinct class,

comprising the sons of mechanics who are ruined morally by being taught

to consider themselves above manual labour. Had he from the first been

put to a craft, he would in all likelihood have been no worse than the

ordinary English artisan--probably drinking too much and loafing on

Mondays, but not sinking below the level of his fellows in the workshop.

His positive fault was that shared by his brother and sister--personal

vanity. It was encouraged from the beginning by immunity from the only

kind of work for which he was fitted, and the undreamt-of revolution in

his prospects gave fatal momentum to all his worst tendencies. Keene and

Rodman successively did their best, though unintentionally, to ruin him.

He was now incapable of earning his living by any continuous work.

Since his return to London he had greatly extended his circle of

acquaintances, which consisted of idle fellows of the same type, youths

who hang about the lowest fringe of clerkdom till they definitely class

themselves either with the criminal community or with those who make a

living by unrecognised pursuits which at any time may chance to bring

them within the clutches of the law. To use a coarse but expressive

word, he was a hopeless blackguard.

Let us be just; ‘Arry had, like every other man, his better moments. He

knew that he had made himself contemptible to his mother, to Richard,

and to Alice, and the knowledge was so far from agreeable that it often

drove him to recklessness. That was his way of doing homage to the

better life; he had no power of will to resist temptation, but he could

go to meet it doggedly out of sheer dissatisfaction with himself. Our

social state ensures destruction to such natures; it has no help for

them, no patient encouragement. Naturally he hardened himself in vicious

habits. Despised by his own people, he soothed his injured vanity by

winning a certain predominance among the contemptible. The fact that

he had been on the point of inheriting a fortune in itself gave him

standing; he told his story in public-houses and elsewhere, and relished

the distinction of having such a story to tell. Even as his brother

Richard could not rest unless he was prominent as an agitator, so

it became a necessity to ‘Arry to lead in the gin-palace and the

music-hall. He made himself the aristocrat of rowdyism.

But it was impossible to live without ready money, and his mother,

though supplying him with board and lodging, refused to give him a

penny. He made efforts on his own account to obtain employment, but

without result. At last there was nothing for it but to humble himself

before Richard.

He did it with an ill-enough grace. Early one morning he presented

himself at the house in Holloway. Richard was talking with his wife in

the sitting-room, breakfast being still on the table. On the visitor’s

name being brought to him, he sent Adela away and allowed the scapegrace

to be admitted.

‘Arry shuffled to a seat and sat leaning forward, holding his hat

between his knees.

‘Well, what do you want?’ Richard asked severely. He was glad that ‘Arry

had at length come, and he enjoyed assuming the magisterial attitude.

‘I want to find a place,’ ‘Arry replied, without looking up, and in a

dogged voice. ‘I’ve been trying to get one, and I can’t. I think you

might help a feller.’

‘What’s the good of helping you? You’ll be turned out of any place in a

week or two.’

‘No, I shan’t!’

‘What sort of a place do you want?’

‘A clerk’s, of course.’

He pronounced the word ‘clerk’ as it is spelt; it made him seem yet more

ignoble.

‘Have you given up drink?’

No answer

‘Before I try to help you,’ said Mutimer, ‘you’ll have to take the

pledge.’

‘All right!’ ‘Arry muttered.

Then a thought occurred to Richard. Bidding his brother stay where he

was, he went in search of Adela and found her in an upper room.

‘He’s come to ask me to help him to get a place,’ he said. ‘I don’t know

very well how to set about it, but I suppose I must do something. He

promises to take the pledge.’

‘That will be a good thing,’ Adela replied.

‘Good if he keeps it. But I can’t talk to him; I’m sick of doing so.

And I don’t think he even listens to me.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you think

you--would you mind speaking to him? I believe you might do him good.’

Adela did not at once reply.

‘I know it’s a nasty job,’ he pursued. ‘I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t

really think you might do some good. I don’t see why he should go to the

dogs. He used to be a good enough fellow when he was a little lad.’

It was one of the most humane speeches Adela had ever heard from her

husband. She replied with cheerfulness:

‘If you really think he won’t take it amiss, I shall be very glad to do

my best.’

‘That’s right; thank you.’

Adela went down and was alone with ‘Arry for half-an-hour. She was young

to undertake such an office, but suffering had endowed her with gravity

and understanding beyond her years, and her native sweetness was such

that she could altogether forget herself in pleading with another for

a good end. No human being, however perverse, could have taken ill the

words that were dictated by so pure a mind, and uttered in so musical

and gentle a voice. She led ‘Arry to speak frankly.

‘It seems to me a precious hard thing,’ he said, ‘that they’ve let Dick

keep enough money to live on comfortable, and won’t give me a penny. My

right was as good as his.’

‘Perhaps it was,’ Adela replied kindly. ‘But you must remember that

money was left to your brother by the will.’

‘But you don’t go telling me that he lives on two pounds a week?

Everybody knows he doesn’t. Where does the rest come from?’

‘I don’t think I must talk about that. I think very likely jour brother

will explain if you ask him seriously. But is it really such a hard

thing after all, Harry? I feel so sure that you will only know real

happiness when you are earning a livelihood by steady and honourable

work. You remember how I used to go and see the people in New Wanley?

I shall never forget how happy the best of them were, those who worked

their hardest all day and at night came home to rest with their families

and friends. And you yourself, how contented you used to be when your

time was thoroughly occupied! But I’m sure you feel the truth of this.

You have been disappointed; it has made you a little careless. Now work

hard for a year and then come and tell me if I wasn’t right about that

being the way to happiness. Will you?’

