Demos

But it was impossible to live without ready money, and his mother, though supplying him with board and lodging, refused to give him a penny. He made efforts on his own account to obtain employment, but without result. At last there was nothing for it but to humble himself before Richard.

He did it with an ill-enough grace. Early one morning he presented himself at the house in Holloway. Richard was talking with his wife in the sitting-room, breakfast being still on the table. On the visitor’s name being brought to him, he sent Adela away and allowed the scapegrace to be admitted.

‘Arry shuffled to a seat and sat leaning forward, holding his hat between his knees.

‘Well, what do you want?’ Richard asked severely. He was glad that ‘Arry had at length come, and he enjoyed assuming the magisterial attitude.

‘I want to find a place,’ ‘Arry replied, without looking up, and in a dogged voice. ‘I’ve been trying to get one, and I can’t. I think you might help a feller.’

‘What’s the good of helping you? You’ll be turned out of any place in a week or two.’

‘No, I shan’t!’

‘What sort of a place do you want?’

‘A clerk’s, of course.’

He pronounced the word ‘clerk’ as it is spelt; it made him seem yet more ignoble.

‘Have you given up drink?’

No answer

‘Before I try to help you,’ said Mutimer, ‘you’ll have to take the pledge.’

‘All right!’ ‘Arry muttered.

Then a thought occurred to Richard. Bidding his brother stay where he was, he went in search of Adela and found her in an upper room.

‘He’s come to ask me to help him to get a place,’ he said. ‘I don’t know very well how to set about it, but I suppose I must do something. He promises to take the pledge.’

‘That will be a good thing,’ Adela replied.

‘Good if he keeps it. But I can’t talk to him; I’m sick of doing so. And I don’t think he even listens to me.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you think you—would you mind speaking to him? I believe you might do him good.’

Adela did not at once reply.

‘I know it’s a nasty job,’ he pursued. ‘I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t really think you might do some good. I don’t see why he should go to the dogs. He used to be a good enough fellow when he was a little lad.’

It was one of the most humane speeches Adela had ever heard from her husband. She replied with cheerfulness:

‘If you really think he won’t take it amiss, I shall be very glad to do my best.’

‘That’s right; thank you.’

Adela went down and was alone with ‘Arry for half-an-hour. She was young to undertake such an office, but suffering had endowed her with gravity and understanding beyond her years, and her native sweetness was such that she could altogether forget herself in pleading with another for a good end. No human being, however perverse, could have taken ill the words that were dictated by so pure a mind, and uttered in so musical and gentle a voice. She led ‘Arry to speak frankly.

‘It seems to me a precious hard thing,’ he said, ‘that they’ve let Dick keep enough money to live on comfortable, and won’t give me a penny. My right was as good as his.’

‘Perhaps it was,’ Adela replied kindly. ‘But you must remember that money was left to your brother by the will.’

‘But you don’t go telling me that he lives on two pounds a week? Everybody knows he doesn’t. Where does the rest come from?’

‘I don’t think I must talk about that. I think very likely jour brother will explain if you ask him seriously. But is it really such a hard thing after all, Harry? I feel so sure that you will only know real happiness when you are earning a livelihood by steady and honourable work. You remember how I used to go and see the people in New Wanley? I shall never forget how happy the best of them were, those who worked their hardest all day and at night came home to rest with their families and friends. And you yourself, how contented you used to be when your time was thoroughly occupied! But I’m sure you feel the truth of this. You have been disappointed; it has made you a little careless. Now work hard for a year and then come and tell me if I wasn’t right about that being the way to happiness. Will you?’

She rose and held her hand to him; the hand to which he should have knelt. But he said nothing; there was an obstacle in his throat. Adela understood his silence and left him.

Richard went to work among his friends, and in a fortnight had found his brother employment of a new kind. It was a place in an ironmonger’s shop in Hoxton; ‘Arry was to serve at the counter and learn the business. For three months he was on trial and would receive no salary.

Two of the three months passed, and all seemed to be going well. Then one day there came to Mutimer a telegram from ‘Arry’s employer; it requested that he would go to the shop as soon as possible. Foreseeing some catastrophe, he hastened to Hoxton. His brother was in custody for stealing money from the till.

