Demos

‘I’ve nothing to do neither with you nor ‘Arry nor Alice,’ answered the old woman stubbornly. ‘If ‘Arry disgraces his name, he won’t be the first as has done it. I done my best to bring you all up honest, but that was a long time ago, and things has changed. You’re old enough to go your own ways, an’ your ways isn’t mine. I told you how it ‘ud be, an’ the only mistake I made was comin’ to live here at all. Now I can’t be left alone, an’ I’ll go. You’ve no call to tell me a second time.’

It was a long, miserable wrangle, lasting half an hour, before a possibility of agreement presented itself. Richard at length ceased to recriminate, and allowed his mother to talk herself to satiety. He then said:

‘I’m thinking of giving up this house, mother. What I want to know is, whether it would please you to go back to the old place again? I ask you because I can think of ud other way for putting you in comfort. You must say and think what you like, only just answer me the one question as I ask it—that is, honestly and good-temperedly. I shall have to take ‘Arry away with me; I can’t let him go to the dogs without another try to keep him straight. Alice ‘ll have to go with me too, at all events for a time. Whether we like it or not, she’ll have to accustom herself to new ways, and I see my way to helping her. I don’t know whether you’ve been told that Mrs. Chattaway’s been living in the house since the others went away. The furniture’s just as you left it; I dare say you’d feel it like going home again.’

‘They’ve gone, have they?’ Mrs. Mutimer asked, as if unwilling to show the interest which this proposal had excited in her.

‘Yes, they went more than a month ago. We put Mrs. Chattaway in just to keep the place in order. I look on the house as yours. You might let Mrs. Chattaway stay there still, perhaps; but that’s just as you please. You oughtn’t to live quite alone.’

Mrs. Mutimer did not soften, but, after many words, Richard understood her to agree to what he proposed. She had stood all through the dialogue; now at length she moved to a seat, and sank upon it with trembling limbs. Richard wished to go, but had a difficulty in leaving abruptly. Darkness had fallen whilst they talked; they only saw each other by the light of the fire.

‘Am I to come and see you or not, mother, when you get back to the old quarters?’

She did not reply.

‘You won’t tell me?’

‘You must come or stay away, as it suits you,’ she said, in a tone of indifference.

‘Very well, then I shall come, if it’s only to tell you about ‘Arry and Alice. And now will you let Alice come up and have some tea with you?’

There was no answer.

‘Then I’ll tell her she may,’ he said kindly, and went from the room.

He found Alice in the drawing-room, and persuaded her to go up.

‘Just take it as if there ‘d been nothing wrong,’ he said to his sister. ‘She’s had a wretched time of it, I can see that. Take some tea-cakes up with you, and talk about going back to the Square as if she’d proposed it herself. We mustn’t be hard with her just because she can’t change, poor old soul.’

Socialistic business took him away during the evening. When he returned at eleven o’clock, ‘Arry had not yet come in. Shortly before one there were sounds of ineffectual effort at the front-door latch. Mutimer, who happened to be crossing the hall, heard them, and went to open the door. The result was that his brother fell forward at full length upon the mat.

‘Get up, drunken beast!’ Richard exclaimed angrily.

‘Beast yourself,’ was the hiccupped reply, repeated several times whilst ‘Arry struggled to his feet. Then, propping himself against the door-post, the maligned youth assumed the attitude of pugilism, inviting all and sundry to come on and have their lights extinguished. Richard flung him into the hall and closed the door. ‘Arry had again to struggle with gravitation.

‘Walk upstairs, if you can!’ ordered his brother with contemptuous severity.

After much trouble ‘Arry was got to his room, thrust in, and the door slammed behind him.

Richard was not disposed to argue with his brother this time. He waited in the dining-room next morning till the champion of liberty presented himself; then, scarcely looking at him, said with quiet determination:

‘Pack your clothes some time to-day. You’re going to Wanley to-morrow morning.’

‘Not unless I choose,’ remarked ‘Arry.

‘You look here,’ exclaimed the elder, with concentrated savageness which did credit to his powers of command. What you choose has nothing to do with it, and that you’ll please to understand. At half-past nine to-morrow morning you’re ready for me in this room; hear that? I’ll have an end to this kind of thing, or I’ll know the reason why. Speak a word of impudence to me and I’ll knock half your teeth out!’

