Demos

CHAPTER XIV

‘Between Richard Mutimer, bachelor, and Adela Marian Waitham, spinster, both of this parish’

It was the only announcement of the kind that Mr. Wyvern had to make this Sunday. To one of his hearers he seemed to utter the names with excessive emphasis, his deep voice reverberating in the church. The pews were high; Adela almost cowered in her corner, feeling pierced with the eyes, with the thoughts too, of the congregation about her.

She had wondered whether the Manor pew would be occupied to-day, but it was not. When she stood up, her eyes strayed towards it; the red curtains which concealed the interior were old and faded, the wooden canopy crowned it with dreary state. In three weeks that would be her place at service. Sitting there, it would not be hard to keep her thoughts on mortality.

Would it not have been graceful in him to attend church to-day? Would she in future worship under the canopy alone?

No time had been lost. Mr. Wyvern received notice of the proposed marriage less than two hours after Adela had spoken her world-changing monosyllable. She put in no plea for delay, and her mother, though affecting a little consternation at Mutimer’s haste, could not seriously object. Wanley, discussing the matter at its Sunday tea-tables, declared with unanimity that such expedition was indecent. By this time the disapproval of the village had attached itself exclusively to Mrs. Waltham; Adela was spoken of as a martyr to her mother’s miserable calculations. Mrs. Mewling went about with a story, that only by physical restraint had the unhappy girl been kept from taking flight. The name of Hubert Eldon once more came up in conversation. There was an unauthenticated rumour that he had been seen of late, lurking about Wanley. The more boldly speculative gossips looked with delicious foreboding to the results of a marriage such as this. Given a young man of Eldon’s reputation—ah me!

The Walthams all lunched (or dined) at the Manor. Mutimer was in high spirits, or seemed so; there were moments when the cheerful look died on his face, and his thoughts wandered from the conversation; but if his eye fell on Adela he never failed to smile the smile of inner satisfaction. She had not yet responded to his look, and only answered his questions in the briefest words; but her countenance was resolutely bright, and her beauty all that man could ask. Richard did not flatter himself that she held him dear; indeed, he was a good deal in doubt whether affection, as vulgarly understood, was consistent with breeding and education. But that did not concern him; he had gained his end, and was jubilant.

In the course of the meal he mentioned that his sister would come down from London in a day or two. Christmas was only a week off, and he had thought it would be pleasant to have her at the Manor for that season.

‘Oh, that’s very nice!’ assented Mrs. Waltham. ‘Alice, her name is, didn’t you say? Is she dark or fair?’

‘Fair, and just about Adela’s height, I should think. I hope you’ll like her, Adela.’

It was unfortunate that Richard did not pronounce the name of his bride elect quite as it sounds on cultured lips. This may have been partly the result of diffidence; but there was a slurring of the second syllable disagreeably suggestive of vulgarity. It struck on the girl’s nerves, and made it more difficult for her to grow accustomed to this form of address from Mutimer.

‘I’m sure I shall try to,’ she replied to the remark about Alice, this time endeavouring to fix her obstinate eyes for a moment on Richard’s face.

‘Your brother won’t come, then?’ Mrs. Waltham asked.

‘Not just yet, I’m afraid. He’s busy studying.’

‘To read and write, I fear,’ was the lady’s silent comment. On the score of Alice, too, Mrs. Waltham nursed a certain anxiety. The damsels of the working class are, or so she apprehended, somewhat more difficult of acceptance than their fathers and brothers, and for several reasons. An artisan does not necessarily suggest, indeed is very distinct from, the footman or even groom; but to dissociate an uneducated maiden from the lower regions of the house is really an exertion of the mind. And then, it is to be feared, the moral tone of such young persons leaves for the most part much to be desired. Mrs. Waltham was very womanly in her distrust of her sex.

After luncheon there was an inspection of the house. Adela did not go farther than the drawing-room; her brother remained with her whilst Mutimer led Mrs. Waltham through the chambers she might care to see. The lady expressed much satisfaction. The furnishing had been performed in a substantial manner, without display; one might look forward to considerable comfort at the Manor.