The ironmonger was inexorable. ‘Arry passed through the judicial routine and was sentenced to three months of hard labour.

It was in connection with this wretched affair that Richard once more met his mother. He went from the shop to tell her what had happened.

He found her in the kitchen, occupied as he had seen her many, many times, ironing newly washed linen. One of the lodgers happened to come out from the house as he ascended the steps, so he was able to go down without announcing himself. The old woman had a nervous start; the iron stopped in its smooth backward and forward motion; the hand with which she held it trembled. She kept her eyes on Richard’s face, which foretold evil.

‘Mother, I have brought you bad news.’

She pushed the iron aside and stood waiting. Her hard lips grew harder; her deep-set eyes had a stern light. Not much ill could come to pass for which she was not prepared.

He tried to break the news. His mother interrupted him.

‘What’s he been a-doin’? You’ve no need to go round about. I like straightforwardness.’

Richard told her. It did not seem to affect her strongly; she turned to the table and resumed her work. But she could no longer guide the iron. She pushed it aside and faced her son with such a look as one may see in the eyes of a weak animal cruelly assailed. Her tongue found its freedom and bore her whither it would.

‘What did I tell you? What was it I said that night you come in and told me you; was all rich? Didn’t I warn you that there’d no good come of it? Didn’t I say you’d remember my words? You laughed at me; you got sharp-tempered with me an as good as called me a fool. An’ what has come of it? What’s come of it to me? I had a ‘ome once an’ children about me, an’ now I’ve neither the one nor the other. You call it a ‘ome with strangers takin’ up well nigh all the ‘ouse? Not such a ome as I thought to end my days in. It fair scrapes on my heart every time I hear their feet going up an’ down the stairs. An’ where are my children gone? Two of ‘em as ‘ud never think to come near me if it wasn’t to bring ill news, an’ one in prison. How ‘ud that sound in your father’s ears, think you? I may have been a fool, but I knew what ‘ud come of a workin’ man’s children goin’ to live in big ‘ouses, with their servants an’ their carriages. What better are you? It’s come an’ it’s gone, an’ there’s shame an’ misery left be’ind it!’

Richard listened without irritation; he was heavy-hearted, the shock of his brother’s disgrace had disposed him to see his life on its dark side. And he pitied his poor old mother. She had never been tender in her words, could not be tender; but he saw in her countenance the suffering through which she had gone, and read grievous things in the eyes that could no longer weep. For once he yielded to rebuke. Her complaint that he had not come to see her touched him, for he had desired to come, but could not subdue his pride. Her voice was feebler than when he last heard it raised in reproach; it reminded him that there would come a day when he might long to hear even words of upbraiding, but the voice would be mute for ever. It needed a moment such as this to stir his sluggish imagination.

‘What you say is true, mother, but we couldn’t help it. It’s turned out badly because we live in bad times. It’s the state of society that’s to blame.’

He was sincere in saying it; that is to say, he used the phrase so constantly that it had become his natural utterance in difficulty; it may be that in his heart he believed it. Who, indeed, shall say that he was wrong? But what made such an excuse so disagreeable in his case was that he had not—intellectually speaking—the right to avail himself of it. The difference between truth and cant often lies only in the lips that give forth the words.

‘Yes, that’s what you always said,’ replied Mrs. Mutimer impatiently. ‘It’s always someone else as is to blame, an’ never yourself. The world’s a good enough world if folk ‘ud only make it so. Was it the bad times as made you leave a good, honest girl when you’d promised to marry her? No, you must have a fine lady for your wife; a plain girl as earnt her own bread, an’ often had hard work to get it, wasn’t good enough for you. Don’t talk to me about bad times. There’s some men as does right an’ some as does wrong; it always was so, an’ the world’s no worse nor no better, an’ not likely to be.’

The poor woman could not be generous. A concession only led her on to speak the thoughts it naturally suggested to her. And her very bitterness was an outcome of her affection; it soothed her to rail at her son after so long a silence. He had injured her by his holding aloof; she was urged on by this feeling quite as much as by anger with his faults. And still Mutimer showed no resentment. In him, too, there was a pleasure which came of memories revived. Let her say to him what she liked, he loved his mother and was glad to be once more in her presence.