He was capable of doing it. ‘Arry got to his morning meal in silence.

In the course of the morning Mr. Keene called. Mutimer received him in the dining-room, and they smoked together. Their talk was of the meetings to be held in the evening.

‘There’ll be nasty doings up there,’ Keene remarked, indicating with his head the gathering place of Comrade Roodhouse’s adherents.

‘Of what kind?’ Mutimer asked with indifference.

‘There’s disagreeable talk going about. Probably they’ll indulge in personalities a good deal.’

‘Of course they will,’ assented the other after a short pause. ‘Westlake, eh?’

‘Not only Westlake. There’s a more important man.’

Mutimer could not resist a smile, though he was uneasy. Keene understood the smile; it was always an encouragement to him.

‘What have they got hold of?’

‘I’m afraid there’ll be references to the girl.’

‘The girl?’ Richard hesitated. ‘What girl? What do you know about any girl?’

‘It’s only the gossip I’ve heard. I thought it would be as well if I went about among them last night just to pick up hints, you know.’

‘They’re talking about that, are they? Well, let them. It isn’t hard to invent lies.’

‘Just so,’ observed Mr. Keene sympathisingly. ‘Of course I know they’d twisted the affair.’

Mutimer glanced at him and smoked in silence.

‘I think I’d better be there to-night,’ the journalist continued. ‘I shall be more useful there than at the hall.’

‘As you like,’ said Mutimer lightly.

The subject was not pursued.

Though the occasion was of so much importance, Commonwealth Hall contained but a moderate audience when Mr. Westlake rose to deliver his address. The people who occupied the benches were obviously of a different stamp from those wont to assemble at the Hoxton meeting-place. There were perhaps a dozen artisans of intensely sober appearance, and the rest were men and women who certainly had never wrought with their hands. Near Mrs. Westlake sat several ladies, her personal friends. Of the men other than artisans the majority were young, and showed the countenance which bespeaks meritorious intelligence rather than ardour of heart or brain. Of enthusiasts in the true sense none could be discerned. It needed but a glance over this assembly to understand how very theoretical were the convictions that had brought its members together.

Mr. Westlake’s address was interesting, very interesting; he had prepared it with much care, and its literary qualities were admired when subsequently it saw the light in one of the leading periodicals. Now and then he touched eloquence; the sincerity animating him was unmistakable, and the ideal he glorified was worthy of a noble mind. Not in anger did he speak of the schism from which the movement was suffering; even his sorrow was dominated by a gospel of hope. Optimism of the most fervid kind glowed through his discourse; he grew almost lyrical in his anticipation of the good time coming. For to-night it seemed to him that encouragement should be the prevailing note; it was always easy to see the dark side of things. Their work, he told his hearers, was but just beginning. They aimed at nothing less than a revolution, and revolutions were not brought about in a day. None of them would in the flesh behold the reign of justice; was that a reason why they should neglect the highest impulses of their nature and sit contented in the shadow of the world’s mourning? He spoke with passion of the millions disinherited before their birth, with infinite tenderness of those weak ones whom our social system condemns to a life of torture, just because they are weak. One loved the man for his great heart and for his gift of moving speech.

His wife sat, as she always did when listening intently, her body bent forward, one hand supporting her chin. Her eyes never quitted his face.

To the second speaker it had fallen to handle in detail the differences of the hour. Mutimer’s exordium was not inspiriting after the rich-rolling periods with which Mr. Westlake had come to an end; his hard voice contrasted painfully with the other’s cultured tones. Richard was probably conscious of this, for he hesitated more than was his wont, seeking words which did not come naturally to him. However, he warmed to his work, and was soon giving his audience clearly to understand how he, Richard Mutimer, regarded the proceedings of Comrade Roodhouse. Let us be practical—this was the burden of his exhortation. We are Englishmen—and women—not flighty, frothy foreigners. Besides, we have the blessings of free speech, and with the tongue and pen we must be content to fight, other modes of warfare being barbarous. Those who in their inconsiderate zeal had severed the Socialist body, were taking upon themselves a very grave responsibility; not only had they troubled the movement internally, but they would doubtless succeed in giving it a bad name with many who were hitherto merely indifferent, and who might in time have been brought over. Let it be understood that in this hall the true doctrine was preached, and that the ‘Fiery Cross’ was the true organ of English Socialism as distinguished from foreign crazes. The strength of England had ever been her sobriety; Englishmen did not fly at impossibilities like noisy children. He would not hesitate to say that the revolutionism preached in the newspaper called the ‘Tocsin’ was dangerous, was immoral. And so on.

