Demos

Just now he showed at once the best and the weakest of his points. Coming in a state of exaltation from a meeting of which he had been the eloquent hero, such light as was within him flashed from his face freely; all the capacity and the vigour which impelled him to strain against the strait bonds of his lot set his body quivering and made music of his utterance. At the same time, his free movements passed easily into swagger, and as he talked on, the false notes were not few. A working man gifted with brains and comeliness must, be sure of it, pay penalties for his prominence.

Quite another man was Daniel Dabbs: in him you saw the proletarian pure and simple. He was thick-set, square-shouldered, rolling in gait; he walked with head bent forward and eyes glancing uneasily, as if from lack of self-confidence. His wiry black hair shone with grease, and no accuracy of razor-play would make his chin white. A man of immense strength, but bull-necked and altogether ungainly—his heavy fist, with its black veins and terrific knuckles, suggested primitive methods of settling dispute; the stumpy fingers, engrimed hopelessly, and the filthy broken nails, showed how he wrought for a living. His face, if you examined it without prejudice, was not ill to look upon; there was much good humour about the mouth, and the eyes, shrewd enough, could glimmer a kindly light His laughter was roof-shaking—always a good sign in a man.

‘And what have you got to say of these fine doings, Mr. Dabbs?’ Mrs. Mutimer asked him.

‘Why, it’s like this ‘era, Mrs. Mutimer,’ Daniel began, having seated himself, with hands on widely-parted knees. ‘As far as the theory goes, I’m all for Dick; any man must be as knows his two times two. But about the Longwoods; well, I tell Dick they’ve a perfect right to get rid of him, finding him a dangerous enemy, you see. It was all fair and above board. Young Stephen Longwood ups an’ says—leastways not in these words, but them as means the same—says he, “Look ‘ere, Mutimer,” he says, “we’ve no fault to find with you as a workman, but from what we hear of you, it seems you don’t care much for us as employers. Hadn’t you better find a shop as is run on Socialist principles?” That’s all about it, you see; it’s a case of incompatible temperaments; there’s no ill-feelin’, not as between man and man, And that’s what I say, too.’

‘Now, Dick,’ said Mrs. Mutimer, ‘before you begin your sermon, who’s a-going to fetch my beer?’

‘Right, Mrs. Mutimer!’ cried Daniel, slapping his leg. ‘That’s what I call coming from theory to practice. Beer squares all—leastways for the time being—only for the time being, Dick. Where’s the jug? Better give me two jugs; we’ve had a thirsty night of it.’

‘We’ll make capital of this!’ said Richard, walking about the room in Daniel’s absence. ‘The great point gained is, they’ve shown they’re afraid of me. We’ll write it up in the paper next week, see if we don’t! It’ll do us a sight of good.’

‘And where’s your weekly wages to come from?’ inquired his mother.

‘Oh, I’ll look after that. I only wish they’d refuse me all round; the more of that kind of thing the better for us. I’m not afraid but I can earn my living.’

Through all this Emma Vine had sat with her thoughtful eyes constantly turned on Richard. It was plain how pride struggled with anxiety in her mind. When Richard had kept silence for a moment, she ventured to speak, having tried in vain to meet his look.

‘Jane’s ill again, Richard,’ she said.

Mutimer had to summon his thoughts from a great distance; his endeavour to look sympathetic was not very successful.

‘Not the fever again?’

‘Yes, it is,’ she replied sadly.

‘Going to work in the wet, I suppose?’

He shrugged his shoulders; in his present mood the fact was not so much personally interesting to him as in the light of another case against capitalism. Emma’s sister had to go a long way to her daily employment, and could not afford to ride; the fifth attack of rheumatic fever was the price she paid for being permitted to earn ten shillings a week.

Daniel returned with both jugs foaming, his face on a broad grin of anticipation. There was a general move to the table. Richard began to carve roast beef like a freeman, not by any means like the serf he had repeatedly declared himself in the course of the evening’s oratory.

‘Her Royal ‘Ighness out?’ asked Daniel, with constraint not solely due to the fact that his mouth was full.

‘She’s round at Mrs. Took’s, I should think,’ was Mrs. Mutimer’s reply. ‘Staying supper, per’aps.’