‘I wish I could have pleased you better, mother,’ he said. ‘What’s done can’t be helped. We’ve trouble to bear together, and it won’t be lighter for angry words.’

The old woman muttered something inaudible and, after feeling her iron and discovering that it was cold, she put it down before the fire. Her tongue had eased itself, and she fell again into silent grief.

Mutimer sat listening to the tick of the familiar clock. That and the smell of the fresh linen made his old life very present to him; there arose in his heart a longing for the past, it seemed peaceful and fuller of genuine interests than the life he now led. He remembered how he used to sit before the kitchen fire reading the books and papers which stirred his thought to criticism of the order of things; nothing now absorbed him in the same way. Coming across a sentence that delighted him, he used to read it aloud to his mother, who perchance was ironing as now, or sewing, or preparing a meal, and she would find something to say against it; so that there ensued a vigorous debate between her old-fashioned ideas and the brand-new theories of the age of education: Then Alice would come in and make the dispute a subject for sprightly mockery. Alice was the Princess in those days. He quarrelled with her often, but only to resume the tone of affectionate banter an hour after. Alice was now Mrs. Rodman, and had declared that she hated him, that in her life she would never speak to him again. Would it not have been better if things had gone the natural course? Alice would no doubt have married Daniel Dabbs, and would have made him a good wife, if a rather wilful one. ‘Arry would have given trouble, but surely could not have come to hopeless shame. He, Richard, would have had Emma Vine for his wife, a true wife, loving him with all her heart, thinking him the best and cleverest of working men. Adela did not love him; what she thought of his qualities it was not easy to say. Yes, the old and natural way was better. He would have had difficulties enough, because of his opinions, but at least he would have continued truly to represent his class. He knew very well that he did not represent it now; he belonged to no class at all; he was a professional agitator, and must remain so through his life—or till the Revolution came. The Revolution?…

His mother was speaking to him, asking what he meant to do about ‘Arry. He raised his eyes, and for a moment looked at her sadly.

‘There’s nothing to be done. I can pay a lawyer, but it’ll be no good.’

He remained with his mother for yet an hour; they talked intermittently, without in appearance coming nearer to each other, though in fact the barrier was removed. She made tea for him, and herself made pretence of taking some. When he went away he kissed her as he had used to. He left her happier than she had been for years, in spite of the news he had brought.

Thenceforward Mutimer went to Wilton Square regularly once a week. He let Adela know of this, saying casually one morning that he could not do something that day because his mother would expect him in the afternoon as usual. He half hoped that she might put some question which would lead to talk on the subject, for the reconciliation with his mother had brought about a change in his feelings, and it would now have been rather agreeable to him to exhibit his beautiful and gentle-mannered wife. But Adela merely accepted the remark.

He threw himself into the work of agitation with more energy than ever. By this time he had elaborated a scheme which was original enough to ensure him notoriety if only he could advertise it sufficiently throughout the East End. He hit upon it one evening when he was smoking his pipe after dinner. Adela was in the room with him reading. He took her into his confidence at once.

‘I’ve got it at last! I want something that’ll attract their attention. It isn’t enough to preach theories to them; they won’t wake up; there’s no getting them to feel in earnest about Socialism. I’ve been racking my brain for something to set them talking, it didn’t much matter what, but better of course if it was useful in itself at the same time. Now I think I’ve got it. It’s a plan for giving them a personal interest, a money interest, in me and my ideas. I’ll go and say to them, “How is it you men never save any money even when you could? I’ll tell you: it’s because the savings would be so little that they don’t seem worth while; you think you might as well go and enjoy yourselves in the public-house while you can. What’s the use of laying up a few shillings? The money comes and goes, and it’s all in a life.” Very well, then, I’ll put my plan before them. “Now look here,” I’ll say, “instead of spending so much on beer and spirits, come to me and let me keep your money for you!” They’ll burst out laughing at me, and say, “Catch us doing that!” Yes, but I’ll persuade them, see if I don’t. And in this way. “Suppose,” I’ll say, “there’s five hundred men bring me threepence each every week. Now what man of you doesn’t spend threepence a week in drink, get the coppers how he may? Do you know how much that comes to, five hundred threepenny bits? Why, it’s six pounds five shillings. And do you know what that comes to in a year? Why, no less than three hundred and twenty-five pounds! Now just listen to that, and think about it. Those threepenny bits are no use to you; you can’t save them, and you spend them in a way that does you no good, and it may be harm. Now what do you think I’ll do with that money? Why, I’ll use it as the capitalists do. I’ll put it out to interest; I’ll get three per cent. for it, and perhaps more. But let’s say three per cent. What’s the result? Why, this: in one year your three hundred and twenty-five pounds has become three hundred and thirty-four pounds fifteen; I owe each of you thirteen shillings and fourpence halfpenny, and a fraction more.”’

