Demos

When he had given the brief answer to her question he could find no more words. But Adela spoke.

‘What do you wish to say to me, Mr. Eldon?’

Whether or no he interpreted her voice by his own feelings, she seemed to plead with him to be manly and respect her womanhood.

‘Only to say the common things which anyone must say in my position, but to say them so that you will believe they are not only a form. The circumstances are so strange. I want to ask you for your help; my position is perhaps harder than yours and Mr. Mutimer’s. We must remember that there is justice to be considered. If you will give me your aid in doing justice as far as r am able—’

In fault of any other possible reply he had involved himself in a subject which he knew it was far better to leave untouched. He could not complete his sentence, but stood before her with his head bent.

Adela scarcely knew what he said; in anguish she sought for a means of quitting him, of fleeing and hiding herself among the trees. His accent told her that she was the object of his compassion, and she had invited it by letting him see her tears. Of necessity he must think that she was sorrowing on her own account. That was true, indeed, but how impossible for him to interpret her grief rightly? The shame of being misjudged by him all but drove her to speak, and tell him that she cared less than nothing for the loss that had befallen her. Yet she could not trust herself to speak such words. Her heart was beating insufferably; all the woman in her rushed towards hysteria and sell-abandonment. It was well that Hubert’s love was of quality to stand the test of these terrible moments. Something he must say, and the most insignificant phrase was the best.

‘Will you sit—rest after your walk?’

She did so; scarcely could she have stood longer. And with the physical ease there seemed to come a sudden mental relief. A thought sprang up, opening upon her like a haven of refuge.

‘There is one thing I should like to ask of you,’ she began, forcing herself to regard him directly. ‘It is a great thing, I am afraid; it may be impossible.’

‘Will you tell me what it is?’ he said, quietly filling the pause that followed.

‘I am thinking of New Wanley.’

She saw a change in his face, slight, but still a change. She spoke more quickly.

‘Will you let the works remain as they are, on the same plan? Will you allow the workpeople to live under the same rules? I have been among them constantly, and I am sure that nothing but good results have come of—of what my husband has done. There is no need to ask you to deal kindly with them, I know that. But if you could maintain the purpose—? It will be such a grief to my husband if all his work comes to nothing. There cannot be anything against your principles in what I ask. It is so simply for the good of men and women whose lives are so hard. Let New Wanley remain as an example. Can you do this?’

Hubert, as he listened, joined his hands behind his back, and turned his eyes to the upper branches of the silver birch, which once in his thoughts he had likened to Adela. What he heard from her surprised him, and upon surprise followed mortification. He knew that she had in appearance adopted Mutimer’s principles, but his talk with her in London at Mrs. Boscobel’s had convinced him that her heart was in far other things than economic problems and schemes of revolution. She had listened so eagerly to his conversation on art and kindred topics; it was so evident that she was enjoying a temporary release from a mode of life which chilled all her warmer instincts. Yet she now made it her entreaty that he would continue Mutimer’s work. Beginning timidly, she grew to an earnestness which it was impossible to think feigned. He was unprepared for anything of the kind; his emotions resented it. Though consciously harbouring no single unworthy desire, he could not endure to find Adela zealous on her husband’s behalf.

Had he misled himself? Was the grief that he had witnessed really that of a wife for her husband’s misfortune? For whatever reason she had married Mutimer—and that could not be love—married life might have engendered affection. He knew Adela to be deeply conscientious; how far was it in a woman’s power to subdue herself to love at the bidding of duty?

He allowed several moments to pass before replying to her. Then he said, courteously but coldly:

‘I am very sorry that you have asked the one thing I cannot do.’

Adela’s heart sank. In putting a distance between him and herself she had obeyed an instinct of self-preservation; now that it was effected, the change in his voice was almost more than she could bear.

‘Why do you refuse?’ she asked, trying, though in vain, to look up at him.

‘Because it is impossible for me to pretend sympathy with Mr. Mutimer’s views. In the moment that I heard of the will my action with regard to New Wanley was determined. What I purpose doing is so inevitably the result of my strongest convictions that nothing could change me.

‘Will you tell me what you are going to do?’ Adela asked, in a tone more like his own.

‘It will pain You.’

‘Yet I should like to know.’

‘I shall sweep away every trace of the mines and the works and the houses, and do my utmost to restore the valley to its former state.’