‘Any change that Adela suggests,’ said Richard during this tour, ‘shall of course be carried out at once. If she doesn’t like the paper in any of the rooms, she’s only got to say so and choose a better. Do you think she’d care to look at the stables? I’ll get a carriage for her, and a horse to ride, if she likes.’

Richard felt strongly that this was speaking in a generous way. He was not aware that his tone hinted as much, but it unmistakably did. The vulgarity of a man who tries hard not to be vulgar is always particularly distressing.

‘Oh, how kind!’ murmured Mrs. Waltham. ‘Adela has never ridden; I should think carriage exercise would be enough for her. We mustn’t forget your principles, you know, for I’m sure they are very admirable.’

‘Oh, I don’t care anything about luxuries myself, but Adela shall have everything she wants.’

Alfred Waltham, who knew the house perfectly, led his mother to inspect the stables, Mutimer remaining with Adela in the drawing-room.

‘You’ve been very quiet all dinner-time,’ he said, taking a seat near her and bending forward.

‘A little, perhaps. I am thinking of so many things.’

‘What are they, I wonder?’

‘Will you let me have some books about Socialism, and the other questions in which you are interested?’

‘I should think I will! You really mean to study these things?’

‘Yes, I will read and think about them. And I shall be glad if you will explain to me more about the works. I have never quite understood all that you wish to do. Perhaps you will have time when you come to see us some evening.’

‘Well, if I haven’t time, I’ll make it,’ said Richard, laughing. ‘You can’t think how glad I am to hear you say this.’

‘When do you expect your sister?’

‘On Tuesday; at least, I hope it won’t be later. I’m sure you’ll like her, you can’t help. She hasn’t such looks as you have, you know, but we’ve always thought her very fair-looking. What do you think we often call her? The Princess! That’s part because of her name, Alice Maud, and part from a sort of way she’s always had. Not a flighty way, but a sort of—well, I can’t describe it. I do hope you’ll like her.’

It was the first time Adela had heard him speak in a tone which impressed her as entirely honest, not excepting his talk of the Propaganda. Here, she felt, was a side of his character that she had not suspected. His voice was almost tender; the play of his features betokened genuine feeling.

‘I can see she is a great favourite with you,’ she replied. ‘I have no doubt I shall like her.’

‘You’ll find a good deal that wants altering, I’ve no doubt,’ he pursued, now quite forgetful of himself. ‘She hasn’t had much education, you know, till just lately. But you’ll help her in that, won’t you? She’s as good-natured as any girl living, and whenever you put her right you may be sure she’ll only thank you. I’ve wanted to have her here before, only I thought I’d wait till I knew whether—you know what I mean.

As if in a sudden gloom before her eyes Adela saw his face draw nearer. It was a moment’s loss of consciousness, in which a ghastly fear flashed upon her soul. Then, with lips that quivered, she began to talk quickly of Socialism, just to dispel the horror.

On the following afternoon Mutimer came, bringing a number of books, pamphlets, and newspapers. Mrs. Waltham had discreetly abandoned the sitting-room.

‘I don’t want to frighten you,’ he said, laying down his bundle. ‘You haven’t got to read through all these. I was up nearly all last night marking pages that I thought you’d better study first of all. And here’s a lot of back numbers of the “Fiery Cross;” I should like you to read all that’s signed by Mr. Westlake; he’s the editor, you know.’

‘Is there anything here of your own writing?’ Adela inquired.

‘No, I haven’t written anything. I’ve kept to lecturing; it comes easier to me. After Christmas I shall have several lectures to give in London. Perhaps you’ll come and hear me?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Then you can get to know Mrs. Westlake, I dare say. She’s a lady, you know, like yourself. There’s some poetry by her in the paper; it just has her initials, “S. W.” She’s with us heart and soul, as you’ll see by her writing.’

‘Is Alice a Socialist?’ Adela asked, after glancing fitfully at the papers.

Richard laughed.

‘Oh, she’s a princess; it would be too much to expect Socialism of her. But I dare say she’ll be beginning to think more now. I don’t mean she’s been thoughtless in the wrong way; it’s just a—I can’t very well describe it. But I hope you’ll see her to-morrow night May I bring her to you when she comes?’

‘I hope you will.’

