Rodman began to chat pleasantly as he smoked.

Decidedly it was a _contretemps_. It introduced a number of difficulties

into his life. If he remained away for a night, he had little doubt that

his wife would denounce him; she knew of several little matters which

he on the whole preferred to be reticent about. She was not a woman like

Alice, to be turned round his finger. It behoved him to be exceedingly

cautious.

He had three personalities. As Mr. Willis Rodman his task was

comparatively a light one, at all events for the present. He merely

informed Alice by letter that he was kept in town by business and would

see her in the course of a week. It was very convenient that Alice

had no intercourse with her relatives. Secondly, as Mr. Williamson his

position was somewhat more difficult. Not only had he to present himself

every night at the rooms he had taken in Brixton, but it was necessary

to take precautions lest his abode should be discovered by those who

might make awkward use of the knowledge. He had, moreover, to keep Clara

in the dark as to his real occupations and prevent her from knowing

his resorts in town. Lastly, as Mr. Robert Delancey he had to deal with

matters of a very delicate nature indeed, in themselves quite enough to

occupy a man’s mental energy. But our friend was no ordinary man. If you

are not as yet satisfied of that, it will ere long be made abundantly

clear to you.

His spirits were as high as ever. When he said--with an ingenious

brutality all his own--that he was more than half glad to see his wife,

he, for a wonder, told the truth. But perhaps it was little Jack

who gave him most pleasure, and did most to reconcile him to the

difficulties of his situation. In a day or two be conquered the child’s

affections so completely that Jack seemed to care little for his mother

in comparison; Jack could not know the hardships she had endured for

his sake. Rodman--so we will continue to call him for convenience’

sake--already began to talk of what he would make the lad, who certainly

gave promise of parts. The result of this was that for a week or two our

friend became an exemplary family man. His wife almost dared to believe

that her miseries were over. Yet she watched him with lynx eyes.

The ‘Irish Dairy Company’ flourished. Rodman rubbed his hands with a

sinister satisfaction when he inscribed among the shareholders the name

of Richard Mutimer, who invested all the money he had collected from the

East-Enders, and three hundred pounds of his own--not five hundred,

as he had at first thought of doing. Mutimer had the consent of his

committee, whom he persuaded without much difficulty--the money was

not theirs--that by this means he would increase his capital beyond all

expectation. He told Adela what he had done.

‘There’s not the least risk. They’ve got the names of several lords! And

it isn’t a mere commercial undertaking: the first object is to benefit

the Irish; so that there can be nothing against my principles in it.

They promise a dividend of thirty per cent. What a glorious day it will

be when I tell the people what I have made of their money! Now confess

that it isn’t everyone could have hit on this idea.’

Of course he made no public announcement of his speculation: that would

have been to spoil the surprise. But he could not refrain from talking

a good deal about the Company to his friends. He explained with zeal

the merit of the scheme; it was dealing directly with the producers, the

poor small-farmers who could never get fair treatment. He saw a great

deal of Mr. Hilary, who was vastly interested in his East-End work. A

severe winter had begun. Threepenny bits came in now but slowly, and

Mutimer exerted himself earnestly to relieve the growing want in what

he called his ‘parishes.’ He began in truth to do some really good work,

moving heaven and earth to find employment for those long out of it, and

even bestowing money of his own. At night he would return to Holloway

worn out, and distress Adela with descriptions of the misery he had

witnessed.

‘I’m not sorry for it,’ he once exclaimed. ‘I cannot be sorry. Let

things get worse and worse the mending’ll be all the nearer. Why don’t

they march in a body to the West End? I don’t mean march in a violent

sense, though that’ll have to come, I expect. But why don’t they make a

huge procession and go about the streets in an orderly way--just to let

it be seen what their numbers are--just to give the West End a hint?

I’ll propose that one of these days. It’ll be a risky business, but we

can’t think of that when thousands are half starving. I could lead them,

I feel sure I could! It wants someone with authority over them, and I

think I’ve got that. There’s no telling what I may do yet. I say, Adela,

bow would it sound--“Richard Mutimer, First President of the English

Republic”?’

And in the meantime Alice sat in her house at Wimbledon, abandoned.

The solitude seemed to be driving her mad. Rodman came down very

occasionally for a few hours in the daytime, but never passed a night

with her. He told her he had a great affair on hand, a very great

affair, which was to make their fortunes ten times over. She must be

patient; women couldn’t understand business. If she resisted his coaxing

and grumbled, he always had his threat ready. He would realise his

profits and make off, leaving her in the lurch. Weeks became months.

In pique at the betrayal of her famous stratagem, Alice had wanted to

dismiss her servant, but Rodman objected to this. She was driven by

desperation to swallow her pride and make a companion of the girl. But

she did not complain to her of her husband--partly out of self-respect,

partly because she was afraid to. Indeed it was a terrible time for the

poor Princess. She spent the greater part of every day in a state of

apathy; for the rest she wept. Many a time she was on the point of

writing to Richard, but could not quite bring herself to that. She could

not leave the house, for it rained or snowed day after day; the sun

seemed to have deserted the heavens as completely as joy her life. She

grew feeble-minded, tried to amuse herself with childish games, played

‘Beggar My Neighbour’ with the servant for hours at night. She had fits

of hysteria, and terrified her sole companion with senseless laughter,

or with alarming screams. Reading she was no longer story. And her

glass--as well as her husband--told her that equal to; after a few pages

she lost her understanding of a she suffered daily in her appearance.

Her hair was falling; she one day told the servant that she would soon

have to buy a wig. Poor Alice! And she had not even the resource of

railing against the social state. What a pity she had never studied that

subject!

So the time went on till February of the new year. Alice’s release was

at hand.

CHAPTER XXXIII

‘Arry Mutimer, not long after he left his mother’s house for good,

by chance met Rodman in the City. Presuming on old acquaintance, he

accosted the man of business with some familiarity; it was a chance of

getting much-needed assistance once more. But Rodman was not disposed

to renew the association He looked into ‘Arry’s face with a blank stare,

asked contemptuously, ‘Who are you?’ and pursued his walk.

‘Arry hoped that he might some day have a chance of being even with Mr.

Rodman.

As indeed he had. One evening towards the end of February, ‘Arry was

loafing about Brixton. He knew a certain licensed victualler in those

parts, a man who had ere now given him casual employment, and after a

day of fasting he trudged southwards to see if his friend would not at

all events be good for a glass of beer and a hunch of bread and cheese.

Perhaps he might also supply the coppers to pay for a bed in the New

Cut. To his great disappointment, the worthy victualler was away from

home; the victualler’s wife had no charitable tendencies. ‘Arry whined

to her, but only got for an answer that times was as ‘ard with her as

with anyone else. The representative of unemployed labour went his way

despondently, hands thrust deep in pockets, head slouching forwards,

shoulders high up against the night blast.

He was passing a chemist’s shop, when a customer came out He recognised

Rodman. After a moment’s uncertainty he made up his mind to follow him,

wondering how Rodman came to be in this part of London. Keeping at a

cautious distance, he saw him stop at a small house and enter it by aid

of a latchkey.

‘Why, he lives there!’ ‘Arry exclaimed to himself. ‘What’s the meanin’

o’ this go?’

Rodman, after all, had seriously come down in the world, then. It

occurred to ‘Arry that he might do worse than pay his sister a visit;

Alice could not be hard-hearted enough to refuse him a few coppers. But

the call must be made at an hour when Rodman was away. Presumably that

would be some time after eight in the morning.

Our unconventional friend walked many miles that night. It was one way

of keeping warm, and there was always a possibility of aid from one or

other of the acquaintances whom he sought. The net result of the night’s

campaign was half-a-pint of ‘four-half.’ The front of a draper’s shop in

Kennington tempted him sorely; he passed it many times, eyeing the

rolls of calico and flannel exposed just outside the doorway. But either

courage failed him or there was no really good opportunity. Midnight

found him still without means of retiring to that familiar lodging in

the New Cut. At half-past twelve sleet began to fall. He discovered a

very dark corner of a very dark slum, curled himself against the wall,

and slept for a few hours in defiance of wind and weather.

‘Arry was used to this kind of thing. On the whole he deemed it

preferable to the life he would have led at his mother’s.

By eight o’clock next morning he was back in Brixton, standing just

where he could see the house which Rodman had entered, without himself

attracting attention. Every rag on his back was soaked; he had not

eaten a mouthful for thirty hours. After such a run of bad luck perhaps

something was about to turn up.

But it was ten o’clock before Rodman left home. ‘Arry had no feeling

left in any particle of his body. Still here at length was the

opportunity of seeing Alice. He waited till Rodman was out of sight,

then went to the door and knocked.

It was Clara who opened the door. Seeing ‘Arry, she took him for a

beggar, shook her head, and was closing the door against him, when she

heard--

‘Is Mrs. Rodman in, mum?’

‘Mrs.--who?’

‘Mrs. Rodman.’

Clara’s eyes flashed as they searched his face.

‘What do you want with Mrs. Rodman?’

‘Want to see her, mum.’

‘Do you know her when you see her?’

‘Sh’ think I do,’ replied ‘Arry with a grin. But he thought it prudent

to refrain from explanation.

‘How do you know she lives here?’

‘’Cause I just see her ‘usband go out.’

Clara hesitated a moment, then bade him enter. She introduced him to a

parlour on the ground floor. He stood looking uneasily about him. The

habits of his life made him at all times suspicious.

‘Mrs. Rodman doesn’t live here,’ Clara began, lowering her voice and

making a great effort to steady it.

‘Oh, she don’t?’ replied ‘Arry, beginning to discern that something was

wrong.

‘Can you tell me what you want with her?’

He looked her in the eyes and again grinned.

‘Dare say I could if it was made worth my while.’

She took a purse from her pocket and laid half-a-crown on the table. Her

hand shook.

‘I can’t afford more than that. You shall have it if you tell me the

truth.’

‘Arry took counsel with himself for an instant. Probably there was no

more to be got, and he saw from the woman’s agitation that he had come

upon some mystery. The chance of injuring Rodman was more to him than

several half-crowns.

‘I won’t ask more,’ he said, ‘if you’ll tell me who _you_ are. That’s

fair on both sides, eh?’

‘My name is Mrs. Williamson.’

‘Oh? And might it ‘appen that Mr. Rodman calls himself Mr. Williamson

when it suits him?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied hurriedly. ‘Tell me who it is

you call Mrs. Rodman.’

‘I don’t _call_ her so. That’s her married name. She’s my sister.’

The door opened. Both turned their heads and saw Rodman. He had come

back for a letter he had forgotten to take with him to post At a glance

he saw everything, including the half-crown on the table, which ‘Arry

instantly seized. He walked forward, throwing a murderous look at Clara

as he passed her. Then he said to ‘Arry, in a perfectly calm voice--

‘There’s the door.’

‘I see there is,’ the other replied, grinning. ‘Good-mornin’, Mr. Rodman

Williamson.’

Husband and wife faced each other as soon as the front door slammed.

Clara was a tigress; she could not be terrified as Alice might have been

by scowls and savage threats. Rodman knew it, and knew, moreover, that

his position was more perilous than any he had been in for a long time.

‘What do you know?’ he asked quietly.

‘Enough to send you to prison, Mr. Rodman. You can’t do _quite_ what you

like! If there’s law in this country I’ll see you punished!’

He let her rave for a minute or two, and by that time had laid his

plans.

‘Will you let me speak? Now I give you a choice. Either you can do as

you say, or you can be out of this country, with me and Jack, before

to-morrow morning. In a couple of hours I can get more money than

you ever set eyes on; I’ll be back here with it’--he looked at his

watch--‘by one o’clock. No, that wouldn’t be safe either--that fellow

might send someone here by then. I’ll meet you on Westminster Bridge,

the north end, at one. Now you’ve a minute to choose; he may have gone

straight away to the police station. Punish me if you like--I don’t care

a curse. But it seems to me the other thing’s got more common sense

in it I haven’t seen that woman for a month, and never care to see her

again. I don’t care over much for you either; but I do care for Jack,

and for his sake I’ll take you with me, and do my best for you. It’s

no good looking at me like a wild beast You’ve sense enough to make a

choice.’