He paused, but Adela said nothing. Her fingers played with the leaves which grew beside her.

‘Your associations with Wanley of course cannot be as strong as my own. I was born here, and every dearest memory of my life connects itself with the valley as it used to be. It was one of the loveliest spots to be found in England. You can have no idea of the feelings with which I saw this change fall upon it, this desolation and defilement—I must use the words which come to me. I might have overcome that grief if I had sympathised with the ends. But, as it is, I should act in the same way even if I had no such memories. I know all that you will urge. It may be inevitable that the green and beautiful spots of the world shall give place to furnaces and mechanics’ dwellings. For my own part, in this little corner, at all events, the rum shall be delayed. In this matter I will give my instincts free play. Of New Wanley not one brick shall remain on another. I will close the mines, and grass shall again grow over them; I will replant the orchards and mark out the fields as they were before.’

He paused again.

‘You see why I cannot do what you ask.’

It was said in a gentler voice, for insensibly his tone had become almost vehement.

He found a strange pleasure in emphasising his opposition to her. Perhaps he secretly knew that Adela hung upon his words, and in spite of herself was drawn into the current of his enthusiasm. But he did not look into her face. Had he done so he would have seen it fixed and pale.

‘Then you think grass and trees of more importance than human lives?’

She spoke in a voice which sounded coldly ironical in its attempt to be merely calm.

‘I had rather say that I see no value in human lives in a world from which grass and trees have vanished. But, in truth, I care little to make my position logically sound. The ruling motive in my life is the love of beautiful things; I fight against ugliness because it’s the only work in which I can engage with all my heart. I have nothing of the enthusiasm of humanity. In the course of centuries the world may perhaps put itself right again; I am only concerned with the present, and I see that everywhere the tendency is towards the rule of mean interests, ignoble ideals.’

‘Do you call it ignoble,’ broke in Adela, ‘to aim at raising men from hopeless and degrading toil to a life worthy of human beings?’

‘The end which you have in mind cannot be ignoble. But it is not to be reached by means such as these.’ He pointed down to the valley. ‘That may be the only way of raising the standard of comfort among people who work with their hands; I take the standpoint of the wholly unpractical man, and say that such efforts do not concern me. From my point of view no movement can be tolerated which begins with devastating the earth’s surface. You will clothe your workpeople better, you will give them better food and more leisure; in doing so you injure the class that has finer sensibilities, and give power to the class which not only postpones everything to material well-being, but more and more regards intellectual refinement as an obstacle in the way of progress. Progress—the word is sufficient; you have only to think what it has come to mean. It will be good to have an example of reaction.’

‘When reaction means misery to men and women and little children?’

‘Yes, even if it meant that. As far as I am concerned, I trust it will have no such results. You must distinguish between humanity and humanitarianism. I hope I am not lacking in the former; the latter seems to me to threaten everything that is most precious in the world.’

‘Then you are content that the majority of mankind should be fed and clothed and kept to labour?’

‘Personally, quite content; for I think it very unlikely that the majority will ever be fit for anything else. I know that at present they desire nothing else.’

‘Then they must be taught to desire more.’

Hubert again paused. When he resumed it was with a smile which strove to be good-humoured.

‘We had better not argue of these things. If I said all that I think you would accuse me of brutality. In logic you will overcome me. Put me down as one of those who represent reaction and class-prejudice. I am all prejudice.’

Adela rose.

‘We have talked a long time,’ she said, trying to speak lightly. ‘We have such different views. I wish there were less class-prejudice.’

Hubert scarcely noticed her words. She was quitting him, and he clung to the last moment of her presence.

‘Shall you go—eventually go to London?’ he asked.

‘I can’t say. My husband has not yet been able to make plans.’

The word irritated him. He half averted his face.

‘Good-bye, Mr. Eldon.’

She did not offer her hand—durst not do so. Hubert bowed without speaking.

When she was near the Manor gates she heard footsteps behind her. She turned and saw her husband. Her cheeks flushed, for she had been walking in deep thought. It seemed to her for an instant as if the subject of her preoccupation could be read upon her face.

‘Where have you been?’ Mutimer asked, indifferently.

‘For a walk. Into the wood.’

He was examining her, for the disquiet of her countenance could not escape his notice.