‘I’m glad your brother won’t be here. I only mean, you know, I’d rather she got accustomed just to you first of all. I dare say she’ll be a bit timid, you won’t mind that?’

Adela returned to the graver subject.

‘All the people at New Wanley are Socialists?’

‘Yes, all of them. They join the Union when they come to work, and we take a good deal of care in choosing our men.’

‘And you pay higher wages than other employers?’

‘Not much higher, but the rents of the cottages are very low, and all the food sold at the store is cost price. No, we don’t pretend to make the men rich. We’ve had a good lot coming with quite mistaken ideas, and of course they wouldn’t suit us. And you mustn’t call me the employer. All I have I look upon as the property of the Union; the men own it as much as I do. It’s only that I regulate the work, just because somebody must. We’re not making any profits to speak of yet, but that’ll only come in time; whatever remains as clear profit,—and I don’t take anything out of the works myself—goes to the Propaganda fund of the Union.’

‘Please forgive my ignorance. I’ve heard that word “Propaganda” so often, but I don’t know exactly what it means.’

Mutimer became patronising, quite without intending it.

‘Propaganda? Oh, that’s the spreading our ideas, you know; printing paper, giving lectures, hiring places of meeting, and so on. That’s what Propaganda means.’

‘Thank you,’ said Adela musingly. Then she continued,—

‘And the workmen only have the advantage, at present, of the low rents and cheap food?’

‘Oh, a good deal more. To begin with, they’re housed like human beings, and not like animals. Some day you shall see the kind of places the people live in, in London and other big towns. You won’t believe your eyes. Then they have shorter hours of work; they’re not treated like omnibus horses, calculating just how much can be got out of them without killing them before a reasonable time. Then they’re sure of their work as long as they keep honest and don’t break any of our rules; that’s no slight thing, I can tell you. Why, on the ordinary system a man may find himself and his family without food any week end. Then there’s a good school for the children; they pay threepence a week for each child. Then there’s the reading-room and library, and the lectures, and the recreation-grounds. You just come over the place with me some day, and talk with the women, and see if they don’t think they’re well off.’

Adela looked him in the face.

‘And it is you they have to thank for all this?’

‘Well, I don’t want any credit for it,’ Mutimer replied, waving his hand. ‘What would you think of me if I worked them like niggers and just enjoyed myself on the profits? That’s what the capitalists do.’

‘I think you are doing more than most men would. There is only one thing.’

She dropped her voice.

‘What’s that, Adela?’

‘I’ll speak of it some other time.’

‘I know what you mean. You’re sorry I’ve got no religion. Ay, but I have! There’s my religion, down there in New Wanley. I’m saving men and women and children from hunger and cold and the lives of brute beasts. I teach them to live honestly and soberly. There’s no public-house in New Wanley, and there won’t be.’ (It just flashed across Adela’s mind that Mutimer drank wine himself.) ‘There’s no bad language if I can help it. The children ‘ll be brought up to respect the human nature that’s in them, to honour their parents, and act justly and kindly to all they have dealings with. Isn’t there a good deal of religion in that, Adela?’

‘Yes, but not all. Not the most important part’

‘Well, as you say, we’ll talk over that some other time. And now I’m sorry I can’t stay any longer. I’ve twenty or thirty letters to get written before post-time.’

Adela rose as he did.

‘If there’s ever anything I can do to help you,’ she said modestly, ‘you will not fail to ask me?’

‘That I won’t What I want you to do now is to read what I’ve marked in those books. You mustn’t tire your eyes, you know; there’s plenty of time.’

‘I will read all you wish me to, and think over it as much as I can.’

‘Then you’re a right-down good girl, and if I don’t think myself a lucky man, I ought to.’

He left her trembling with a strange new emotion, the begin fling of a self-conscious zeal, an enthusiasm forced into being like a hothouse flower. It made her cheeks burn; she could not rest till her study had commenced.

Richard had written to his sister, saying that he wanted her, that she must come at once. To Alice his thoughts had been long turning; now that the time for action had arrived, it was to her that he trusted for aid. Things he would find it impossible to do himself, Alice might do for him. He did not doubt his power of persuading her. With Alice principle would stand second to his advantage. He had hard things to ask of her, but the case was a desperate one, and she would endure the unpleasantness for his sake. He blessed her in anticipation.

