CHAPTER XXXIV
Adela bad never seen him so smitten with grave trouble. She knew him in brutal anger and in surly ill-temper; but his present mood had nothing of either. He seemed to stagger beneath a blow which had all but crushed him and left him full of dread. He began to address her in a voice very unlike his own—thick, uncertain; he used short sentences, often incomplete.
‘Those men are on the committee. One of them got a letter this morning—anonymous. It said they were to be on their guard against me. Said the Company’s a swindle—that I knew it—that I’ve got money out of the people on false pretences. And Hilary’s gone—gone off—taking all he could lay hands on. The letter says so—I don’t know. It says I’m thick with the secretary—a man I never even saw. That he’s a well-known swindler—Delancey his name is. And these fellows believe it—demand that I shall prove I’m innocent. What proof can I give? They think I kept out of the way on purpose this morning.’
He ceased speaking, and Adela stood mute, looking him in the face. She was appalled on his account. She did not love him; too often his presence caused her loathing. But of late she had been surprised into thinking more highly of some of his qualities than it had hitherto been possible for her to do. She could never forget that he toiled first and foremost for his own advancement to a very cheap reputation; he would not allow her to lose sight of it had she wished. But during the present winter she had discerned in him a genuine zeal to help the suffering, a fervour in kindly works of which she had not believed him capable. Very slowly the conviction had come to her, but in the end she could not resist it. One evening, in telling her of the hideous misery he had been amongst, his voice failed and she saw moisture in his eyes. Was his character changing? Had she wronged him in attaching too much importance to a fault which was merely on the surface? Oh, but there were too many indisputable charges against him. Yet a man’s moral nature may sometimes be strengthened by experience of the evil he has wrought. All this rushed through her mind as she now stood gazing at him.
‘But how can they credit an anonymous letter?’ she said. ‘How can they believe the worst of you before making inquiries?’
‘They have been to the office of the Company. Everything is upside down. They say Hilary isn’t to be found.’
‘Who can have written such a letter?’
‘How do I know? I have enemies enough, no doubt. Who hasn’t that makes himself a leader?’
There was the wrong note again. It discouraged her; she was silent.
‘Look here, Adela,’ he said, ‘do you believe this?’
‘Believe it!’
‘Do you think I’m capable of doing a thing like that—scraping together by pennies the money of the poorest of the poor just to use it for my own purposes—could I do that?’
‘You know I do not believe it.’
‘But you don’t speak as if you were certain. There’s something—But how am I to prove I’m innocent? How can I make people believe I wasn’t in the plot? They’ve only my word—who’ll think that enough? Anyone can tell a lie and stick to it, if there’s no positive proof against him. How am I to make you believe that I was taken in?’
‘But I tell you that a doubt of your innocence does not enter my mind. If it were necessary, I would stand up in public before all who accused you and declare that they were wrong. I do not need your assurance. I recognise that it would be impossible for you to commit such a crime.’
‘Well, it does me good to hear you say that,’ he replied, with light of hope in his eyes. ‘I wanted to feel sure of that. You might have thought that’—he sank his voice—‘that because I could think of destroying that will—’
‘Don’t speak of that!’ she interrupted, with a gesture of pain. ‘I say that I believe you. It is enough. Don’t speak about me any more. Think of what has to be done.’
‘I have promised to be in Clerkenwell at eight o’clock. There’ll be a meeting. I shall do my best to show that I am innocent. You’ll look after Alice? It’s awful to have to leave her whilst she’s like that.’
‘Trust me. I will not leave her side for a moment. The doctor will be here again to-night.’
A thought struck him.
‘Send out the girl for an evening paper. There may be something in it.’
The paper was obtained. One of the first headings his eye fell upon was: ‘Rumoured Collapse of a Public Company. Disappearance of the Secretary.’ He showed it to Adela, and they read together. She saw that the finger with which he followed the lines quivered like a leaf. It was announced in a brief paragraph that the Secretary of the Irish Dairy Company was missing: that he seemed to have gone off with considerable sums. Moreover, that there were rumours in the City of a startling kind, relative to the character of the Company itself. The name of the secretary was Mr. Robert Delancey, but that was now believed to be a mere alias. The police were actively at work.
‘It’ll be the ruin of me!’ Mutimer gasped. ‘I can never prove that I knew nothing. You see, nothing’s said about Hilary. It’s that fellow Delancey who has run.’
‘You must find Mr. Hilary,’ said Adela urgently. ‘Where does he live?’
‘I have no idea. I only had the office address. Perhaps it isn’t even his real name. It’ll be my ruin.’
Adela was astonished to see him so broken down. He let himself sink upon a chair; his head and hands fell.
‘But I can’t understand why you should despair so!’ she exclaimed. ‘You will speak to the meeting to-night. If the money is lost you will restore it. If you have been imprudent, that is no crime.’
