Demos

CHAPTER X

The declaration of independence so nobly delivered by his brother ‘Arry necessitated Richard’s stay in town over the following day. The matter was laid before a family council, held after breakfast in the dining-room. Richard opened the discussion with some vehemence, and appealed to his mother and Alice for support. Alice responded heartily; Mrs. Mutimer was slower in coming to utterance, but at length expressed herself in no doubtful terms.

‘If he don’t go to his work,’ she said sternly, ‘it’s either him or me’ll have to leave this house. If he wants to disgrace us all and ruin himself, he shan’t do it under my eyes.’

Was there ever a harder case? A high-spirited British youth asserts his intention of living a life of elegant leisure, and is forthwith scouted as a disgrace to the family. ‘Arry sat under the gross injustice with an air of doggish defiance.

‘I thought you said I was to go to Wanley?’ he exclaimed at length, angrily, glaring at his brother.

Richard avoided the look.

‘You’ll have to learn to behave yourself first,’ he replied. ‘If you can’t be trusted to do your duty here, you’re no good to me at Wanley.’

‘Arry would give neither yes nor no. The council broke up after formulating an ultimatum.

In the afternoon Richard had another private talk with the lad. This time he addressed himself solely to ‘Arry’s self-interest, explained to him the opportunities he would lose if he neglected to make himself a practical man. What if there was money waiting for him? The use of money was to breed money, and nowadays no man was rich who didn’t constantly increase his capital. As a great ironmaster, he would hold a position impossible for him to attain in any other way; he would employ hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men; society would recognise him. What could he expect to be if he did nothing but loaf about the streets?

This was going the right way to work. Richard found that he was making an impression, and gradually fell into a kinder tone, so that in the end he brought ‘Arry to moderately cheerful acquiescence.

‘And don’t let men like that Keene make a fool of you,’ the monitor concluded. ‘Can’t you see that fellows like him’ll hang on and make their profit out of you if you know no better than to let them? You just keep to yourself, and look after your own future.’

A suggestion that cunning was required of him flattered the youth to some purpose. He had begun to reflect that after all it might be more profitable to combine work and pleasure. He agreed to pursue the course planned for him.

So Richard returned to Wanley, carrying with him a small satisfaction and many great anxieties. Nor did he visit London again until four weeks had gone by; it was understood that the pressure of responsibilities grew daily more severe. New Wanley, as the industrial settlement in the valley was to be named, was shaping itself in accordance with the ideas of the committee with which Mutimer took counsel, and the undertaking was no small one.

In spite of Emma’s cheerful anticipations, ‘the business’ meanwhile made little progress. A graver trouble was the state of Jane’s health; the sufferer seemed wasting away. Emma devoted herself to her sister. Between her and Mutimer there was no further mention of marriage. In Emma’s mind a new term had fixed itself—that of her sister’s recovery; but there were dark moments when dread came to her that not Jane’s recovery, but something else, would set her free. In the early autumn Richard persuaded her to take the invalid to the sea-side, and to remain with her there for three weeks. Mrs. Clay during that time lived alone, and was very content to receive her future brother-in-law’s subsidy, without troubling about the work which would not come in.

Autumn had always been a peaceful and bounteous season at Wanley; then the fruit trees bent beneath their golden charge, and the air seemed rich with sweet odours. But the autumn of this year was unlike any that had visited the valley hitherto. Blight had fallen upon all produce; the crop of apples and plums was bare beyond precedent. The west wind breathing up between the hill-sides only brought smoke from newly-built chimneys; the face of the fields was already losing its purity and taking on a dun hue. Where a large orchard had flourished were two streets of small houses, glaring with new brick and slate The works were extending by degrees, and a little apart rose the walls of a large building which would contain library, reading rooms, and lecture-hall, for the use of the industrial community. New Wanley was in a fair way to claim for itself a place on the map.

