Demos

‘You always had a head for argument, Clara,’ he replied coolly. ‘But I can’t get over that dream of mine. Really a queer thing, wasn’t it? Who’d have thought of you turning barmaid? With your education, I should have thought you could have done something in the teaching line. Never mind. The queerest thing of all is that I’m really half glad to see you. How’s Jack?’

The extraordinary conversation went on as they walked towards the street where Clara lived. It was in a poor part of Westminster. Reaching the house, Clara opened the door with a latchkey.

Two women were standing in the passage.

‘This is my husband, Mrs. Rook,’ Clara said to one of them. ‘He’s just got back from abroad.’

‘Glad to see you, Mr. Williamson,’ said the landlady, scrutinising him with unmistakable suspicion.

The pair ascended the stairs, and Mrs. Williamson—she had always used the name she received in marriage—opened a door which disclosed a dark bedroom. A voice came from within—the voice of a little lad of eight years old.

‘That you, mother? Why, I’ve only just put myself to bed. What time is it?’

‘Then you ought to have gone to bed long ago,’ replied his mother whilst she was striking a light.

It was a very small room, but decent. The boy was discovered sitting up in bed—a bright-faced little fellow with black hair. Clara closed the door, then turned and looked at her husband. The light made a glistening appearance on her eyes; she had become silent, allowing facts to speak for themselves.

The child stared at the stranger in astonishment.

‘Who are you?’ he asked at length.

Rodman laughed as heartily as if there had been nothing disagreeable in the situation.

‘I have the honour to be your father, sir,’ he replied. ‘You’re a fine boy, Jack—a deuced fine boy.’

The child was speechless. Rodman turned to the mother. Her hands held the rail at the foot of the bed, and as the boy looked up at her for explanation she let her face fall upon them and sobbed.

‘If you’re father come back,’ exclaimed Jack indignantly, ‘why do you make mother cry?’

Rodman was still mirthful.

‘I like you, Jack,’ he said. ‘You’ll make a man some day. Do you mind if I smoke a cigar, Clara?’

To his astonishment, he felt a weakness which had to be resisted; tobacco suggested itself as a resource. When he had struck a light, his wife forced back her tears and seated herself with an unforgiving countenance.

Rodman began to chat pleasantly as he smoked.

Decidedly it was a contretemps. It introduced a number of difficulties into his life. If he remained away for a night, he had little doubt that his wife would denounce him; she knew of several little matters which he on the whole preferred to be reticent about. She was not a woman like Alice, to be turned round his finger. It behoved him to be exceedingly cautious.

He had three personalities. As Mr. Willis Rodman his task was comparatively a light one, at all events for the present. He merely informed Alice by letter that he was kept in town by business and would see her in the course of a week. It was very convenient that Alice had no intercourse with her relatives. Secondly, as Mr. Williamson his position was somewhat more difficult. Not only had he to present himself every night at the rooms he had taken in Brixton, but it was necessary to take precautions lest his abode should be discovered by those who might make awkward use of the knowledge. He had, moreover, to keep Clara in the dark as to his real occupations and prevent her from knowing his resorts in town. Lastly, as Mr. Robert Delancey he had to deal with matters of a very delicate nature indeed, in themselves quite enough to occupy a man’s mental energy. But our friend was no ordinary man. If you are not as yet satisfied of that, it will ere long be made abundantly clear to you.

His spirits were as high as ever. When he said—with an ingenious brutality all his own—that he was more than half glad to see his wife, he, for a wonder, told the truth. But perhaps it was little Jack who gave him most pleasure, and did most to reconcile him to the difficulties of his situation. In a day or two be conquered the child’s affections so completely that Jack seemed to care little for his mother in comparison; Jack could not know the hardships she had endured for his sake. Rodman—so we will continue to call him for convenience’ sake—already began to talk of what he would make the lad, who certainly gave promise of parts. The result of this was that for a week or two our friend became an exemplary family man. His wife almost dared to believe that her miseries were over. Yet she watched him with lynx eyes.

The ‘Irish Dairy Company’ flourished. Rodman rubbed his hands with a sinister satisfaction when he inscribed among the shareholders the name of Richard Mutimer, who invested all the money he had collected from the East-Enders, and three hundred pounds of his own—not five hundred, as he had at first thought of doing. Mutimer had the consent of his committee, whom he persuaded without much difficulty—the money was not theirs—that by this means he would increase his capital beyond all expectation. He told Adela what he had done.

‘There’s not the least risk. They’ve got the names of several lords! And it isn’t a mere commercial undertaking: the first object is to benefit the Irish; so that there can be nothing against my principles in it. They promise a dividend of thirty per cent. What a glorious day it will be when I tell the people what I have made of their money! Now confess that it isn’t everyone could have hit on this idea.’