She clasped her hands together and moaned, so dreadful was the struggle

in her between passions and temptations and fears. The mother’s heart

bade her trust him; yet _could_ she trust him to go and return?

‘You have the cunning of a devil,’ she groaned, ‘and as little heart!

Let you go, when you only want the chance of deserting me again!’

‘You’ll have to be quick,’ he replied, holding his watch in his hand,

and smiling at the compliment in spite of his very real anxiety. ‘There

may be no choice in a minute or two.’

‘I’ll go with you now; I’ll follow you where you go to get the money!’

‘No, you won’t. Either you trust me or you refuse. You’ve a free choice,

Clara. I tell you plainly I want little Jack, and I’m not going to lose

him if I can help it.’

‘Have you any other children?’

‘No--never had.’

At least he had not been deceiving her in the matter of Jack. She knew

that he had constantly come home at early hours only for the sake of

playing with the boy.

‘I’ll go with you. No one shall see that I’m following you.’

‘It’s impossible. I shall have to go post haste in a cab. I’ve

half-a-dozen places to go to. Meet me on Westminster Bridge at one. I

may be a few minutes later, but certainly not more than half-an-hour.’

He went to the window and looked uneasily up and down the street. Clara

pressed her hands upon her head and stared at him like one distracted.

‘Where is she?’ came from her involuntarily.

‘Don’t be a fool, woman!’ he replied, walking to the door. She sprang

to hold him. Instead of repulsing her, he folded his arm about her waist

and kissed her lips two or three times.

‘I can get thousands of pounds,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll be off before they

have a trace. It’s for Jack’s sake, and I’ll be kind to you as well, old

woman.’

She had suffered him to go; the kisses made her powerless, reminding her

of a long-past dream. A moment after she rushed to the house door, but

only to see him turning the corner of the street Then she flew to the

bedroom. Jack was ill of a cold--she was nursing him in bed. But now

she dressed him hurriedly, as if there were scarcely time to get to

Westminster by the appointed hour. All was ready before eleven o’clock,

but it was now raining, and she durst not wait with the child in

the open air for longer than was necessary. But all at once the fear

possessed her lest the police might come to the house and she be

detained. Ignorant of the law, and convinced from her husband’s words

that the stranger in rags had some sinister aim, she no sooner conceived

the dread than she bundled into a hand-bag such few articles as it

would hold and led the child hastily from the house. They walked to a

tramway-line and had soon reached Westminster Bridge. But it was not

half-past eleven, and the rain descended heavily. She sought a small

eating-house not far from the Abbey, and by paying for some coffee and

bread-and-butter, which neither she nor Jack could touch, obtained leave

to sit in shelter till one o’clock.

At five minutes to the hour she rose and hurried to the north end of the

bridge, and stood there, aside from the traffic, shielding little Jack

as much as she could with her umbrella, careless that her own clothing

was getting wet through. Big Ben boomed its one stroke. Minute after

minute passed, and her body seemed still to quiver from the sound. She

was at once feverishly hot and so deadly chill that her teeth clattered

together; her eyes throbbed with the intensity of their gaze into the

distance. The quarter-past was chimed. Jack kept talking to her, but she

could hear nothing. The rain drenched her; the wind was so high that

she with difficulty held the umbrella above the child. Half-past, and no

sign of her husband....

She durst not go away from this spot Her eyes were blind with tears.

A policeman spoke to her; she could only chatter meaningless sounds

between her palsied lips. Jack coughed incessantly, begged to be taken

home. ‘I’m so cold, mother, so cold!’ ‘Only a few minutes more,’ she

said. He began to cry, though a brave little soul....

Four o’clock struck.

From Brixton our unconventional friend betook himself straight to

Holloway. Having, as he felt sure, the means of making things decidedly

uncomfortable for Mr. Rodman Williamson, it struck him that the eftest

way would be to declare at once to his brother Richard all he knew and

expected; Dick would not be slow in bestirring himself to make Rodman

smart ‘Arry was without false shame; he had no hesitation in facing his

brother. But Mr. Mutimer, he was told, was not at home. Then he would

see Mrs. Mutimer. But the servant was indisposed to admit him, or even

to trouble her mistress. ‘Arry had to request her to say that ‘Mr.

‘Enery Mutimer’ desired to see the lady of the house. He chuckled to see

the astonishment produced by his words. Thus he got admittance to Adela.

She was shocked at the sight of him, could find no words, yet gave him

her hand. He told her he wished to see his brother on very particular

business. But Richard would not be back before eight o’clock in the

evening, and it was impossible to say where he could be found. ‘Arry

would not tell Adela what brought him, only assured her that it had

nothing to do with his own affairs. He would call again in the evening.

Adela felt inhuman in allowing him to go out into the rain, but she

could not risk giving displeasure to her husband by inviting ‘Arry to

stay.

He came again at half-past eight. Mutimer had been home nearly an hour

and was expecting him. ‘Arry lost no time in coming to the point.

‘He’s married that other woman, I could see that much. Go and see for

yourself. She give me ‘alf-a-crown to tell all about him. I’m only

afraid he’s got off by this time.’

‘Why didn’t you go and give information to the police at once?’ Mutimer

cried, in exasperation.

‘Arry might have replied that he had a delicacy in waiting upon those

gentlemen. But his brother did not stay for an answer. Rushing from the

room, he equipped himself instantly with hat, coat, and umbrella.

‘Show me the way to that house. Come along, there’s no time to lose.

Adela!’ he called, ‘I have to go out; can’t say when I shall be back.

Don’t sit up if I’m late.’

A hansom bore the brothers southwards as fast as hansom could go.

They found Clara in the house, a haggard, frenzied woman. Already she

had been to the police, but they were not inclined to hurry matters;

she had no satisfactory evidence to give them. To Mutimer, when he had

explained his position, she told everything--of her marriage in London

nine years ago, her going with her husband to America, his desertion of

her. Richard took her at once to the police-station. They would have to

attend at the court next morning to swear an information.

By ten o’clock Mutimer was at Waterloo, taking train for Wimbledon. At

Rodman’s house he found darkness, but a little ringing brought Alice

herself to the door. She thought it was her husband, and, on recognising

Richard, all but dropped with fear; only some ill news could explain his

coming thus. With difficulty he induced her to go into a room out of the

hall. She was in her dressing-gown, her long beautiful hair in disorder,

her pretty face white and distorted.

‘What is it, Dick? what is it, Dick?’ she kept repeating mechanically,

with inarticulate moanings between. She had forgotten her enmity against

her brother and spoke to him as in the old days. He, too, was all

kindness.

‘Try and keep quiet a little, Alice. I want to talk to you. Yes, it’s

about your husband, my poor girl; but there’s nothing to be frightened

at. He’s gone away, that’s all. I want you to come to London with me.’

She had no more control over herself than a terrified child; her words

and cries were so incoherent that Mutimer feared lest she had lost her

senses. She was, in truth, on the borders of idiocy. It was more than

half-an-hour before, with the servant’s assistance, he could allay her

hysterical anguish. Then she altogether refused to accompany him. If she

did so she would miss her husband; he would not go without coming to see

her. Richard was reminded by the servant that it was too late to go by

train. He decided to remain in the house through the night.

He had not ventured to tell her all the truth, nor did her state

encourage him to do so in the morning. But he then succeeded in

persuading her to come with him; Rodman, he assured her, must already

be out of England, for he had committed a criminal offence and knew that

the police were after him. Alice was got to the station more dead than

alive; they were at home in Holloway by half-past ten. Richard then left

her in Adela’s hands and sped once more to Brixton.

He got home again at two. As he entered Adela came down the stairs to

meet him.

‘How is she?’ he asked anxiously.

‘The same. The doctor was here an hour ago. We must keep her as quiet as

possible. But she can’t rest for a moment.’

She added--

‘Three gentlemen have called to see you. They would leave no name, and,

to tell the truth, were rather rude. They seemed to doubt my word when I

said you were not in.’

At his request she attempted to describe these callers. Mutimer

recognised them as members of his committee.

‘Rude to you? You must have mistaken. What did they come here for? I

shall in any case see them to-night.’

They returned to the subject of Alice’s illness.

‘I’ve half a mind to tell her the truth,’ Mutimer said. ‘Surely she’d

put the blackguard out of her head after that.’

‘No, no; you mustn’t tell her!’ Adela interposed. ‘I am sure it would be

very unwise.’

Alice was growing worse; in an hour or two delirium began to declare

itself. She had resisted all efforts to put her to bed; at most she

would lie on a couch. Whilst Richard and his wife were debating what

should be done, it was announced to them that the three gentlemen had

called again. Mutimer went oft angrily to see them.

He was engaged for half-an-hour. Then Adela heard the visitors depart;

one of them was speaking loudly and with irritation. She waited for a

moment at the head of the stairs, expecting that Mutimer would come out

to her. As he did not, she went into the sitting-room.

Mutimer stood before the fireplace, his eyes on the ground, his face

discoloured with vehement emotion.

‘What has happened?’ she asked.

He looked up and beckoned to her to approach.

CHAPTER XXXIV

Adela bad never seen him so smitten with grave trouble. She knew him in

brutal anger and in surly ill-temper; but his present mood had nothing

of either. He seemed to stagger beneath a blow which had all but crushed

him and left him full of dread. He began to address her in a voice

very unlike his own--thick, uncertain; he used short sentences, often

incomplete.

‘Those men are on the committee. One of them got a letter this

morning--anonymous. It said they were to be on their guard against me.

Said the Company’s a swindle--that I knew it--that I’ve got money out of

the people on false pretences. And Hilary’s gone--gone off--taking all

he could lay hands on. The letter says so--I don’t know. It says I’m

thick with the secretary--a man I never even saw. That he’s a well-known

swindler--Delancey his name is. And these fellows believe it--demand

that I shall prove I’m innocent. What proof can I give? They think I

kept out of the way on purpose this morning.’

He ceased speaking, and Adela stood mute, looking him in the face.

She was appalled on his account. She did not love him; too often his

presence caused her loathing. But of late she had been surprised into

thinking more highly of some of his qualities than it had hitherto been

possible for her to do. She could never forget that he toiled first and

foremost for his own advancement to a very cheap reputation; he would

not allow her to lose sight of it had she wished. But during the present

winter she had discerned in him a genuine zeal to help the suffering, a

fervour in kindly works of which she had not believed him capable. Very

slowly the conviction had come to her, but in the end she could not

resist it. One evening, in telling her of the hideous misery he had

been amongst, his voice failed and she saw moisture in his eyes. Was his

character changing? Had she wronged him in attaching too much importance

to a fault which was merely on the surface? Oh, but there were too many

indisputable charges against him. Yet a man’s moral nature may sometimes

be strengthened by experience of the evil he has wrought. All this

rushed through her mind as she now stood gazing at him.

‘But how can they credit an anonymous letter?’ she said. ‘How can they

believe the worst of you before making inquiries?’

‘They have been to the office of the Company. Everything is upside down.

They say Hilary isn’t to be found.’

‘Who can have written such a letter?’

‘How do I know? I have enemies enough, no doubt. Who hasn’t that makes

himself a leader?’

There was the wrong note again. It discouraged her; she was silent.

‘Look here, Adela,’ he said, ‘do you believe this?’

‘Believe it!’

‘Do you think I’m capable of doing a thing like that--scraping together

by pennies the money of the poorest of the poor just to use it for my

own purposes--could I do that?’

‘You know I do not believe it.’

‘But you don’t speak as if you were certain. There’s something--But how

am I to prove I’m innocent? How can I make people believe I wasn’t in

the plot? They’ve only my word--who’ll think that enough? Anyone can

tell a lie and stick to it, if there’s no positive proof against him.

How am I to make _you_ believe that I was taken in?’

‘But I tell you that a doubt of your innocence does not enter my mind.

If it were necessary, I would stand up in public before all who accused

you and declare that they were wrong. I do not need your assurance. I

recognise that it would be impossible for you to commit such a crime.’