Richard, after five minutes of surprising trencher-work, recommenced conversation. The proceedings of the evening at the hall, which was the centre for Socialist gatherings in this neighbourhood, were discussed by him and Daniel with much liveliness. Dan was disposed to take the meeting on its festive and humorous side; for him, economic agitation was a mode of passing a few hours amid congenial uproar. Whenever stamping and shouting were called for, Daniel was your man. Abuse of employers, it was true, gave a zest to the occasion, and to applaud the martyrdom of others was as cheery an occupation as could be asked; Daniel had no idea of sacrificing his own weekly wages, and therein resembled most of those who had been loud in uncompromising rhetoric. Richard, on the other hand, was unmistakably zealous. His sense of humour was not strong, and in any case he would have upheld the serious dignity of his own position. One saw from his way of speaking, that he believed himself about to become a popular hero; already in imagination he stood forth on platforms before vast assemblies, and heard his own voice denouncing capitalism with force which nothing could resist. The first taste of applause had given extraordinary impulse to his convictions, and the personal ambition with which they were interwoven. His grandfather’s blood was hot in him to-night. Henry Mutimer, dying in hospital of his broken skull, would have found euthanasia, could he in vision have seen this worthy descendant entering upon a career in comparison with which his own was unimportant.

The high-pitched voices and the clatter of knives and forks allowed a new-comer to enter the kitchen without being immediately observed. It was a tall girl of interesting and vivacious appearance; she wore a dress of tartan, a very small hat trimmed also with tartan and with a red feather, a tippet of brown fur about her shoulders, and a muff of the same material on one of her hands. Her figure was admirable; from the crest of her gracefully poised head to the tip of her well-chosen boot she was, in line and structure, the type of mature woman. Her face, if it did not indicate a mind to match her frame, was at the least sweet-featured and provoking; characterless somewhat, but void of danger-signals; doubtless too good to be merely played with; in any case, very capable of sending a ray, in one moment or another, to the shadowy dreaming-place of graver thoughts. Alice Maud Mutimer was nineteen. For two years she had been thus tall, but the grace of her proportions had only of late fully determined itself. Her work in the City warehouse was unexacting; she had even a faint impress of rose-petal on each cheek, and her eye was excellently clear. Her lips, unfortunately never quite closed, betrayed faultless teeth. Her likeness to Richard was noteworthy; beyond question she understood the charm of her presence, and one felt that the consciousness might, in her case, constitute rather a safeguard than otherwise.

She stood with one hand on the door, surveying the table. When the direction of Mrs. Mutimer’s eyes at length caused Richard and Daniel to turn their heads, Alice nodded to each.

‘What noisy people! I heard you out in the square.’

She was moving past the table, but Daniel, suddenly backing his chair, intercepted her. The girl gave him her hand, and, by way of being jocose, he squeezed it so vehemently that she uttered a shrill ‘Oh!’

‘Leave go, Mr. Dabbs! Leave go, I tell you! How dare you? I’ll hit you as hard as I can!’

Daniel laughed obstreperously.

‘Do! do!’ he cried. ‘What a mighty blow that ‘ud be! Only the left hand, though. I shall get over it.’

She wrenched herself away, gave Daniel a smart slap on the back, and ran round to the other side of the table, where she kissed Emma affectionately.

‘How thirsty I am!’ she exclaimed. ‘You haven’t drunk all the beer, I hope.’

‘I’m not so sure of that,’ Dan replied. ‘Why, there ain’t more than ‘arf a pint; that’s not much use for a Royal ‘Ighness.’

She poured it into a glass. Alice reached across the table, raised the glass to her lips, and—emptied it. Then she threw off hat, tippet, and gloves, and seated herself But in a moment she was up and at the cupboard.

‘Now, mother, you don’t—you don’t say as there’s not a pickle!’

Her tone was deeply reproachful.

‘Why, there now,’ replied her mother, laughing; ‘I knew what it ‘ud be! I meant to a’ got them last night. You’ll have to make shift for once.’

The Princess took her seat with an air of much dejection. Her pretty lips grew mutinous; she pushed her plate away.

‘No supper for me! The idea of cold meat without a pickle.’

‘What’s the time?’ cried Daniel. ‘Not closing time yet. I can get a pickle at the “Duke’s Arms.” Give me a glass, Mrs. Mutimer.’

Alice looked up slily, half smiling, half doubtful.