Of course he made no public announcement of his speculation: that would have been to spoil the surprise. But he could not refrain from talking a good deal about the Company to his friends. He explained with zeal the merit of the scheme; it was dealing directly with the producers, the poor small-farmers who could never get fair treatment. He saw a great deal of Mr. Hilary, who was vastly interested in his East-End work. A severe winter had begun. Threepenny bits came in now but slowly, and Mutimer exerted himself earnestly to relieve the growing want in what he called his ‘parishes.’ He began in truth to do some really good work, moving heaven and earth to find employment for those long out of it, and even bestowing money of his own. At night he would return to Holloway worn out, and distress Adela with descriptions of the misery he had witnessed.

‘I’m not sorry for it,’ he once exclaimed. ‘I cannot be sorry. Let things get worse and worse the mending’ll be all the nearer. Why don’t they march in a body to the West End? I don’t mean march in a violent sense, though that’ll have to come, I expect. But why don’t they make a huge procession and go about the streets in an orderly way—just to let it be seen what their numbers are—just to give the West End a hint? I’ll propose that one of these days. It’ll be a risky business, but we can’t think of that when thousands are half starving. I could lead them, I feel sure I could! It wants someone with authority over them, and I think I’ve got that. There’s no telling what I may do yet. I say, Adela, bow would it sound—“Richard Mutimer, First President of the English Republic”?’

And in the meantime Alice sat in her house at Wimbledon, abandoned. The solitude seemed to be driving her mad. Rodman came down very occasionally for a few hours in the daytime, but never passed a night with her. He told her he had a great affair on hand, a very great affair, which was to make their fortunes ten times over. She must be patient; women couldn’t understand business. If she resisted his coaxing and grumbled, he always had his threat ready. He would realise his profits and make off, leaving her in the lurch. Weeks became months. In pique at the betrayal of her famous stratagem, Alice had wanted to dismiss her servant, but Rodman objected to this. She was driven by desperation to swallow her pride and make a companion of the girl. But she did not complain to her of her husband—partly out of self-respect, partly because she was afraid to. Indeed it was a terrible time for the poor Princess. She spent the greater part of every day in a state of apathy; for the rest she wept. Many a time she was on the point of writing to Richard, but could not quite bring herself to that. She could not leave the house, for it rained or snowed day after day; the sun seemed to have deserted the heavens as completely as joy her life. She grew feeble-minded, tried to amuse herself with childish games, played ‘Beggar My Neighbour’ with the servant for hours at night. She had fits of hysteria, and terrified her sole companion with senseless laughter, or with alarming screams. Reading she was no longer story. And her glass—as well as her husband—told her that equal to; after a few pages she lost her understanding of a she suffered daily in her appearance. Her hair was falling; she one day told the servant that she would soon have to buy a wig. Poor Alice! And she had not even the resource of railing against the social state. What a pity she had never studied that subject!

So the time went on till February of the new year. Alice’s release was at hand.

CHAPTER XXXIII

‘Arry Mutimer, not long after he left his mother’s house for good, by chance met Rodman in the City. Presuming on old acquaintance, he accosted the man of business with some familiarity; it was a chance of getting much-needed assistance once more. But Rodman was not disposed to renew the association He looked into ‘Arry’s face with a blank stare, asked contemptuously, ‘Who are you?’ and pursued his walk.

‘Arry hoped that he might some day have a chance of being even with Mr. Rodman.

As indeed he had. One evening towards the end of February, ‘Arry was loafing about Brixton. He knew a certain licensed victualler in those parts, a man who had ere now given him casual employment, and after a day of fasting he trudged southwards to see if his friend would not at all events be good for a glass of beer and a hunch of bread and cheese. Perhaps he might also supply the coppers to pay for a bed in the New Cut. To his great disappointment, the worthy victualler was away from home; the victualler’s wife had no charitable tendencies. ‘Arry whined to her, but only got for an answer that times was as ‘ard with her as with anyone else. The representative of unemployed labour went his way despondently, hands thrust deep in pockets, head slouching forwards, shoulders high up against the night blast.

He was passing a chemist’s shop, when a customer came out He recognised Rodman. After a moment’s uncertainty he made up his mind to follow him, wondering how Rodman came to be in this part of London. Keeping at a cautious distance, he saw him stop at a small house and enter it by aid of a latchkey.

‘Why, he lives there!’ ‘Arry exclaimed to himself. ‘What’s the meanin’ o’ this go?’