She rose and held her hand to him; the hand to which he should have

knelt. But he said nothing; there was an obstacle in his throat. Adela

understood his silence and left him.

Richard went to work among his friends, and in a fortnight had found his

brother employment of a new kind. It was a place in an ironmonger’s shop

in Hoxton; ‘Arry was to serve at the counter and learn the business. For

three months he was on trial and would receive no salary.

Two of the three months passed, and all seemed to be going well. Then

one day there came to Mutimer a telegram from ‘Arry’s employer; it

requested that he would go to the shop as soon as possible. Foreseeing

some catastrophe, he hastened to Hoxton. His brother was in custody for

stealing money from the till.

The ironmonger was inexorable. ‘Arry passed through the judicial routine

and was sentenced to three months of hard labour.

It was in connection with this wretched affair that Richard once more

met his mother. He went from the shop to tell her what had happened.

He found her in the kitchen, occupied as he had seen her many, many

times, ironing newly washed linen. One of the lodgers happened to come

out from the house as he ascended the steps, so he was able to go down

without announcing himself. The old woman had a nervous start; the iron

stopped in its smooth backward and forward motion; the hand with

which she held it trembled. She kept her eyes on Richard’s face, which

foretold evil.

‘Mother, I have brought you bad news.’

She pushed the iron aside and stood waiting. Her hard lips grew harder;

her deep-set eyes had a stern light. Not much ill could come to pass for

which she was not prepared.

He tried to break the news. His mother interrupted him.

‘What’s he been a-doin’? You’ve no need to go round about. I like

straightforwardness.’

Richard told her. It did not seem to affect her strongly; she turned to

the table and resumed her work. But she could no longer guide the iron.

She pushed it aside and faced her son with such a look as one may see in

the eyes of a weak animal cruelly assailed. Her tongue found its freedom

and bore her whither it would.

‘What did I tell you? What was it I said that night you come in and told

me you; was all rich? Didn’t I warn you that there’d no good come of

it? Didn’t I say you’d remember my words? You laughed at me; you got

sharp-tempered with me an as good as called me a fool. An’ what _has_

come of it? What’s come of it to me? I had a ‘ome once an’ children

about me, an’ now I’ve neither the one nor the other. You call it a ‘ome

with strangers takin’ up well nigh all the ‘ouse? Not such a ome as I

thought to end my days in. It fair scrapes on my heart every time I hear

their feet going up an’ down the stairs. An’ where are my children gone?

Two of ‘em as ‘ud never think to come near me if it wasn’t to bring ill

news, an’ one in prison. How ‘ud that sound in your father’s ears, think

you? I may have been a fool, but I knew what ‘ud come of a workin’ man’s

children goin’ to live in big ‘ouses, with their servants an’ their

carriages. What better are you? It’s come an’ it’s gone, an’ there’s

shame an’ misery left be’ind it!’

Richard listened without irritation; he was heavy-hearted, the shock

of his brother’s disgrace had disposed him to see his life on its dark

side. And he pitied his poor old mother. She had never been tender

in her words, could not be tender; but he saw in her countenance the

suffering through which she had gone, and read grievous things in the

eyes that could no longer weep. For once he yielded to rebuke. Her

complaint that he had not come to see her touched him, for he had

desired to come, but could not subdue his pride. Her voice was feebler

than when he last heard it raised in reproach; it reminded him that

there would come a day when he might long to hear even words of

upbraiding, but the voice would be mute for ever. It needed a moment

such as this to stir his sluggish imagination.

‘What you say is true, mother, but we couldn’t help it. It’s turned out

badly because we live in bad times. It’s the state of society that’s to

blame.’

He was sincere in saying it; that is to say, he used the phrase so

constantly that it had become his natural utterance in difficulty; it

may be that in his heart he believed it. Who, indeed, shall say that he

was wrong? But what made such an excuse so disagreeable in his case was

that he had not--intellectually speaking--the right to avail himself of

it. The difference between truth and cant often lies only in the lips

that give forth the words.

‘Yes, that’s what you always said,’ replied Mrs. Mutimer impatiently.

‘It’s always someone else as is to blame, an’ never yourself. The

world’s a good enough world if folk ‘ud only make it so. Was it the bad

times as made you leave a good, honest girl when you’d promised to marry

her? No, you must have a fine lady for your wife; a plain girl as earnt

her own bread, an’ often had hard work to get it, wasn’t good enough for

you. Don’t talk to me about bad times. There’s some men as does right

an’ some as does wrong; it always was so, an’ the world’s no worse nor

no better, an’ not likely to be.’

The poor woman could not be generous. A concession only led her on

to speak the thoughts it naturally suggested to her. And her very

bitterness was an outcome of her affection; it soothed her to rail

at her son after so long a silence. He had injured her by his holding

aloof; she was urged on by this feeling quite as much as by anger with

his faults. And still Mutimer showed no resentment. In him, too, there

was a pleasure which came of memories revived. Let her say to him what

she liked, he loved his mother and was glad to be once more in her

presence.

‘I wish I could have pleased you better, mother,’ he said. ‘What’s done

can’t be helped. We’ve trouble to bear together, and it won’t be lighter

for angry words.’

The old woman muttered something inaudible and, after feeling her iron

and discovering that it was cold, she put it down before the fire. Her

tongue had eased itself, and she fell again into silent grief.