Alice received the letter summoning her on Monday morning. Richard himself was expected in Highbury; expected, too, at a sad little house in Hoxton; for he had constantly promised to spend Christmas with his friends. The present letter did not say that he would not come, only that he wanted his sister immediately. She was to bring her best dress for wear when she arrived. He told her the train she was to take on Tuesday morning.

The summons filled Alice with delight. Wanley, whence had come the marvellous fortune, was in her imagination a land flowing with milk and honey. Moreover, this would be her first experience of travel; as yet she had never been farther out of London than to Epping Forest. The injunction to bring her best dress excited visions of polite company. All through Monday she practised ways of walking, of eating, of speaking.

‘What can he want you for?’ asked Mrs. Mutimer gloomily. ‘I sh’d ‘a thought he might ‘a taken you with him after Christmas. It looks as if he wasn’t coming.’

The old woman had been habitually gloomy of late. The reply she had received to her letter was not at all what she wanted; it increased her impatience; she had read it endless times, trying to get at the very meaning of it. Christmas must bring an end to this wretched state of things; at Christmas Dick would come to London and marry Emma; no doubt he had that time in view. Fears which she would not consciously admit were hovering about her night and day. She had begun to talk to herself aloud, a consequence of over-stress on a brain never used to anxious thought; she went about the upper rooms of the house muttering ‘Dick’s an honest man.’ To keep moving seemed a necessity to her; the chair in the dim corner of the dining-room she now scarcely ever occupied, and the wonted employment of her fingers was in abeyance. She spent most of her day in the kitchen; already two servants had left because they could not endure her fidgety supervision. She was growing suspicious of every one; Alice had to listen ten times a day to complaints of dishonesty in the domestics or the tradespeople; the old woman kept as keen a watch over petty expenditure as if poverty had still to be guarded against. And she was constantly visiting the Vines; she would rise at small hours to get her house-work done, so as to be able to spend the afternoon in Wilton Square. That, in truth, was still her home; the new house could never be to her what the old was; she was a stranger amid the new furniture, and sighed with relief as soon as her eyes rested on the familiar chairs and tables which had been her household gods through a lifetime.

‘Arry had given comparatively little trouble of late; beyond an occasional return home an hour or so after midnight, his proceedings seemed to be perfectly regular. He saw a good deal of Mr. Keene, who, as Alice gathered from various remarks in Richard’s letters, exercised over him a sort of tutorage. It was singular how completely Richard seemed to have changed in his judgment of Mr. Keene. ‘His connection with newspapers makes him very useful,’ said one letter. ‘Be as friendly with him as you like; I trust to your good sense and understanding of your own interest to draw the line.’ When at the house Mr. Keene was profoundly respectful; his position at such times was singular, for as often as not Alice had to entertain him alone. Profound, too, was the journalist’s discretion in regard to all doings down at Wanley. Knowing he had several times visited the Manor, Alice often sought information from him about her brother’s way of life. Mr. Keene always replied with generalities. He was a man of humour in his way, and Alice came to regard him with amusement. Then his extreme respect flattered her; insensibly she took him for her criterion of gentility in men. He supplied her with ‘society’ journals, and now and then suggested the new novel that it behoved her to read. Richard had even withdrawn his opposition to the theatre-going; about once in three weeks Mr. Keene presented himself with tickets, and Alice, accompanied by her brother, accepted his invitation.

He called this Monday evening. Mrs. Mutimer, after spending a day of fretful misery, had gone to Wilton Square; ‘Arry was away at his classes. Alice was packing certain articles she had purchased in the afternoon, and had just delighted her soul with the inspection of a travelling cloak, also bought to-day. When the visitor was announced, she threw the garment over her shoulders and appeared in it.

‘Does this look nice, do you think?’ she asked, after shaking hands as joyously as her mood dictated.

‘About as nice as a perfect thing always does when it’s worn by a perfect woman,’ Mr. Keene replied, drawing back and inclining his body at what he deemed a graceful angle.

‘Oh, come, that’s too much!’ laughed Alice.

