Demos

CHAPTER XVII

Movements which appeal to the reason and virtue of humanity, and are consequently doomed to remain long in the speculative stage, prove their vitality by enduring the tests of schism. A Socialistic propaganda in times such as our own, an insistence upon the principles of Christianity in a modern Christian state, the advocacy of peace and good-will in an age when falsehood is the foundation of the social structure, and internecine warfare is presupposed in every compact between man and man, might anticipate that the test would come soon, and be of a stringent nature. Accordingly it did not surprise Mr. Westlake when he discerned the beginnings of commotion in the Union of which he represented the cultured and leading elements. A comrade named Roodhouse had of late been coming into prominence by addressing himself in fiery eloquence to open-air meetings, and at length had taken upon himself to more than hint that the movement was at a standstill owing to the lukewarmness (in guise of practical moderation) of those to whom its guidance had been entrusted. The reports of Comrade Roodhouse’s lectures were of a nature that made it difficult for Mr. Westlake to print them in the ‘Fiery Cross;’ one such report arrived at length, that of a meeting held on Clerkenwell Green on the first Sunday of the new year, to which the editor refused admission. The comrade who made it his business to pen notes of the new apostle’s glowing words, had represented him as referring to the recognised leader in such very uncompromising terms, that to publish the report in the official columns would have been stultifying. In the lecture in question Roodhouse declared his adherence to the principles of assassination; he pronounced them the sole working principles; to deny to Socialists the right of assassination was to rob them of the very sinews of war. Men who affected to be revolutionists, but were in reality nothing more than rose-water romancers, would of course object to anything which looked like business; they liked to sit in their comfortable studies and pen daintily worded articles, thus earning for themselves a humanitarian reputation at a very cheap rate. That would not do; à bas all such penny-a-liner pretence! Blood and iron! that must be the revolutionists’ watchword. Was it not by blood and iron that the present damnable system was maintained? To arms, then secretly, of course. Let tyrants be made to tremble upon their thrones in more countries than Russia. Let capitalists fear to walk in the daylight. This only was the path of progress.

It was thought by the judicious that Comrade Roodhouse would, if he repeated this oration, find himself the subject of a rather ugly indictment. For the present, however, his words were ignored, save in the Socialist body. To them, of course, he had addressed himself, and doubtless he was willing to run a little risk for the sake of a most practical end, that of splitting the party, and thus establishing a sovereignty for himself; this done, he could in future be more guarded. His reporter purposely sent ‘copy’ to Mr. Westlake which could not be printed, and the rejection of the report was the signal for secession. Comrade Roodhouse printed at his own expense a considerable number of leaflets, and sowed them broadcast in the Socialist meeting-places. There were not wanting disaffected brethren, who perused these appeals with satisfaction. Schism flourished.

Comrade Roodhouse was of course a man of no means, but he numbered among his followers two extremely serviceable men, one of them a practical printer who carried on a small business in Camden Town; the other an oil merchant, who, because his profits had never exceeded a squalid two thousand a year, whereas another oil merchant of his acquaintance made at least twice as much, was embittered against things in general, and ready to assist any subversionary movement, yea, even with coin of the realm, on the one condition that he should be allowed to insert articles of his own composition in the new organ which it was proposed to establish. There was no difficulty in conceding this trifle, and the ‘Tocsin’ was the result. The name was a suggestion of the oil merchant himself, and no bad name if Socialists at large could be supposed capable of understanding it; but the oil merchant was too important a man to be thwarted, and the argument by which he supported his choice was incontestable. ‘Isn’t it our aim to educate the people? Very well, then let them begin by knowing what Tocsin means. I shouldn’t know myself if I hadn’t come across it in the newspaper and looked it up in the dictionary; so there you are!’

And there was the ‘Tocsin,’ a weekly paper like the ‘Fiery Cross.’ The first number appeared in the middle of February, so admirably prepared were the plans of Comrade Roodhouse. It appeared on Friday; the next Sunday promised to be a lively day at Commonwealth Hall and elsewhere. At the original head-quarters of the Union addresses were promised from two leading men, Comrades Westlake and Mutimer. Comrade Roodhouse would in the morning address an assembly on Clerkenwell Green; in the evening his voice would summon adherents to the meeting-place in Hoxton which had been the scene of our friend Richard’s earliest triumphs. With few exceptions the Socialists of that region had gone over to the new man and the new paper.