The Manor was long since furnished, and Richard entertained visitors. He had provided himself with a housekeeper, as well as the three or four necessary servants, and kept a saddle-horse as well as that which drew his trap to and fro when he had occasion to go to Agworth station. His establishment was still a modest one; all things considered, it could not be deemed inconsistent with his professions. Of course, stories to the contrary got about; among his old comrades in London, thoroughgoing Socialists like Messrs. Cowes and Cullen, who perhaps thought themselves a little neglected by the great light of the Union, there passed occasionally nods and winks, which were meant to imply much. There were rumours of banqueting which went on at Wanley; the Manor was spoken of by some who had not seen it as little less than a palace—nay, it was declared by one or two of the shrewder tongued that a manservant in livery opened the door, a monstrous thing if true. Worse than this was the talk which began to spread among the Hoxton and Islington Unionists of a certain young woman in a poor position to whom Mutimer had in former days engaged himself, and whom he did not now find it convenient to marry. A few staunch friends Richard had, who made it their business stoutly to contradict the calumnies which came within their hearing, Daniel Dabbs the first of them. But even Daniel found himself before long preferring silence to speech on the subject of Emma Vine. He grew uncomfortable about it, and did not know what to think.

The first of Richard’s visitors at the Manor were Mr. and Mrs. Westlake. They came down from London one day, and stayed over till the next. Other prominent members of the Union followed, and before the end of the autumn Richard entertained some dozen of the rank and file, all together, paying their railway fares and housing them from Saturday to Monday. These men, be it noted in passing, distinguished themselves from that day onwards by unsparing detraction whenever the name of Mutimer came up in private talk, though, of course, they were the loudest in applause when platform reference to their leader demanded it. Besides the expressly invited, there was naturally no lack of visitors who presented themselves voluntarily. Among the earliest of these was Mr. Keene, the journalist. He sent in his name one Sunday morning requesting an interview on a matter of business, and on being admitted, produced a copy of the ‘Belwick Chronicle,’ which contained a highly eulogistic semi-biographic notice of Mutimer.

‘I feel I ought to apologise to you for this liberty,’ said Keene, in his flowing way, ‘and that is why I have brought the paper myself. You will observe that it is one of a seris—notable men of the day. I supply the “Chronicle” with a London letter, and give them one of these little sketches fortnightly. I knew your modesty would stand in the way if I consulted you in advance, so I can only beg pardon post delictum, as we say.’

There stood the heading in bold type, ‘MEN OF THE DAY,’ and beneath it ‘XI. Mr. Richard Mutimer.’ Mr. Keene had likewise brought in his pocket the placard of the newspaper, whereon Richard saw his name prominently displayed. The journalist stayed for luncheon.

Alfred Waltham was frequently at the Manor. Mutimer now seldom went up to town for Sunday; if necessity took him thither, he chose some week-day. On Sunday he always spent a longer or shorter time with the Walthams, frequently having dinner at their house. He hesitated at first to invite the ladies to the Manor; in his uncertainty on social usages he feared lest there might be impropriety in a bachelor giving such an invitation. He appealed to Alfred, who naturally laughed the scruple to scorn, and accordingly Mrs. and Miss Waltham were begged to honour Mr. Mutimer with their company. Mrs. Waltham reflected a little, but accepted. Adela would much rather have remained at home, but she had no choice.

By the end of September this invitation had been repeated, and the Walthams had lunched a second time at the Manor, no other guests being present. On the afternoon of the following day Mrs. Waltham and her daughter were talking together in their sitting-room, and the former led the conversation, as of late she almost invariably did when alone with her daughter, to their revolutionary friend.

‘I can’t help thinking, Adela, that in all essentials I never knew a more gentlemanly man than Mr. Mutimer. There must be something superior in his family; no doubt we were altogether mistaken in speaking of him as a mechanic.’

‘But he has told us himself that he was a mechanic,’ replied Adela, in the impatient way in which she was wont to speak on this subject.

‘Oh, that is his modesty. And not only modesty; his views lead him to pride himself on a poor origin. He was an engineer, and we know that engineers are in reality professional men. Remember old Mr. Mutimer; he was a perfect gentleman. I have no doubt the family is really a very good one. Indeed, I am all but sure that I remember the name in Hampshire; there was a Sir something Mutimer—I’m convinced of it. No one really belonging to the working class ever bore himself as Mr. Mutimer does. Haven’t you noticed the shape of his hands, my dear?’