‘You may go,’ she said. ‘I like to see strong men make themselves useful.’

Dan rose, and was off at once. He returned with the tumbler full of pickled walnuts. Alice emptied half a dozen into her plate, and put one of them whole into her mouth. She would not have been a girl of her class if she had not relished this pungent dainty. Fish of any kind, green vegetables, eggs and bacon, with all these a drench of vinegar was indispensable to her. And she proceeded to eat a supper scarcely less substantial than that which had appeased her brother’s appetite. Start not, dear reader; the Princess is only a subordinate heroine, and happens, moreover, to be a living creature.

‘Won’t you take a walnut, Miss Vine?’ Daniel asked, pushing the tumbler to the quiet girl, who had scarcely spoken through the meal.

She declined the offered dainty, and at the same time rose from the table, saying aside to Mrs. Mutimer that she must be going.

‘Yes, I suppose you must,’ was the reply. ‘Shall you have to sit up with Jane?’

‘Not all night, I don’t expect.’

Richard likewise left his place, and, when she offered to bid him good-night, said that he would walk a little way with her. In the passage above, which was gas-lighted, he found his hat on a nail, and the two left the house together.

‘Don’t you really mind?’ Emma asked, looking up into his face as they took their way out of the square.

‘Not I! I can get a job at Baldwin’s any day. But I dare say I shan’t want one long.’

‘Not want work?’

He laughed.

‘Work? Oh, plenty of work; but perhaps not the same kind. We want men who can give their whole time to the struggle—to go about lecturing and the like. Of course, it isn’t everybody can do it.’

The remark indicated his belief that he knew one man not incapable of leading functions.

‘And would they pay you?’ Emma inquired, simply.

‘Expenses of that kind are inevitable,’ he replied.

Issuing into the New North Road, where there were still many people hastening one way and the other, they turned to the left, crossed the canal—black and silent—and were soon among narrow streets. Every corner brought a whiff of some rank odour, which stole from closed shops and warehouses, and hung heavily on the still air. The public-houses had just extinguished their lights, and in the neighbourhood of each was a cluster of lingering men and women, merry or disputatious. Mid-Easter was inviting repose and festivity; to-morrow would see culmination of riot, and after that it would only depend upon pecuniary resources how long the muddled interval between holiday and renewed labour should drag itself out.

The end of their walk was the entrance to a narrow passage, which, at a few yards’ distance, widened itself and became a street of four-storeyed houses. At present this could not be discerned; the passage was a mere opening into massive darkness. Richard had just been making inquiries about Emma’s sister.

‘You’ve had the doctor?’

‘Yes, we’re obliged; she does so dread going to the hospital again. Each time she’s longer in getting well.’

Richard’s hand was in his pocket; he drew it out and pressed something against the girl’s palm.

‘Oh, how can I?’ she said, dropping her eyes. ‘No—don’t—I’m ashamed.’

‘That’s all right,’ he urged, not unkindly. ‘You’ll have to get her what the doctor orders, and it isn’t likely you and Kate can afford it.’

‘You’re always so kind, Richard. But I am—I am ashamed!’

‘I say, Emma, why don’t you call me Dick? I’ve meant to ask you that many a time.’

She turned her face away, moving as if abashed.

‘I don’t know. It sounds—perhaps I want to make a difference from what the others call you.’

He laughed with a sound of satisfaction.

‘Well, you mustn’t stand here; it’s a cold night. Try and come Tuesday or Wednesday.’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘Good night!’ he said, and, as he held her hand, bent to the lips which were ready.

Emma walked along the passage, and for some distance up the middle of the street. Then she stopped and looked up at one of the black houses. There were lights, more or less curtain-dimmed, in nearly all the windows. Emma regarded a faint gleam in the topmost storey. To that she ascended.

Mutimer walked homewards at a quick step, whistling to himself. A latch-key gave him admission. As he went down the kitchen stairs, he heard his mother’s voice raised in anger, and on opening the door he found that Daniel had departed, and that the supper table was already cleared. Alice, her feet on the fender and her dress raised a little, was engaged in warming herself before going to bed. The object of Mrs. Mutimer’s chastisement was the youngest member of the family, known as ‘Arry; even Richard, who had learnt to be somewhat careful in his pronunciation, could not bestow the aspirate upon his brother’s name. Henry, aged seventeen, promised to do credit to the Mutimers in physical completeness; already he was nearly as tall as his eldest brother; and, even in his lankness, showed the beginnings of well-proportioned vigour. But the shape of his head, which was covered with hair of the lightest hue, did not encourage hope of mental or moral qualities. It was not quite fair to judge his face as seen at present; the vacant grin of half timid, half insolent, resentment made him considerably more simian of visage than was the case under ordinary circumstances. But the features were unpleasant to look upon; it was Richard’s face, distorted and enfeebled with impress of sensual instincts.