Mutimer sat listening to the tick of the familiar clock. That and the

smell of the fresh linen made his old life very present to him; there

arose in his heart a longing for the past, it seemed peaceful and fuller

of genuine interests than the life he now led. He remembered how he

used to sit before the kitchen fire reading the books and papers which

stirred his thought to criticism of the order of things; nothing now

absorbed him in the same way. Coming across a sentence that delighted

him, he used to read it aloud to his mother, who perchance was ironing

as now, or sewing, or preparing a meal, and she would find something

to say against it; so that there ensued a vigorous debate between her

old-fashioned ideas and the brand-new theories of the age of education:

Then Alice would come in and make the dispute a subject for sprightly

mockery. Alice was the Princess in those days. He quarrelled with her

often, but only to resume the tone of affectionate banter an hour after.

Alice was now Mrs. Rodman, and had declared that she hated him, that

in her life she would never speak to him again. Would it not have been

better if things had gone the natural course? Alice would no doubt have

married Daniel Dabbs, and would have made him a good wife, if a rather

wilful one. ‘Arry would have given trouble, but surely could not have

come to hopeless shame. He, Richard, would have had Emma Vine for his

wife, a true wife, loving him with all her heart, thinking him the best

and cleverest of working men. Adela did not love him; what she thought

of his qualities it was not easy to say. Yes, the old and natural

way was better. He would have had difficulties enough, because of his

opinions, but at least he would have continued truly to represent his

class. He knew very well that he did not represent it now; he belonged

to no class at all; he was a professional agitator, and must remain so

through his life--or till the Revolution came. The Revolution?...

His mother was speaking to him, asking what he meant to do about ‘Arry.

He raised his eyes, and for a moment looked at her sadly.

‘There’s nothing to be done. I can pay a lawyer, but it’ll be no good.’

He remained with his mother for yet an hour; they talked intermittently,

without in appearance coming nearer to each other, though in fact the

barrier was removed. She made tea for him, and herself made pretence of

taking some. When he went away he kissed her as he had used to. He left

her happier than she had been for years, in spite of the news he had

brought.

Thenceforward Mutimer went to Wilton Square regularly once a week. He

let Adela know of this, saying casually one morning that he could not do

something that day because his mother would expect him in the afternoon

as usual. He half hoped that she might put some question which would

lead to talk on the subject, for the reconciliation with his mother

had brought about a change in his feelings, and it would now have been

rather agreeable to him to exhibit his beautiful and gentle-mannered

wife. But Adela merely accepted the remark.

He threw himself into the work of agitation with more energy than ever.

By this time he had elaborated a scheme which was original enough

to ensure him notoriety if only he could advertise it sufficiently

throughout the East End. He hit upon it one evening when he was smoking

his pipe after dinner. Adela was in the room with him reading. He took

her into his confidence at once.

‘I’ve got it at last! I want something that’ll attract their attention.

It isn’t enough to preach theories to them; they won’t wake up; there’s

no getting them to feel in earnest about Socialism. I’ve been racking my

brain for something to set them talking, it didn’t much matter what,

but better of course if it was useful in itself at the same time. Now

I think I’ve got it. It’s a plan for giving them a personal interest, a

money interest, in me and my ideas. I’ll go and say to them, “How is it

you men never save any money even when you could? I’ll tell you: it’s

because the savings would be so little that they don’t seem worth while;

you think you might as well go and enjoy yourselves in the public-house

while you can. What’s the use of laying up a few shillings? The money

comes and goes, and it’s all in a life.” Very well, then, I’ll put my

plan before them. “Now look here,” I’ll say, “instead of spending so

much on beer and spirits, come to me and _let me keep your money for

you_!” They’ll burst out laughing at me, and say, “Catch us doing that!”

Yes, but I’ll persuade them, see if I don’t. And in this way. “Suppose,”

I’ll say, “there’s five hundred men bring me threepence each every week.

Now what man of you doesn’t spend threepence a week in drink, get the

coppers how he may? Do you know how much that comes to, five hundred

threepenny bits? Why, it’s six pounds five shillings. And do you know

what that comes to in a year? Why, no less than three hundred and

twenty-five pounds! Now just listen to that, and think about it. Those

threepenny bits are no use to you; you _can’t_ save them, and you spend

them in a way that does you no good, and it may be harm. Now what do you

think I’ll do with that money? Why, I’ll use it as the capitalists

do. I’ll put it out to interest; I’ll get three per cent. for it, and

perhaps more. But let’s say three per cent. What’s the result? Why,

this: in one year your three hundred and twenty-five pounds has become

three hundred and thirty-four pounds fifteen; I owe each of you thirteen

shillings and fourpence halfpenny, and a fraction more.”’

He had already jotted down calculations, and read from them, looking up

between times at Adela with the air of conviction which he would address

to his audience of East Enders.

‘“Now if you’d only saved the thirteen shillings--which you wouldn’t and

couldn’t have done by yourselves--it would be well worth the while; but

you’ve got the interest as well, and the point I want you to understand

is that you can only get that increase by clubbing together and

investing the savings as a whole. You may say fourpence halfpenny isn’t

worth having. Perhaps not, but those of you who’ve learnt arithmetic--be

thankful if our social state allowed you to learn anything--will

remember that there’s such a thing as compound interest. It’s a trick

the capitalists found out. Interest was a good discovery, but compound

interest a good deal better. Leave your money with me a second year, and

it’ll grow more still, I’ll see to that. You’re all able, I’ve no doubt,

to make the calculation for yourselves.”’

He paused to see what Adela would say.

‘No doubt it will be a very good thing if you can persuade them to save

in that way,’ she remarked.

