Demos

CHAPTER XVIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wrote:

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

‘RICHARD MUTIMER.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Arry contented himself with standing at the front-room window, his hands in his pockets.

Later in the same day Daniel Dabbs, who had by chance been following the British workman’s practice and devoting Monday to recreation, entered an omnibus in which Mrs. Clay was riding. She had a heavy bundle on her lap, shopwork which she was taking home. Daniel had already received Mutimer’s reply, and was nursing a fit of anger. He seated himself by Kate’s side, and conversed with her.

‘Heard anything from him lately?’ he asked, with a motion of the head which rendered mention of names unnecessary.

‘Not we,’ Kate replied bitterly, her eyes fixing themselves in scorn.

‘No loss,’ remarked Daniel, with an expression of disgust.

‘He’ll hear from me some day,’ said the woman, ‘and in a way as he won’t like.’

The noise of the vehicle did not favour conversation. Daniel waited till Kate got out, then he too descended, and walked along by her side. He did not offer to relieve her of the bundle in primitive societies woman is naturally the burden-bearer.

‘I wouldn’t a’ thought it o’ Dick,’ he said, his head thrust forward, and his eyes turning doggedly from side to side. They say as how too much money ain’t good for a man, but it’s changed him past all knowin’.’

‘He always had a good deal too much to say for himself,’ remarked Mrs. Clay, speaking with difficulty through her quickened breath, the bundle almost more than she could manage.

‘I wish just now as he’d say a bit more,’ said Daniel. ‘Now, see, here’s a letter I’ve just got from him. I wrote to him last night to let him know of things as was goin’ round at the lecture. There’s one or two of our men, you know, think he’d ought to be made to smart a bit for the way he’s treated Emma, and last night they up an’ spoke—you should just a’ ‘eard them. Then someone set it goin’ as the fault wasn’t Dick’s at all. See what I mean? I don’t know who started that. I can’t think as he’d try to blacken a girl’s name just to excuse himself; that’s goin’ a bit too far.’

Mrs. Clay came to a standstill.

‘He’s been saying things of Emma?’ she cried. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘Well, see now. I couldn’t believe it, an’ I don’t rightly believe it yet. I’ll read you the answer as he’s sent me.’

Daniel gave forth the letter, getting rather lost amid its pretentious periods, with the eccentric pauses and intonation of an uneducated reader. Standing in a busy thoroughfare, he and Kate almost blocked the pavement; impatient pedestrians pushed against them, and uttered maledictions.

‘I suppose that’s Dick’s new way o’ sayin’ he hadn’t nothin’ to do with it,’ Daniel commented at the end. ‘Money seems always to bring long words with it somehow. It seems to me he’d ought to speak plainer.’

‘Who’s done it, if he didn’t?’ Kate exclaimed, with shrill anger. ‘You don’t suppose there’s another man ‘ud go about telling coward lies? The mean wretch! Says things about my sister, does he? I’ll be even with that man yet, never you mind.’

‘Well, I can’t believe it o’ Dick,’ muttered Dabbs. ‘He says ‘ere, you see, as he hasn’t time to contradict “idle stories.” I suppose that means he didn’t start ‘em.’

‘If he tells one lie, won’t he tell another?’ cried the woman. She was obliged to put down her bundle on a doorstep, and used the moment of relief to pour forth vigorous vituperation. Dick listened with an air half of approval, half doggedly doubtful. He was not altogether satisfied with himself.

‘Well, I must get off ‘ome,’ he said at length. ‘It’s only right as you should know what’s goin’ on. There’s no one believes a word of it, and that you can tell Emma. If I hear it repeated, you may be sure I’ll up an’ say what I think. It won’t go no further if I can stop it. Well, so long! Give my respects to your sister.’

Daniel waved his arm and made off across the street. Kate, clutching her bundle again, panted along by-ways; reaching the house-door she rang a bell twice, and Emma admitted her. They climbed together to an upper room, where Kate flung her burden on to the floor and began at once to relate with vehemence all that Daniel had told her. The calumny lost nothing in her repetition. After listening in surprise for a few moments, Emma turned away and quietly began to cut bread and butter for the children, who were having their tea.

‘Haven’t you got anything to say?’ cried her sister. ‘I suppose he’ll be telling his foul lies about me next. Oh, he’s a good-’earted man, is Mutimer! Perhaps you’ll believe me now. Are you going to let him talk what he likes about you?’

Since the abandonment of the house in Wilton Square, Kate had incessantly railed in this way; it was a joy to her to have discovered new matter for invective. Emma’s persistent silence maddened her; even now not a word was to be got from the girl.

‘Can’t you speak?’ shrilled Mrs. Clay. ‘If you don’t do something, I let you know that I shall! I’m not going to stand this kind o’ thing, don’t think it. If they talk ill of you they’ll do the same of me. It’s time that devil had something for himself. You might be made o’ stone! I only hope I may meet him in the streets, that’s all! I’ll show him up, see if I don’t! I’ll let all the people know what he is, the cur! I’ll do something to make him give me in charge, and then I’ll tell it all out before the magistrates. I don’t care what comes, I’ll find some way of paying out that beast!’

Emma turned angrily.

‘Hold your tongue, Kate! If you go on like this day after day we shall have to part; I can’t put up with it, so there now! I’ve begged and prayed you to stop, and you don’t pay the least heed to me; I think you might have more kindness. You’ll never make me say a single word about him, do what you will; I’ve told you that many a time, and I mean what I say. Let him say what he likes and do what he likes. It’s nothing to me, and it doesn’t concern you. You’ll drive me out of the house again, like you did the other night. I can’t bear it. Do you understand, Kate?—I can’t bear it!’

Her voice shook, and there were tears of uttermost shame and misery in her eyes. The children sitting at the table, though accustomed to scenes of this kind, looked at the disputants with troubled faces, and at length the younger began to cry. Emma at once turned to the little one with smiles of re-assurance. Kate would have preferred to deal slaps, but contented herself with taking a cup of tea to the fireside, and sulking for half an hour.

Emma unrolled the bundle of work, and soon the hum of the sewing-machine began, to continue late into the night.