‘Not a bit, Miss Mutimer. I suppose you travel in it tomorrow morning?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I have heard from your brother to-day. I thought I might perhaps have the great pleasure of doing you some slight service either to-night or in the morning. You will allow me to attend you to the station?’

‘I really don’t think there’s any need to trouble you,’ Alice replied. These respectful phrases always stirred her pleasurably: in listening to them she bore herself with dignity, and endeavoured to make answer in becoming diction.

‘Trouble? What other object have I in life but to serve you? I’ll put it in another way: you won’t refuse me the pleasure of being near you for a few minutes?’

‘I’m sure you’re very kind. I know very well it’s taking you out of your way, but it isn’t likely I shall refuse to let you come.’

Mr. Keene bowed low in silence.

‘Have you brought me that paper?’ Alice asked, seating herself with careful arrangement of her dress. ‘The Christmas number with the ghost story you spoke of, you know?’

In the course of a varied life Mr. Keene had for some few months trodden the boards of provincial theatres; an occasional turn of his speech, and still more his favourite gestures, bore evidence to that period of his career. Instead of making direct reply to Alice’s question, he stood for a moment as if dazed; then flinging back his body, smote his forehead with a ringing slap, and groaned ‘O Heaven!’

‘What’s the matter?’ cried the girl, not quite knowing whether to be amused or alarmed.

But Mr. Keene was rushing from the room, and in an instant the house door sounded loudly behind him. Alice stood disconcerted; then, thinking she understood, laughed gaily and ran upstairs to complete her packing. In a quarter of an hour Mr. Keene’s return brought her to the drawing-room again. The journalist was propping himself against the mantelpiece, gasping, his arms hanging limp, his hair disordered. As Alice approached he staggered forward, fell on one knee, and held to her the paper she had mentioned.

‘Pardon—forgive!’ he panted.

‘Why, where ever have you been?’ exclaimed Alice.

‘No matter! what are time and space? Forgive me, Miss Mutimer! I deserve to be turned out of the house, and never stand in the light of your countenance again.’

‘But how foolish! As if it mattered all that. What a state you’re in! I’ll go and get you a glass of wine.’

She ran to the dining-room, and returned with a decanter and glass on a tray. Mr. Keene had sunk upon a settee, one arm hanging over the back, his eyes closed.

‘You have pardoned me?’ he murmured, regarding her with weary rapture.

‘I don’t see what there is to pardon. Do drink a glass of wine! Shall I pour it out for you?’

‘Drink and service for the gods!’

‘Do you mean the people in the gallery?’ Alice asked roguishly, recalling a term in which Mr. Keene had instructed her at their latest visit to the theatre.

‘You are as witty as you are beautiful!’ he sighed, taking the glass and draining it. Alice turned away to the fire; decidedly Mr. Keene was in a gallant mood this evening; hitherto his compliments had been far more guarded.

They began to converse in a more terrestrial manner. Alice wanted to know whom she was likely to meet at Wanley; and Mr. Keene, in a light way, sketched for her the Waltham family. She became thoughtful whilst he was describing Adela Waltham, and subsequently recurred several times to that young lady. The journalist allowed himself to enter into detail, and Alice almost ceased talking.

It drew on to half-past nine. Mr. Keene never exceeded discretion in the hours of his visits. He looked at his watch and rose.

‘I may call at nine?’ he said.

‘If you really have time. But I can manage quite well by myself, you know.’

‘What you can do is not the question. If I had my will you should never know a moment’s trouble as long as you lived.’

‘If I never have worse trouble than going to the railway station, I shall think myself lucky.’

‘Miss Mutimer—’

‘Yes?’

‘You won’t drop me altogether from your mind whilst you’re away?’

There was a change in his voice. He had abandoned the tone of excessive politeness, and spoke very much like a man who has feeling at the back of his words. Alice regarded him nervously.

‘I’m not going to be away more than a day or two,’ she said, smoothing a fold in her dress.

‘If it was only an hour or two I couldn’t bear to think you’d altogether forgotten me.’

‘Why, of course I shan’t!’

‘But—Miss Mutimer, I’m abusing confidence. Your brother trusts me; he’s done me a good many kindnesses. But I can’t help it, upon my soul. If you betray me, I’m done for. You won’t do that? I put myself in your power, and you’re too good to hurt a fly.’