Richard was not at his best this evening. You might have seen Mrs. Westlake abandon her attentive position, and lean back rather wearily; you might have seen a covert smile on a few of the more intelligent faces. It was awkward for Mutimer to be praising moderation in a movement directed against capital, and this was not exactly the audience for eulogies of Great Britain at the expense of other countries. The applause when the orator seated himself was anything but hearty. Richard knew it, and inwardly cursed Mr. Westlake for taking the wind out of his sails.

Very different was the scene in the meeting-room behind the coffee-shop. There, upon Comrade Roodhouse’s harangue, followed a debate more stirring than any on the records of the Islington and Hoxton branch. The room was thoroughly full; the roof rang with tempestuous acclamations. Messrs. Cowes and Cullen were in their glory; they roared with delight at each depreciatory epithet applied to Mr. Westlake and his henchmen, and prompted the speakers with words and phrases of a rich vernacular. If anything, Comrade Roodhouse fell a little short of what was expected of him. His friends had come together prepared for gory language, but the murderous instigations of Clerkenwell Green were not repeated with the same crudity. The speaker dealt in negatives; not thus and thus was the social millennium to be brought about, it was open to his hearers to conceive the practical course. For the rest, the heresiarch had a mighty flow of vituperative speech. Aspirates troubled him, so that for the most part he cast them away, and the syntax of his periods was often anacoluthic; but these matters were of no moment.

Questions being called for, Mr. Cowes and Mr. Cullen of course started up simultaneously. The former gentleman got the ear of the meeting. With preliminary swaying of the hand, he looked round as one about to propound a question which would for ever establish his reputation for acumen. In his voice of quiet malice, with his frequent deliberate pauses, with the wonted emphasis on absurd pronunciations, he spoke somewhat thus:—

‘In the course of his address—I shall say nothin’ about its qualities, the time for discussion will come presently—our Comrade has said not a few ‘ard things about certain individooals who put themselves forward as perractical Socialists—’

‘Not ‘ard enough!’ roared a voice from the back of the room.

Mr. Cowes turned his lank figure deliberately, and gazed for a moment in the quarter whence the interruption had come. Then he resumed.

‘I agree with that involuntary exclamation. Certainly, not ‘ard enough. And the question I wish to put to our Comrade is this: Is he, or is he not, aweer of certain scandalous doin’s on the part of one of these said individooals, I might say actions which, from the Socialist point of view, amount to crimes? If our Comrade is aweer of what I refer to, then it seems to me it was his dooty to distinctly mention it. If he was not aweer, then we in this neighbourhood shall be only too glad to enlighten him. I distinctly assert that a certain individooal we all have in our thoughts has proved himself a traitor to the cause of the people. Comrades will understand me. And that’s the question I wish to put.’

Mr. Cowes had introduced the subject which a considerable number of those present were bent on publicly discussing. Who it was that had first spread the story of Mutimer’s matrimonial concerns probably no one could have determined. It was not Daniel Dabbs, though Daniel, partly from genuine indignation, partly in consequence of slowly growing personal feeling against the Mutimers, had certainly supplied Richard’s enemies with corroborative details. Under ordinary circumstances Mutimer’s change of fortune would have seemed to his old mates a sufficient explanation of his behaviour to Emma Vine; they certainly would not have gone out of their way to condemn him. But Richard was by this time vastly unpopular with most of those who had once glorified him. Envy had had time to grow, and was assisted by Richard’s avoidance of personal contact with his Hoxton friends. When they spoke of him now it was with sneers and sarcasms. Some one had confidently asserted that the so-called Socialistic enterprise at Wanley was a mere pretence, that Mutimer was making money just like any other capitalist, and the leaguers of Hoxton firmly believed this. They encouraged one another to positive hatred of the working man who had suddenly become wealthy; his name stank in their nostrils. This, in a great measure, explained Comrade Roodhouse’s success; personal feeling is almost always the spring of public action among the uneducated. In the excitement of the schism a few of the more energetic spirits had determined to drag Richard’s domestic concerns into publicity. They suddenly became aware that private morality was at the root of the general good; they urged each other to righteous indignation in a matter for which they did not really care two straws. Thus Mr. Cowes’s question was received with vociferous approval. Those present who did not understand the allusion were quickly enlightened by their neighbours. A crowd of Englishmen working itself into a moral rage is as glorious a spectacle as the world can show. Not one of these men but heartily believed himself justified in reviling the traitor to his class, the betrayer of confiding innocence. Remember, too, how it facilitates speech to have a concrete topic on which to enlarge; in this matter a West End drawing-room and the Hoxton coffee-shop are akin. Regularity of procedure was at an end; question grew to debate, and debate was riot. Mr. Cullen succeeded Mr. Cowes and roared himself hoarse, defying the feeble protests of the chairman. He abandoned mere allusion, and rejoiced the meeting by declaring names. His example was followed by those who succeeded him.