Richard arrived in town on the Saturday, and went to the house in Highbury, whither disagreeable business once more summoned him. Alice, who, owing to her mother’s resolute refusal to direct the household, had not as yet been able to spend more than a day or two with Richard and his wife, sent nothing but ill news to Wanley. Mrs. Mutimer seemed to be breaking down in health, and ‘Arry was undisguisedly returning to evil ways. For the former, it was suspected—a locked door prevented certainty—that she had of late kept her bed the greater part of the day; a servant who met her downstairs in the early morning reported that she ‘looked very bad indeed.’ The case of the latter was as hard to deal with. ‘Arry had long ceased to attend his classes with any regularity, and he was once more asserting the freeman’s right to immunity from day labour. Moreover, he claimed in practice the freeman’s right to get drunk four nights out of the seven. No one knew whence he got his money; Richard purposely stinted him, but the provision was useless. Mr. Keene declared with lamentations that his influence over ‘Arry was at an end; nay, the youth had so far forgotten gratitude as to frankly announce his intention of ‘knockin’ Keene’s lights out’ if he were further interfered with. To the journalist his ‘lights’ were indispensable; in no sense of the word did he possess too many of them; so it was clear that he must abdicate his tutorial functions. Alice implored her brother to come and ‘do something.’

Richard, though a married man of only six weeks’ standing, had troubles altogether in excess of his satisfactions. Things were not as they should have been in that earthly paradise called New Wanley. It was not to be expected that the profits of that undertaking would be worth speaking of for some little time to come, but it was extremely desirable that it should pay its own expenses, and it began to be doubtful whether even this moderate success was being achieved. Various members of the directing committee had visited New Wanley recently, and Richard had talked to them in a somewhat discouraging tone; his fortune was not limitless, it had to be remembered; a considerable portion of old Mutimer’s money had lain in the vast Belwick concern of which he was senior partner; the surviving members of the firm were under no specified obligation to receive Richard himself as partner, and the product of the realised capital was a very different thing from the share in the profits which the old man had enjoyed. Other capital Richard had at his command, but already he was growing chary of encroachments upon principal. He began to murmur inwardly that the entire fortune did not lie at his disposal; willingly he would have allowed Alice a handsome portion; and as for ‘Arry, the inheritance was clearly going to be his ruin. The practical difficulties at New Wanley were proving considerable; the affair was viewed with hostility by ironmasters in general, and the results of such hostility were felt. But Richard was committed to his scheme; all his ambitions based themselves thereupon. And those ambitions grew daily.

These greater troubles must to a certain extent solve themselves, but in Highbury it was evidently time, as Alice said, to ‘do something.’ His mother’s obstinacy stood in the way of almost every scheme that suggested itself. Richard was losing patience with the poor old woman, and suffered the more from his irritation because he would so gladly have behaved to her with filial kindness. One plan there was to which she might possibly agree, and even have pleasure in accepting it, but it was not easy to propose. The house in Wilton Square was still on his hands; upon the departure of Emma and her sister; a certain Mrs. Chattaway, a poor friend of old times, who somehow supported herself and a grandchild, had been put into the house as caretaker, for Richard could not sell all the furniture to which his mother was so attached, and he had waited for her return to reason before ultimately deciding how to act in that matter. Could he now ask the old woman to return to the Square, and, it might be, live there with Mrs. Chattaway? In that case both ‘Arry and Alice would have to leave London.

On Saturday afternoon he had a long talk with his sister. To Alice also it had occurred that their mother’s return to the old abode might be desirable.

‘And you may depend upon it, Dick,’ she said, ‘she’ll never rest again till she does get back. I believe you’ve only got to speak of it, and she’ll go at once.’

‘She’ll think it unkind,’ Richard objected. ‘It looks as if we wanted to get her out of the way. Why on earth does she carry on like this? As if we hadn’t bother enough!’

‘Well, we can’t help what she thinks. I believe it’ll be for her own good. She’ll be comfortable with Mrs. Chattaway, and that’s more than she’ll ever be here. But what about ‘Arry?’

‘He’ll have to come to Wanley. I shall find him work there—I wish I’d done so months ago.’

There were no longer the objections to ‘Arry’s appearance at Wanley that had existed previous to Richard’s marriage; none the less the resolution was courageous, and proved the depth of Mutimer’s anxiety for his brother. Having got the old woman to Wilton Square, and Alice to the Manor, it would have been easy enough to bid Mr. Henry Mutimer betake himself—whither his mind directed him. Richard could not adopt that rough-and-ready way out of his difficulty. Just as he suffered in the thought that he might be treating his mother unkindly, so he was constrained to undergo annoyances rather than abandon the hope of saving ‘Arry from ultimate destruction.