‘Why did you go alone? It would have done Alice good to get her out a little.’

‘I’m afraid she wouldn’t have come.’

He hesitated.

‘Has she been saying anything to you?’

‘Only that she is troubled and anxious.’

They walked on together in silence, Mutimer with bowed head and knitted brows.

CHAPTER XXVI

The making a virtue of necessity, though it argues lack of ingenuousness, is perhaps preferable to the wholly honest demonstration of snarling over one’s misfortunes. It may result in good even to the hypocrite, who occasionally surprises himself with the pleasure he finds in wearing a front of nobility, and is thereby induced to consider the advantages of upright behaviour adopted for its own sake. Something of this kind happened in the case of Richard Mutimer. Seeing that there was no choice but to surrender his fortune, he set to work to make the most of abdication, and with the result that the three weeks occupied in settling his affairs at New Wanley and withdrawing from the Manor were full of cheerful activity. He did not meet Hubert Eldon, all business being transacted through Mr. Yottle. When he heard from the latter that it was Eldon’s intention to make a clean sweep of mines, works, and settlements, though for a moment chagrined, he speedily saw that such action, by giving dramatic completeness to his career at Wanley and investing its close with something of tragic pathos, was in truth what he should most have desired. It enabled him to take his departure with an air of profounder sadness; henceforth no gross facts would stand in the way of his rhetoric when he should enlarge on the possibilities thus nipped in the bud. He was more than ever a victim of cruel circumstances; he could speak with noble bitterness of his life’s work having been swept into oblivion.

He was supported by a considerable amount of epistolary sympathy. The local papers made an interesting story of what had happened in the old church at Wanley, and a few of the London journals reported the circumstances; in this way Mutimer became known to a wider public than had hitherto observed him. Not only did his fellow-Unionists write to encourage and moralise, but a number of those people who are ever ready to indite letters to people of any prominence, the honestly admiring and the windily egoistic, addressed communications either to Wanley Manor or to the editor of the ‘Fiery Cross.’ Mutimer read eagerly every word of each most insignificant scribbler; his eyes gleamed and his cheeks grew warm. All such letters he brought to Adela, and made her read them aloud; he stood with his hands behind his back, his face slightly elevated and at a listening angle. At the end he regarded her, and his look said: ‘Behold the man who is your husband!’

But at length there came one letter distinct from all the rest; it had the seal of a Government office. With eyes which scarcely credited what they saw Mutimer read some twenty or thirty words from a Minister of the Crown, a gentleman of vigorously Radical opinions, who had ‘heard with much regret that the undertaking conceived and pursued with such single-hearted zeal’ had come to an untimely end. Mutimer rushed to Adela like a schoolboy who has a holiday to announce.

‘Read that now! What do you think of that? Now there’s some hope of a statesman like that!’

Adela gave forth the letter in a voice which was all too steady. 7 But she said:

‘I am very glad. It must gratify you. He writes very kindly.’

‘You’ll have to help me to make an answer.’

Adela smiled, but said nothing.

The ceremonious opening of the hall at New Wanley had been a great day; Mutimer tried his best to make the closing yet more effective. Mr. Westlake was persuaded to take the chair, but this time the oration was by the founder himself. There was a numerous assembly. Mutimer spoke for an hour and a quarter, reviewing what he had done, and enlarging on all that he might and would have done. There was as much applause as even he could desire. The proceedings closed with the reading of an address which was signed by all the people of the works, a eulogium and an expression of gratitude, not without one or two sentences of fiery Socialism. The spokesman was a fine fellow of six feet two, a man named Redgrave, the ideal of a revolutionist workman. He was one of the few men at the works whom Adela, from observation of their domestic life, had learnt sincerely to respect. Before reading the document he made a little speech of his own, and said in conclusion:

‘Here’s an example of how the law does justice in a capitalist society. The man who makes a grand use of money has it all taken away from him by the man who makes no use of it at all, except to satisfy his own malice and his own selfishness. If we don’t one and all swear to do our utmost to change such a state of things as that, all I can say is we’re a poor lot, and deserve to be worse treated than the animals, that haven’t the sense to use their strength!’

In his reply to the address Richard surpassed himself. He rose in excitement; the words that rushed to his lips could scarcely find articulate flow. After the due thanks:

‘To-morrow I go to London; I go as poor as the poorest of you, a mechanical engineer in search of work. Whether I shall find it or not there’s no saying. If they turned me out because of my opinions three years ago, it’s not very likely that they’ve grown fonder of me by this time. As poor as the poorest of you, I say. Most of you probably know that a small legacy is left to me under the will which gives this property into other hands. That money will be used, every penny of it, for the furtherance of our cause!’

It was a magnificent thought, one of those inspirations which reveal latent genius. The hall echoed with shouts of glorification. Adela, who sat with her mother and Letty (Mrs. Westlake had not accompanied her husband), kept her eyes fixed on the ground; the uproar made her head throb.

All seemed to be over and dispersal was beginning, when a gentleman stood up in the middle of the hall and made signs that he wished to be heard for a moment. Mutimer aided him in gaining attention. It was Mr. Yottle, a grizzle-headed, ruddy-cheeked veteran of the law.

‘I merely desire to use this opportunity of reminding those who have been employed at the works that Mr. Eldon will be glad to meet them in this hall at half-past ten o’clock to-morrow morning. It will perhaps be better if the men alone attend, as the meeting will be strictly for business purposes.’

Adela was among the last to leave the room. As she was moving between the rows of benches Mr. Westlake approached her. He had only arrived in time to take his place on the platform, and he was on the point of returning to London.

I have a note for you from Stella, he said. ‘She has been ailing for a fortnight; it wasn’t safe for her to come. But she will soon see you, I hope.’

‘I hope so,’ Adela replied mechanically, as she took the letter.

Mr. Westlake only added his ‘good-bye,’ and went to take leave of Mutimer, who was standing at a little distance.

Among those who remained to talk with the hero of the day was our old friend Keene. Keene had risen in the world, being at present sub-editor of a Belwick journal. His appearance had considerably improved, and his manner was more ornate than ever. He took Mutimer by the arm and led him aside.

‘A suggestion—something that occurred to me whilst you were speaking. You must write the history of New Wanley Not too long; a thing that could be printed in pamphlet form and sold at a penny or twopence. Speak to Westlake see if the Union won’t publish. Some simple title: “My Work in New Wanley,” for instance. I’ll see that it’s well noticed in our rag.’

‘Not a bad idea!’ Mutimer exclaimed, throwing back his head.

‘Trust me, not half bad. Be of use in the propaganda. Just think it over, and, if you care to, allow me to read it in manuscript. There’s a kind of art—eh? you know what I mean; it’s only to be got by journalistic practice. Yes, “My Work in New Wanley”; I think that would do.’

‘I’m going to lecture at Commonwealth Hall next Sunday,’ Mutimer observed. ‘I’ll take that for my title.’

‘By-the-bye how—what was I going to say? Oh yes, how is Mrs. Rodman?’

‘Tolerable, I believe.’

‘In London, presumably?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not much—not taking it to heart much, I hope?’

‘Not particularly? I think.’

‘I should be glad to be remembered—a word when you see her. Thanks, Mutimer, thanks. I must be off.’

Adela was making haste to Teach the Manor, that she might read Stella’s letter She and her husband were to dine this evening with the Walthams—a farewell meal. With difficulty she escaped from her mother and Letty; Stella’s letter demanded a quarter of an hour of solitude.

She reached her room, and broke the envelope. Stella never wrote at much length, but to-day there were only a few lines.

‘My love to you, heart’s darling. I am not well enough to come, and I think it likely you had rather I did not. But in a few hours you will be near me. Come as soon as ever you can. I wait for you like the earth for spring. ‘STELLA.’

She kissed the paper and put it in the bosom of her dress. It was already time to go to her mother’s.

She found her mother and Letty with grave faces; something seemed to have disturbed them. Letty tried to smile and appear at ease, but Mrs. Waltham was at no pains to hide the source of her dissatisfaction.

‘Did you know of that, Adela?’ she asked, with vexation. ‘About the annuity, I mean. Had Richard spoken to you of his intention?’

Adela replied with a simple negative. She had not given the matter a thought.

‘Then he certainly should have done. It was his duty, I consider, to tell me. It is in express contradiction of all he has led me to understand. What are you going to live on, I should like to know? It’s very unlikely that he will find a position immediately. He is absolutely reckless, wickedly thoughtless! My dear, it is not too late even now. I insist on your staying with us until your husband has found an assured income. The idea of your going to live in lodgings in an obscure part of London is more than I can bear, and now it really appals me. Adela, my child, it’s impossible for you to go under these circumstances. The commonest decency will oblige him to assent to this arrangement.’