‘Good, yes; but I’m not thinking so much of the money. Don’t you see

that it’ll give me a hold over them? Every man who wants to save on my

plan must join the Union. They’ll come together regularly; I can get

at them and make them listen to me. Why, it’s a magnificent idea! It’s

fighting the capitalists with their own weapons! You’ll see what the

“Tocsin” ‘ll say. Of course they’ll make out that I’m going against

Socialist principles. So I am, but it’s for the sake of Socialism for

all that. If I make Socialists, it doesn’t much matter how I do it.’

Adela could have contested that point, but did not care to do so. She

said:

‘Are you sure you can persuade the men to trust you with their money?’

‘That’s the difficulty, I know; but see if I don’t get over it. I’ll

have a committee, holding themselves responsible for all sums paid to

us. I’ll publish weekly accounts--just a leaflet, you know. And do

you know what? I’ll promise that as soon as they’ve trusted me with a

hundred pounds, I’ll add another hundred of my own. See if that won’t

fetch them!’

As usual when he saw a prospect of noisy success he became excited

beyond measure, and talked incessantly till midnight.

‘Other men don’t have these ideas!’ he exclaimed at one moment. ‘That’s

what I meant when I told you I was born to be a leader. And I’ve the

secret of getting people’s confidence. They’ll trust me, see if they

don’t!’

In spite of Adela’s unbroken reserve, he had seldom been other than

cordial in his behaviour to her since the recommencement of his

prosperity. His active life gave him no time to brood over suspicions,

though his mind was not altogether free from them. He still occasionally

came home at hours when he could not be expected, but Adela was always

occupied either with housework or reading, and received him with the

cold self-possession which came of her understanding his motives. Her

life was lonely; since a visit they had received from Alfred at the past

Christmas she had seen no friend. One day in spring Mutimer asked her

if she did not wish to see Mrs. Westlake; she replied that she had

no desire to, and he said nothing more. Stella did not write; she had

ceased to do so since receiving a certain lengthy letter from Adela, in

which the latter begged that their friendship might feed on silence

for a while. When the summer came there were pressing invitations from

Wanley, but Adela declined them. Alfred and his wife were going again

to South Wales; was it impossible for Adela to join them? Letty wrote a

letter full of affectionate pleading, but it was useless.

In August, Mutimer proposed to take his wife for a week the Sussex

coast. He wanted a brief rest himself, and he saw that Adela was yet

more in need of change. She never complained of ill-health, but was weak

and pale. With no inducement to leave the house, it was much if she

had an hour’s open-air exercise in the week; often the mere exertion

of rising and beginning the day was followed by a sick languor which

compelled her to lie all the afternoon on the couch. She studied much,

reading English and foreign books which required mental exertion. They

were rot works relating to the ‘Social Question’--far other. The volumes

she used to study were a burden and a loathing to her as often as her

eyes fell upon them.

In her letters from Wanley there was never a word of what was going on

in the valley. Week after week she looked eagerly for some hint, yet was

relieved when she found none. For it had become her habit to hand over

to Mutimer every letter she received. He read them.

Shortly after their return from the seaside, ‘Arry’s term of

imprisonment came to an end. He went to his mother’s house, and Richard

first saw him there. Punishment had had its usual effect; ‘Arry was

obstinately taciturn, conscious of his degradation, inwardly at war with

all his kind.

‘There’s only one thing I can do for you now,’ his brother said to him.

‘I’ll pay your passage to Australia. Then you must shift for yourself.’

‘Arry refused the offer.

‘Give me the money instead,’ was his reply.

Argument was vain; Richard and the old woman passed to entreaty, but

with as little result.

‘Give me ten pounds and let me go about my business,’ ‘Arry exclaimed

irritably. ‘I want no more from you, and you won’t get any good out o’

me by jawin’.’

The money was of course refused, in the hope that a week or two would

change the poor fellow’s mind. But two days after he went out and did

not return. Nothing was heard of him. Mrs. Mutimer sat late every night,

listening for a knock at the door. Sometimes she went and stood on the

steps, looking hither and thither in the darkness. But ‘Arry came no

more to Wilton Square.

Mutimer had been pressing on his scheme for five months. Every night he

addressed a meeting somewhere or other in the East End; every Sunday

he lectured morning and evening at his head-quarters in Clerkenwell.

Ostensibly he was working on behalf of the Union, but in reality he was

forming a party of his own, and would have started a paper could he

have commanded the means. The ‘Tocsin’ was savagely hostile, the ‘Fiery

Gross.’ grew more and more academical, till it was practically an organ

of what is called in Germany _Katheder-Sozialismus_. Those who wrote

for it were quite distinct from the agitators of the street and of the

Socialist halls; men--and women--with a turn for ‘advanced’ speculation,

with anxiety for style. At length the name of the paper was changed, and

it appeared as the ‘Beacon,’ adorned with a headpiece by the well-known

artist, Mr. Boscobel. Mutimer glanced through the pages and flung it

aside in scornful disgust.

‘I knew what this was coming to,’ he said to Adela ‘A deal of good

_they_‘ll do! You don’t find Socialism in drawing rooms. I wonder that

fellow Westlake has the impudence to call himself a Socialist at all,

living in the way he does. Perhaps he thinks he’ll be on the safe side

when the Revolution comes. Ha, ha! We shall see.’

The Revolution.... In the meantime the cry was ‘Democratic Capitalism.’

That was the name Mutimer gave to his scheme! The ‘Fiery Gross’ had only

noticed his work in a brief paragraph, a few words of faint and vague

praise. ‘Our comrade’s noteworthy exertions in the East End.... The gain

to temperance and self-respecting habits which must surely result....’

The ‘Beacon,’ however, dealt with the movement more fully, and on the

whole in a friendly spirit.

‘Damn their patronage!’ cried Mutimer.

You should have seen him addressing a crowd collected by chance in

Hackney or Poplar. The slightest encouragement, even one name to

inscribe in the book which he carried about with him, was enough to fire

his eloquence; nay, it was enough to find himself standing on his chair

above the heads of the gathering. His voice had gained in timbre; he

grew more and more perfect in his delivery, like a conscientious actor

who plays night after night in a part that he enjoys. And it was well

that he had this inner support, this _brio_ of the born demagogue, for

often enough he spoke under circumstances which would have damped the

zeal of any other man. The listeners stood with their hands in their

pockets, doubting whether to hear him to the end or to take their wonted

way to the public-house. One moment their eyes would be fixed upon him,

filmy, unintelligent, then they would look at one another with a leer of

cunning, or at best a doubtful grin. Socialism, forsooth! They were

as ready for translation to supernal spheres. Yet some of them were

attracted: ‘percentage,’ ‘interest,’ ‘compound interest,’ after all,

there might be something in this! And perhaps they gave their names and

their threepenny bits, engaging to make the deposit regularly on the

day and at the place arranged for in Mutimer’s elaborate scheme. What is

there a man cannot get if he asks for it boldly and persistently enough?

The year had come full circle; it was time that Mutimer received another

remittance from his anonymous supporter. He needed it, for he had been

laying out money without regard to the future. Not only did he need it

for his own support; already he and his committee held sixty pounds

of trust money, and before long he might be called upon to fulfil his

engagement and contribute a hundred pounds--the promised hundred which

had elicited more threepences than all the rest of his eloquence. A

week, a month, six weeks, and he had heard nothing. Then there came one

day a communication couched in legal terms, signed by a solicitor.

It was to the effect that his benefactor--name and address given in

full--had just died. The decease was sudden, and though the draft of

a will had been discovered, it had no signature, and was consequently

inoperative. But--pursued the lawyer--it having been the intention of

the deceased to bequeath to Mutimer an annuity of five hundred pounds

for nine years, the administrators were unwilling altogether to neglect

their friend’s wish, and begged to make an offer of the one year’s

payment which it seemed was already due. For more than that they could

not hold themselves responsible.

Before speaking to Adela, Mutimer made searching inquiries. He went to

the Midland town where his benefactor had lived, and was only too well

satisfied of the truth of what had been told him. He came back with his

final five hundred pounds.

Then he informed his wife of what had befallen. He was not cheerful,

but with five hundred pounds in his pocket he could not be altogether

depressed. What might not happen in a year? He was becoming prominent;

there had been mention of him lately in London journals. Pooh! as if he

would ever really want!

‘The great thing,’ he exclaimed, ‘is that I can lay down the hundred

pounds! If I’d failed in that it would have been all up. Come, now, why

can’t you give me a bit of encouragement, Adela? I tell you what it is.

There’s no place where I’m thought so little of as in my own home, and

that’s a fact.’

She did not worship him, she made no pretence of it. Her cold, pale

beauty had not so much power over him as formerly, but it still

chagrined him keenly as often as he was reminded that he had no

high place in his wife’s judgment. He knew well enough that it was

impossible for her to: admire him; he was conscious of the thousand

degrading things he had said and done, every one of them stored in

her memory. Perhaps not once since that terrible day in the Pentonville

lodgings had he looked her straight in the eyes. Yes, her beauty

appealed to him less than even a year ago; Adela knew it, and it was the

one solace in her living death. Perhaps occasion could again have stung

him into jealousy, but Adela was no longer a vital interest in his

existence. He lived in external things, his natural life. Passion had

been an irregularity in his development. Yet he would gladly have had

his wife’s sympathy. He neither loved nor hated her, but she was for

ever above him, and, however unconsciously, he longed for her regard.

Irreproachable, reticent, it might be dying, Adela would no longer

affect interests she did not feel. To these present words of his she

replied only with a grave, not unkind, look; a look he could not under

stand, yet which humbled rather than irritated him.

The servant opened the door and announced a visitor--‘Mr. Hilary.’

Mutimer seemed struck with a thought as he heard the name.

‘The very man!’ he exclaimed below his breath, with a glance at Adela.

‘Just run off and let us have this room. My luck won’t desert me, see if

it does!’

CHAPTER XXXII

Mr. Willis Rodman scarcely relished the process which deprived him

of his town house and of the greater part of his means, but his

exasperation happily did not seek vent for itself in cruelty to his

wife. It might very well have done so, would all but certainly, had not

Alice appealed to his sense of humour by her zeal in espousing his cause

against her brother. That he could turn her round his finger was an old

experience, but to see her spring so actively to arms on his behalf,

when he was conscious that she had every excuse for detesting him, and

even abandoning him, struck him as a highly comical instance of his

power over women, a power on which he had always prided himself. He

could not even explain it as self-interest in her; numberless things

proved the contrary. Alice was still his slave, though he had not given

himself the slightest trouble to preserve even her respect. He had shown

himself to her freely as he was, jocosely cynical on everything that

women prize, brutal when he chose to give way to his temper, faithless

on principle, selfish to the core; perhaps the secret of the fascination

he exercised over her was his very ingenuousness, his boldness in

defying fortune, his clever grasp of circumstances. She said to him one

day, when he had been telling her that as likely as not she might have

to take in washing or set up a sewing-machine:

‘I am not afraid. You can always get money. There’s nothing you can’t

do.’

He laughed.

‘That may be true. But how if I disappear some day and leave you to take

care of yourself?’

He had often threatened this in his genial way, and it never failed to

blanch her cheeks.

‘If you do that,’ she said, ‘I shall kill myself.’