‘As long as you live in this house, it shan’t go on,’ his mother was saying. ‘Sunday or Monday, it’s no matter; you’ll be home before eleven o’clock, and you’ll come home sober. You’re no better than a pig!’

‘Arry was seated in a far corner of the room, where he had dropped his body on entering. His attire was such as the cheap tailors turn out in imitation of extreme fashions: trousers closely moulded upon the leg, a huff waistcoat, a short coat with pockets everywhere. A very high collar kept his head up against his will; his necktie was crimson, and passed through a brass ring; he wore a silver watch-chain, or what seemed to be such. One hand was gloved, and a cane lay across his knees. His attitude was one of relaxed muscles, his legs very far apart, his body not quite straight.

‘What d’ you call sober, I’d like to know?’ he replied, with looseness of utterance. ‘I’m as sober ‘s anybody in this room. If a chap can’t go out with ‘s friends ‘t Easter an’ all—?’

‘Easter, indeed! It’s getting to be a regular thing, Saturday and Sunday. Get up and go to bed! I’ll have my say out with you in the morning, young man.’

‘Go to bed!’ repeated the lad with scorn. ‘Tell you I ain’t had no supper.’

Richard had walked to the neighbourhood of the fireplace, and was regarding his brother with anger and contempt. At this point of the dialogue he interfered.

‘And you won’t have any, either, that I’ll see to! What’s more, you’ll do as your mother bids you, or I’ll know the reason why. Go upstairs at once!’

It was not a command to be disregarded. ‘Arry rose, but half-defiantly.

‘What have you to do with it? You’re not my master.’

‘Do you hear what I say?’ Richard observed, yet more autocratically. ‘Take yourself off, and at once!’

The lad growled, hesitated, but approached the door. His motion was slinking; he could not face Richard’s eye. They heard him stumble up the stairs.

CHAPTER V

On ordinary days Richard of necessity rose early; a holiday did not lead him to break the rule, for free hours were precious. He had his body well under control; six hours of sleep he found sufficient to keep him in health, and temptations to personal ease, in whatever form, he resisted as a matter of principle.

Easter Monday found him down-stairs at half-past six. His mother would to-day allow herself another hour. ‘Arry would be down just in time to breakfast, not daring to be late. The Princess might be looked for—some time in the course of the morning; she was licensed.

Richard, for purposes of study, used the front parlour. In drawing up the blind, he disclosed a room precisely resembling in essential features hundreds of front parlours in that neighbourhood, or, indeed, in any working-class district of London. Everything was clean; most things were bright-hued or glistening of surface. There was the gilt-framed mirror over the mantelpiece, with a yellow clock—which did not go—and glass ornaments in front. There was a small round table before the window, supporting wax fruit under a glass case. There was a hearthrug with a dazzling pattern of imaginary flowers. On the blue cloth of the middle table were four showily-bound volumes, arranged symmetrically. On the head of the sofa lay a covering worked of blue and yellow Berlin wools. Two arm-chairs were draped with long white antimacassars, ready to slip off at a touch. As in the kitchen, there was a smell of cleanlines—of furniture polish, hearthstone, and black-lead.

I should mention the ornaments of the walls. The pictures were: a striking landscape of the Swiss type, an engraved portrait of Garibaldi, an unframed view of a certain insurance office, a British baby on a large scale from the Christmas number of an illustrated paper.