‘It is—it is—when I had money of that kind entrusted to me! They won’t hear me. They have condemned me already. What use is it to talk to them? They’ll say everything comes to smash in my hands.’
She spoke to him with such words of strengthening as one of his comrades might have used. She did not feel the tenderness of a wife, and had no power to assume it. But her voice was brave and true. She had made his interest, his reputation, her own. By degrees he recovered from the blow, and let her words give him heart.
‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘I’m behaving like a fool; I couldn’t go on different if I was really guilty. Who wrote that letter? I never saw the letter before, as far as I know. I wanted to keep it, but they wouldn’t let me—trust them! What black guards they are I They’re jealous of me. They know they can’t speak like I do, that they haven’t the same influence I have. So they’re ready to believe the first lie that’s brought against me. Let them look to themselves to-night! I’ll give them a piece of my mind—see if I don’t! What’s to-day? Friday. On Sunday I’ll have the biggest meeting ever gathered in the East End. If they shout out against me, I’ll tell them to their faces that they’re mean-spirited curs. They haven’t the courage to rise and get by force what they’ll never have by asking for it, and when a man does his best to help them they throw mud at him!’
‘But they won’t do so,’ Adela urged. ‘Don’t be unjust. Wait and see. They will shout for, not against you.’
‘Why didn’t you keep ‘Arry here?’ he asked suddenly.
‘He refused to stay. I gave him money.’
‘You should have forced him to stay How can I have a brother of my own living a life like that? You did wrong to give him money. He’ll only use it to make a beast of himself. I must find him again; I can’t let him go to ruin.’
‘Arry had come back to Holloway the previous night to inform Adela that her husband might not return till morning. As she said, it had been impossible to detain him. He was too far gone in unconventionality to spend a night under a decent roof. Home-sickness for the gutter possessed him.
In the meantime Alice had become quieter. It was half-past six; Mutimer had to be at the meeting-place in Clerkenwell by eight. Adela sat by Alice whilst the servant hurriedly prepared a meal; then the girl took her place, and she went down to her husband. They were in the middle of their meal when they heard the front-door slam. Mutimer started up.
‘Who’s that? Who’s gone out?’
Adela ran to the foot of the stairs and called the servant’s name softly. It was a minute before the girl appeared.
‘Who has just gone out, Mary?’
‘Gone out? No one, mum!’
‘Is Mrs. Rodman lying still?’
The girl went to see. She had left Alice for a few moments previously. She appeared again at the head of the stairs with a face of alarm.
‘Mrs. Rodman isn’t there, mum!’
Mutimer flew up the staircase. Alice was nowhere to be found. It could not be doubted that she had fled in a delirious state. Richard rushed into the street, but it was very dark, and rain was falling. There was no trace of the fugitive. He came back to the door, where Adela stood; he put out his hand and held her arm as if she needed support.
‘Give me my hat! She’ll die in the street, in the rain! I’ll go one way; the girl must go the other. My hat!’
‘I will go one way myself,’ said Adela hurriedly. ‘You must take an umbrella: it pours. Mary! my waterproof!’
They ran in opposite directions. It was a quiet by-street, with no shops to cast light upon the pavement. Adela encountered a constable before she had gone very far, and begged for his assistance. He promised to be on the look-out, but advised her to go on a short distance to the police-station and leave a description of the missing woman. She did so; then, finding the search hopeless in this quarter, turned homewards. Mutimer was still absent, but he appeared in five minutes; as unsuccessful as herself. She told him of her visit to the station.
‘I must keep going about,’ he said. ‘She can’t be far off; her strength, surely, wouldn’t take her far.’
Adela felt for him profoundly; for once he had not a thought of himself, his distress was absorbing. He was on the point of leaving the house again, when she remembered the meeting at which he was expected. She spoke of it.
‘What do I care?’ he replied, waving his arm. ‘Let them think what they like. I must find Alice.’
Adela saw in a moment all that his absence would involve. He could of course explain subsequently, but in the meantime vast harm would have been done. It was impossible to neglect the meeting altogether. She ran after him and stopped him on the pavement.
‘I will go to this meeting for you,’ she said. ‘A cab will take me there and bring me back. I will let them know what keeps you away.’
He looked at her with astonishment.
‘You! How can you go? Among those men?’
‘Surely I have nothing to fear from them? Have you lost all your faith suddenly? You cannot go, but someone must. I will speak to them so that they cannot but believe me. You continue the search; I will go.’
They stood together in the pouring rain. Mutimer caught her hand.
‘I never knew what a wife could be till now,’ he exclaimed hoarsely. ‘And I never knew you!’
‘Find me a cab and give the man the address. I will be ready in an instant.’