At which he laughed yet more loudly.

In her house at Wimbledon she perished of _ennui_, for she was as lonely

as Adela in Holloway. Much lonelier; she had no resources in herself.

Rodman was away all day in London, and very often he did not return at

night; when the latter was the case, Alice cried miserably in her bed

for hours, so that the next morning her face was like that of a wax doll

that has suffered ill-usage. She had an endless supply of novels, and

day after day bent over them till her head ached. Poor Princess! She had

had her own romance, in its way brilliant and strange enough, but only

the rags of it were left. She clung to them, she hoped against hope that

they would yet recover their gloss and shimmer. If only he would not so

neglect her! All else affected her but little now that she really knew

what it meant to see her husband utterly careless, not to be held by

any pettings or entreaties. She heard through him of her brother ‘Arry’s

disgrace; it scarcely touched her. Her brother Richard she was never

tired of railing against, railed so much, indeed, that it showed she

by no means hated him as much as she declared. But nothing would have

mattered if only her husband had cared for her.

She had once said to Adela that she disliked children and hoped never

to have any. It was now her despair that she remained childless. Perhaps

that was why he had lost all affection?

In the summer Rodman once quitted her for nearly three weeks, during

which she only heard from him once. He was in Ireland, and, he asserted,

on business. The famous ‘Irish Dairy Company,’ soon to occupy a share of

public attention, was getting itself on foot. It was Rodman who promoted

the company and who became its secretary, though the name of that

functionary in all printed matter appeared as ‘Robert Delancey.’

However, I only mention it for the present to explain our friend’s

absence in Ireland. Alice often worked herself up to a pitch of terror

lest her husband had fulfilled his threat and really deserted her. He

returned when it suited him to do so, and tortured her with a story of a

wealthy Irish widow who had fallen desperately in love with him.

‘And I’ve a good mind to marry her,’ he added with an air of serious

reflection. Of course I didn’t let her know my real name. I could manage

it very nicely, and you would never know anything about it; I should

remit you all the money you wanted, you needn’t be afraid.’

Alice tried to assume a face of stony indignation, but as usual she

ended by breaking down and shedding tears. Then he told her that she

was getting plainer than ever, and that it all came of her perpetual

‘water-works.’

Alice hit upon a brilliant idea. What if she endeavoured to make him

jealous? In spite of her entreaties, he never would take her to town,

though he saw that she was perishing for lack of amusement. Suppose

she made him believe that she had gone on her own account, and at the

invitation of someone whose name she would not divulge? I believe she

found the trick in one of her novels. The poor child went to work

most conscientiously. One morning when he came down to breakfast she

pretended to have been reading a letter, crushed an old envelope into

her pocket on his entering the room, and affected confusion. He observed

her.

‘Had a letter?’ he asked.

‘Yes--no. Nothing of any importance.’

He smiled and applied himself to the ham, then left her in his ordinary

way, without a word of courtesy, and went to town. She had asked him

particularly when he should be back that night He named the train, which

reached Wimbledon a little after ten.

They had only one servant. Alice took the girl into her confidence, said

she was going to play a trick, and it must not be spoilt. By ten o’clock

at night she was dressed for going out, and when she heard her husband’s

latch-key at the front door she slipped out at the back. It was her plan

to walk about the roads for half an hour, then to enter and--make the

best of the situation.

Rodman, unable to find his wife, summoned the servant.

‘Where is your mistress?’

‘Out, sir.’

He examined the girl shrewdly, with his eyes and with words. It was

perfectly true that women--of a kind--could not resist him. In the end

he discovered exactly what had happened. He laughed his wonted laugh of

cynical merriment.

‘Go to bed,’ he said to the servant. ‘And if you hear anyone at the

door, pay no attention.’

Then he locked up the house, front and back, and, having extinguished

all lights except a small lantern by which he could read in the

sitting-room without danger of its being discerned from outside, sat

down with a sense of amusement. Presently there came a ring at the

bell; it was repeated again and again. The month was October, the night

decidedly cool. Rodman chuckled to himself; he had a steaming glass of

whisky before him and sipped it delicately. The ringing continued for a

quarter of an hour, then five minutes passed, and no sound came. Rodman

stepped lightly to the front door, listened, heard nothing, unlocked and

opened. Alice was standing in the middle of the road, her hands crossed

over her breast and holding her shoulders as though she suffered from

the cold. She came forward and entered the house without speaking.

In the sitting-room she found the lantern and looked at her husband in

surprise. His face was stern.

‘What’s all this?’ he asked sharply.

‘I’ve been to London,’ she answered, her teeth chattering with cold and

her voice uncertain from fear.

‘Been to London? And what business had you to go without telling me?’

He spoke savagely. Alice was sinking with dread, but even yet had

sufficient resolve to keep up the comedy.

‘I had an invitation. I don’t see why I shouldn’t go. I don’t ask you

who you go about with.’

The table was laid for supper. Rodman darted to it, seized a

carving-knife, and in an instant was holding it to her throat. She

shrieked and fell upon her knees, her face ghastly with mortal terror.

Then Rodman burst out laughing and showed that his anger had been

feigned.

She had barely strength to rise, but at length stood before him

trembling and sobbing, unable to believe that he had not been in

earnest.

‘You needn’t explain the trick,’ he said, with the appearance of great

good-humour, ‘but just tell me why you played it. Did you think I should

believe you were up to something queer, eh?’

‘You must think what you like,’ she sobbed, utterly humiliated.

He roared with laughter.

‘What a splendid idea! The Princess getting tired of propriety and

making appointments in London! Little fool! do you think I should care

one straw? Why shouldn’t you amuse yourself?’