‘What do you mean, Mr. Keene?’ Alice asked, inwardly pleased, yet feeling uncomfortable.

‘I can’t go away to-night without saying it, and ten to one it means I shall never see you again. You know what I mean. Well, harm me as you like; I’d rather be harmed by you than done good to by any one else. I’ve got so far, there’s no going back. Do you think some day you could—do you think you could?’

Alice dropped her eyes and shook her pretty head slowly.

‘I can’t give any promise of that kind,’ she replied under her breath.

‘You hate me? I’m a disagreeable beast to you? I’m a low—’

‘Oh dear, don’t say such things, Mr. Keene! The idea! I don’t dislike you a bit; but of course that’s a different thing—’

He held out his hand sadly, dashing the other over his eyes.

‘Good-bye, I don’t think I can come again. I’ve abused confidence. When your brother hears of it—. But no matter, I’m only a—a sort of crossing-sweeper in your eyes.’

Alice’s laugh rang merrily.

‘What things you do call yourself! Now, don’t go off like that, Mr. Keene. To begin with, my brother won’t hear anything about it—’

‘You mean that? You are so noble, so forgiving? Pooh, as if I didn’t know you were! Upon my soul, I’d run from here to South Kensington, like the ragamuffins after the cabs with luggage, only just to get a smile from you. Oh, Miss Mutimer—oh!’

‘Mr. Keene, I can’t say yes, and I don’t like to be so unkind to you as to say no. You’ll let that do for the present, won’t you?’

‘Bless your bright eyes, of course I will! If I don’t love you for your own sake, I’m the wretchedest turnip-snatcher in London. Good-bye, Princess!’

‘Who taught you to call me that?’

‘Taught me? It was only a word that came naturally to my lips.’

Curiously, this was quite true. It impressed Alice Maud, and she thought of Mr. Keene for at least five minutes continuously after his departure.

She was extravagantly gay as they drove in a four-wheeled cab to the station next morning. Mr. Keene made no advances. He sat respectfully on the seat opposite her, with a travelling bag on his knees, and sighed occasionally. When she had secured her seat in the railway carriage he brought her sandwiches, buns, and sweetmeats enough for a voyage to New York. Alice waved her hand to him as the train moved away.

She reached Agworth at one o’clock; Richard had been pacing the platform impatiently for twenty minutes. Porters were eager to do his bidding, and his instructions to them were suavely imperative.

‘They know me,’ he remarked to Alice, with his air of satisfaction. ‘I suppose you’re half frozen? I’ve got a foot-warmer in the trap.’

The carriage promised to Adela was a luxury Richard had not ventured to allow himself. Alice mounted to a seat by his side, and he drove off.

‘Why on earth did you come second-class?’ he asked, after examining her attire with approval.

‘Ought it to have been first? It really seemed such a lot of money, Dick, when I came to look at the fares.’

‘Yes, it ought to have been first. In London things don’t matter, but here I’m known, you see. Did mother go to the station with you?’

‘No, Mr. Keene did.’

‘Keene, eh?’ He bent his brows a moment.

‘I hope he behaves himself?’

‘I’m sure he’s very gentlemanly.’

‘Yes, you ought to have come first-class. A princess riding second’ll never do. You look well, old girl? Glad to come, eh?’

‘Well, guess! And is this your own horse and trap, Dick?’

‘Of course it is.’

‘Who was that man? He touched his hat to you.’

Mutimer glanced back carelessly.

‘I’m sure I don’t know. Most people touch their hats to me about here.’

It was an ideal winter day. A feathering of snow had fallen at dawn, and now the clear, cold sun made it sparkle far and wide. The horse’s tread rang on the frozen highway. A breeze from the north-west chased the blood to healthsome leaping, and caught the breath like an unexpected kiss. The colour was high on Alice’s fair cheeks; she laughed with delight.

‘Oh, Dick, what a thing it is to be rich! And you do look such a gentleman; it’s those gloves, I think.’

‘Now we’re going into the village,’ Mutimer said presently. ‘Don’t look about you too much, and don’t seem to be asking questions. Everybody ‘ll be at the windows.’