‘I’ve only noticed that they are very large, and just what you would expect in a man who had done much rough work.’

Mrs. Waltham laughed noisily.

‘My dear child, how can you be so perverse? The shape of the fingers is perfect. Do pray notice them next time.’

‘I really cannot promise, mother, to give special attention to Mr. Mutimer’s hands.’

Mrs. Waltham glanced at the girl, who had laid down a book she was trying to read, and, with lowered eyes, seemed to be collecting herself for further utterance.

‘Why are you so prejudiced, Adela?’

‘I am not prejudiced at all. I have no interest of any kind in Mr. Mutimer.’

The words were spoken hurriedly and with a ring almost of hostility. At the same time the girl’s cheeks flushed. She felt herself hard beset. A network was being woven about her by hands she could not deem other than loving; it was time to exert herself that the meshes might not be completed, and the necessity cost her a feeling of shame.

‘But your brother’s friend, my dear. Surely you ought not to say that you have no interest in him at all.’

‘I do say it, mother, and I wish to say it so plainly that you cannot after this mistake me. Alfred’s friends are very far from being necessarily my friends. Not only have I no interest in Mr. Mutimer, I even a little dislike him.’

‘I had no idea of that, Adela,’ said her mother, rather blankly.

‘But it is the truth, and I feel I ought to have tried to make you understand that sooner. I thought you would see that I had no pleasure in speaking of him.’

‘But how is it possible to dislike him? I confess that is very hard for me to understand. I am sure his behaviour to you is perfect—so entirely respectful, so gentlemanly.’

‘No, mother, that is not quite the word to use. You are mistaken; Mr. Mutimer is not a perfect gentleman.’

It was said with much decision, for to Adela’s mind this clenched her argument. Granted the absence of certain qualities which she held essential in a gentleman, there seemed to her no reason for another word on the subject.

‘Pray, when has he misbehaved himself?’ inquired her mother, with a touch of pique.

‘I cannot go into details. Mr. Mutimer has no doubt many excellent qualities; no doubt he is really an earnest and a well-meaning man. But if I am asked to say more than that, it must be the truth—as it seems to me. Please, mother dear, don’t ask me to talk about him in future. And there is something else I wish to say. I do hope you won’t be offended with me, but indeed I—I hope you will not ask me to go to the Manor again. I feel I ought not to go. It is painful; I suffer when I am there.’

‘How strange you are to-day, Adela! Really, I think you might allow me to decide what is proper and what is not. My experience is surely the best judge. You are worse than unkind, Adela; it’s rude to speak to me like that.’

‘Dear mother,’ said the girl, with infinite gentleness, ‘I am very, very sorry. How could I be unkind or rude to you? I didn’t for a moment mean that my judgment was better than yours; it is my feelings that I speak of. You won’t ask me to explain—to say more than that? You must understand me?’

‘Oh yes, my dear, I understand you too well,’ was the stiff reply. ‘Of course I am old-fashioned, and I suppose old-fashioned people are a little coarse; their feelings are not quite as fine as they might be. We will say no more for the present, Adela. I will do my best not to lead you into disagreeable situations through my lack of delicacy.’

There were tears in Adela’s eyes.

‘Mother, now it is you who are unkind. I am so sorry that I spoke. You won’t take my words as they were meant. Must I say that I cannot let Mr. Mutimer misunderstand the way in which. I regard him? He comes here really so very often, and if we begin to go there too—. People are talking about it, indeed they are; Letty has told me so. How can I help feeling pained?’

Mrs. Waltham drew out her handkerchief and appeared mildly agitated. When Adela bent and kissed her she sighed deeply, then said in an undertone of gentle melancholy:

‘I ask your pardon, my dear. I am afraid there has been a little misunderstanding on both sides. But we won’t talk any more of it—there, there!’

By which the good lady of course meant that she would renew the subject on the very earliest opportunity, and that, on the whole, she was not discouraged. Mothers are often unaware of their daughters’ strong points, but their weaknesses they may be trusted to understand pretty well.

The little scene was just well over, and Adela had taken a seat by the window, when a gentleman who was approaching the front door saw her and raised his hat. She went very pale.

The next moment there was a knock at the front door.