Her cheeks were on fire; her nerves quivered with excitement. She had made the proposal almost involuntarily; only his thanks gave her some understanding of what she was about to do. But she did not shrink; a man’s—better still, a woman’s—noblest courage throbbed in her. If need were, she too could stand forward in a worthy cause and speak the truth undauntedly.
The cab was bearing her away. She looked at her watch in the moment of passing a street lamp and just saw that it was eight o’clock. The meeting would be full by this; they would already be drawing ill conclusions from Mutimer’s absence Faster, faster! Every moment lost increased the force of prejudice against him. She could scarcely have felt more zeal on behalf of the man whom her soul loved. In the fever of her brain she was conscious of a wish that even now that love could be her husband’s. Ah no, no! But serve him she could and loyally. The lights flew by in the streets of Islington; the driver was making the utmost speed he durst. A check among thronging vehicles anguished her. But it was past, and here at length came the pause.
A crowd of perhaps a hundred men was gathered about the ill-lighted entrance to what had formerly been a low-class dancing-saloon. Adela saw them come thronging about the cab, heard their cries of discontent and of surprise when she showed herself.
‘Wait for me!’ she called to the driver, and straightway walked to the door. The men made way for her. On the threshold she turned.
‘I wish to see some member of the committee. I am Mrs. Mutimer.’
There was a coarse laugh from some fellows, but others cried, ‘Shut up! she’s a lady.’ One stepped forward and announced himself as a committee-man. He followed her into the passage.
‘My husband cannot come,’ she said. ‘Will you please show me where I can speak to the meeting and tell them the reason of his absence?’
Much amazed, the committee-man led her into the hall. It was whitewashed, furnished with plain benches, lit with a few gas-jets. There was scarcely room to move for the crowd. Every man seemed to be talking at the pitch of his voice. The effect was an angry roar. Adela’s guide with difficulty made a passage for her to the platform, for it took some time before the crowd realised what was going on. At length she stood in a place whence she could survey the assembly. On the wall behind her hung a great sheet of paper on which were inscribed the names of all who had deposited money with Mutimer. Adela glanced at it and understood. Instead of being agitated she possessed an extraordinary lucidity of mind, a calmness of nerve which she afterwards remembered as something miraculous.
The committee-man roared for silence, then in a few words explained Mrs. Mutimer’s wish to make ‘a speech.’ To Adela’s ears there seemed something of malice in this expression; she did not like, either, the laugh which it elicited. But quiet was speedily restored by a few men of sturdy lungs. She stepped to the front of the platform.
The scene was a singular one. Adela had thrown off her waterproof in the cab; she stood in her lady-like costume of home, her hat only showing that she had come from a distance. For years her cheeks had been very pale; in this moment her whole face was white as marble. Her delicate beauty made strange contrast with the faces on each side and in front of her—faces of rude intelligence, faces of fathomless stupidity, faces degraded into something less than human. But all were listening, all straining towards her. There were a few whispers of honest admiration, a few of vile jest. She began to speak.
‘I have come here because my husband cannot come. It is most unfortunate that he cannot, for he tells me that someone has been throwing doubt upon his honesty. He would be here, but that a terrible misfortune has befallen him. His sister was lying ill in our house. A little more than an hour ago she was by chance left alone and, being delirious—out of her mind—escaped from the house. My husband is now searching for her everywhere; she may be dying somewhere in the streets. That is the explanation I have come to give you. But I will say a word more. I do not know who has spoken ill of my husband; I do not know his reasons for doing so. This, however, I know, that Richard Mutimer has done you no wrong, and that he is incapable of the horrible thing of which he is accused. You must believe it; you wrong yourselves if you refuse to. To-morrow, no doubt, he will come and speak for himself. Till then I beg you to take the worthy part and credit good rather than evil.’
She ceased, and, turning to the committee-man, who still stood near her, requested him to guide her from the room. As she moved down from the platform the crowd recovered itself from the spell of her voice. The majority cheered, but there were not a few dissentient howls. Adela had ears for nothing; a path opened before her, and she walked along it with bowed head. Her heart was now beating violently; she felt that she must walk quickly or perchance her strength would fail her before she reached the door. As she disappeared there again arose the mingled uproar of cheers and groans; it came to her like the bellow of a pursuing monster as she fled along the passage. And in truth Demos was on her track. A few kept up with her; the rest jammed themselves in the door way, hustled each other, fought. The dozen who came out to the pavement altogether helped her into the cab, then gave a hearty cheer as she drove away.
The voice of Demos, not malevolent at the last, but to Adela none the less something to be fled from, something which excited thoughts of horrible possibilities, in its very good-humour and its praise of her a sound of fear.
CHAPTER XXXV
His search being vain, Mutimer hastened from one police-station to another, leaving descriptions of his sister at each. When he came home again Adela had just arrived. She was suffering too much from the reaction which followed upon her excitement to give him more than the briefest account of what she had heard and said; but Mutimer cared little for details. He drew an easy-chair near to the fire and begged her to rest. As she lay back for a moment with closed eyes, he took her faint hand and put it to his lips. He had never done so before; when she glanced at him he averted his face in embarrassment.
He would have persuaded her to go to bed, but she declared that sleep was impossible; she had much rather sit up with him till news came of Alice, as it surely must do in course of the night. For Mutimer there was no resting; he circled continually about the neighbouring streets, returning to the house every quarter of an hour, always to find Adela in the same position. Her heart would not fall to its normal beat, and the vision of those harsh faces would not pass from her mind.
At two o’clock they heard that Alice was found. She had been discovered several miles from home, lying unconscious in the street, and was now in a hospital. Mutimer set off at once; he returned with the report that she was between life and death. It was impossible to remove her.
Adela slept a little between six and eight; her husband took even shorter rest. When she came down to the sitting-room, he was reading the morning paper. As she entered he uttered a cry of astonishment and rage.
‘Look here!’ he exclaimed to her. ‘Read that!’
He pointed to an account of the Irish Dairy Company frauds, in which it was stated that the secretary, known as Delancey, appeared also to have borne the name of Rodman.
They gazed at each other.
‘Then it was Rodman wrote that letter!’ Mutimer cried. ‘I’ll swear to it. He did it to injure me at the last moment. Why haven’t they got him yet? The police are useless. But they’ve got Hilary, I see—yes, they’ve got Hilary. He was caught at Dover. Ha, ha! He denies everything—says he didn’t even know of the secretary’s decamping. The lying scoundrel! Says he was going to Paris on private business. But they’ve got him! And see here again: “The same Rodman is at present wanted by the police on a charge of bigamy.” Wanted! If they weren’t incompetent fools they’d have had him already. Ten to one he’s out of England.’
It was a day of tumult for Mutimer. At the hospital he found no encouragement, but he could only leave Alice in the hands of the doctors. From the hospital he went to his mother’s house; he had not yet had time to let her know of anything. But his main business lay in Clerkenwell and in various parts of the East End, wherever he could see his fellow-agitators. In hot haste he wrote an announcement of a meeting on Clerkenwell Green for Sunday afternoon, and had thousands of copies printed on slips; by evening these were scattered throughout his ‘parishes.’ He found that the calumny affecting him was already widely known; several members of his committee met him with black looks. Here and there an ironical question was put to him about his sister’s health. With the knowledge that Alice might be dying or dead, he could scarcely find words of reply. His mood changed from fear and indignation to a grim fury; within a few hours he made many resolute enemies by his reckless vehemence and vituperation.
The evening papers brought him a piece of intelligence which would have rejoiced him but for something with which it was coupled. Delancey, alias Rodman, alias Williamson, was arrested; he had been caught in Hamburg. The telegram added that he talked freely and had implicated a number of persons—among them a certain Socialist agitator, name not given. As Mutimer read this he fell for a moment into blank despair. He returned at once to Holloway, all but resolved to throw up the game—to abandon the effort to defend himself, and wait for what might result from the judicial investigations. Adela resisted this to the uttermost. She understood that such appearance of fear would be fatal to him. With a knowledge of Demos which owed much to her last night’s experience, she urged to him that behind his back calumny would thrive unchecked, would grow in a day to proportions altogether irresistible. She succeeded in restoring his courage, though at the same time there revived in Mutimer the savage spirit which could only result in harm to himself.
‘This is how they repay a man who works for them!’ he cried repeatedly. ‘The ungrateful brutes! Let me once clear myself, and I’ll throw it up, bid them find someone else to fight their battles for them. It’s always been the same: history shows it What have I got for myself out of it all, I’d like to know? Haven’t I given them every penny I had? Let them do their worst! Let them bark and bray till they are hoarse!’
He would have kept away from Clerkenwell that evening, but even this Adela would not let him do. She insisted that he must be seen and heard, that the force of innocence would prevail even with his enemies. The couple of hours he passed with her were spent in ceaseless encouragement on her side, in violent tirades on his. He paced the room like a caged lion, at one moment execrating Rodman, the next railing against the mob to whose interests he had devoted himself. Now and then his voice softened, and he spoke of Alice.
‘The scoundrel set even her against me! If she lives, perhaps she’ll believe I’m guilty; how can my word stand against her husband’s? Why, he isn’t her husband at all! It’s a good thing if she dies—the best thing that could happen. What will become of her? What are we to call her? She’s neither married nor single. Can we keep it from her, do you think? No, that won’t do; she must be free to marry an honest man. You’ll try and make friends with her, