IX

Mr Clinton, in fact, became worse. He came home later and later every

night, and his wife was disgusted at the state of uncleanness which his

curious wanderings brought about. He refused to take the baths which Mrs

Clinton prepared for him. He was more silent than ever, but when he

spoke it was in biblical language; and always hovered on his lips the

enigmatical smile, and his eyes always had the strange, disconcerting

look. Mrs Clinton perseveringly made him take his medicine, but she lost

faith in its power when, one night at twelve, Mr Clinton brought home

with him a very dirty, ragged man, who looked half-starved and smelt

distinctly alcoholic.

'Jim,' she said, on seeing the miserable object slinking in behind her

husband, 'Jim, what's that?'

'That, Amy? That is your brother!'

'My brother? What d'you mean?' cried Mrs Clinton, firing up. 'That's no

brother of mine. I 'aven't got a brother.'

'It's your brother and my brother. Be good to him.'

'I tell you it isn't my brother,' repeated Mrs Clinton; 'my brother

Adolphus died when he was two years old, and that's the only brother I

ever 'ad.'

Mr Clinton merely looked at her with his usual gentle expression, and

she asked angrily,--

'What 'ave you brought 'im 'ere for?'

''E is 'ungry, and I am going to give 'im food; 'e is 'omeless, and I am

going to give 'im shelter.'

'Shelter? Where?'

'Here, in my 'ouse, in my bed.'

'In my bed!' screamed Mrs Clinton. 'Not if I know it! 'Ere, you,' she

said, addressing the man, and pushing past her husband. 'Out you get!

I'm not going to 'ave tramps and loafers in my 'ouse. Get out!' Mrs

Clinton was an energetic woman, and a strong one. Catching hold of her

husband's stick, and flourishing it, she opened the front door.

'Amy! Amy!' expostulated Mr Clinton.

'Now, then, you be quiet. I've 'ad about enough of you! Get on out, will

you?'

The man made a rush for the door, and as he scrambled down the steps she

caught him a smart blow on the back, and slammed the door behind him.

Then, returning to the sitting-room, she sank panting on a chair. Mr

Clinton slowly recovered from his surprise.

'Woman,' he said, this being now his usual mode of address--he spoke

solemnly and sadly--'you 'ave cast out your brother, you 'ave cast out

your husband, you 'ave cast out yourself.'

'Don't talk to me!' said Mrs Clinton, very wrathfully. 'It's bed time

now; come along upstairs.'

'I will not come to your bed again. You 'ave refused it to one who was

better than I; and why should I 'ave it? Go, woman; go and leave me.'

'Now, then, don't come trying your airs on me,' said Mrs Clinton. 'They

won't wash. Come up to bed.'

'I tell you I will not,' replied Mr Clinton, decisively. 'Go, woman, and

leave me!'

'Well, if I do, I sha'n't leave the light; so there!' she said

spitefully, and, taking the lamp, left Mr Clinton in darkness.

Mrs Clinton was not henceforth on the very best of terms with her

husband, but he always treated her with his accustomed gentleness,

though he insisted on spending his nights on the dining-room sofa.

But perhaps the most objectionable to Mrs Clinton of all her good man's

eccentricities, was that he no longer gave her his week's money every

Saturday afternoon as he had been accustomed to do; the coldness between

them made her unwilling to say anything about it, but the approach of

quarter day forced her to pocket her dignity and ask for the money.

'Oh, James!'--she no longer called him Jimmy--'will you give me the

money for the rent?'

'Money?' he answered with the usual smile on his lips. 'I 'ave no

money.'

'What d'you mean? You've not given me a farthing for ten weeks.'

'I 'ave given it to those who want it more than I.'

'You don't mean to tell me that you've given your salary away?'

'Yes, dear.'

Mrs Clinton groaned.

'Oh, you're dotty!... I can understand giving a threepenny bit, or even

sixpence, at the offertory on Sunday at church, and of course one 'as to

give Christmas-boxes to the tradesmen; but to give your whole salary

away! 'Aven't you got anything left?'

'No!'

'You--you aggravating fool! And I'll be bound you gave it to lazy

loafers and tramps and Lord knows what!'

Mr Clinton did not answer; his wife walked rapidly backwards and

forwards, wringing her hands.

'Well, look here, James,' she said at last. 'It's no use crying over

spilt milk; but from this day you just give me your salary the moment

you receive it. D'you hear? I tell you I will not 'ave any more of your

nonsense.'

'I shall get no more salaries,' he quietly remarked.

Mrs Clinton looked at him; he was quite calm, and smilingly returned

her glance.

'What do you mean by that?' she asked.

'I am no longer at the office.'

'James! You 'aven't been sacked?' she screamed.

'Oh, they said I did not any longer properly attend to my work. They

said I was careless, and that I made mistakes; they complained that I

was unpunctual, that I went late and came away early; and one day,

because I 'adn't been there the day before, they told me to leave. I was

watching at the bedside of a man who was dying and 'ad need of me; so

'ow could I go? But I didn't really mind; the office 'indered me in my

work.'

'But what are you going to do now?' gasped Mrs Clinton.

'I 'ave my work; that is more important than ten thousand offices.'

'But 'ow are you going to earn your living? What's to become of us?'

'Don't trouble me about those things. Come with me, and work for the

poor.'

'James, think of the children!'

'What are your children to me more than any other children?'

'But--'

'Woman, I tell you not to trouble me about these things. 'Ave we not

money enough, and to spare?'

He waved his hand, and putting on his top hat, which looked more than

ever in need of restoration, went out, leaving his wife in a perfect

agony.

There was worse to follow. Coming home a few days later, Mr Clinton told

his wife that he wished to speak with her.

'I 'ave been looking into my books,' he said, 'and I find that we have

invested in various securities a sum of nearly seven 'undred pounds.'

'Thank 'Eaven for that!' answered his wife. 'It's the only thing that'll

save us from starvation now that you moon about all day, instead of

working like a decent man.'

'Well, I 'ave been thinking, and I 'ave been reading; and I 'ave found

it written--Give all and follow me.'

'Well, there's nothing new in that,' said Mrs Clinton, viciously. 'I've

known that text ever since I was a child.'

'And as it were a Spirit 'as come to me and said that I too must give

all. In short, I 'ave determined to sell out my stocks and my shares; my

breweries are seven points 'igher than when I bought them; I knew it was

a good investment. I am going to realise everything; I am going to take

the money in my hand, and I am going to give it to the poor.'

Mrs Clinton burst into tears.

'Do not weep,' he said solemnly. 'It is my duty, and it is a pleasant

one. Oh, what joy to make a 'undred people 'appy; to relieve a poor man

who is starving, to give a breath of country air to little children who

are dying for the want of it, to 'elp the poor, to feed the 'ungry, to

clothe the naked! Oh, if I only 'ad a million pounds!' He stretched out

his arms in a gesture of embrace, and looked towards heaven with an

ecstatic smile upon his lips.

It was too serious a matter for Mrs Clinton to waste any words on; she

ran upstairs, put on her bonnet, and quickly walked to her friend, the

doctor.

He looked graver than ever when she told him.

'Well,' he said, 'I'm afraid it's very serious. I've never heard of

anyone doing such a thing before.... Of course I've known of people who

have left all their money to charities after their death, when they

didn't want it; but it couldn't ever occur to a normal, healthy man to

do it in his lifetime.'

'But what shall I do, doctor?' Mrs Clinton was almost in hysterics.

'Well, Mrs Clinton, d'you know the clergyman of the parish?'

'I know Mr Evans, the curate, very well; he's a very nice gentleman.'

'Perhaps you could get him to have a talk with your husband. The fact

is, it's a sort of religious mania he's got, and perhaps a clergyman

could talk him out of it. Anyhow, it's worth trying.'

Mrs Clinton straightway went to Mr Evans's rooms, explained to him the

case, and settled that on the following day he should come and see what

he could do with her husband.

X

In expectation of the curate's visit, Mrs Clinton tidied the house and

adorned herself. It has been said that she was a woman of taste, and so

she was. The mantelpiece and looking glass were artistically draped with

green muslin, and this she proceeded to arrange, tying and carefully

forming the yellow satin ribbon with which it was relieved. The chairs

were covered with cretonne which might have come from the Tottenham

Court Road, and these she placed in positions of careless and artistic

confusion, smoothing down the antimacassars which were now her pride, as

the silk petticoat from which she had manufactured them had been once

her glory. For the flower-pots she made fresh coverings of red tissue

paper, re-arranged the ornaments gracefully scattered about on little

Japanese tables; then, after pausing a moment to admire her work and see

that nothing had been left undone, she went upstairs to perform her own

toilet.... In less than half an hour she reappeared, holding herself in

a dignified posture, with her head slightly turned to one side and her

hands meekly folded in front of her, stately and collected as Juno, a

goddess in black satin. Her dress was very elegant; it might have

typified her own life, for in its original state of virgin whiteness it

had been her wedding garment; then it was dyed purple, and might have

betokened a sense of change and coming responsibilities; lastly it was

black, to signify the burden of a family, and the seriousness of life.

No one had realised so intensely as Mrs Clinton the truth of the poet's

words. Life is not an empty dream. She took out her handkerchief,

redolent with lascivious patchouli, and placed it in her bosom--a spot

of whiteness against the black.... She sat herself down to wait.

There was a knock and a ring at the door, timid, as befitted a

clergyman; and the servant-girl showed in Mr Evans. He was a thin and

short young man, red faced, with a long nose and weak eyes, looking

underfed and cold, keeping his shoulders screwed up in a perpetual

shiver. He was an earnest, God-fearing man, spending much money in

charities, and waging constant war against the encroachments of the

Scarlet Woman.

'I think I'll just take my coat off, if you don't mind, Mrs Clinton,' he

said, after the usual greetings. He folded it carefully, and hung it

over the back of a chair; then, coming forward, he sat down and rubbed

the back of his hands.

'I asked my 'usband to stay in because you wanted to see 'im, but he

would go out. 'Owever'--Mrs Clinton always chose her language on such

occasions--''owever, 'e's promised to return at four, and I will say

this for 'im, he never breaks 'is word.'

'Oh, very well!'

'May I 'ave the pleasure of offering you a cup of tea, Mr Evans?'

The curate's face brightened up.

'Oh, thank you so much!' And he rubbed his hands more energetically than

ever.

Tea was brought in, and they drank it, talking of parish matters, Mrs

Clinton discreetly trying to pump the curate. Was it really true that

Mrs Palmer of No. 17 Adonis Road drank so terribly?

At last Mr Clinton came, and his wife glided out of the room, leaving

the curate to convert him. There was a little pause while Mr Evans took

stock of the clerk.

'Well, Mr Clinton,' he said finally, 'I've come to talk to you about

yourself.... Your wife tells me that you have adopted certain curious

views on religious matters; and she wishes me to have some conversation

with you about them.'

'You are a man of God,' replied Mr Clinton; 'I am at your service.'

Mr Evans, on principle, objected to the use of the Deity's name out of

church, thinking it a little blasphemous, but he said nothing.

'Well,' he said, 'of course, religion is a very good thing; in fact, it

is the very best thing; but it must not be abused, Mr Clinton,' and he

repeated gravely, as if his interlocutor were a naughty schoolboy--'it

mustn't be abused. Now, I want to know exactly what you views are.'

Mr Clinton smiled gently.

'I 'ave no views, sir. The only rule I 'ave for guidance is this--love

thy neighbour as thyself.'

'Hum!' murmured the curate; there was really nothing questionable in

that, but he was just slightly prejudiced against a man who made such a

quotation; it sounded a little priggish.

'But your wife tells me that you've been going about with all sorts of

queer people?'

'I found that there was misery and un'appiness among people, and I tried

to relieve it.'

'Of course, I strongly approve of district visiting; I do a great deal

of it myself; but you've been going about with public-house loafers

and--bad women.'

'Is it not said: "I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to

repentance"?'

'No doubt,' answered Mr Evans, slightly frowning. 'But obviously one

isn't meant to do that to such an extent as to be dismissed from one's

place.'

'My wife 'as posted you well up in all my private affairs.'

'Well, I don't think you can have done well to be sent away from your

office.'

'Is it not said: "Forsake all and follow me"?'

Decidedly this was bad form, and Mr Evans, pursing up his lips and

raising his eyebrows, was silent. 'That's the worst of these

half-educated people,' he said to himself; 'they get some idea in their

heads which they don't understand, and, of course, they do idiotic

things....'

'Well, to pass over all that,' he added out loud, 'apparently you've

been spending your money on these people to such an extent that your

wife and children are actually inconvenienced by it.'

'I 'ave clothed the naked,' said Mr Clinton, looking into the curate's

eyes; 'I 'ave visited the sick; I 'ave given food to 'im that was an

'ungered, and drink to 'im that was athirst.'

'Yes, yes, yes; that's all very well, but you should always remember

that charity begins at home.... I shouldn't have anything to say to a

rich man's doing these things, but it's positively wicked for you to do

them. Don't you understand that? And last of all, your wife tells me

that you're realising your property with the idea of giving it away.'

'It's perfectly true,' said Mr Clinton.

Mr Evans's mind was too truly pious for a wicked expletive to cross it;

but a bad man expressing the curate's feeling would have said that Mr

Clinton was a damned fool.

'Well, don't you see that it's a perfectly ridiculous and unheard-of

thing?' he asked emphatically.

'"Sell all that thou 'ast, and distribute unto the poor." It is in the

Gospel of St Luke. Do you know it?'

'Of course I know it, but, naturally, these things aren't to be taken

quite literally.'

'It is clearly written. What makes you say it is not to be taken

literally?'

Mr Evans shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

'Why, don't you see it would be impossible? The world couldn't go on.

How do you expect your children to live if you give this money away?'

'"Look at the lilies of the field. They toil not, neither do they spin;

yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as one of these."'....

'Oh, my dear sir, you make me lose my patience. You're full of the

hell-fire platitudes of a park spouter, and you think it's religion....

I tell you all these things are allegorical. Don't you understand that?

You mustn't carry them out to the letter. They are not meant to be taken

in that way.'

Mr Clinton smiled a little pitifully at the curate.

'And think of yourself--one must think of oneself. "God helps those who

help themselves." How are you going to exist when this little money of

yours is gone? You'll simply have to go to the workhouse.... It's

absurd, I tell you.'

Mr Clinton took no further notice of the curate, but he broke into a

loud chant,--

'"Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon the earth, where moth and

rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal. But lay up

for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth

corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal."' Then,

turning on the unhappy curate, he stretched out his arm and pointed his

finger at him. 'Last Sunday,' he said, 'I 'eard you read those very

words from the chancel steps. Go! go! I tell you, go! You are a bad man,

a wolf in sheep's clothing--go!' Mr Clinton walked up to him

threateningly, and the curate, with a gasp of astonishment and

indignation, fled from the room.

He met Mrs Clinton outside.

'I can't do anything with him at all,' he said angrily. 'I've never

heard such things in my life. He's either mad or he's got into the hands

of the Dissenters. That's the only explanation I can offer.'

Then, to quiet his feelings, he called on a wealthy female parishioner,

with whom he was a great favourite, because she thought him 'such a

really pious man,' and it was not till he had drunk two cups of tea that

he recovered his equilibrium.