Alice looked at him with eyes of wondering misery.

‘Do you mean that you don’t care enough for me to--to--’

‘Don’t care one farthing’s worth! And to think you went and walked about

in the mud and the east wind! Well, if that isn’t the best joke I ever

heard! I’ll have a rare laugh over this story with some men I know

to-morrow.’

She crept away to her bedroom. He had gone far towards killing the love

that had known no rival in her heart.

He bantered her ceaselessly through breakfast next morning, and for the

first time she could find no word to reply to him. Her head drooped;

she touched nothing on the table. Before going off he asked her what the

appointment was for to-day, and advised her not to forget her latch-key.

Alice scarcely heard him, she was shame-stricken and wobegone.

Rodman, on the other hand, had never been in better spirits. The ‘Irish

Dairy Company’ was attracting purchasers of shares. It was the kind of

scheme which easily recommended itself to a host of the foolish people

who are ever ready to risk their money, also to some not quite so

foolish. The prospectus could show some respectable names: one or two

Irish lords, a member of Parliament, some known capitalists. The profits

could not but be considerable, and think of the good to ‘the unhappy

sister country’--as the circular said. Butter, cheese, eggs of

unassailable genuineness, to be sold in England at absurdly low prices,

yet still putting the producers on a footing of comfort and proud

independence. One of the best ideas that had yet occurred to Mr. Robert

Delancey.

He--the said Mr. Delancey, _alias_ Mr. Willis Rodman, _alias_ certain

other names--spent much of his time just now in the society of a Mr.

Hilary, a gentleman who, like himself, had seen men and manners in

various quarters of the globe, and was at present making a tolerable

income by the profession of philanthropy. Mr. Hilary’s name appeared

among the directors of the company; it gave confidence to many who were

familiar with it in connection with not a few enterprises started for

the benefit of this or that depressed nationality, this or the other

exploited class. He wrote frequently to the newspapers on the most

various subjects; he was known to members of Parliament through his

persistent endeavours to obtain legislation with regard to certain

manufactures proved to be gravely deleterious to the health of those

employed in them. To-day Mr. Delancey and Mr. Hilary passed some hours

together in the latter’s chambers. Their talk was of the company.

‘So you saw Mutimer about it?’ Rodman asked, turning to a detail in

which he was specially interested.

‘Yes. He is anxious to have shares.’

Mr. Hilary was a man of past middle age, long-bearded, somewhat

cadaverous of hue. His head was venerable.

‘You were careful not to mention me?’

‘I kept your caution in mind.’

Their tone to each other was one of perfect gravity. Mr. Hilary even

went out of his way to choose becoming phrases.

‘He won’t have anything to do with it if he gets to know who R. Delancey

is.’

‘I was prudent, believe me. I laid before him the aspects of the

undertaking which would especially interest him. I made it clear to

him that our enterprise is no less one of social than of commercial

importance; he entered into our views very heartily. The first time I

saw him, I merely invited him to glance over our prospectus; yesterday

he was more than willing to join our association--and share our

profits.’

‘Did he tell you how much he’d got out of those poor devils over there?’

‘A matter of sixty pounds, I gathered. I am not a little astonished at

his success.’

‘Oh, he’d talk the devil himself into subscribing to a mission if it

suited him to try.’

‘He is clearly very anxious to get the highest interest possible for his

money. His ideas on business seemed, I confess, rather vague. I did my

best to help him with suggestions.’

‘Of course.’

‘He talked of taking some five hundred pounds’ worth of shares on his

own account.’

The men regarded each other. Rodman’s lips curled; Mr. Hilary was as

grave as ever.

‘You didn’t balk him?’

‘I commended his discretion.’

Rodman could not check a laugh.

‘I am serious,’ said Mr. Hilary. ‘It may take a little time, but--’

‘Just so. Did he question you at all about what we were doing?’

‘A good deal. He said he should go and look over the Stores in the

Strand.’

‘By all means. He’s a clever man if he distinguishes between Irish

butter and English butterine--I’m sure I couldn’t. And things really are

looking up at the Stores?’

‘Oh, distinctly.’

‘By-the-by, I had rather a nasty letter from Lord Mountorry yesterday.

He’s beginning to ask questions: wants to know when we’re going to

conclude our contract with that tenant of his--I’ve forgotten the

fellow’s name.’

‘Well, that must be looked into. There’s perhaps no reason why the

contract should not be concluded. Little by little we may come to

justify our name; who knows? In the meantime, we at all events do a

_bona fide_ business.’

‘Strictly so.’

Rodman had a good deal of business on hand besides that which arose from

his connection with Irish dairies. If Alice imagined him strolling

at his ease about the fashionable lounges of the town, she was much

mistaken. He worked hard and enjoyed his work, on the sole condition

that he was engaged in overreaching someone. This flattered his humour.

He could not find leisure to dine till nearly nine o’clock. He had made

up his mind not to return to Wimbledon, but to make use of a certain

_pied-a-terre_ which he had in Pimlico. His day’s work ended in

Westminster, he dined at a restaurant with a friend. Afterwards

billiards were proposed. They entered a house which Rodman did not know,

and were passing before the bar to go to the billiard-room, when a

man who stood there taking refreshment called out, ‘Hollo, Rodman!’ To

announce a man’s name in this way is a decided breach of etiquette in

the world to which Rodman belonged. He looked annoyed, and would have

passed on, but his acquaintance, who had perhaps exceeded the limits

of modest refreshment, called him again and obliged him to approach the

bar. As he did so Rodman happened to glance at the woman who stood ready

to fulfil the expected order. The glance was followed by a short but

close scrutiny, after which he turned his back and endeavoured by a sign

to draw his two acquaintances away. But at the same moment the barmaid

addressed him.