Little did Emma think, as she sat working, Sunday though it was, in her poor room, that her sorrows were being blared forth to a gross assembly in venomous accusation against the man who had wronged her. We can imagine that the knowledge would not greatly have soothed her.

Comrade Roodhouse at length obtained a hearing. It was his policy to deprecate these extreme personalities, and in doing so he heaped on the enemy greater condemnation. There was not a little art in the heresiarch’s modes of speech; the less obtuse appreciated him and bade him live for ever. The secretary of the branch busily took notes.

When the meeting had broken up into groups, a number of the more prominent Socialists surrounded Comrade Roodhouse on the platform. Their talk was still of Mutimer, of his shameless hypocrisy, his greed, his infernal arrogance. Near at hand stood Mr. Keene; a word brought him into conversation with a neighbour. He began by repeating the prevalent abuse, then, perceiving that his hearer merely gave assent in general terms, he added:—

‘I shouldn’t wonder, though, if there was some reason we haven’t heard of—I mean, about the girl, you know.’

‘Think so?’ said the other.

‘Well, I have heard it said—but then one doesn’t care to repeat such things.’

‘What’s that, eh?’ put in another man, who had caught the words.

‘Oh, nothing. Only the girl’s made herself scarce. Dare say the fault wasn’t altogether on one side.’

And Mr. Keene winked meaningly.

The hint spread among those on the platform. Daniel Dabbs happened to hear it repeated in a gross form.

‘Who’s been a-sayin’ that?’ he roared. ‘Where have you got that from, eh?’

The source was already forgotten, but Daniel would not let the calumny take its way unopposed. He harangued those about him with furious indignation.

‘If any man’s got a word to say against Emma Vine, let him come an’ say it to me, that’s all I Now look ‘ere, all o’ you, I know that girl, and I know that anyone as talks like that about her tells a damned lie.’

‘Most like it’s Mutimer himself as has set it goin’,’ observed someone.

In five minutes all who remained in the room were convinced that Mutimer had sent an agent to the meeting for the purpose of assailing Emma Vine’s good name. Mr. Keene had already taken his departure, and no suspicious character was discernible; a pity for the evening might have ended in a picturesque way.

But Daniel Dabbs went home to his brother’s public-house, obtained note-paper and an envelope, and forthwith indited a brief epistle which he addressed to the house in Highbury. It had no formal commencement, and ended with ‘Yours, etc.’ Daniel demanded an assurance that his former friend had not instigated certain vile accusations against Emma, and informed him that whatever answer was received would be read aloud at next Sunday’s meeting.

The one not wholly ignoble incident in that evening’s transactions.

CHAPTER XVIII

In the partial reconciliation between Mrs. Mutimer and her children there was no tenderness on either side. The old conditions could not be restored, and the habits of the family did not lend themselves to the polite hypocrisy which lubricates the wheels of the refined world. There was to be a parting, and probably it would be for life. In Richard’s household his mother could never have a part, and when Alice married, doubtless the same social difficulty would present itself. It was not the future to which Mrs. Mutimer had looked forward, but, having said her say, she resigned herself and hardened her heart. At least she would die in the familiar home.

Richard had supper with his sister on his return from Commonwealth Hall, and their plans were discussed in further detail.

‘I want you,’ he said, ‘to go to the Square with mother to-morrow, and to stay there till Wednesday. You won’t mind doing that?’

‘I think she’d do every bit as well without me,’ said Alice.