The one singular feature of the room was a small, glass-doored bookcase, full of volumes. They were all of Richard’s purchasing; to survey them was to understand the man, at all events on his intellectual side. Without exception they belonged to that order of literature which, if studied exclusively and for its own sake,—as here it was,—brands a man indelibly, declaring at once the incompleteness of his education and the deficiency of his instincts. Social, political, religious,—under these three heads the volumes classed themselves, and each class was represented by productions of the ‘extreme’ school. The books which a bright youth of fair opportunities reads as a matter of course, rejoices in for a year or two, then throws aside for ever, were here treasured to be the guides of a lifetime. Certain writers of the last century, long ago become only historically interesting, were for Richard an armoury whence he girded himself for the battles of the day; cheap reprints or translations of Malthus, of Robert Owen, of Volney’s ‘Ruins,’ of Thomas Paine, of sundry works of Voltaire, ranked upon his shelves. Moreover, there was a large collection of pamphlets, titled wonderfully and of yet more remarkable contents, the authoritative utterances of contemporary gentlemen—and ladies—who made it the end of their existence to prove: that there cannot by any possibility be such a person as Satan; that the story of creation contained in the Book of Genesis is on no account to be received; that the begetting of children is a most deplorable oversight; that to eat flesh is wholly unworthy of a civilised being; that if every man and woman performed their quota of the world’s labour it would be necessary to work for one hour and thirty-seven minutes daily, no jot longer, and that the author, in each case, is the one person capable of restoring dignity to a down-trodden race and happiness to a blasted universe. Alas, alas! On this food had Richard Mutimer pastured his soul since he grew to manhood, on this and this only. English literature was to him a sealed volume; poetry he scarcely knew by name; of history he was worse than ignorant, having looked at this period and that through distorting media, and congratulating himself on his clear vision because he saw men as trees walking; the bent of his mind would have led him to natural science, but opportunities of instruction were lacking, and the chosen directors of his prejudice taught him to regard every fact, every discovery, as for or against something.

A library of pathetic significance, the individual alone considered. Viewed as representative, not without alarming suggestiveness to those who can any longer trouble themselves about the world’s future. One dreams of the age when free thought—in the popular sense—will have become universal, when art shall have lost its meaning, worship its holiness, when the Bible will only exist in ‘comic’ editions, and Shakespeare be down-cried by ‘most sweet voices as a mountebank of reactionary tendencies.

Richard was to lecture on the ensuing Sunday at one of the branch meeting-places of his society; he engaged himself this morning in collecting certain data of a statistical kind. He was still at his work when the sound of the postman’s knock began to be heard in the square, coming from house to house, drawing nearer at each repetition. Richard paid no heed to it; he expected no letter. Yet it seemed there was one for some member of the family; the letter-carrier’s regular tread ascended the five steps to the door, and then two small thunderclaps echoed through the house. There was no letter-box; Richard went to answer the knock. An envelope addressed to himself in a small, formal hand.

His thoughts still busy with other things, he opened the letter mechanically as he re-entered the room. He had never in his life been calmer; the early hour of study had kept his mind pleasantly active whilst his breakfast appetite sharpened itself. Never was man less prepared to receive startling intelligence.

He read, then raised his eyes and let them stray from the papers on the table to the wax-fruit before the window, thence to the young leafage of the trees around the Baptist Chapel. He was like a man whose face had been overflashed by lightning. He read again, then, holding the letter behind him, closed his right hand upon his beard with thoughtful tension. He read a third time, then returned the letter to its envelope, put it in his pocket, and sat down again to his book.

He was summoned to breakfast in ten minutes. His mother was alone in the kitchen; she gave him his bloater and his cup of coffee, and he cut himself a solid slice of bread and butter.

‘Was the letter for you?’ she asked.

He replied with a nod, and fell patiently to work on the dissection of his bony delicacy. In five minutes Henry approached the table with a furtive glance at his elder brother. But Richard had no remark to make. The meal proceeded in silence.

When Richard had finished, he rose and said to his mother—

‘Have you that railway-guide I brought home a week ago?’

‘I believe I have somewhere. Just look in the cupboard.’

The guide was found. Richard consulted it for a few moments.

‘I have to go out of London,’ he then observed. ‘It’s just possible I shan’t get back to-night.’

A little talk followed about the arrangements of the day, and whether anyone was likely to be at home for dinner. Richard did not show much interest in the matter; he went upstairs whistling, and changed the clothing he wore for his best suit. In a quarter of an hour he had left the house.

He did not return till the evening of the following day. It was presumed that he had gone ‘after a job.’

When he reached home his mother and Alice were at tea. He walked to the kitchen fireplace, turned his back to it, and gazed with a peculiar expression at the two who sat at table.