‘Well, it does me good to hear you say that,’ he replied, with light of

hope in his eyes. ‘I wanted to feel sure of that. You might have thought

that’--he sank his voice--‘that because I could think of destroying that

will--’

‘Don’t speak of that!’ she interrupted, with a gesture of pain. ‘I say

that I believe you. It is enough. Don’t speak about me any more. Think

of what has to be done.’

‘I have promised to be in Clerkenwell at eight o’clock. There’ll be

a meeting. I shall do my best to show that I am innocent. You’ll look

after Alice? It’s awful to have to leave her whilst she’s like that.’

‘Trust me. I will not leave her side for a moment. The doctor will be

here again to-night.’

A thought struck him.

‘Send out the girl for an evening paper. There may be something in it.’

The paper was obtained. One of the first headings his eye fell upon was:

‘Rumoured Collapse of a Public Company. Disappearance of the Secretary.’

He showed it to Adela, and they read together. She saw that the finger

with which he followed the lines quivered like a leaf. It was announced

in a brief paragraph that the Secretary of the Irish Dairy Company

was missing: that he seemed to have gone off with considerable sums.

Moreover, that there were rumours in the City of a startling kind,

relative to the character of the Company itself. The name of the

secretary was Mr. Robert Delancey, but that was now believed to be a

mere _alias_. The police were actively at work.

‘It’ll be the ruin of me!’ Mutimer gasped. ‘I can never prove that I

knew nothing. You see, nothing’s said about Hilary. It’s that fellow

Delancey who has run.’

‘You must find Mr. Hilary,’ said Adela urgently. ‘Where does he live?’

‘I have no idea. I only had the office address. Perhaps it isn’t even

his real name. It’ll be my ruin.’

Adela was astonished to see him so broken down. He let himself sink upon

a chair; his head and hands fell.

‘But I can’t understand why you should despair so!’ she exclaimed.

‘You will speak to the meeting to-night. If the money is lost you will

restore it. If you have been imprudent, that is no crime.’

‘It is--it is--when I had money of that kind entrusted to me! They won’t

hear me. They have condemned me already. What use is it to talk to them?

They’ll say everything comes to smash in my hands.’

She spoke to him with such words of strengthening as one of his comrades

might have used. She did not feel the tenderness of a wife, and had no

power to assume it. But her voice was brave and true. She had made his

interest, his reputation, her own. By degrees he recovered from the

blow, and let her words give him heart.

‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘I’m behaving like a fool; I couldn’t go on

different if I was really guilty. Who wrote that letter? I never saw the

letter before, as far as I know. I wanted to keep it, but they wouldn’t

let me--trust them! What black guards they are I They’re jealous of

me. They know they can’t speak like I do, that they haven’t the same

influence I have. So they’re ready to believe the first lie that’s

brought against me. Let them look to themselves to-night! I’ll give them

a piece of my mind--see if I don’t! What’s to-day? Friday. On Sunday

I’ll have the biggest meeting ever gathered in the East End. If they

shout out against me, I’ll tell them to their faces that they’re

mean-spirited curs. They haven’t the courage to rise and get by force

what they’ll never have by asking for it, and when a man does his best

to help them they throw mud at him!’

‘But they won’t do so,’ Adela urged. ‘Don’t be unjust. Wait and see.

They will shout _for_, not _against_ you.’

‘Why didn’t you keep ‘Arry here?’ he asked suddenly.

‘He refused to stay. I gave him money.’

‘You should have forced him to stay How can I have a brother of my own

living a life like that? You did wrong to give him money. He’ll only use

it to make a beast of himself. I must find him again; I can’t let him go

to ruin.’

‘Arry had come back to Holloway the previous night to inform Adela that

her husband might not return till morning. As she said, it had been

impossible to detain him. He was too far gone in unconventionality

to spend a night under a decent roof. Home-sickness for the gutter

possessed him.

In the meantime Alice had become quieter. It was half-past six; Mutimer

had to be at the meeting-place in Clerkenwell by eight. Adela sat by

Alice whilst the servant hurriedly prepared a meal; then the girl took

her place, and she went down to her husband. They were in the middle of

their meal when they heard the front-door slam. Mutimer started up.

‘Who’s that? Who’s gone out?’

Adela ran to the foot of the stairs and called the servant’s name

softly. It was a minute before the girl appeared.

‘Who has just gone out, Mary?’

‘Gone out? No one, mum!’

‘Is Mrs. Rodman lying still?’

The girl went to see. She had left Alice for a few moments previously.

She appeared again at the head of the stairs with a face of alarm.

‘Mrs. Rodman isn’t there, mum!’

Mutimer flew up the staircase. Alice was nowhere to be found. It could

not be doubted that she had fled in a delirious state. Richard rushed

into the street, but it was very dark, and rain was falling. There was

no trace of the fugitive. He came back to the door, where Adela stood;

he put out his hand and held her arm as if she needed support.

‘Give me my hat! She’ll die in the street, in the rain! I’ll go one way;

the girl must go the other. My hat!’

‘I will go one way myself,’ said Adela hurriedly. ‘You must take an

umbrella: it pours. Mary! my waterproof!’

They ran in opposite directions. It was a quiet by-street, with no shops

to cast light upon the pavement. Adela encountered a constable before

she had gone very far, and begged for his assistance. He promised to

be on the look-out, but advised her to go on a short distance to the

police-station and leave a description of the missing woman. She did

so; then, finding the search hopeless in this quarter, turned

homewards. Mutimer was still absent, but he appeared in five minutes; as

unsuccessful as herself. She told him of her visit to the station.

‘I must keep going about,’ he said. ‘She can’t be far off; her strength,

surely, wouldn’t take her far.’

Adela felt for him profoundly; for once he had not a thought of himself,

his distress was absorbing. He was on the point of leaving the house

again, when she remembered the meeting at which he was expected. She

spoke of it.

‘What do I care?’ he replied, waving his arm. ‘Let them think what they

like. I must find Alice.’

Adela saw in a moment all that his absence would involve. He could of

course explain subsequently, but in the meantime vast harm would have

been done. It was impossible to neglect the meeting altogether. She ran

after him and stopped him on the pavement.

‘I will go to this meeting for you,’ she said. ‘A cab will take me there

and bring me back. I will let them know what keeps you away.’

He looked at her with astonishment.

‘You! How can you go? Among those men?’

‘Surely I have nothing to fear from them? Have you lost all your faith

suddenly? You cannot go, but someone must. I will speak to them so that

they cannot but believe me. You continue the search; I will go.’

They stood together in the pouring rain. Mutimer caught her hand.

‘I never knew what a wife could be till now,’ he exclaimed hoarsely.

‘And I never knew _you_!’

‘Find me a cab and give the man the address. I will be ready in an

instant.’

Her cheeks were on fire; her nerves quivered with excitement. She had

made the proposal almost involuntarily; only his thanks gave her some

understanding of what she was about to do. But she did not shrink; a

man’s--better still, a woman’s--noblest courage throbbed in her. If need

were, she too could stand forward in a worthy cause and speak the truth

undauntedly.

The cab was bearing her away. She looked at her watch in the moment

of passing a street lamp and just saw that it was eight o’clock.

The meeting would be full by this; they would already be drawing ill

conclusions from Mutimer’s absence Faster, faster! Every moment lost

increased the force of prejudice against him. She could scarcely have

felt more zeal on behalf of the man whom her soul loved. In the fever of

her brain she was conscious of a wish that even now that love could

be her husband’s. Ah no, no! But serve him she could and loyally. The

lights flew by in the streets of Islington; the driver was making the

utmost speed he durst. A check among thronging vehicles anguished her.

But it was past, and here at length came the pause.

A crowd of perhaps a hundred men was gathered about the ill-lighted

entrance to what had formerly been a low-class dancing-saloon. Adela saw

them come thronging about the cab, heard their cries of discontent and

of surprise when she showed herself.

‘Wait for me!’ she called to the driver, and straightway walked to the

door. The men made way for her. On the threshold she turned.

‘I wish to see some member of the committee. I am Mrs. Mutimer.’

There was a coarse laugh from some fellows, but others cried, ‘Shut

up! she’s a lady.’ One stepped forward and announced himself as a

committee-man. He followed her into the passage.

‘My husband cannot come,’ she said. ‘Will you please show me where I can

speak to the meeting and tell them the reason of his absence?’

Much amazed, the committee-man led her into the hall. It was

whitewashed, furnished with plain benches, lit with a few gas-jets.

There was scarcely room to move for the crowd. Every man seemed to be

talking at the pitch of his voice. The effect was an angry roar. Adela’s

guide with difficulty made a passage for her to the platform, for it

took some time before the crowd realised what was going on. At length

she stood in a place whence she could survey the assembly. On the wall

behind her hung a great sheet of paper on which were inscribed the names

of all who had deposited money with Mutimer. Adela glanced at it and

understood. Instead of being agitated she possessed an extraordinary

lucidity of mind, a calmness of nerve which she afterwards remembered as

something miraculous.

The committee-man roared for silence, then in a few words explained

Mrs. Mutimer’s wish to make ‘a speech.’ To Adela’s ears there seemed

something of malice in this expression; she did not like, either, the

laugh which it elicited. But quiet was speedily restored by a few men of

sturdy lungs. She stepped to the front of the platform.

The scene was a singular one. Adela had thrown off her waterproof in the

cab; she stood in her lady-like costume of home, her hat only showing

that she had come from a distance. For years her cheeks had been very

pale; in this moment her whole face was white as marble. Her delicate

beauty made strange contrast with the faces on each side and in front

of her--faces of rude intelligence, faces of fathomless stupidity, faces

degraded into something less than human. But all were listening, all

straining towards her. There were a few whispers of honest admiration, a

few of vile jest. She began to speak.

‘I have come here because my husband cannot come. It is most unfortunate

that he cannot, for he tells me that someone has been throwing doubt

upon his honesty. He would be here, but that a terrible misfortune has

befallen him. His sister was lying ill in our house. A little more than

an hour ago she was by chance left alone and, being delirious--out of

her mind--escaped from the house. My husband is now searching for her

everywhere; she may be dying somewhere in the streets. That is the

explanation I have come to give you. But I will say a word more. I do

not know who has spoken ill of my husband; I do not know his reasons for

doing so. This, however, I know, that Richard Mutimer has done you no

wrong, and that he is incapable of the horrible thing of which he is

accused. You must believe it; you wrong yourselves if you refuse to.

To-morrow, no doubt, he will come and speak for himself. Till then I beg

you to take the worthy part and credit good rather than evil.’

She ceased, and, turning to the committee-man, who still stood near her,

requested him to guide her from the room. As she moved down from the

platform the crowd recovered itself from the spell of her voice. The

majority cheered, but there were not a few dissentient howls. Adela had

ears for nothing; a path opened before her, and she walked along it with

bowed head. Her heart was now beating violently; she felt that she must

walk quickly or perchance her strength would fail her before she reached

the door. As she disappeared there again arose the mingled uproar of

cheers and groans; it came to her like the bellow of a pursuing monster

as she fled along the passage. And in truth Demos was on her track.

A few kept up with her; the rest jammed themselves in the door way,

hustled each other, fought. The dozen who came out to the pavement

altogether helped her into the cab, then gave a hearty cheer as she

drove away.

The voice of Demos, not malevolent at the last, but to Adela none the

less something to be fled from, something which excited thoughts of

horrible possibilities, in its very good-humour and its praise of her a

sound of fear.

CHAPTER XXXV

His search being vain, Mutimer hastened from one police-station to

another, leaving descriptions of his sister at each. When he came

home again Adela had just arrived. She was suffering too much from the

reaction which followed upon her excitement to give him more than the

briefest account of what she had heard and said; but Mutimer cared

little for details. He drew an easy-chair near to the fire and begged

her to rest. As she lay back for a moment with closed eyes, he took her

faint hand and put it to his lips. He had never done so before; when she

glanced at him he averted his face in embarrassment.

He would have persuaded her to go to bed, but she declared that sleep

was impossible; she had much rather sit up with him till news came of

Alice, as it surely must do in course of the night. For Mutimer there

was no resting; he circled continually about the neighbouring streets,

returning to the house every quarter of an hour, always to find Adela in

the same position. Her heart would not fall to its normal beat, and the

vision of those harsh faces would not pass from her mind.