He had already jotted down calculations, and read from them, looking up between times at Adela with the air of conviction which he would address to his audience of East Enders.

‘“Now if you’d only saved the thirteen shillings—which you wouldn’t and couldn’t have done by yourselves—it would be well worth the while; but you’ve got the interest as well, and the point I want you to understand is that you can only get that increase by clubbing together and investing the savings as a whole. You may say fourpence halfpenny isn’t worth having. Perhaps not, but those of you who’ve learnt arithmetic—be thankful if our social state allowed you to learn anything—will remember that there’s such a thing as compound interest. It’s a trick the capitalists found out. Interest was a good discovery, but compound interest a good deal better. Leave your money with me a second year, and it’ll grow more still, I’ll see to that. You’re all able, I’ve no doubt, to make the calculation for yourselves.”’

He paused to see what Adela would say.

‘No doubt it will be a very good thing if you can persuade them to save in that way,’ she remarked.

‘Good, yes; but I’m not thinking so much of the money. Don’t you see that it’ll give me a hold over them? Every man who wants to save on my plan must join the Union. They’ll come together regularly; I can get at them and make them listen to me. Why, it’s a magnificent idea! It’s fighting the capitalists with their own weapons! You’ll see what the “Tocsin” ‘ll say. Of course they’ll make out that I’m going against Socialist principles. So I am, but it’s for the sake of Socialism for all that. If I make Socialists, it doesn’t much matter how I do it.’

Adela could have contested that point, but did not care to do so. She said:

‘Are you sure you can persuade the men to trust you with their money?’

‘That’s the difficulty, I know; but see if I don’t get over it. I’ll have a committee, holding themselves responsible for all sums paid to us. I’ll publish weekly accounts—just a leaflet, you know. And do you know what? I’ll promise that as soon as they’ve trusted me with a hundred pounds, I’ll add another hundred of my own. See if that won’t fetch them!’

As usual when he saw a prospect of noisy success he became excited beyond measure, and talked incessantly till midnight.

‘Other men don’t have these ideas!’ he exclaimed at one moment. ‘That’s what I meant when I told you I was born to be a leader. And I’ve the secret of getting people’s confidence. They’ll trust me, see if they don’t!’

In spite of Adela’s unbroken reserve, he had seldom been other than cordial in his behaviour to her since the recommencement of his prosperity. His active life gave him no time to brood over suspicions, though his mind was not altogether free from them. He still occasionally came home at hours when he could not be expected, but Adela was always occupied either with housework or reading, and received him with the cold self-possession which came of her understanding his motives. Her life was lonely; since a visit they had received from Alfred at the past Christmas she had seen no friend. One day in spring Mutimer asked her if she did not wish to see Mrs. Westlake; she replied that she had no desire to, and he said nothing more. Stella did not write; she had ceased to do so since receiving a certain lengthy letter from Adela, in which the latter begged that their friendship might feed on silence for a while. When the summer came there were pressing invitations from Wanley, but Adela declined them. Alfred and his wife were going again to South Wales; was it impossible for Adela to join them? Letty wrote a letter full of affectionate pleading, but it was useless.

In August, Mutimer proposed to take his wife for a week the Sussex coast. He wanted a brief rest himself, and he saw that Adela was yet more in need of change. She never complained of ill-health, but was weak and pale. With no inducement to leave the house, it was much if she had an hour’s open-air exercise in the week; often the mere exertion of rising and beginning the day was followed by a sick languor which compelled her to lie all the afternoon on the couch. She studied much, reading English and foreign books which required mental exertion. They were rot works relating to the ‘Social Question’—far other. The volumes she used to study were a burden and a loathing to her as often as her eyes fell upon them.