‘Mother,’ the girl whispered, as if she could not speak louder, ‘it is Mr. Eldon.’

‘Mr. Eldon?’ Mrs. Waltham drew herself up with dignity, then started from her seat. ‘The idea of his daring to come here!’

She intercepted the servant who was going to open the door.

‘Jane, we are not at home!’

The maid stood in astonishment. She was not used to the polite fictions of society; never before had that welcome mortal, an afternoon visitor, been refused at Mrs. Waltham’s.

‘What did you say, please, mum?’

‘You will say that we are not at home, neither I nor Miss Waltham.’

Even if Hubert Eldon had not seen Adela at the window he must have been dull not to read the meaning of the servant’s singular face and tone. He walked away with a quiet ‘Thank you.’

Mrs. Waltham cast a side glance at Adela when she heard the outer door close. The girl had reopened her book.

‘I’m not sorry that he came. Was there ever such astonishing impudence? If that is gentlemanly, then I must confess I—Really I am not at all sorry he came: it will give him a lesson.’

‘Mr. Eldon may have had some special reason for calling,’ Adela remarked disinterestedly.

‘My dear, I have no business of any kind with Mr. Eldon, and it is impossible that he can have any with me.’

Adela very shortly went from the room.

That evening Richard had for guest at dinner Mr. Willis Rodman; so that gentleman named himself on his cards, and so he liked to be announced. Mr. Rodman was invaluable as surveyor of the works; his experience appeared boundless, and had been acquired in many lands. He was now a Socialist of the purest water, and already he enjoyed more of Mutimer’s intimacy than anyone else. Richard not seldom envied the easy and, as it seemed to him, polished manner of his subordinate, and wondered at it the more since Rodman declared himself a proletarian by birth, and, in private, was fond of referring to the hardships of his early life. That there may be no needless mystery about Mr. Rodman, I am under the necessity of stating the fact that he was the son of a prosperous railway contractor, that he was born in Canada, and would have succeeded to a fortune on his father’s death, but for an unhappy contretemps in the shape of a cheque, whereof Mr. Rodman senior (the name was not Rodman, but the true one is of no importance) disclaimed the signature. From that day to the present good and ill luck had alternated in the young man’s career. His fortunes in detail do not concern us just now; there will be future occasion for returning to the subject.

‘Young Eldon has been in Wanley to-day,’ Mr. Rodman remarked as he sat over his wine after dinner.

‘Has he?’ said Richard, with indifference. ‘What’s he been after?’

‘I saw him going up towards the Walthams’.’

Richard exhibited more interest.

‘Is he a particular friend of theirs?’ he asked. He had gathered from Alfred Waltham that there had been a certain intimacy between the ‘two families, but desired more detailed information than his disciple had offered.

‘Well, he used to be,’ replied Rodman, with a significant smile. ‘But I don’t suppose Mrs. W. gave him a very affectionate reception to-day. His little doings have rather startled the good people of Wanley, especially since he has lost his standing. It wouldn’t have mattered much, I dare say, but for that.’

‘But was there anything particular up there?’

Mutimer had a careworn expression as he asked, and he nodded his head as if in the direction of the village with a certain weariness.

‘I’m not quite sure. Some say there was, and others deny it, as I gather from general conversation. But I suppose it’s at an end now, in any case.’

‘Mrs. Waltham would see to that, you mean?’ said Mutimer, with a short laugh.

‘Probably.’

Rodman made his glass revolve, his fingers on the stem.

‘Take another cigar. I suppose they’re not too well off, the Walthams?’

‘Mrs. Waltham has an annuity of two hundred and fifty pounds, that’s all. The girl—Miss Waltham—has nothing.’

‘How the deuce do you get to know so much about people, Rodman?’

The other smiled modestly, and made a silent gesture, as if to disclaim any special abilities.

‘So he called there to-day? I wonder whether he stayed long?’

‘I will let you know to-morrow.’

On the morrow Richard learnt that Hubert Eldon had been refused admittance. The information gave him pleasure. Yet all through the night he had been earnestly hoping that he might hear something quite different, had tried to see in Eldon’s visit a possible salvation for himself. For the struggle which occupied him more and more had by this time declared its issues plainly enough; daily the temptation became stronger, the resources of honour more feeble. In the beginning he had only played with dangerous thoughts; to break faith with Emma Vine had appeared an impossibility, and a marriage such as his fancy substituted, the most improbable of things. But in men of Richard’s stamp that which allures the fancy will, if circumstances give but a little encouragement, soon take hold upon the planning brain. His acquaintance with the Walthams had ripened to intimacy, and custom nourished his self-confidence; moreover, he could not misunderstand the all but direct encouragement which on one or two recent occasions he had received from Mrs. Waltham. That lady had begun to talk to him, when they were alone together, in almost a motherly way, confiding to him this or that peculiarity in the characters of her children, deploring her inability to give Adela the pleasures suitable to her age, then again pointing out the advantage it was to a girl to have all her thoughts centred in home.

‘I can truly say,’ remarked Mrs. Waltham in the course of the latest such conversation, ‘that Adela has never given me an hour’s serious uneasiness. The dear child has, I believe, no will apart from her desire to please me. Her instincts are so beautifully submissive.’

To a man situated like Mutimer this tone is fatal. In truth it seemed to make offer to him of what he supremely desired. No such encouragement had come from Adela herself, but that meant nothing either way; Richard had already perceived that maidenly reserve was a far more complex matter in a girl of gentle breeding, than in those with whom he had formerly associated; for all he knew, increase of distance in manner might represent the very hope that he was seeking. That hope he sought, in all save the hours when conscience lorded over silence, with a reality of desire such as he had never known. Perhaps it was not Adela, and Adela alone, that inspired this passion; it was a new ideal of the feminine addressing itself to his instincts. Adela had the field to herself, and did indeed embody in almost an ideal degree the fine essence of distinctly feminine qualities which appeal most strongly to the masculine mind. Mutimer was not capable of love in the highest sense; he was not, again, endowed with strong appetite; but his nature contained possibilities of refinement which, in a situation like the present, constituted motive force the same in its effects as either form of passion. He was suffering, too, from the malaise peculiar to men who suddenly acquire riches; secret impulses drove him to gratifications which would not otherwise have troubled his thoughts. Of late he had been yielding to several such caprices. One morning the idea possessed him that he must have a horse for riding, and he could not rest till the horse was purchased and in his stable. It occurred to him once at dinner time that there were sundry delicacies which he knew by name but had never tasted; forthwith he gave orders that these delicacies should be supplied to him, and so there appeared upon his breakfast table a pate de foie gras. Very similar in kind was his desire to possess Adela Waltham.

And the voice of his conscience lost potency, though it troubled him more than ever, even as a beggar will sometimes become rudely clamorous when he sees that there is no real hope of extracting an alms. Richard was embarked on the practical study of moral philosophy; he learned more in these months of the constitution of his inner being than all his literature of ‘free thought’ had been able to convey to him. To break with Emma, to cast his faith to the winds, to be branded henceforth in the sight of his intimate friends as a mere traitor, and an especially mean one to boot—that at the first blush was of the things so impossible that one does not trouble to study their bearings. But the wall of habit once breached, the citadel of conscience laid bare, what garrison was revealed? With something like astonishment, Richard came to recognise that the garrison was of the most contemptible and tatterdemalion description. Fear of people’s talk—absolutely nothing else stood in his way.

Had he, then, no affection for Emma? Hardly a scrap. He had never even tried ‘to persuade himself that he was in love with her, and the engagement had on his side been an affair of cool reason. His mother had practically brought it about; for years it had been a pet project of hers, and her joy was great in its realisation. Mrs. Vine and she had been lifelong gossips; she knew that to Emma had descended the larger portion of her parent’s sterling qualities, and that Emma was the one wife for such a man as Richard. She talked him into approval. In those days Richard had no dream of wedding above his class, and he understood very well that Emma Vine was distinguished in many ways from the crowd of working girls. There was no one else he wished to marry. Emma would feel herself honoured by his choice, and, what he had not himself observed, his mother led him to see that yet deeper feelings were concerned on the girl’s side. This flattered him—a form of emotion to which he was ever susceptible—and the match was speedily arranged.

He had never repented. The more he knew of Emma, the more confirmation his favourable judgments received. He even knew at times a stirring of the senses, which is the farthest that many of his kind ever progress in the direction of love. Of the nobler features in Emma’s character, he of course remained ignorant; they did not enter into his demands upon woman, and he was unable to discern them even when they were brought prominently before him. She would keep his house admirably, would never contradict him, would mother his children to perfection, and even would, go so far as to take an intelligent interest in the Propaganda. What more could a man look for?

So there was no strife between old love and new; so far as it concerned himself, to put Emma aside would not cost a pang. The garrison was absolutely mere tongue, mere gossip of public-house bars, firesides, etc.—more serious, of the Socialist lecture-rooms. And what of the girl’s own feeling? Was there no sense of compassion in him? Very little. And in saying so I mean anything but to convey that Mutimer was conspicuously hard-hearted. The fatal defect in working people is absence of imagination, the power which may be solely a gift of nature and irrespective of circumstances, but which in most of us owes so much to intellectual training. Half the brutal cruelties perpetrated by uneducated men and women are directly traceable to lack of the imaginative spirit, which comes to mean lack of kindly sympathy. Mutimer, we know, had got for himself only the most profitless of educations, and in addition nature had scanted him on the emotional side. He could not enter into the position of Emma deserted and hopeless. Want of money was intelligible to him, so was bitter disappointment at the loss of a good position; but the former he would not allow Emma to suffer, and the latter she would, in the nature of things, soon get over. Her love for him he judged by his own feeling, making allowance, of course, for the weakness of women in affairs such as this. He might admit that she would ‘fret,’ but the thought of her fretting did not affect him as a reality. Emma had never been demonstrative, had never sought to show him all that was in her heart; hence he rated her devotion lightly.

The opinion of those who knew him! What of the opinion of Emma herself? Yes, that went for much; he knew shame at the thought, perhaps keener shame than in anticipating the judgment, say, of Daniel Dabbs. No one of his acquaintances thought of him so highly as Emma did; to see himself dethroned, the object of her contempt, was a bitter pill to swallow. In all that concerned his own dignity Richard was keenly appreciative; he felt in advance every pricking of the blood that was in store for him if he became guilty of this treachery. Yes, from that point of view he feared Emma Vine.

Considerations of larger scope did not come within the purview of his intellect. It never occurred to him, for instance, that in forfeiting his honour in this instance he began a process of undermining which would sooner or later threaten the stability of the purposes on which he most prided himself. A suggestion that domestic perfidy was in the end incompatible with public zeal would have seemed to him ridiculous, and for the simple reason that he recognised no ‘moral sanctions. He could not regard his nature as a whole; he had no understanding for the subtle network of communication between its various parts. Nay, he told himself that the genuineness and value of his life’s work would be increased by a marriage with Adela Waltham; he and she would represent the union of classes—of the wage-earning with the bourgeois, between which two lay the real gist of the combat. He thought of this frequently, and allowed the thought to inspirit him.

To the question of whether Adela would ever find out what he had done, and, if so, with what result, he gave scarcely a moment. Marriages are not undone by subsequent discovery of moral faults on either side.

This is a tabular exposition of the man’s consciousness. Logically, there should result from it a self-possessed state of mind, bordering on cynicism. But logic was not predominant in Mutimer’s constitution. So far from contemplating treason with the calm intelligence which demands judgment on other grounds than the common, he was in reality possessed by a spirit of perturbation. Such reason as he could command bade him look up and view with scorn the ragged defenders of the forts; but whence came this hail of missiles which kept him so sore? Clearly there was some element of his nature which eluded grasp and definition, a misty influence making itself felt here and there. To none of the sources upon which I have touched was it clearly traceable; in truth, it arose from them all. The man had never in his life been guilty of offence against his graver conscience; he had the sensation of being about to plunge from firm footing into untried depths. His days were troubled; his appetite was not what it should have been; he could not take the old thorough interest in his work. It was becoming clear to him that the matter must be settled one way or another with brief delay.

One day at the end of September he received a letter addressed by Alice. On opening it he found, with much surprise, that the contents were in his mother’s writing. It was so very rarely that Mrs. Mutimer took up that dangerous instrument, the pen, that something unusual must have led to her doing so at present. And, indeed, the letter contained unexpected matter. There were numerous errors of orthography, and the hand was not very legible; but Richard got at the sense quickly enough.

‘I write this,’ began Mrs. Mutimer, ‘because it’s a long time since you’ve been to see us, and because I want to say something that’s better written than spoken. I saw Emma last night, and I’m feeling uncomfortable about her. She’s getting very low, and that’s the truth. Not as she says anything, nor shows it, but she’s got a deal on her hands, and more on her mind. You haven’t written to her for three weeks. You’ll be saying it’s no business of mine, but I can’t stand by and see Emma putting up with things as there isn’t no reason. Jane is in a very bad way, poor girl; I can’t think she’ll live long. Now, Dick, what I’m aiming at you’ll see. I can’t understand why you don’t get married and done with it. Jane won’t never be able to work again, and that Kate ‘ll never keep up a dressmaking. Why don’t you marry Emma, and take poor Jane to live with you, where she could be well looked after? for she won’t never part from her sister. And she does so hope and pray to see Emma married before she goes. You can’t surely be waiting for her death. Now, there’s a good lad of mine, come and marry your wife at once, and don’t make delays. That’s all, but I hope you’ll think of it; and so, from your affectionate old mother,

‘S. MUTIMER.’

Richard read the letter several times, and sat at home through the morning in despondency. It had got to the pass that he could not marry Emma; for all his suffering he no longer gave a glance in that direction. Not even if Adela Waltham refused him; to have a ‘lady’ for his wife was now an essential in his plans for the future, and he knew that the desired possession was purchasable for coin of the realm. No way of retreat any longer; movement must be forward, at whatever cost.

He let a day intervene, then replied to his mother’s letter. He represented himself as worked to death and without a moment for his private concerns; it was out of the question for him to marry for a few weeks yet. He would write to Emma, and would send her all the money she could possibly need to supply the sick girl with comforts. She must keep up her courage, and be content to wait a short while longer. He was quite sure she did not complain; it was only his mother’s fancy that she was in low spirits, except, of course, on Jane’s account.

Another fortnight went by. Skies were lowering towards winter, and the sides of the valley showed bare patches amid the rich-hued death of leaves; ere long a night of storm would leave ‘ruined choirs.’ Richard was in truth working hard. He had just opened a course of lectures at a newly established Socialist branch in Belwick. The extent of his daily correspondence threatened to demand the services of a secretary in addition to the help already given by Rodman. Moreover, an event of importance was within view; the New Wanley Public Hall was completed, and its formal opening must be made an occasion of ceremony. In that ceremony Richard would be the central figure. He proposed to gather about him a representative company; not only would the Socialist leaders attend as a matter of course, invitations should also be sent to prominent men in the conventional lines of politics. A speech from a certain Radical statesman, who could probably be induced to attend, would command the attention of the press. For the sake of preliminary trumpetings in even so humble a journal as the ‘Belwick Chronicle,’ Mutimer put himself in communication with Mr. Keene. That gentleman was now a recognised visitor at the house in Highbury; there was frequent mention of him in a close correspondence kept up between Richard and his sister at this time. The letters which Alice received from Wanley were not imparted to the other members of the family; she herself studied them attentively, and with much apparent satisfaction.

For advice on certain details of the approaching celebration Richard had recourse to Mrs. Waltham. He found her at home one rainy morning. Adela, aware of his arrival, retreated to her little room upstairs. Mrs. Waltham had a slight cold; it kept her close by the fireside, and encouraged confidential talk.

‘I have decided to invite about twenty people to lunch,’ Richard said. ‘Just the members of the committee and a few others. It’ll be better than giving a dinner. Westlake’s lecture will be over by four o’clock, and that allows people to get away in good time. The workmen’s tea will be at half-past five.’

‘You must have refreshments of some kind for casual comers,’ counselled Mrs. Waltham.

‘I’ve thought of that. Rodman suggests that we shall get the “Wheatsheaf” people to have joints and that kind of thing in the refreshment-room at the Hall from half-past twelve to half-past one. We could put up some notice to that effect in Agworth station.’

‘Certainly, and inside the railway carriages.’

Mutimer’s private line, which ran from the works to Agworth station, was to convey visitors to New Wanley on this occasion.

‘I think I shall have three or four ladies,’ Richard pursued ‘Mrs. Westlake ‘ll be sure to come’, and I think Mrs. Eddlestone—the wife of the Trades Union man, you know. And I’ve been rather calculating on you, Mrs. Waltham; do you think you could—?’

The lady’s eyes were turned to the window, watching the sad steady rain.

‘Really, you’re making a downright Socialist of me, Mr. Mutimer,’ she replied, with a laugh which betrayed a touch of sore throat. ‘I’m half afraid to accept such an invitation. Shouldn’t I be there on false pretences, don’t you think?’

Richard mused; his legs were crossed, and he swayed his foot up and down.

‘Well, no, I can’t see that. But I tell you what would make it simpler: do you think Mr. Wyvern would come if I, asked him?’

‘Ah, now, that would be capital! Oh, ask Mr. Wyvern by all means. Then, of course, I should be delighted to accept.’

‘But I haven’t much hope that he’ll come. I rather think he regards me as his enemy. And, you see, I never go to church.’

‘What a pity that is, Mr. Mutimer! Ah, if I could only persuade you to think differently about those things! There really are so many texts that read quite like Socialism; I was looking them over with Adela on Sunday. What a sad thing it is that you go so astray t It distresses me more than you think. Indeed, if I may tell you such a thing, I pray for you nightly.’

Mutimer made a movement of discomfort, but laughed off the subject.

‘I’ll go and see the vicar, at all events,’ he said. ‘But must your coming depend on his?’

Mrs. Waltham hesitated.

‘It really would make things easier.’

‘Might I, in that case, hope that Miss Waltham would come?’

Richard seemed to exert himself to ask the question. Mrs. Waltham sank her eyes, smiled feebly, and in the end shook her head.

‘On a public occasion, I’m really afraid—’

‘I’m sure she would like to know Mrs. Westlake,’ urged Richard, without his usual confidence. ‘And if you and her brother—’

‘If it were not a Socialist gathering.’

Richard uncrossed his legs and sat for a moment looking into the fire. Then he turned suddenly.

‘Mrs. Waltham, may I ask her myself?’

She was visibly agitated. There was this time no affectation in the tremulous lips and the troublous, unsteady eyes. Mrs. Waltham was not by nature the scheming mother who is indifferent to the upshot if she can once get her daughter loyally bound to a man of money. Adela’s happiness was a very real care to her; she would never have opposed an unobjectionable union on which she found her daughter’s heart bent, but circumstances had a second time made offer of brilliant advantages, and she had grown to deem it an ordinance of the higher powers that Adela should marry possessions. She flattered herself that her study of Mutimer’s character had been profound; the necessity of making such a study excused, she thought, any little excess of familiarity in which she had indulged, for it had long been clear to her that Mutimer would some day make an offer. He lacked polish, it was true, but really he was more a gentleman than a great many whose right to the name was never contested. And then he had distinctly high aims: such a man could never be brutal in the privacy of his home. There was every chance of his achieving some kind of eminence; already she had suggested to him a Parliamentary career, and the idea had not seemed altogether distasteful. Adela herself was as yet far from regarding Mutimer in the light of a future husband; it was perhaps true that she even disliked him. But then a young girl’s likes and dislikes have, as a rule, small bearing on her practical content in the married state; so, at least, Mrs. Waltham’s experience led her to believe. Only, it was clear that there must be no precipitancy. Let the ground be thoroughly prepared.

‘May I advise you, Mr. Mutimer?’ she said, in a lowered voice, bending forward. ‘Let me deliver the invitation. I think it would be better, really. We shall see whether you can persuade Mr. Wyvern to be present. I promise you to—in fact, not to interpose any obstacle if Adela thinks she can be present at the lunch.’

‘Then I’ll leave it so,’ said Richard, more cheerfully. Mrs. Waltham could see that his nerves were in a dancing state. Really, he had much fine feeling.