Rodman, after all, had seriously come down in the world, then. It occurred to ‘Arry that he might do worse than pay his sister a visit; Alice could not be hard-hearted enough to refuse him a few coppers. But the call must be made at an hour when Rodman was away. Presumably that would be some time after eight in the morning.

Our unconventional friend walked many miles that night. It was one way of keeping warm, and there was always a possibility of aid from one or other of the acquaintances whom he sought. The net result of the night’s campaign was half-a-pint of ‘four-half.’ The front of a draper’s shop in Kennington tempted him sorely; he passed it many times, eyeing the rolls of calico and flannel exposed just outside the doorway. But either courage failed him or there was no really good opportunity. Midnight found him still without means of retiring to that familiar lodging in the New Cut. At half-past twelve sleet began to fall. He discovered a very dark corner of a very dark slum, curled himself against the wall, and slept for a few hours in defiance of wind and weather.

‘Arry was used to this kind of thing. On the whole he deemed it preferable to the life he would have led at his mother’s.

By eight o’clock next morning he was back in Brixton, standing just where he could see the house which Rodman had entered, without himself attracting attention. Every rag on his back was soaked; he had not eaten a mouthful for thirty hours. After such a run of bad luck perhaps something was about to turn up.

But it was ten o’clock before Rodman left home. ‘Arry had no feeling left in any particle of his body. Still here at length was the opportunity of seeing Alice. He waited till Rodman was out of sight, then went to the door and knocked.

It was Clara who opened the door. Seeing ‘Arry, she took him for a beggar, shook her head, and was closing the door against him, when she heard—

‘Is Mrs. Rodman in, mum?’

‘Mrs.—who?’

‘Mrs. Rodman.’

Clara’s eyes flashed as they searched his face.

‘What do you want with Mrs. Rodman?’

‘Want to see her, mum.’

‘Do you know her when you see her?’

‘Sh’ think I do,’ replied ‘Arry with a grin. But he thought it prudent to refrain from explanation.

‘How do you know she lives here?’

‘’Cause I just see her ‘usband go out.’

Clara hesitated a moment, then bade him enter. She introduced him to a parlour on the ground floor. He stood looking uneasily about him. The habits of his life made him at all times suspicious.

‘Mrs. Rodman doesn’t live here,’ Clara began, lowering her voice and making a great effort to steady it.

‘Oh, she don’t?’ replied ‘Arry, beginning to discern that something was wrong.

‘Can you tell me what you want with her?’

He looked her in the eyes and again grinned.

‘Dare say I could if it was made worth my while.’

She took a purse from her pocket and laid half-a-crown on the table. Her hand shook.

‘I can’t afford more than that. You shall have it if you tell me the truth.’

‘Arry took counsel with himself for an instant. Probably there was no more to be got, and he saw from the woman’s agitation that he had come upon some mystery. The chance of injuring Rodman was more to him than several half-crowns.

‘I won’t ask more,’ he said, ‘if you’ll tell me who you are. That’s fair on both sides, eh?’

‘My name is Mrs. Williamson.’

‘Oh? And might it ‘appen that Mr. Rodman calls himself Mr. Williamson when it suits him?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied hurriedly. ‘Tell me who it is you call Mrs. Rodman.’

‘I don’t call her so. That’s her married name. She’s my sister.’

The door opened. Both turned their heads and saw Rodman. He had come back for a letter he had forgotten to take with him to post At a glance he saw everything, including the half-crown on the table, which ‘Arry instantly seized. He walked forward, throwing a murderous look at Clara as he passed her. Then he said to ‘Arry, in a perfectly calm voice—

‘There’s the door.’

‘I see there is,’ the other replied, grinning. ‘Good-mornin’, Mr. Rodman Williamson.’

Husband and wife faced each other as soon as the front door slammed. Clara was a tigress; she could not be terrified as Alice might have been by scowls and savage threats. Rodman knew it, and knew, moreover, that his position was more perilous than any he had been in for a long time.

‘What do you know?’ he asked quietly.

‘Enough to send you to prison, Mr. Rodman. You can’t do quite what you like! If there’s law in this country I’ll see you punished!’

He let her rave for a minute or two, and by that time had laid his plans.

‘Will you let me speak? Now I give you a choice. Either you can do as you say, or you can be out of this country, with me and Jack, before to-morrow morning. In a couple of hours I can get more money than you ever set eyes on; I’ll be back here with it’—he looked at his watch—‘by one o’clock. No, that wouldn’t be safe either—that fellow might send someone here by then. I’ll meet you on Westminster Bridge, the north end, at one. Now you’ve a minute to choose; he may have gone straight away to the police station. Punish me if you like—I don’t care a curse. But it seems to me the other thing’s got more common sense in it I haven’t seen that woman for a month, and never care to see her again. I don’t care over much for you either; but I do care for Jack, and for his sake I’ll take you with me, and do my best for you. It’s no good looking at me like a wild beast You’ve sense enough to make a choice.’