In her letters from Wanley there was never a word of what was going on in the valley. Week after week she looked eagerly for some hint, yet was relieved when she found none. For it had become her habit to hand over to Mutimer every letter she received. He read them.

Shortly after their return from the seaside, ‘Arry’s term of imprisonment came to an end. He went to his mother’s house, and Richard first saw him there. Punishment had had its usual effect; ‘Arry was obstinately taciturn, conscious of his degradation, inwardly at war with all his kind.

‘There’s only one thing I can do for you now,’ his brother said to him. ‘I’ll pay your passage to Australia. Then you must shift for yourself.’

‘Arry refused the offer.

‘Give me the money instead,’ was his reply.

Argument was vain; Richard and the old woman passed to entreaty, but with as little result.

‘Give me ten pounds and let me go about my business,’ ‘Arry exclaimed irritably. ‘I want no more from you, and you won’t get any good out o’ me by jawin’.’

The money was of course refused, in the hope that a week or two would change the poor fellow’s mind. But two days after he went out and did not return. Nothing was heard of him. Mrs. Mutimer sat late every night, listening for a knock at the door. Sometimes she went and stood on the steps, looking hither and thither in the darkness. But ‘Arry came no more to Wilton Square.

Mutimer had been pressing on his scheme for five months. Every night he addressed a meeting somewhere or other in the East End; every Sunday he lectured morning and evening at his head-quarters in Clerkenwell. Ostensibly he was working on behalf of the Union, but in reality he was forming a party of his own, and would have started a paper could he have commanded the means. The ‘Tocsin’ was savagely hostile, the ‘Fiery Gross.’ grew more and more academical, till it was practically an organ of what is called in Germany Katheder-Sozialismus. Those who wrote for it were quite distinct from the agitators of the street and of the Socialist halls; men—and women—with a turn for ‘advanced’ speculation, with anxiety for style. At length the name of the paper was changed, and it appeared as the ‘Beacon,’ adorned with a headpiece by the well-known artist, Mr. Boscobel. Mutimer glanced through the pages and flung it aside in scornful disgust.

‘I knew what this was coming to,’ he said to Adela ‘A deal of good they’ll do! You don’t find Socialism in drawing rooms. I wonder that fellow Westlake has the impudence to call himself a Socialist at all, living in the way he does. Perhaps he thinks he’ll be on the safe side when the Revolution comes. Ha, ha! We shall see.’

The Revolution.... In the meantime the cry was ‘Democratic Capitalism.’ That was the name Mutimer gave to his scheme! The ‘Fiery Gross’ had only noticed his work in a brief paragraph, a few words of faint and vague praise. ‘Our comrade’s noteworthy exertions in the East End.... The gain to temperance and self-respecting habits which must surely result....’ The ‘Beacon,’ however, dealt with the movement more fully, and on the whole in a friendly spirit.

‘Damn their patronage!’ cried Mutimer.

You should have seen him addressing a crowd collected by chance in Hackney or Poplar. The slightest encouragement, even one name to inscribe in the book which he carried about with him, was enough to fire his eloquence; nay, it was enough to find himself standing on his chair above the heads of the gathering. His voice had gained in timbre; he grew more and more perfect in his delivery, like a conscientious actor who plays night after night in a part that he enjoys. And it was well that he had this inner support, this brio of the born demagogue, for often enough he spoke under circumstances which would have damped the zeal of any other man. The listeners stood with their hands in their pockets, doubting whether to hear him to the end or to take their wonted way to the public-house. One moment their eyes would be fixed upon him, filmy, unintelligent, then they would look at one another with a leer of cunning, or at best a doubtful grin. Socialism, forsooth! They were as ready for translation to supernal spheres. Yet some of them were attracted: ‘percentage,’ ‘interest,’ ‘compound interest,’ after all, there might be something in this! And perhaps they gave their names and their threepenny bits, engaging to make the deposit regularly on the day and at the place arranged for in Mutimer’s elaborate scheme. What is there a man cannot get if he asks for it boldly and persistently enough?