‘My dear mother,’ Adela replied seriously, ‘pray do not reopen that. It surely ought to be needless for me to repeat that it is my duty to go to London.’

‘But, Adela darling,’ began Letty, very timorously, ‘wouldn’t it be relieving your husband? How much freer he would be to look about, knowing you are here safe and in comfort. I really—I do really think mother is right.’

Before Adela could make any reply there sounded a knock at the front door; Richard came in. He cast a glance round at the three. The others might have escaped his notice, but Mrs. Waltham was too plainly perturbed.

‘Has anything happened?’ he asked in an offhand way.

‘I am distressed, more than I can tell you,’ began his mother-in-law. ‘Surely you did not mean what you said about the money—’

‘Mother!’ came from Adela’s lips, but she checked herself.

Mutimer thrust his hands into his pockets and stood smiling.

‘Yes, I meant it.’

‘But, pray, what are you and Adela going to live upon?’

‘I don’t think we shall have any difficulty.’

‘But surely one must more than think in a matter such as this. You mustn’t mind me speaking plainly, Richard. Adela is my only daughter, and the thought of her undergoing needless hardships is so dreadful to me that I really must speak. I have a plan, and I am sure you will see that it is the very best for all of us. Allow Adela to remain with me for a little while, just till you have—have made things straight. It certainly would ease your mind. She is so very welcome to a share of our home. You would feel less hampered. I am sure you will consent to this.’

Mutimer’s smile died away. He avoided Mrs. Waltham’s face, and let his eyes pass in a cold gaze from Letty, who almost shrank, to Adela, who stood with an air of patience.

‘What do you say to this?’ he asked of his wife, in a tone civil indeed, but very far from cordial.

‘I have been trying to show mother that I cannot do as she wishes. It is very kind of her, but, unless you think it would be better for me to stay, I shall of course accompany you.’

‘You can stay if you like.’

Adela understood too well what that permission concealed.

‘I have no wish to stay.’

Mutimer turned his look on Mrs. Waltham, without saying anything.

‘Then I can say no more,’ Mrs. Waltham replied. ‘But you must understand that I take leave of my daughter with the deepest concern. I hope you will remember that her health for a long time has been anything but good, and that she was never accustomed to do hard and coarse work.’

‘We won’t talk any more of this, mother,’ Adela interposed firmly. ‘I am sure you need have no fear that I shall be tried beyond my strength. You must remember that I go with my husband.’

The high-hearted one! She would have died rather than let her mother perceive that her marriage was less than happy. To the end she would speak that word ‘my husband,’ when it was necessary to speak it at all, with the confidence of a woman who knows no other safeguard against the ills of life. To the end she would shield the man with her own dignity, and protect him as far as possible even against himself.

Mutimer smiled again, this time with satisfaction.

‘I certainly think we can take care of ourselves,’ he remarked briefly.

In a few minutes they were joined by Alfred, who had only just returned from Belwick, and dinner was served. It was not a cheerful evening. At Adela’s request it had been decided in advance that the final leave-taking should be to-night; she and Mutimer would drive to Agworth station together with Alfred the first thing in the morning. At ten o’clock the parting came. Letty could not speak for sobbing; she just kissed Adela and hurried from the room. Mrs. Waltham preserved a rather frigid stateliness.

‘Good-bye, my dear,’ she said, when released from her daughter’s embrace. ‘I hope I may have good news from you.’

With Mutimer she shook hands.

It was a starry and cold night. The two walked side by side without speaking. When they were fifty yards on their way, a figure came out of a corner of the road, and Adela heard Letty call her name.

‘I will overtake you,’ she said to her husband.

‘Adela, my sweet, I couldn’t say good-bye to you in the house!’

Letty hung about her dear one’s neck. Adela choked; she could only press her cheek against that moist one.

‘Write to me often—oh, write often,’ Letty sobbed. ‘And tell me the truth, darling, will you?’

‘It will be all well, dear sister,’ Adela whispered.

‘Oh, that is a dear name! Always call me that. I can’t say good-bye, darling. You will come to see us as soon as ever you can?’