She clasped her hands together and moaned, so dreadful was the struggle in her between passions and temptations and fears. The mother’s heart bade her trust him; yet could she trust him to go and return?

‘You have the cunning of a devil,’ she groaned, ‘and as little heart! Let you go, when you only want the chance of deserting me again!’

‘You’ll have to be quick,’ he replied, holding his watch in his hand, and smiling at the compliment in spite of his very real anxiety. ‘There may be no choice in a minute or two.’

‘I’ll go with you now; I’ll follow you where you go to get the money!’

‘No, you won’t. Either you trust me or you refuse. You’ve a free choice, Clara. I tell you plainly I want little Jack, and I’m not going to lose him if I can help it.’

‘Have you any other children?’

‘No—never had.’

At least he had not been deceiving her in the matter of Jack. She knew that he had constantly come home at early hours only for the sake of playing with the boy.

‘I’ll go with you. No one shall see that I’m following you.’

‘It’s impossible. I shall have to go post haste in a cab. I’ve half-a-dozen places to go to. Meet me on Westminster Bridge at one. I may be a few minutes later, but certainly not more than half-an-hour.’

He went to the window and looked uneasily up and down the street. Clara pressed her hands upon her head and stared at him like one distracted.

‘Where is she?’ came from her involuntarily.

‘Don’t be a fool, woman!’ he replied, walking to the door. She sprang to hold him. Instead of repulsing her, he folded his arm about her waist and kissed her lips two or three times.

‘I can get thousands of pounds,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll be off before they have a trace. It’s for Jack’s sake, and I’ll be kind to you as well, old woman.’

She had suffered him to go; the kisses made her powerless, reminding her of a long-past dream. A moment after she rushed to the house door, but only to see him turning the corner of the street Then she flew to the bedroom. Jack was ill of a cold—she was nursing him in bed. But now she dressed him hurriedly, as if there were scarcely time to get to Westminster by the appointed hour. All was ready before eleven o’clock, but it was now raining, and she durst not wait with the child in the open air for longer than was necessary. But all at once the fear possessed her lest the police might come to the house and she be detained. Ignorant of the law, and convinced from her husband’s words that the stranger in rags had some sinister aim, she no sooner conceived the dread than she bundled into a hand-bag such few articles as it would hold and led the child hastily from the house. They walked to a tramway-line and had soon reached Westminster Bridge. But it was not half-past eleven, and the rain descended heavily. She sought a small eating-house not far from the Abbey, and by paying for some coffee and bread-and-butter, which neither she nor Jack could touch, obtained leave to sit in shelter till one o’clock.

At five minutes to the hour she rose and hurried to the north end of the bridge, and stood there, aside from the traffic, shielding little Jack as much as she could with her umbrella, careless that her own clothing was getting wet through. Big Ben boomed its one stroke. Minute after minute passed, and her body seemed still to quiver from the sound. She was at once feverishly hot and so deadly chill that her teeth clattered together; her eyes throbbed with the intensity of their gaze into the distance. The quarter-past was chimed. Jack kept talking to her, but she could hear nothing. The rain drenched her; the wind was so high that she with difficulty held the umbrella above the child. Half-past, and no sign of her husband....

She durst not go away from this spot Her eyes were blind with tears. A policeman spoke to her; she could only chatter meaningless sounds between her palsied lips. Jack coughed incessantly, begged to be taken home. ‘I’m so cold, mother, so cold!’ ‘Only a few minutes more,’ she said. He began to cry, though a brave little soul....

Four o’clock struck.

From Brixton our unconventional friend betook himself straight to Holloway. Having, as he felt sure, the means of making things decidedly uncomfortable for Mr. Rodman Williamson, it struck him that the eftest way would be to declare at once to his brother Richard all he knew and expected; Dick would not be slow in bestirring himself to make Rodman smart ‘Arry was without false shame; he had no hesitation in facing his brother. But Mr. Mutimer, he was told, was not at home. Then he would see Mrs. Mutimer. But the servant was indisposed to admit him, or even to trouble her mistress. ‘Arry had to request her to say that ‘Mr. ‘Enery Mutimer’ desired to see the lady of the house. He chuckled to see the astonishment produced by his words. Thus he got admittance to Adela.