‘Never mind; I should like you to go. I’ll take ‘Arry down to-morrow morning, then I’ll come and fetch you on Wednesday. You’ll just see that everything’s comfortable in the house, and buy her a few presents, the kind of things she’d like.’

‘I don’t suppose she’ll take anything.’

‘Try, at all events. And don’t mind her talk; it does no harm.’

In the morning came the letter from Daniel Dabbs. Richard read it without any feeling of surprise, still less with indignation, at the calumny of which it complained. During the night he had wondered uneasily what might have occurred at the Hoxton meeting, and the result was a revival of his ignoble anger against Emma. Had he not anxiety enough that she must bring him new trouble when he believed that all relations between him and her were at an end? Doubtless she was posing as a martyr before all who knew anything of her story; why had she refused his money, if not that her case might seem all the harder? It were difficult to say whether he really believed this; in a nature essentially egoistic, there is often no line to be drawn between genuine convictions and the irresponsible charges of resentment. Mutimer had so persistently trained himself to regard Emma as in the wrong, that it was no wonder if he had lost the power of judging sanely in any matter connected with her. Her refusal to benefit by his generosity had aggravated him; actually, no doubt, because she thus deprived him of a defence against his conscience.

He was not surprised that libellous rumours were afloat, simply because since his yesterday’s conversation with Keene the thought of justifying himself in some such way—should it really prove necessary—had several times occurred to him, suggested probably by Keene’s own words. That the journalist had found means of doing him this service was very likely indeed. He remembered with satisfaction that no hint of such a thing had escaped his own lips. Still, he was uneasy. Keene might have fallen short of prudence, with the result that Daniel Dabbs might be in a position to trace this calumny to him, Mutimer. It would not be pleasant if the affair, thus represented, came to the ears of his friends, particularly of Mr. Westlake.

He had just finished his breakfast, and was glancing over the newspaper in a dull and irritable mood, when Keene himself arrived. Mutimer expected him. Alice quitted the dining-room when he was announced, and ‘Arry, who at the same moment came in for breakfast, was bidden go about his business, and be ready to leave the house in half-an-hour.

‘What does this mean?’ Richard asked abruptly, handing the letter to his visitor.

Keene perused the crabbed writing, and uttered sundry ‘Ah’s’ and ‘Hum’s.’

‘Do you know anything about it?’ Mutimer continued, in a tone between mere annoyance and serious indignation.

‘I think I had better tell you what took place last night,’ said the journalist, with side glances. He had never altogether thrown off the deferential manner when conversing with his patron, and at present he emphasised it. ‘Those fellows carry party feeling too far; the proceedings were scandalous. It really was enough to make one feel that one mustn’t be too scrupulous in trying to stop their mouths. If I’m not mistaken, an action for defamation of character would lie against half-a-dozen of them.’

Mutimer was unfortunately deficient in sense of humour. He continued to scowl, and merely said: ‘Go on; what happened?’

Mr. Keene allowed the evening’s proceedings to lose nothing in his narration. He was successful in exciting his hearer to wrath, but, to his consternation, it was forthwith turned against himself.

‘And you tried to make things better by going about telling what several of them would know perfectly well to be lies?’ exclaimed Mutimer, savagely. ‘Who the devil gave you authority to do so?’

‘My dear sir,’ protested the journalist, ‘you have quite mistaken me. I did not mean to admit that I had told lies. How could I for a moment suppose that a man of your character would sanction that kind of thing? Pooh, I hope I know you better! No, no; I merely in the course of conversation ventured to hint that, as you yourself had explained to me, there were reasons quite other than the vulgar mind would conceive for—for the course you had pursued. To my own apprehension such reasons are abundant, and, I will add, most conclusive. You have not endeavoured to explain them to me in detail; I trust you felt that I was not so dull of understanding as to be incapable of—of appreciating motives when sufficiently indicated. Situations of this kind are never to be explained grossly; I mean, of course, in the case of men of intellect. I flatter myself that I have come to know your ruling principles; and I will say that beyond a doubt your behaviour has been most honourable. Of course I was mistaken in trying to convey this to those I talked with last night; they misinterpreted me, and I might have expected it. We cannot give them the moral feelings which they lack. But I am glad that the error has so quickly come to light. A mere word from you, and such a delusion goes no farther. I regret it extremely.’