‘As soon as I can, Letty.’

Adela found her husband awaiting her.

‘What did she want?’ he asked, with genuine surprise.

‘Only to say good-bye.’

‘Why, she’d said it once.’

The interior of the Manor was not yet disturbed, but all the furniture was sold, and would be taken away on the morrow. They went to the drawing room. After some insignificant remarks Mutimer asked:

‘What letter was that Westlake gave you?’

‘It was from Stella—from Mrs. Westlake.’

He paused. Then:

‘Will you let me see it?’

‘Certainly, if you wish.’

She felt for it in her bosom and handed it to him. It shook in her fingers.

‘Why does she think you’d rather she didn’t come?’

‘I suppose because the occasion seems to her painful.’

‘I don’t see that it was painful at all. What did you think of my speech?’

‘The first one or the second?’

‘Both, if you like. I meant the first.’

‘You told the story very well.’

‘You’ll never spoil me by over-praise.’

Adela was silent.

‘About this,’ he resumed, tapping the note which he still held. ‘I don’t think you need go there very often. It seems to me you don’t get much good from them.’

She looked at him inquiringly.

‘Theirs isn’t the kind of Socialism I care much about,’ he continued, with the air of giving a solid reason. ‘It seems to me that Westlake’s going off on a road of his own, and one that leads nowhere. All that twaddle to-day about the development of society! I don’t think he spoke of me as he might have done. You’ll see there won’t be half a report in the “Fiery Gross.”’

Adela was still silent.

‘I don’t mean to say you’re not to see Mrs. Westlake at all, if you want to,’ he pursued. ‘I shouldn’t have thought she was the kind of woman to suit you. If the truth was known, I don’t think she’s a Socialist at all. But then, no more are you, eh?’

‘There is no one with a more passionate faith in the people than Mrs. Westlake,’ Adela returned.

‘Faith! That won’t do much good.’

He was silent a little, then went to another subject.

‘Rodman writes that he’s no intention of giving up the money. I knew it would come to that.’

‘But the law will compel him,’ Adela exclaimed.

‘It’s a roundabout business. Eldon’s only way of recovering it is to bring an action against me. Then I shall have to go to law with Rodman.’

‘But how can he refuse? It is—’

She checked herself, remembering that words were two-edged.

‘Oh, he writes in quite a friendly way—makes a sort of joke of it. We’ve to get what we can of him, he says. But he doesn’t get off if I can help it. I must see Yottle on our way tomorrow.’

‘Keene wants me to write a book about New Wanley,’ he said presently.

‘A book?’

‘Well, a small one. It could be called, “My Work at New Wanley.” It might do good.’

‘Yes, it might,’ Adela assented absently.

‘You look tired. Get off to bed; you’ll have to be up early in the morning, and it’ll be a hard day.’

Adela went, hopeful of oblivion till the ‘hard day’ should dawn.

The next morning they were in Belwick by half-past nine. Alfred took leave of them and went off to business. He promised to ‘look them up’ in London before very long, probably at Christmas. Between him and Mutimer there was make-believe of cordiality at parting; they had long ceased to feel any real interest in each other.

Adela had to spend the time in the railway waiting-room whilst her husband went to see Yottle. It was a great bare place; when she entered, she found a woman in mourning, with a little boy, sitting alone. The child was eating a bun, his mother was silently shedding tears. Adela seated herself as far from them as possible, out of delicacy, but she saw the woman look frequently towards her, and at last rise as if to come and speak. She was a feeble, helpless-looking being of about thirty; evidently the need of sympathy overcame her, for she had no other excuse for addressing Adela save to tell that her luggage had gone astray, and that she was waiting in the hope that something might be heard of it. Finding a gentle listener, she talked on and on, detailing the wretched circumstances under which she had recently been widowed, and her miserable prospects in a strange town whither she was going. Adela made an effort to speak in words of comfort, but her own voice sounded hopeless in her ears. In the station was a constant roaring and hissing, bell-ringing and the shriek of whistles, the heavy trundling of barrows, the slamming of carriage-doors; everywhere a smell of smoke. It impressed her as though all the ‘world had become homeless, and had nothing to do but journey hither and thither in vain search of a resting-place. And her waiting lasted more than an hour. But for the effort to dry another’s tears it would have been hard to restrain her own.