She was shocked at the sight of him, could find no words, yet gave him her hand. He told her he wished to see his brother on very particular business. But Richard would not be back before eight o’clock in the evening, and it was impossible to say where he could be found. ‘Arry would not tell Adela what brought him, only assured her that it had nothing to do with his own affairs. He would call again in the evening. Adela felt inhuman in allowing him to go out into the rain, but she could not risk giving displeasure to her husband by inviting ‘Arry to stay.

He came again at half-past eight. Mutimer had been home nearly an hour and was expecting him. ‘Arry lost no time in coming to the point.

‘He’s married that other woman, I could see that much. Go and see for yourself. She give me ‘alf-a-crown to tell all about him. I’m only afraid he’s got off by this time.’

‘Why didn’t you go and give information to the police at once?’ Mutimer cried, in exasperation.

‘Arry might have replied that he had a delicacy in waiting upon those gentlemen. But his brother did not stay for an answer. Rushing from the room, he equipped himself instantly with hat, coat, and umbrella.

‘Show me the way to that house. Come along, there’s no time to lose. Adela!’ he called, ‘I have to go out; can’t say when I shall be back. Don’t sit up if I’m late.’

A hansom bore the brothers southwards as fast as hansom could go.

They found Clara in the house, a haggard, frenzied woman. Already she had been to the police, but they were not inclined to hurry matters; she had no satisfactory evidence to give them. To Mutimer, when he had explained his position, she told everything—of her marriage in London nine years ago, her going with her husband to America, his desertion of her. Richard took her at once to the police-station. They would have to attend at the court next morning to swear an information.

By ten o’clock Mutimer was at Waterloo, taking train for Wimbledon. At Rodman’s house he found darkness, but a little ringing brought Alice herself to the door. She thought it was her husband, and, on recognising Richard, all but dropped with fear; only some ill news could explain his coming thus. With difficulty he induced her to go into a room out of the hall. She was in her dressing-gown, her long beautiful hair in disorder, her pretty face white and distorted.

‘What is it, Dick? what is it, Dick?’ she kept repeating mechanically, with inarticulate moanings between. She had forgotten her enmity against her brother and spoke to him as in the old days. He, too, was all kindness.

‘Try and keep quiet a little, Alice. I want to talk to you. Yes, it’s about your husband, my poor girl; but there’s nothing to be frightened at. He’s gone away, that’s all. I want you to come to London with me.’

She had no more control over herself than a terrified child; her words and cries were so incoherent that Mutimer feared lest she had lost her senses. She was, in truth, on the borders of idiocy. It was more than half-an-hour before, with the servant’s assistance, he could allay her hysterical anguish. Then she altogether refused to accompany him. If she did so she would miss her husband; he would not go without coming to see her. Richard was reminded by the servant that it was too late to go by train. He decided to remain in the house through the night.

He had not ventured to tell her all the truth, nor did her state encourage him to do so in the morning. But he then succeeded in persuading her to come with him; Rodman, he assured her, must already be out of England, for he had committed a criminal offence and knew that the police were after him. Alice was got to the station more dead than alive; they were at home in Holloway by half-past ten. Richard then left her in Adela’s hands and sped once more to Brixton.

He got home again at two. As he entered Adela came down the stairs to meet him.

‘How is she?’ he asked anxiously.

‘The same. The doctor was here an hour ago. We must keep her as quiet as possible. But she can’t rest for a moment.’

She added—

‘Three gentlemen have called to see you. They would leave no name, and, to tell the truth, were rather rude. They seemed to doubt my word when I said you were not in.’

At his request she attempted to describe these callers. Mutimer recognised them as members of his committee.

‘Rude to you? You must have mistaken. What did they come here for? I shall in any case see them to-night.’

They returned to the subject of Alice’s illness.

‘I’ve half a mind to tell her the truth,’ Mutimer said. ‘Surely she’d put the blackguard out of her head after that.’

‘No, no; you mustn’t tell her!’ Adela interposed. ‘I am sure it would be very unwise.’

Alice was growing worse; in an hour or two delirium began to declare itself. She had resisted all efforts to put her to bed; at most she would lie on a couch. Whilst Richard and his wife were debating what should be done, it was announced to them that the three gentlemen had called again. Mutimer went oft angrily to see them.

He was engaged for half-an-hour. Then Adela heard the visitors depart; one of them was speaking loudly and with irritation. She waited for a moment at the head of the stairs, expecting that Mutimer would come out to her. As he did not, she went into the sitting-room.

Mutimer stood before the fireplace, his eyes on the ground, his face discoloured with vehement emotion.

‘What has happened?’ she asked.

He looked up and beckoned to her to approach.