At two o’clock they heard that Alice was found. She had been discovered

several miles from home, lying unconscious in the street, and was now

in a hospital. Mutimer set off at once; he returned with the report that

she was between life and death. It was impossible to remove her.

Adela slept a little between six and eight; her husband took even

shorter rest. When she came down to the sitting-room, he was reading the

morning paper. As she entered he uttered a cry of astonishment and rage.

‘Look here!’ he exclaimed to her. ‘Read that!’

He pointed to an account of the Irish Dairy Company frauds, in which it

was stated that the secretary, known as Delancey, appeared also to have

borne the name of Rodman.

They gazed at each other.

‘Then it was Rodman wrote that letter!’ Mutimer cried. ‘I’ll swear to

it. He did it to injure me at the last moment. Why haven’t they got him

yet? The police are useless. But they’ve got Hilary, I see--yes, they’ve

got Hilary. He was caught at Dover. Ha, ha! He denies everything--says

he didn’t even know of the secretary’s decamping. The lying scoundrel!

Says he was going to Paris on private business. But they’ve got him! And

see here again: “The same Rodman is at present wanted by the police on a

charge of bigamy.” Wanted! If they weren’t incompetent fools they’d have

had him already. Ten to one he’s out of England.’

It was a day of tumult for Mutimer. At the hospital he found no

encouragement, but he could only leave Alice in the hands of the

doctors. From the hospital he went to his mother’s house; he had not

yet had time to let her know of anything. But his main business lay in

Clerkenwell and in various parts of the East End, wherever he could see

his fellow-agitators. In hot haste he wrote an announcement of a meeting

on Clerkenwell Green for Sunday afternoon, and had thousands of copies

printed on slips; by evening these were scattered throughout his

‘parishes.’ He found that the calumny affecting him was already widely

known; several members of his committee met him with black looks. Here

and there an ironical question was put to him about his sister’s health.

With the knowledge that Alice might be dying or dead, he could scarcely

find words of reply. His mood changed from fear and indignation to

a grim fury; within a few hours he made many resolute enemies by his

reckless vehemence and vituperation.

The evening papers brought him a piece of intelligence which would have

rejoiced him but for something with which it was coupled. Delancey,

_alias_ Rodman, _alias_ Williamson, was arrested; he had been caught in

Hamburg. The telegram added that he talked freely and had implicated

a number of persons--among them a certain Socialist agitator, name not

given. As Mutimer read this he fell for a moment into blank despair. He

returned at once to Holloway, all but resolved to throw up the game--to

abandon the effort to defend himself, and wait for what might result

from the judicial investigations. Adela resisted this to the uttermost.

She understood that such appearance of fear would be fatal to him. With

a knowledge of Demos which owed much to her last night’s experience, she

urged to him that behind his back calumny would thrive unchecked, would

grow in a day to proportions altogether irresistible. She succeeded in

restoring his courage, though at the same time there revived in Mutimer

the savage spirit which could only result in harm to himself.

‘This is how they repay a man who works for them!’ he cried repeatedly.

‘The ungrateful brutes! Let me once clear myself, and I’ll throw it up,

bid them find someone else to fight their battles for them. It’s always

been the same: history shows it What have I got for myself out of it

all, I’d like to know? Haven’t I given them every penny I had? Let them

do their worst! Let them bark and bray till they are hoarse!’

He would have kept away from Clerkenwell that evening, but even this

Adela would not let him do. She insisted that he must be seen and heard,

that the force of innocence would prevail even with his enemies. The

couple of hours he passed with her were spent in ceaseless encouragement

on her side, in violent tirades on his. He paced the room like a caged

lion, at one moment execrating Rodman, the next railing against the

mob to whose interests he had devoted himself. Now and then his voice

softened, and he spoke of Alice.

‘The scoundrel set even her against me! If she lives, perhaps she’ll

believe I’m guilty; how can my word stand against her husband’s? Why, he

isn’t her husband at all! It’s a good thing if she dies--the best thing

that could happen. What will become of her? What are we to call her?

She’s neither married nor single. Can we keep it from her, do you think?

No, that won’t do; she must be free to marry an honest man. You’ll try

and make friends with her, Adela--if ever you’ve the chance? She’ll

have to live with us, of course unless she’d rather live with mother. We

mustn’t tell her for a long time, till she’s strong enough to bear it.’

He with difficulty ate a few mouthfuls and went off to Clerkenwell.

In the erstwhile dancing-saloon it was a night of tempest. Mutimer

had never before addressed an unfriendly audience. After the first few

interruptions he lost his temper, and with it his cause, as far as

these present hearers were concerned. When he left them, it was amid

the mutterings of a storm which was not quite--only not quite--ready to

burst in fury.

‘Who knows you won’t take yer ‘ook before to-morrow?’ cried a voice as

he neared the door.

‘Wait and see!’ Mutimer shouted in reply, with a savage laugh. ‘I’ve a

word or two to say yet to blackguards like you.’

He could count on some twenty pairs of fists in the room, if it came to

that point; but he was allowed to depart unmolested.

On the way home he called at the hospital. There was no change in

Alice’s condition.

The next day he remained at home till it was time to start for

Clerkenwell Green. He was all but worn out, and there was nothing of any

use to be done before the meeting assembled. Adela went for him to the

hospital and brought back still the same report. He ate fairly well of

his midday dinner, seeming somewhat calmer. Adela, foreseeing his main

danger, begged him to address the people without anger, assured him that

a dignified self-possession would go much farther than any amount of

blustering. He was induced to promise that he would follow her advice.

He purposed walking to the Green; the exercise would perhaps keep his

nerves in order. When it was time to start, he took Adela’s hand, and

for a second time kissed it. She made an effort over herself and

held her lips to him. The ‘good-bye’ was exchanged, with a word of

strengthening from Adela; but still he did not go. He was endeavouring

to speak.

‘I don’t think I’ve thanked you half enough,’ he said at length, ‘for

what you did on Friday night.’

‘Yes, more than enough,’ was the reply.

‘You make little of it, but it’s a thing very few women would have done.

And it was hard for you, because you’re a lady.’

‘No less a woman,’ murmured Adela, her head bowed.

‘And a good woman--I believe with all my heart. I want to ask you to

forgive me--for things I once said to you. I was a brute. Perhaps if I

had been brought up in the same kind of way that you were--that’s the

difference between us, you see. But try if you can to forget it. I’ll

never think anything but good of you as long as I live.’

She could not reply, for a great sob was choking her. She pressed his

band; the tears broke from her eyes as she turned away.

It being Sunday afternoon, visitors were admitted to the hospital in

which Alice lay. Mutimer had allowed himself time to pass five minutes

by his sister’s bedside on the way to Clerkenwell. Alice was still

unconscious; she lay motionless, but her lips muttered unintelligible

words. He bent over her and spoke, but she did not regard him. It was

perhaps the keenest pain Mutimer had ever known to look into those eyes

and meet no answering intelligence. By close listening he believed he

heard her utter the name of her husband. It was useless to stay; he

kissed her and left the ward.

On his arrival at Clerkenwell Green--a large triangular space which

merits the name of Green as much as the Strand--he found a considerable

gathering already assembled about the cart from which he was to speak.

The inner circle consisted of his friends--some fifty who remained

staunch in their faith. Prominent among them was the man Redgrave, he

who had presented the address when Mutimer took leave of his New Wanley

workpeople. He had come to London at the same time as his leader,

and had done much to recommend Mutimer’s scheme in the East End. His

muscular height made those about him look puny. He was red in the face

with the excitement of abusing Mutimer’s enemies, and looked as if

nothing would please him better than to second words with arguments more

cogent. He and those about him hailed the agitator’s appearance with

three ringing cheers. A little later came a supporter whom Richard had

not expected to see--Mr. Westlake. Only this morning intelligence of

what was going on had reached his ears. At once he had scouted the

accusations as incredible; he deemed it a duty to present himself on

Mutimer’s side. Outside this small cluster was an indefinable mob, a

portion of it bitterly hostile, a part indifferent; among the latter

a large element of mere drifting blackguardism, the raff of a city,

anticipating with pleasure an uproar which would give them unwonted

opportunities of violence and pillage. These gentle men would with equal

zeal declare for Mutimer or his opponents, as the fortune of the day

directed them.

The core of the hostile party consisted of those who followed the banner

of Comrade Roodhouse, the ralliers to the ‘Tocsin.’ For them it was a

great occasion. The previous evening had seen a clamorous assembly in

the room behind the Hoxton coffee-shop. Comrade Roodhouse professed to

have full details of the scandal which had just come to light. According

to him, there was no doubt whatever that Mutimer had known from the

first the character of the bogus Company, and had wittingly used the

money of the East-Enders to aid in floating a concern which would

benefit himself and a few others. Roodhouse disclosed the identity of

Mr. Robert Delancey, and explained the relations existing between Rodman

and Mutimer, ignoring the fact that a lawsuit had of late turned their

friendship to mutual animosity. It was an opportunity not to be missed

for paying back the hard things Mutimer had constantly said of the

‘Tocsin’ party. Comrade Roodhouse was busy in the crowd, sowing

calumnies and fermenting wrath. In the crowd were our old acquaintances

Messrs. Cowes and Cullen, each haranguing as many as could be got

to form a circle and listen, indulging themselves in measureless

vituperation, crying shame on traitors to the noble cause. Here, too,

was Daniel Dabbs, mainly interested in the occasion as an admirable

provocative of thirst. He was much disposed to believe Mutimer guilty,

but understood that it was none of his business to openly take part

with either side. He stood well on the limits of the throng; it was not

impossible that the debate might end in the cracking of crowns, in

which case Mr. Dabbs, as a respectable licensed victualler whose weekly

profits had long since made him smile at the follies of his youth, would

certainly incur no needless risk to his own valuable scalp.

The throng thickened; it was impossible that the speakers should be

audible to the whole assembly. Hastily it was decided to arrange two

centres. Whilst Mutimer was speaking at the lower end of the Green,

Redgrave would lift up his voice in the opposite part, and make it

understood that Mutimer would repeat his address there as soon as he

had satisfied the hearers below. The meeting was announced for three

o’clock, but it was half an hour later before Mutimer stood up on the

cart and extended his hand in appeal for silence. It at first seemed as

if he could not succeed in making his voice heard at all. A cluster

of Roodhouse’s followers, under the pretence of demanding quiet, made

incessant tumult. But ultimately the majority, those who were merely

curious, and such of the angry East-Enders as really wanted to hear

what Mutimer had to say for himself, imposed silence. Richard began his

speech.

He had kept Adela’s warning in mind, and determined to be calmly

dignified in his refutal of the charges brought against him. For five

minutes he impressed his hearers. He had never spoken better. In the

beginning he briefly referred to the facts of his life, spoke of the use

he had made of wealth when he possessed it, demanded if it was likely

that he should join with swindlers to rob the very class to which he

himself was proud to belong, and for which he had toiled unceasingly.

He spoke of Rodman, and denied that he had ever known of this man’s

connection with the Company--a man who was his worst enemy. He it was,

this Rodman, who doubtless had written the letter which first directed

suspicion in the wrong quarter; it was an act such as Rodman would be

capable of, for the sake of gratifying his enmity. And how had that

enmity arisen? He told the story of the lawsuit; showed how, in that

matter, he had stood up for common honesty, though at the time Rodman

was his friend. Then he passed to the subject of his stewardship.

Why had he put that trust money into a concern without sufficient

investigation? He could make but one straightforward answer: he had

believed that the Company was sound, and he bought shares because the

dividends promised to be large, and it was his first desire to do the

very best he could for those who had laid their hard-earned savings in

his hands.

For some minutes he had had increasing difficulty in holding his voice

above the noise of interruptions, hostile or friendly. It now became

impossible for him to proceed. A man who was lifted on to the shoulders

of two others began to make a counter-speech, roaring so that those

around could not but attend to him. He declared himself one of those

whom Mutimer had robbed; all his savings for seven months were gone; he

was now out of work, and his family would soon be starving. Richard’s

blood boiled as he heard these words.