Mutimer held the letter in his hand, and kept looking from it to the speaker. Keene’s subtleties were not very intelligible to him, but, even with a shrewd suspicion that he was being humbugged, he could not resist a sense of pleasure in hearing himself classed with the superior men whose actions are not to be explained by the vulgar. Nay, he asked himself whether the defence was not in fact a just one. After all, was it not possible that his conduct had been praiseworthy? He recovered the argument by which he had formerly tried to silence disagreeable inner voices; a man in his position owed it to society to effect a union of classes, and private feeling must give way before the higher motive. He reflected for a moment when Keene ceased to speak.

‘What did you say?’ he then asked, still bluntly, but with less anger. ‘Just tell me the words, as far as you can remember.’

Keene was at no loss to recall inoffensive phrases; in another long speech, full of cajolery sufficiently artful for the occasion, he represented himself as having merely protested against misrepresentations obviously sharpened by malice.

‘It is just possible that I made some reference to her character,’ he admitted, speaking more slowly, and as if desirous that no word should escape his hearer; ‘but it did not occur to me to guard against misunderstandings of the word. I might have remembered that it has such different meanings on the lips of educated and of uneducated men. You, of course, would never have missed my thoughts.’

‘If I might suggest,’ he added, when Mutimer kept silence, I think, if you condescend to notice the letter at all, you should reply only in the most general terms. Who is this man Dabbs, I wonder, who has the impudence to write to you in this way?’

‘Oh, one of the Hoxton Socialists, I suppose,’ Mutimer answered carelessly. ‘I remember the name.’

‘A gross impertinence! By no means encourage them in thinking you owe explanations. Your position doesn’t allow anything of the kind.’

‘All right,’ said Richard, his ill-humour gone; ‘I’ll see to it.’

He was not able, after all, to catch the early train by which he had meant to take his brother to Wanley. He did not like to leave without some kind of good-bye to his mother, and Alice said that the old woman would not be ready to go before eleven o’clock. After half an hour of restlessness he sat down to answer Daniel’s letter. Keene’s flattery had not been without its fruit. From anger which had in it an element of apprehension he passed to an arrogant self-confidence which character and circumstances were conspiring to make his habitual mood. It was a gross impertinence in Daniel to address him thus. What was the use of wealth if it did not exempt one from the petty laws binding on miserable hand to mouth toilers! He would have done with Emma Vine; his time was of too much value to the world to be consumed in wranglings about a work-girl. What if here and there someone believed the calumny? Would it do Emma any harm? That was most unlikely. On the whole, the misunderstanding was useful; let it take its course. Men with large aims cannot afford to be scrupulous in small details. Was not New Wanley a sufficient balance against a piece of injustice, which, after all, was only one of words?

He wrote:

‘DEAR SIR,—I have received your letter, but it is impossible for me to spend time in refuting idle stories. What’s more, I cannot see that my private concerns are a fit subject for discussion at a public meeting, as I understand they have been made. You are at liberty to read this note when and where you please, and in that intention let me add that the cause of Socialism will not be advanced by attacks on the character of those most earnestly devoted to it. I remain, yours truly,

‘RICHARD MUTIMER.’

It seemed to Richard that this was the very thing, alike in tone and phrasing. A week or two previously a certain statesman had written to the same effect in reply to calumnious statements, and Richard consciously made that letter his model. The statesman had probably been sounder in his syntax, but his imitator had, no doubt, the advantage in other points. Richard perused his composition several times, and sent it to the post.

At eleven o’clock Mrs. Mutimer descended to the hall, ready for her journey. She would not enter any room. Her eldest son came out to meet her, and got rid of the servant who had fetched a cab.

‘Good-bye for the present, mother,’ he said, giving his hand ‘I hope you’ll find everything just as you wish it.’

‘If I don’t, I shan’t complain,’ was the cold reply.

The old woman had clad herself, since her retreat, in the garments of former days; and the truth must be told that they did not add to the dignity of her appearance. Probably no costume devisable could surpass in ignoble ugliness the attire of an English working-class widow when she appears in the streets. The proximity of Alice, always becomingly clad, drew attention to the poor mother’s plebeian guise. Richard, watching her enter the cab, felt for the first time a distinct shame. His feelings might have done him more credit but for the repulse he had suffered.