‘What is yours, Mr. Rodman?’

He shrugged his shoulders, muttered a strong expression, and turned

round again. The woman met his look steadily. She was perhaps thirty,

rather tall, with features more refined than her position would have

led one to expect. Her figure was good but meagre; her cheeks were very

thin, and the expression of her face, not quite amiable at any time, was

at present almost fierce. She seemed about to say something further, but

restrained herself.

Rodman recovered his good temper.

‘How do, Clara?’ he said, keeping his eye fixed on hers. ‘I’ll have a

drop of absinthe, if you please.’

Then he pursued his conversation with the two men. The woman, having

served them, disappeared. Rodman kept looking for her. In a few minutes

he pretended to recollect an engagement and succeeded in going off

alone. As he issued on to the pavement he found himself confronted by

the barmaid, who now wore a hat and cloak.

‘Well?’ he said, carelessly.

‘Rodman’s your name, is it?’ was the reply.

‘To my particular friends. Let’s walk on; we can’t chat here very well.’

‘What is to prevent me from calling that policeman and giving you in

charge?’ she asked, looking into his face with a strange mixture of

curiosity and anger.

‘Nothing, except that you have no charge to make against me. The law

isn’t so obliging as all that. Come, we’ll take a walk.’

She moved along by his side.

‘You coward!’ she exclaimed, passionately but with none of the shrieking

virulence of women who like to make a scene in the street. ‘You mean,

contemptible, cold-blooded man! I suppose you hoped I was starved to

death by this time, or in the workhouse, or--what did _you_ care where I

was! I knew I should find you some day.’

‘I rather supposed you would stay on the other side of the water,’

Rodman remarked, glancing at her. ‘You’re changed a good deal. Now it’s

a most extraordinary thing. Not so very long ago I was dreaming about

you, and you were serving at a bar--queer thing, wasn’t it?’

They were walking towards Whitehall. When they came at length into an

ill-lighted and quiet spot, the woman stopped.

‘Where do you live?’ she asked.

‘Live? Oh, just out here in Pimlico. Like to see my rooms?’

‘What do you mean by talking to me like that? Do you make a joke of

deserting your wife and child for seven years, leaving them without a

penny, going about enjoying yourself, when, for anything you knew, they

were begging their bread? You always were heartless--it was the blackest

day of my life that I met you; and you ask me if I’d like to see your

rooms! What thanks to you that I’m not as vile a creature as there is in

London? How was I to support myself and the child? What was I to do when

they turned me into the streets of New York because I couldn’t pay what

you owed them nor the rent of a room to sleep in? You took good care

_you_ never went hungry. I’d only one thing to hold me up: I was an

honest woman, and I made up my mind I’d keep honest, though I had such

a man as you for my husband. I’ve hungered and worked, and I’ve made a

living for myself and my child as best I could. I’m not like you: I’ve

done nothing to disgrace myself. Now I will slave no more. You won’t

run away from me this time. Leave me for a single night, and I go to the

nearest police-station and tell all I know about you. If I wasn’t a fool

I’d do it now. But I’ve hungered and worked for seven years, and now

it’s time _my husband_ did something for me.’

‘You always had a head for argument, Clara,’ he replied coolly. ‘But

I can’t get over that dream of mine. Really a queer thing, wasn’t it?

Who’d have thought of you turning barmaid? With your education, I should

have thought you could have done something in the teaching line. Never

mind. The queerest thing of all is that I’m really half glad to see you.

How’s Jack?’

The extraordinary conversation went on as they walked towards the street

where Clara lived. It was in a poor part of Westminster. Reaching the

house, Clara opened the door with a latchkey.

Two women were standing in the passage.

‘This is my husband, Mrs. Rook,’ Clara said to one of them. ‘He’s just

got back from abroad.’

‘Glad to see you, Mr. Williamson,’ said the landlady, scrutinising him

with unmistakable suspicion.

The pair ascended the stairs, and Mrs. Williamson--she had always used

the name she received in marriage--opened a door which disclosed a dark

bedroom. A voice came from within--the voice of a little lad of eight

years old.

‘That you, mother? Why, I’ve only just put myself to bed. What time is

it?’

‘Then you ought to have gone to bed long ago,’ replied his mother whilst

she was striking a light.

It was a very small room, but decent. The boy was discovered sitting up

in bed--a bright-faced little fellow with black hair. Clara closed the

door, then turned and looked at her husband. The light made a glistening

appearance on her eyes; she had become silent, allowing facts to speak

for themselves.

The child stared at the stranger in astonishment.

‘Who are you?’ he asked at length.

Rodman laughed as heartily as if there had been nothing disagreeable in

the situation.

‘I have the honour to be your father, sir,’ he replied. ‘You’re a fine

boy, Jack--a deuced fine boy.’

The child was speechless. Rodman turned to the mother. Her hands held

the rail at the foot of the bed, and as the boy looked up at her for

explanation she let her face fall upon them and sobbed.

‘If you’re father come back,’ exclaimed Jack indignantly, ‘why do you

make mother cry?’

Rodman was still mirthful.

‘I like you, Jack,’ he said. ‘You’ll make a man some day. Do you mind if

I smoke a cigar, Clara?’

To his astonishment, he felt a weakness which had to be resisted;

tobacco suggested itself as a resource. When he had struck a light,

his wife forced back her tears and seated herself with an unforgiving

countenance.