‘You lie!’ he bellowed in return; ‘I know you. You are the fellow who

said last night that I should run away, and never come at all to this

meeting. I called you a blackguard then, and I call you a liar now. You

have put in my hand six threepences, and no more. The money you might

have saved you constantly got drunk upon. Your money is waiting for you:

you have only to come and apply for it. And I say the same to all

the rest. I am ready to pay all the money back, and pay it too with

interest.’

‘Of course you are!’ vociferated the other. ‘You can’t steal it, so you

offer to give it back. We know that game.’

It was the commencement of utter confusion. A hundred voices were trying

to make themselves heard. The great crowd swayed this way and that.

Mutimer looked on a tempest of savage faces--a sight which might have

daunted any man in his position. Fists were shaken at him, curses were

roared at him from every direction. It was clear that the feeling of

the mob was hopelessly against him; his explanations were ridiculed. A

second man was reared on others’ shoulders; but instead of speaking from

the place where he was, he demanded to be borne forward and helped to

a standing on the cart. This was effected after a brief struggle with

Mutimer’s supporters. Then all at once there was a cessation of the

hubbub that the new speaker might be heard.

‘Look at this man!’ he cried, pointing at Mutimer, who had drawn as far

aside as the cart would let him. ‘He’s been a-tellin’ you what he did

when somebody died an’ left him a fortune. There’s just one thing he’s

forgot, an’ shall I tell you what that is? When he was a workin’ man

like ourselves, mates, he was a-goin’ to marry a pore girl, a workin’

girl. When he gets his money, what does he do? Why, he pitches her

over, if you please, an’ marries a fine lady, as took him because he

was rich--that’s the way _ladies_ always chooses their husbands,

y’understand.’

He was interrupted by a terrific yell, but by dint of vigorous pantomime

secured a hearing again.

‘But wait a bit, maties; I haven’t done yet. He pitches over the pore

girl, but he does worse afterwards. He sets a tale a-goin’ as she’d

disgraced herself, as she wasn’t fit to be a honest man’s wife. An’ it

was all a damned lie, as lots of us knows. Now what d’ye think o’ that!

This is a friend o’ the People, this is! This is the man as ‘as your

interests at ‘art, mates! If he’ll do a thing like that, won’t he rob

you of your savin’s?’

As soon as he knew what the man was about to speak of, Mutimer felt

the blood rush back upon his heart. It was as when a criminal hears

delivered against him a damning item of evidence. He knew that he was

pale, that every feature declared his consciousness of guilt. In vain he

tried to face the mob and smile contemptuously. His eyes fell; he stood

without the power of speech.

The yell was repeated, and prolonged, owing to another cause than the

accusation just heard. When the accuser was borne forwards to the cart,

a rumour spread among those more remote that an attack was being made on

Mutimer and his friends. The rumour reached that part of the Green where

Redgrave was then haranguing. At once the listeners faced about in the

direction of the supposed conflict. Redgrave himself leaped down, and

called upon all supporters of Mutimer to follow him. It was the crash

between two crowds which led to the prolonging of the yell.

The meeting was over, the riot had begun.

Picture them, the indignant champions of honesty, the avengers of virtue

defamed! Demos was roused, was tired of listening to mere articulate

speech; it was time for a good wild-beast roar, for a taste of

bloodshed. Scarcely a face in all the mob but distorted itself to

express as much savagery as can be got out of the human countenance.

Mutimer, seeing what had come, sprang down from the cart. He was at once

carried yards away in an irresistible rush. Impossible for him and

his friends to endeavour to hold their ground: they were too vastly

outnumbered; the most they could do was to hold together and use every

opportunity of retreat, standing in the meanwhile on the defensive.

There was no adequate body of police on the Green; the riot would take

its course unimpeded by the hired servants of the capitalist State.

Redgrave little by little fought his way to within sight of Mutimer; he

brought with him a small but determined contingent. On all sides was the

thud of blows, the indignant shouting of the few who desired to preserve

order mingled with the clamour of those who combated. Demos was having

his way; civilisation was blotted out, and club law proclaimed.

Mutimer lost his hat in jumping from the cart; in five minutes his

waistcoat and shirt were rent open, whether by friends in guarding him,

or by foes in assailing, it was impossible to say. But his bodyguard

held together with wonderful firmness, only now and then an enemy got

near enough to dash a fist in his face. If he fell into the hands of the

mob he was done for; Mutimer knew that, and was ready to fight for his

life. But the direction taken by the main current of the crowd favoured

him. In about twenty minutes he was swept away from the Green, and into

a street. There were now fewer foes about him; he saw an opportunity,

and together with Redgrave burst away. There was no shame in taking to

flight where the odds against him were so overwhelming. But pursuers

were close behind him; their cry gave a lead to the chase. He looked for

some by-way as he rushed along the pavement. But an unexpected refuge

offered itself. He was passing a little group of women, when a voice

from among them cried loudly--‘In here! In here!’ He saw that a

house-door was open, saw a hand beckon wildly, and at once sprang for

the retreat. A woman entered immediately behind him and slammed the

door, but he did not see that a stick which the foremost of his pursuers

had flung at him came with a terrible blow full upon his preserver’s

face.

For a moment he could only lean against the wall of the passage,

recovering his breath. Where he stood it was almost dark, for the

evening was drawing in. The woman who had rescued him was standing near,

but he could not distinguish her face. He heard the mob assembling in

the narrow street, their shouts, their trampling, and speedily there

began a great noise at the door. A beating with sticks and fists, a

thundering at the knocker.

‘Are you the landlady?’ Mutimer asked, turning to his silent companion.

‘No,’ was the reply. ‘She is outside, I must put up the chain. They

might get her latchkey from her.’

At the first syllable he started; the voice was so familiar to him. The

words were spoken with an entire absence of womanish consternation; the

voice trembled a little, but for all that there was calm courage in its

sound. When she had made the door secure and turned again towards him,

he looked into her face as closely as he could.

‘Is it Emma?’

‘Yes.’

Both were silent. Mutimer forgot all about his danger; that at this

moment he should meet Emma Vine, that it should be she who saved him,

impressed him with awe which was stronger than all the multitude of

sensations just now battling within him. For it was her name that had

roused the rabble finally against him. For his wrong to her he knew that

he would have suffered justly; yet her hand it was that barred the door

against his brutal pursuers. A sudden weakness shook his limbs; he had

again to lean upon the wall for support, and, scarcely conscious of what

he did, he sobbed three or four times.

‘Are you hurt?’ Emma asked.

‘No, I’m not hurt, no.’

Two children had come down the stairs, and were clinging to Emma, crying

with fright. For the noise at the door was growing terrific.

‘Who is there in the house?’ Mutimer asked.

‘No one, I think. The landlady and two other women who live here are

outside. My sister is away somewhere.’

‘Can I get off by the back?’

‘No. There’s a little yard, but the walls are far too high.’

‘They’ll break the door through. If they do, the devils are as likely to

kill you as me. I must go upstairs to a window and speak to them. I may

do something yet. Sooner than put you in danger I’ll go out and let them

do their worst Listen to them! That’s the People, that is! I deserve

killing, fool that I am, if only for the lying good I’ve said of them.

Let me go up into your room, if it has a window in the front.’

He led up the stairs, and Emma showed him the door of her room--the same

in which she had received the visit of Daniel Dabbs. He looked about it,

saw the poverty of it. Then he looked at Emma.

‘Good God! Who has hit you?’

There was a great cut on her cheek, the blood was running down upon her

dress.

‘Somebody threw a stick,’ she answered, trying to smile. ‘I don’t feel

it; I’ll tie a handkerchief on it.’

Again a fit of sobbing seized him; he felt as weak as a child.

‘The cowardly roughs! Give me the handkerchief--I’ll tie it. Emma!’

‘Think of your own safety,’ she replied hurriedly. ‘I tell you I don’t

feel any pain. Do you think you can get them to listen to you?’

‘I’ll try. There’s nothing else for it. You stand at the back of the

room; they may throw something at me.’

‘Oh, then, don’t open the window! They can’t break the door. Some help

will come.’

‘They _will_ break the door. You’d be as safe among wild beasts as among

those fellows if they get into the house.’

He threw up the sash, though Emma would not go from his side. In the

street below was a multitude which made but one ravening monster; all

its eyes were directed to the upper storeys of this house. Mutimer

looked to the right and to the left. In the latter quarter he saw the

signs of a struggle Straining his eyes through the dusk, he perceived

a mounted police-officer forcing his way through the throng; on either

side were visible the helmets of constables. He drew a deep sigh of

relief, for the efforts of the mob against the house door could scarcely

succeed unless they used more formidable weapons for assault, and that

would now be all but impossible.

He drew his bead back into the room and looked at Emma with a laugh of

satisfaction.

‘The police are making way! There’s nothing to fear now.’

‘Come away from the window, then,’ Emma urged. ‘It is useless to show

yourself.’

‘Let them see me, the blackguards! They’re so tight packed they haven’t

a band among them to aim anything.’

As he spoke, he again leaned forward from the window-sill, and stretched

his arms towards the approaching rescuers. That same instant a heavy

fragment of stone, hurled with deadly force and precision, struck him

upon the temple. The violence of the blow flung him back into the room;

he dropped to his knees, threw out a hand as if to save himself, then

sank face foremost upon the floor. Not a sound had escaped his lips.

Emma, with a low cry of horror, bent to him and put her arm about his

body. Raising his head, she saw that, though his eyes were staring, they

had no power of sight; on his lips were flecks of blood. She laid her

cheeks to his lips, but could discern no breath; she tore apart the

clothing from his breast, but her hand could not find his heart. Then

she rushed for a pillow, placed it beneath his head, and began to bathe

his face. Not all the great love which leaped like flame in her bosom

could call the dead to life.

The yells which had greeted Mutimer’s appearance at the window were

followed by a steady roar, mingled with scornful laughter at his speedy

retreat; only a few saw or suspected that he had been gravely hit by the

missile. Then the tumult began to change its character; attention was

drawn from the house to the advancing police, behind whom came a band

of Mutimer’s adherents, led by Redgrave. The latter were cheering; the

hostile rabble met their cheers with defiant challenges. The police

had now almost more than they could do to prevent a furious collision

between the two bodies; but their numbers kept increasing, as

detachments arrived one after another, and at length the house itself

was firmly guarded, whilst the rioters on both sides were being put to

flight. It was not a long street; the police cleared it completely and

allowed no one to enter at either end.

It was all but dark when at length the door of Emma’s room was opened

and six or seven women appeared, searching for Mutimer. The landlady was

foremost; she carried a lamp. It showed the dead man at full length on

the floor, and Emma kneeling beside him, holding his hand. Near her

were the two children, crying miserably. Emma appeared to have lost her

voice; when the light flashed upon her eyes she covered them with one

hand, with the other pointed downwards. The women broke into cries

of fright and lamentation. They clustered around the prostrate form,

examined it, demanded explanations. One at length sped down to the

street and shortly returned with two policemen. A messenger was

despatched for a doctor.

Emma did not move; she was not weeping, but paid no attention to any

words addressed to her. The room was thronged with curious neighbours,

there was a hubbub of talk. When at length the medical man arrived, he

cleared the chamber of all except Emma. After a brief examination of the

body he said to her:

‘You are his wife?’

She, still kneeling, looked up into his face with pained astonishment.

‘His wife? Oh no! I am a stranger.’

The doctor showed surprise.

‘He was killed in your presence?’

‘He is dead--really dead?’ she asked under her breath. And, as she

spoke, she laid her hand upon his arm.

‘He must have been killed instantaneously. Did the stone fall in the

room? Was it a stone?’

No one had searched for the missile. The doctor discovered it not far

away. Whilst he was weighing it in his hand there came a knock at the

door. It was Mr. Westlake who entered. He came and looked at the dead

man, then, introducing himself, spoke a few words with the doctor.

Assured that there was no shadow of hope, he withdrew, having looked

closely at Emma, who now stood a little apart, her hands held together

before her.

The doctor departed a few moments later. He had examined the wound on

the girl’s face, and found that it was not serious. As he was going,

Emma said to him:

‘Will you tell them to keep away--all the people in the house?’

‘This is your own room?’

‘I live here with my sister.’

‘I will ask them to respect your wish. The body must stay here for the

present, though.’

‘Oh yes, yes, I know.’

‘Is your sister at home?’

‘She will be soon. Please tell them not to come here.’

She was alone again with the dead. It cost her great efforts of mind to

convince herself that Mutimer really had breathed his last; it seemed to

her but a moment since she heard him speak, heard him laugh; was not a

trace of the laugh even now discernible on his countenance? How was it

possible for life to vanish in this way? She constantly touched him,

spoke to him. It was incredible that he should not be able to hear her.

Her love for him was immeasurable. Bitterness she had long since

overcome, and she had thought that love, too, was gone with it. She had

deceived herself. Her heart, incredible as it may seem, had even known

a kind of hope--how else could she have borne the life which fate laid

upon her?--the hope that is one with love, that asks nothing of the

reason, nor yields to reason’s contumely. He had been smitten dead at

the moment that she loved him dearest.

Her sister Kate came in. She had been spending the day with friends in

another part of London. When just within the door she stopped and looked

at the body nervously.

‘Emma!’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come downstairs? Mrs. Lake’ll let us

have her back room, and tea’s waiting for you. I wonder how you _can_

stay here.’

‘I can’t come. I want to be alone, Kate. Tell them not to come up.’

‘But you can’t stay here all night, child!’

‘I can’t talk. I want to be alone. Perhaps I’ll come down before long.’

Kate withdrew and went to gossip with the people who were incessantly

coming and going in the lower part of the house. The opening and

shutting of the front door, the sound of voices, the hurrying feet upon

the staircase, were audible enough to Emma. She heard, too, the crowds

that kept passing along the street, their shouts, their laughter, the

voices of the policemen bidding them move on. It was all a nightmare,

from which she strove to awake.

At length she was able to weep. Gazing constantly at the dead face,

she linked it at last with some far-off memory of tenderness, and that

brought her tears. She held the cold hand against her heart and eased

herself with passionate sobbing, with low wails, with loving utterance

of his name. Thus it happened that she did not hear when someone knocked

lightly at the door and entered. A shadow across the still features

told her of another’s presence. Starting back, she saw a lady from whose

pale, beautiful face a veil had just been raised. The stranger, who was

regarding her with tenderly compassionate eyes, said:

‘I am Mrs. Mutimer.’

Emma rose to her feet and drew a little apart. Her face fell.

‘They told me downstairs,’ Adela pursued, ‘that I should find Miss Vine

in the room. Is your name Emma Vine?’

Emma asked herself whether this lady, his wife, could know anything

of her story. It seemed so, from the tone of the question. She only

replied:

‘Yes, it is.’

Then she again ventured to look up at the woman whose beauty had made

her life barren. There were no signs of tears on Adela’s face; to Emma

she seemed cold, though so grave and gentle. Adela gazed for a while

at the dead man. She, too, felt as though it were all a dream. The

spectacle of Emma’s passionate grief had kept her emotion within her

heart, perhaps had weakened it.

‘You have yourself been hurt,’ she said, turning again to the other.

Emma only shook her head. She suffered terribly from Adela’s presence.

‘I will go,’ she said in a whisper.

‘This is your room, I think?’

‘Yes.’

‘May I stay here?’

‘Of course--you must.’

Emma was moving towards the door.

‘You wish to go?’ Adela said, uttering the words involuntarily.

‘Yes, I must.’

Adela, left alone, stood gazing at the dead face. She did not kneel by

her husband, as Emma had done, but a terrible anguish came upon her as

she gazed; she buried her face in her hands. Her feeling was more of

horror at the crime that had been committed than of individual grief.

Yet grief she knew. The last words her husband had spoken to her were

good and worthy; in her memory they overcame all else. That parting when

he left home had seemed to her like the beginning of a new life for him.

Could not his faults be atoned for otherwise than by this ghastly end?

She had no need to direct her thoughts to the good that was in him. Even

as she had taken his part against his traducers, so she now was

stirred in spirit against his murderers. She felt a solemn gladness in

remembering that she had stood before that meeting in the Clerkenwell

room and served him as far as it was in a woman’s power to do. All

her long sufferings were forgotten; this supreme calamity of death

outweighed them all. His enemies had murdered him; would they not

continue to assail his name? She resolved that his memory should be

her care. That had nothing to do with love; simple justice demanded it.

Justice and gratitude for the last words he had spoken to her.

She had as yet scarcely noticed the room in which she was. At length

she surveyed it; its poverty brought tears in her eyes. There had been a

fire, but the last spark was dead. She began to feel cold.

Soon there was the sound of someone ascending the stairs, and Emma,

after knocking, again entered. She carried a tray with tea-things, which

she placed upon the table. Then, having glanced at the fireplace, she

took from a cupboard wood and paper and was beginning to make a fire

when Adela stopped her, saying:

‘You must not do that for me. I will light the fire myself, if you will

let me.’

Emma looked up in surprise.

‘It is kind of you to bring me the tea,’ Adela continued. ‘But let me do

the rest.’

‘If you wish to--yes,’ the other replied, without understanding the

thought which prompted Adela. She carefully held herself from glancing

towards the dead man, and moved away.

Adela approached her.

‘Have you a room for the night?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Will you--will you take my hand before you leave me?’ She held it

forth; Emma, with eyes turned to the ground, gave her own.

‘Look at me,’ Adela said, under her breath.

Their eyes met, and at last Emma understood. In that grave, noble gaze

was far more than sympathy and tenderness; it was a look that besought

pardon.

‘May I come to you in the night to see if you need anything?’ Emma

asked.

‘I shall need nothing. Come only if you can’t sleep.’

Adela lit the fire and began her night’s watching.

CHAPTER XXXVI

A deep breath of country air. It is springtime, and the valley of Wanley

is bursting into green and flowery life, peacefully glad as if the foot

of Demos had never come that way. Incredible that the fume of furnaces

ever desecrated that fleece-sown sky of tenderest blue, that hammers

clanged and engines roared where now the thrush utters his song so

joyously. Hubert Eldon has been as good as his word. In all the valley

no trace is left of what was called New Wanley. Once more we can climb

to the top of Stanbury Hill and enjoy the sense of remoteness and

security when we see that dark patch on the horizon, the cloud that

hangs over Belwick.

Hubert and the vicar of Wanley stood there together one morning in late

April, more than a year after the death of Richard Mutimer. Generally

there was a strong breeze on this point, but to-day the west was

breathing its gentlest, warm upon the cheek.

‘Well, it has gone,’ Hubert said. ‘May will have free playing-ground.’

‘In one sense,’ replied the vicar, ‘I fear it will never be gone. Its

influence on the life of the people in Wanley and in some of the farms

about has been graver than you imagine. I find discontent where it was

formerly unknown. The typical case is that lad of Bolton’s. They

wanted him sadly at home; by this time he would have been helping his

unfortunate father. Instead of that he’s the revolutionary oracle of

Belwick pot-houses, and appears on an average once a fortnight before

the magistrates for being drunk and disorderly.’

‘Yes, the march of progress has been hastened a little, doubtless,’ said

Hubert. ‘I have to content myself with the grass and the trees. Well,

I have done all I could, now other people must enjoy the results. Ah,

look! there is a van of the Edgeworths’ furniture coming to the Manor.

They are happy people! Something like an ideal married couple, and with

nothing to do but to wander about the valley and enjoy themselves.’

‘I am rather surprised you gave them so long a lease,’ remarked Mr.

Wyvern.

‘Why not? I shall never live here again. As long as I had work to do it

was all right; but to continue to live in that house was impossible.

And in twenty years it would be no less impossible. I should fall into a

monomania, and one of a very loathsome kind.’

Mr. Wyvern pondered. They walked on a few paces before Hubert again

spoke.

‘There was a letter from her in the “Belwick Chronicle” yesterday

morning Something on the placard in Agworth station caused me to buy

a copy. The Tory paper, it seems, had a leader a day or two ago on

Socialism, and took occasion to sneer at Mutimer, not by name, but in an

unmistakable way--the old scandal of course. She wrote a letter to the

editor, and he courteously paid no attention to it. So she wrote to the

“Chronicle.” They print her in large type, and devote a leader to the

subject--party capital, of course.’

He ceased on a bitter tone, then, before his companion could reply,

added violently:

‘It is hideous to see her name in such places!’

‘Let us speak freely of this,’ returned Mr. Wyvern. ‘You seem to me to

be very unjust. Your personal feeling makes you less acute in judging

than I should have expected. Surely her behaviour is very admirable.’

‘Oh, I am not unjust in that sense. I have never refused to believe in

his innocence technically.’

‘Excuse me, that has nothing to do with the matter. All we have to look

at is this. She is herself convinced of his innocence, and therefore

makes it her supreme duty to defend his memory. It appears to me that

she acts altogether nobly. In spite of all the evidence that was brought

on his side, the dastardly spirit of politics has persisted in making

Mutimer a sort of historical character, a type of the hypocritical

demagogue, to be cited whenever occasion offers. Would it be possible to

attach a more evil significance to a man’s name than that which Mutimer

bears, and will continue to bear, among certain sections of writing

and speechifying vermin? It is a miserable destiny. If every man

who achieves notoriety paid for his faults in this way, what sort of

reputations would history consist of? I won’t say that it isn’t a good

thing, speaking generally, but in the individual case it is terribly

hard. Would you have his widow keep silence? That would be the easier

thing to do, be sure of it--for _her_, a thousand times the easier. I

regard her as the one entirely noble woman it has been my lot to

know. And if you thought calmly you could not speak of her with such

impatience.’

Hubert kept silence for a moment.

‘It is all true. Of course it only means that I am savagely jealous. But

I cannot--upon my life I cannot--understand her having given her love to

such a man as that!’

Mr. Wyvern seemed to regard the landscape. There was a sad smile on his

countenance.

‘Let there be an end of it,’ Hubert resumed. ‘I didn’t mean to say

anything to you about the letter. Now, we’ll talk of other things. Well,

I am going to have a summer among the German galleries; perhaps I shall

find peace there. You have let your son know that I am coming?’

The vicar nodded. They continued their walk along the top of the hill.

Presently Mr. Wyvern stopped and faced his companion.

‘Are you serious in what you said just now? I mean about her love for

Mutimer?’

‘Serious? Of course I am. Why should you ask such a question?’

‘Because I find it difficult to distinguish between the things a young

man says in jealous pique and the real belief he entertains when he is

not throwing savage words about. You have convinced yourself that she

loved her husband in the true sense of the word?’

‘The conviction was forced upon me. Why did she marry him at all? What

led her to give herself, heart and soul, to Socialism, she who under

ordinary circumstances would have shrunk from that and all other _isms_?

Why should she make it a special entreaty to me to pursue her husband’s

work? The zeal for his memory is nothing unanticipated; it issues

naturally from her former state of mind.’

‘Your vehemence,’ replied the vicar, smiling, ‘is sufficient proof that

you don’t think it impossible for all these questions to be answered

in another sense. I can’t pretend to have read the facts of her life

infallibly, but suppose I venture a hint or two, just to give you matter

for thought. Why she married him I cannot wholly explain to myself, but

remember that she took that step very shortly after being brought to

believe that you, my good friend, were utterly unworthy of any true

woman’s devotion. Remember, too, her brother’s influence, and--well, her

mother’s. Now, on the evening before she accepted Mutimer she called at

the Vicarage alone. Unfortunately I was away--was walking with you, in

fact. What she desired to say to me I can only conjecture; but it is not

impossible that she was driven by the common impulse which sends young

girls to their pastor when they are in grievous trouble and without

other friends.’

‘Why did you never tell me of that?’ cried Hubert.

‘Because it would have been useless, and, to tell you the truth, I felt

I was in an awkward position, not far from acting indiscreetly. I did go

to see her the next morning, but only saw her mother, and heard of the

engagement. Adela never spoke to me of her visit.’

‘But she may have come for quite other reasons. Her subsequent behaviour

remains.’

‘Certainly. Here again I may be altogether wrong, but it seems to me

that to a woman of her character there was only one course open. Having

become his wife, it behoved her to be loyal, and especially--remember

this--it behoved her to put her position beyond doubt in the eyes of

others, in the eyes of one, it may be, beyond all. Does that throw no

light on your meeting with her in the wood, of which you make so much?’

Hubert’s countenance shone, but only for an instant.

‘Ingenious,’ he replied, good-humouredly.

‘Possibly no more,’ Mr. Wyvern rejoined. ‘Take it as a fanciful sketch

of how a woman’s life _might_ be ordered. Such a life would not lack its

dignity.’

Neither spoke for a while.

‘You will call on Mrs. Westlake as you pass through London?’ Mr. Wyvern

next inquired.

‘Mrs. Westlake?’ the other repeated absently. ‘Yes, I dare say I shall

see her.’

‘Do, by all means.’

They began to descend the hill.

The Walthams no longer lived in Wanley. A year ago the necessities of

Alfred Waltham’s affairs had led to a change; he and his wife and their

two children, together with Mrs. Waltham the dowager, removed to what

the auctioneers call a commodious residence on the outskirts of Belwick.

Alfred remarked that it was as well not to be so far from civilisation;

he pointed out, too, that it was time for him to have an eye to civic

dignities, if only a place on the Board of Guardians to begin with.

Our friend was not quite so uncompromising in his political and social

opinions as formerly. His wife observed that he ceased to subscribe

to Socialist papers, and took in a daily of orthodox Liberal

tendencies--that is to say, an organ of capitalism. Letty rejoiced at

the change, but knew her husband far too well to make any remark upon

it.

To their house, about three months after her husband’s death, came

Adela. The intermediate time she had passed with Stella. All were very

glad to have her at Belwick--Letty in particular, who, though a matron

with two bouncing boys, still sat at Adela’s feet and deemed her the

model of womanhood. Adela was not so sad as they had feared to find her.

She kept a great deal to her own room, but was always engaged in study,

and seemed to find peace in that way. She was silent in her habits,

scarcely ever joining in general conversation; but when Letty could

steal an hour from household duties and go to Adela’s room she was

always sure of hearing wise and tender words in which her heart

delighted. Her pride in Adela was boundless. On the day when the latter

first attired herself in modified mourning, Letty, walking with her in

the garden, could not refrain from saying how Adela’s dress became her.

‘You are more beautiful every day, dear,’ she added, in spite of a

tremor which almost checked her in uttering a compliment which her

sister might think too frivolous.

But Adela blushed, one would have thought it was with pleasure. Sadness,

however, followed, and Letty wondered whether the beautiful face was

destined to wear its pallor always.

On this same spring morning, when Hubert Eldon was taking leave of

Wanley, Mrs. Waltham and Letty were talking of a visit Adela was about

to pay to Stella in London. They spoke also of a visitor of their

own, or, perhaps, rather of Adela’s, who had been in the house for

a fortnight and would return to London on the morrow. This was Alice

Mutimer--no longer to be called Mrs. Rodman. Alice had lived with her

mother in Wilton Square since her recovery from the illness which for a

long time had kept her in ignorance of the double calamity fallen upon

her. It was Adela who at length told her that she had no husband, and

that her brother Richard was dead. Neither disclosure affected her

gravely. The months of mental desolation followed by physical collapse

seemed to have exhausted her powers of suffering. For several days

she kept to herself and cried a good deal, but she exhibited no bitter

grief. It soon became evident that she thought but little of the man who

had so grossly wronged her; he was quite gone from her heart Even when

she was summoned to give evidence against him in court, she did it

without much reluctance, yet also without revengeful feeling; her state

was one of enfeebled vitality, she was like a child in all the concerns

of life. Rodman went into penal servitude, but it did not distress her,

and she never again uttered his name.

Adela thought it would be a kindness to invite her to Belwick and Alice

at once accepted the invitation. Yet she was not at her ease in the

house. She appeared to have forgiven Adela, overcome by the latter’s

goodness, but her nature was not of the kind to grow in liberal feeling.

Mrs. Waltham the elder she avoided as much as possible. Perhaps Letty

best succeeded in conciliating her, for Letty was homely and had the

children to help her.

‘I wish I had a child,’ Alice said one day when she sat alone with

Letty, and assisted in nursery duties. But at once her cheeks coloured.

‘I suppose you’re ashamed of me for saying that I’m not even a married

woman.’

Letty replied, as she well knew how to, very gently and with comfort.

‘I wonder where she goes to when she sets off by herself,’ said Mrs.

Waltham this morning. ‘She seems to object to walk with any of us.’

‘She always comes back in better spirits,’ said Letty. ‘I think the

change is doing her good.’

‘But she won’t be sorry to leave us, my dear, I can see that. To be sure

it was like Adela to think of having her here, but I scarcely think it

would be advisable for the visit to be repeated. She is not at home

with us. And how can it be expected? It’s in her blood, of course; she

belongs so distinctly to an inferior class.’

‘I am so very sorry for her,’ Letty replied. ‘What dreadful things she

has gone through!’

‘Dreadful, indeed, my dear; but after all such things don’t happen to

ladies. We must remember that. It isn’t as if you or Adela had suffered

in that way. That, of course, would be shocking beyond all words. I

can’t think that persons of her class have quite the same feelings.’

‘Oh, mother!’ Letty protested. And she added, less seriously, ‘You

mustn’t let Alfred hear you say such a thing as that.’

‘I’m glad to say,’ replied Mrs. Waltham, ‘that Alfred has grown much

more sensible in his views of late.’

Adela entered the room. Letty was not wrong in saying that she grew more

beautiful. Life had few joys for her, save intellectual, but you saw

on her countenance the light of freedom. In her manner there was

an unconscious dignity which made her position in the house one of

recognised superiority; even her mother seldom ventured to chat without

reserve in her presence. Alfred drew up in the midst of a tirade if she

but seemed about to speak. Yet it was happiness to live with her; where

she moved there breathed an air of purity and sweetness.

She asked if Alice had returned from her walk. Receiving a reply in the

negative, she went out into the garden.

‘Adela looks happy to-day,’ said Letty. ‘That article in the paper has

pleased her very much.’

‘I really hope she won’t do such a thing again,’ remarked Mrs. Waltham,

with dignified disapproval. ‘It seems very unlady-like to write letters

to the newspapers.’

‘But it was brave of her.’

‘To be sure, we must not judge her as we should ordinary people. Still,

I am not sure that she is always right. I shall never allow that she did

right in paying back that money to those wretches in London. I am sure

she wanted it far more than they did. The bloodthirsty creatures!’

Letty shuddered, but would not abandon defence of Adela.

‘Still it was very honourable of her, mother. She understands those

things better than we can.’

‘Perhaps so, my dear,’ said Mrs. Waltham, meaning that her own opinion

was not likely to be inferior in justice to that of anyone else.

Adela had been in the garden for a few minutes when she saw Alice coming

towards her. The poor Princess had a bright look, as if some joyful news

had just come to her. Adela met her with a friendly smile.

‘There is someone you used to know,’ Alice said, speaking with

embarrassment, and pointing towards the road. ‘You remember Mr. Keene?

I met him. He says he wrote that in the “Chronicle.” He would like to

speak to you if you’ll let him.’

‘I shall be glad to,’ Adela replied, with a look of curiosity.

They walked to the garden gate. Mr. Keene was just outside; Alice

beckoned to him to enter. His appearance was a great improvement on the

old days; he had grown a beard, and in his eye you saw the responsible

editor. Altogether he seemed to have gained in moral solidity. None the

less, his manner of approaching Adela, hat in hand, awoke reminiscences

of the footlights.

‘It is a great pleasure to me to see you, Mrs. Mutimer. I trust that

my few comments on your admirable letter were of a nature to afford you

satisfaction.’

‘Thank you very much, Mr. Keene,’ Adela replied. ‘You wrote very

kindly.’

‘I am amply rewarded,’ he said, bowing low. ‘And now that I have had my

desire, permit me to hasten away. My duty calls me into the town.’

He again bowed low to Adela, smiled a farewell to Alice, and departed.

The two walked together in the garden. Adela turned to her companion.

‘I think you knew Mr. Keene a long time ago?’

‘Yes, a long time. He once asked me to marry him.’

Adela replied only with a look.

‘And he’s asked me again this morning,’ Alice pursued, breaking off a

leaf from an elder bush.

‘And you--?’

‘I didn’t refuse him this time,’ Alice replied with confidence.

‘I am very glad, very glad. He has been faithful to you so long that I

am sure he will make you happy.’

Alice no longer concealed her joy. It was almost exultation. Natural

enough under the circumstances, poor, disinherited Princess! Once more

she felt able to face people; once more she would have a name. She began

to talk eagerly.

‘Of course I shall just go back to tell mother, but we are going to be

married in three weeks. He has already decided upon a house; we went to

see it this morning. I didn’t like to tell you, but I met him for the

first time a week ago--quite by chance.’

‘I’m afraid your mother will be lonely,’ Adela said.

‘Not she! She’d far rather live alone than go anywhere else. And now I

shall be able to send her money. It isn’t fair for you to have to find

everything.’

‘I have wanted to ask you,’ Adela said presently, ‘do you ever hear of

Harry?’

Alice shook her head.

‘The less we hear the better,’ she replied. ‘He’s gone to the bad, and

there’s no help for it.’

It was true; unfortunate victim of prosperity.

Next morning Adela and Alice travelled to town together. The former did

not go to Wilton Square. On the occasion of Richard’s death she had met

Mrs. Mutimer, but the interview had been an extremely difficult one, in

spite of the old woman’s endeavour to be courteous. Adela felt herself

to be an object of insuperable prejudice. Once again she was bidden

sound the depth of the gulf which lies between the educated and

the uneducated. The old woman would not give her hand, but made an

old-fashioned curtsey, which Adela felt to be half ironical. In speaking

of her son she was hard. Pride would not allow her to exhibit the least

symptom of the anguish which wrung her heart. She refused to accept any

share of the income which was continued to her son’s widow under the

Wanley will. Alice, however, had felt no scruple in taking the half

which Adela offered her, and by paying her mother for board and lodgings

she supplemented the income derived from letting as much of the house as

possible.

Once more under the roof of her dearest friend, Adela was less

preoccupied with the sad past which afflicted her mind with the stress

of a duty ever harder to perform. After an hour passed with Stella she

could breathe freely the atmosphere of beauty and love. Elsewhere she

too often suffered from a sense of self-reproach; between her and the

book in which she tried to lose herself there would come importunate

visions of woe, of starved faces, of fierce eyes. The comfort she

enjoyed, the affection and respect with which she was surrounded,

were often burdensome to her conscience. In Stella’s presence all that

vanished; listening to Stella’s voice she could lay firm hold on the

truth that there is a work in the cause of humanity other than that

which goes on so clamorously in lecture halls and at street corners,

other than that which is silently performed by faithful hearts and hands

in dens of misery and amid the horrors of the lazar-house; the work

of those whose soul is taken captive of loveliness, who pursue the

spiritual ideal apart from the world’s tumult, and, ever ready to

minister in gentle offices, know that they serve best when nearest home.

She was far from spiritual arrogance; her natural mood was a profound

humility; she deemed herself rather below than above the active toilers,

whose sweat was sacred; but life had declared that such toil was not for

her, and from Stella she derived the support which enabled her to

pursue her path in peace--a path not one with Stella’s. Before that

high-throned poet-soul Adela bent in humble reverence. Between Stella

and those toilers, however noble and devoted, there could be no question

of comparison. She was of those elect whose part it is to inspire faith

and hope, of those highest but for whom the world would fall into apathy

or lose itself among subordinate motives. Stella never spoke of herself;

Adela could not know whether she had ever stood at the severance of ways

and made deliberate choice. Probably not, for on her brow was visible

to all eyes the seal of election; how could she ever have doubted the

leading of that spirit that used her lips for utterance?

On the morning after her arrival in London Adela took a long journey by

herself to the far East End. Going by omnibus it seemed to her that she

was never to reach that street off Bow Road which she had occasion to

visit. But at last the conductor bade her descend, and gave her a brief

direction The thoroughfare she sought was poor but not squalid she saw

with pleasure that the house of which she had the number in mind was, if

anything, cleaner and more homelike in appearance than its neighbours. A

woman replied to her knock.

She asked if Miss Vine was at home.

‘Yes, mum; she’s at ‘ome. Shall I tell her, or will you go up?’

‘I will go up, thank you. Which room is it?’

‘Second floor front you’ll find her.’

Adela ascended. Standing at the door she heard the hum of a

sewing-machine. It made her heart sink, so clearly did it speak of

incessant monotonous labour.

She knocked loudly. The machine did not stop, but she was bidden to

enter.

Emma was at work, one of her sister’s children sitting by her, writing

on a slate. She had expected the appearance of the landlady; seeing who

the visitor was, she let her hands fall abruptly; an expression of pain

passed over her features.

Adela went up to her and kissed her forehead, then exchanged a few words

with the child. Emma placed a chair for her, but without speaking. The

room was much like the other in which the sisters had lived, save that

it had a brighter outlook. There were the two beds and the table covered

with work.

‘Do you find it better here?’ Adela began by asking.

‘Yes, it is better,’ Emma replied quietly. ‘We manage to get a good

deal of work, and it isn’t badly paid.’

The voice was not uncheerful; it had that serenity which comes of duties

honestly performed and a life tolerably free from sordid anxiety. More

than that could not be said of Emma’s existence. But, such as it was,

it depended entirely upon her own effort. Adela, on the evening when

she first met her in the room where Mutimer lay dead, had read clearly

Emma’s character; she knew that, though it was one of her strongest

desires to lighten the burden of this so sorely tried woman, direct aid

was not to be dreamt of. She had taken counsel with Stella, Stella with

her husband. After much vain seeking they discovered an opportunity of

work in this part of the East End. Mr. Westlake made it known to

Emma; she acknowledged that it would be better than the over-swarmed

neighbourhood in which she was living, and took the advice gratefully.

She had hopes, too, that Kate might be got away from her evil

companions. And indeed the change had not been without its effect on

Mrs. Clay; she worked more steadily, and gave more attention to her

children.

‘She’s just gone with the eldest to the hospital,’ Emma replied to a

question of Adela’s. ‘He’s got something the matter with his eyes. And

this one isn’t at all well. He ought to be at school, only he’s had such

a dreadful cough we’re afraid to send him out just yet. They’re neither

of them strong, I’m afraid.’

‘And you--isn’t your health better since you have lived here?’ Adela

asked.

‘I think so. But I never ail much as long as I have plenty of work to

do.’

‘I am staying with a friend in London,’ Adela said after a pause. ‘I

thought I might come to see you. I hoped you would still be in the same

house.’

‘Yes, we are very comfortable, very,’ Emma replied. ‘I hope we shan’t

need to move for a long time; I’m sure we couldn’t do better.’

She added, without raising her eyes:

‘Thank you for coming.’

Adela knew that constraint between them was inevitable; it was enough

that Emma spoke with good-will.

‘If ever you should have to move,’ she said, ‘will you let me know where

you go? I have written on this paper the address of my mother’s house; I

live with her. Will you show me so much friendship?’

Emma glanced at her, and saw a look which recalled to her something she

had seen in those eyes before.

‘I will write and tell you if we do move,’ she said.

Adela went away with a heart not altogether sad; it was rather as though

she had been hearing solemn music, which stirred her soul even while it

touched upon the source of tears.

It was only on certain days that Stella sat to receive during visitors’

hours. To-day was not one of them; consequently when Hubert Eldon

called, about half-past four, the servant came up to the drawing-room to

ask if Mrs. Westlake would be at home to him. Adela was in the room; at

the mention of the name she rose.

‘I must write a letter before dinner,’ she said. ‘I win go and get it

done whilst you are engaged.’

‘Won’t you stay? Do stay!’

‘I had much rather not. I don’t feel able to talk with anyone just now.’

She left the room without meeting Stella’s look. The latter said she

would receive Mr. Eldon.

Adela went to the exquisitely furnished little boudoir, which was now

always called _her_ room, and sat down with the resolve to write to her

mother on the subjects she had in mind. But her strength of will proved

unequal to the task; after writing a word or two with shaking hand she

laid down her pen and rested her face upon her hands. A minute or two

ago she had been untroubled by a thought which concerned herself;

now her blood was hot, and all her being moved at the impulse of a

passionate desire. She had never known such a rebellion of her life.

In her ears there rang the word ‘Free! free!’ She was free, and the man

whom she loved with the love of years, with the first love of maidenhood

and the confirmed love of maturity, was but a few yards from her--it

might be, had even come here on purpose to meet her.

Oh, why was he not poor! Had he but been some struggling artist, scarce

able to support the woman of his choice, how would she have stood before

him and let him read the tenderness on her face! Hubert’s wealth was

doubly hateful.

She started from her chair, with difficulty suppressing a cry. Someone

had knocked at her door. Perhaps he was already gone; she could not say

how long she had sat here. It was Stella.

‘Mr. Eldon wishes to speak to you, dear.’

She caught her friend’s hand and almost crushed it between her own.

‘I can’t see him! Stella, I dare not see him!’

‘But he says it is purely a matter of business he wishes to speak of,’

said Stella with a pained voice.

Adela sank her head in anguish of shame. Stella put an arm about her,

fearing she would fall. But in an instant pride had sprung up; Adela

freed herself, now deadly pale.

‘I will go.’

She moved mechanically, spoke mechanically the conventional words when

she found that somehow she was in his presence.

‘I hope I do not disturb you,’ Hubert said with equal self-control. ‘I

was about to address a letter to you before I left England. I did not

know that you were here. It is better, perhaps, to do my business by

word of mouth, if you will allow me.’

He was very courteous, but she could not distinguish a note in his voice

that meant more than courtesy. She prayed him to be seated, and herself

took a place on an ottoman. She was able very calmly to regard his face.

He leaned forward with his hands together and spoke with his eyes on

her.

‘It is with regard to the legacy which is due to you under Mr. Mutimer’s

will. You will remember that, as trustee, I have it in my power to make

over to you the capital sum which produces the annuity, if there should

be reason for doing so. I am about to leave England, perhaps for some

few years; I have let the Manor to some friends of mine on a twenty

years’ lease. I think I should like to transfer the money to you before

I go. It is simpler, better. Will you let me do that, Mrs. Mutimer?’

His words chilled her. His voice seemed harder as he proceeded; it had

the ring of metal, of hard cash counted down.

What was his object? He wished to have done with her, to utterly abolish

all relations between them. It might well be that he was about to marry,

and someone abroad, someone who would not care to live in an English

country house. Why otherwise should he have let the Manor for so long a

period? She felt as she had done long ago, when she heard of that other

foreign woman. Cold as ice; not a spark of love in all her being.

She replied:

‘Thank you. If you are willing to make that change, perhaps it will be

best.’

Hubert, his eyes still on her, imagined he saw pleasure in her face. She

might have a project for the use of the money, some Socialist scheme,

something perhaps to preserve the memory of her husband. He rose.

‘In that case I will have a deed prepared at once, and you shall be

informed when it is ready for signature.’

He said to himself that she could not forgive his refusal of her request

that day in the wood.

They shook hands, Adela saying:

‘You are still busy with art?’

‘In my dilettante way,’ he replied smiling.

Adela returned to her room, and there remained till the hour of dinner.

At the meal she was her ordinary self. Afterwards Mr. Westlake asked her

to read in proof an article about to appear in the ‘Beacon’; she did so,

and commented upon it with a clear mind. In the course of the evening

she told her friends of the arrangement between Mr. Eldon and herself.

Two days later she had to call at the solicitor’s office to sign the

deed of release. Incidentally she learnt that Hubert was leaving England

the same evening.

Had she been at home, these days would have been spent in solitude. For

the first time she suffered in Stella’s company. All allusion to Hubert

was avoided between them. Sometimes she could hardly play her part;

sickness of the soul wasted her.

It was morning; he was now on the Continent, perhaps already talking

with someone he loved.

She was ashamed to have so deceived herself; she had feared him, because

she believed he loved her, and that by sympathy he might see into her

heart. Had it been so, he could not have gone from her in this way.

Forgetting her own pride, her own power of dissimulation, she did not

believe it possible for him so to disguise tenderness. She would listen

to no argument of hope, but crushed her heart with perverse cruelty.

The annual payment of money had been a link between him and her; when

she signed the deed releasing him, the cold sweat stood on her forehead.

She would reason. Of what excellence was he possessed that her life

should so abandon itself at his feet? In what had he proved himself

generous or capable of the virtues that subdue? Such reasoning led to

self-mockery. She was no longer the girl who questioned her heart as

to the significance of the vows required in the marriage service; in

looking back upon those struggles she could have wept for pity. Love

would submit to no analysis; it was of her life; as easy to account for

the power of thought. Her soul was bare to her and all its needs.

There was no refuge in ascetic resolve, in the self-deceit of spiritual

enthusiasm. She could say to herself: You are free to love him; then

love and be satisfied. Could she, when a-hungered, look on food, and bid

her hunger be appeased by the act of sight?

Thus long she had held up, but despair was closing in upon her, and an

anguish worse than death. She must leave this house and go where she

might surrender herself to misery. There was no friend whose comfort

could be other than torment and bitter vanity; such woe as hers only

time and weariness could aid.

She was rising with the firm purpose of taking leave of Stella when a

servant came to her door, announcing that Mr. Eldon desired to see her.

She was incredulous, required the servant to repeat the name. Mr. Eldon

was in the drawing-room and desired to see her.

There must have been some error, some oversight in the legal business.

Oh, it was inhuman to torture her in this way! Careless of what her

countenance might indicate, she hastened to the drawing-room. She could

feign no longer. Let him think what he would, so that he spoke briefly

and released her.

But as soon as she entered the room she knew that he had not come to

talk of business. He was pale and agitated. As he did not speak at once

she said:

‘I thought you were gone. I thought you left England last night.’

‘I meant to do so, but found it impossible. I could not go till I had

seen you once more.’

‘What more have you to say to me?’

She knew that she was speaking recklessly, without a thought for

dignity. Her question sounded as if it had been extorted from her by

pain.

‘That if I go away from you now and finally, I go without a hope to

support my life. You are everything to me. You are offended; you shrink

from me. It is what I expected. Years ago, when I loved you without

knowing what my love really meant, I flung away every chance in a moment

of boyish madness. When I should have consecrated every thought to the

hope of winning you, I made myself contemptible in your eyes--worse, I

made you loathe me. When it was too late I understood what I had

done. Then I loved you as a man loves the one woman whom he supremely

reverences, as I love you, and, I believe, shall always love you. I

could not go without saying this to you. I am happier in speaking the

words than I ever remember to have been in my life before.’

Adela’s bosom heaved, but excess of joy seemed to give her power to deal

lightly with the gift that was offered her.

‘Why did you not say this the last time?’ she asked. One would have

said, from her tone, that it was a question of the merest curiosity. She

did not realise the words that passed her lips.

‘Because the distance between us seemed too great. I began to speak of

that money in the thought that it might lead me on. It had the opposite

effect. You showed me how cold you could be. It is natural enough.

Perhaps your sympathies are too entirely remote; and yet not long ago

you talked with me as if your interests could be much the same as mine.

I can understand that you suppress that side of your nature. You think

me useless in the world. And indeed my life has but one purpose, which

is a vain one. I can do nothing but feed my love for you. You have

convictions and purposes; you feel that they are opposed to mine. All

that is of the intellect; I only live in my passion. We are different

and apart.’

‘Why do you say that, as if you were glad of it?’

‘Glad? I speak the words that come to my tongue. I say aloud to you what

I have been repeating again and again to myself. It is mere despair.’

She drew one step nearer to him.

‘You disregard those differences which you say are only of the

intellect, and still love me. Can I not do the same? There _was_ a

distance between us, and my ends were other than yours. That is the

past; the present is mine to make myself what you would have me. I have

no law but your desire--so much I love you.’

How easily said after all! And when he searched her face with eyes

on fire with their joy, when he drew her to his heart in passionate

triumph, the untruth of years fell from her like a veil, and she had

achieved her womanhood.