‘Will he live at the Manor?’ Alice asked uneasily.

Richard mused; then a most happy idea struck him.

‘I have it! He shall live with Rodman. The very thing! Rodman’s the fellow to look after him. Yes; that’s what we’ll do.’

‘And I’m to live at the Manor?’

‘Of course.’

‘You think Adela won’t mind?’

‘Mind? How the deuce can she mind it?’

As a matter of form Adela would of course be consulted, but Richard had no notion of submitting practical arrangements in his own household to his wife’s decision.

‘Now we shall have to see mother,’ he said. ‘How’s that to be managed?’

‘Will you go and speak at her door?’

‘That be hanged! Confound it, has she gone crazy? Just go up and say I want to see her.’

‘If I say that, I’m quite sure she won’t come.’

Richard waxed in anger.

‘But she shall come! Go and say I want to see her, and that if she doesn’t come down I’ll force the door. There’ll have to be an end to this damned foolery. I’ve got no time to spend humbugging. It’s four o’clock, and I have letters to write before dinner. Tell her I must see her, and have done with it.’

Alice went upstairs with small hope of success. She knocked twice before receiving an answer.

‘Mother, are you there?’

‘What do you want?’ came back in a voice of irritation.

‘Dick’s here, and wants to speak to you. He says he must see you; it’s something very important.’

‘I’ve nothing to do with him,’ was the reply.

‘Will you see him if he comes up here?’

‘No, I won’t.’

Alice went down and repeated this. After a moment’s hesitation Mutimer ascended the stairs by threes. He rapped loudly at the bedroom door. No answer was vouchsafed.

‘Mother, you must either open the door or come downstairs,’ he cried with decision. ‘This has gone on long enough. Which will you do?’

‘I’ll do neither,’ was the angry reply. ‘What right have you to order me about, I’d like to know? You mind your business, and I’ll mind mine.’

‘All right. Then I shall send for a man at once, and have the door forced.’

Mrs. Mutimer knew well the tone in which these words were spoken; more than once ere now it had been the preliminary of decided action. Already Richard had reached the head of the stairs, when he heard a key turn, and the bedroom door was thrown open with such violence that the walls shook. He approached the threshold and examined the interior.

There was only one noticeable change in the appearance of the bedroom since he had last seen it. The dressing-table was drawn near to the fire, and on it were a cup and saucer, a few plates, some knives, forks, and spoons, and a folded tablecloth. A kettle and a saucepan stood on the fender. Her bread and butter Mrs. Mutimer kept in a drawer. All the appointments of the chamber were as clean and orderly as could be.

The sight of his mother’s face all but stilled Richard’s anger; she was yellow and wasted; her hair seemed far more grizzled than he remembered it. She stood as far from him as she could get, in an attitude not devoid of dignity, and looked him straight in the face. He closed the door.

‘Mother, I’ve not come here to quarrel with you,’ Mutimer began, his voice much softened. ‘What’s done is done, and there’s no helping it. I can understand you being angry at first, but there’s no sense in making enemies of us all in this way. It can’t go on any longer—neither for your sake nor ours. I want to talk reasonably, and to make some kind of arrangement.’

‘You want to get me out o’ the ‘ouse. I’m ready to go, an’ glad to go. I’ve earnt my livin’ before now, an’ I’m not so old but I can do it again. You always was one for talkin’, but the fewest words is best. Them as talks most isn’t allus the most straightfor’ard.’

‘It isn’t that kind of talk that’ll do any good, mother. I tell you again, I’m not going to use angry words; You know perfectly well I’ve never behaved badly to you, and I’m not going to begin now. What I’ve got to say is that you’ve no right to go on like this. Whilst you’ve been shutting yourself up in this room, there’s Alice living by herself, which it isn’t right she should do; and there’s ‘Arry going to the bad as fast as he can, and just because you won’t help to look after him. If you’ll only think of it in the right way, you’ll see that’s a good deal your doing. If ‘Arry turns out a scamp and a blackguard, it’s you that ‘ll be greatly to blame for it. You might have helped to look after him. I always thought you’d more common sense. You may say what you like about me, and I don’t care; but when you talk about working for your living, you ought to remember that there’s work enough near at hand, if only you’d see to it.’

‘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.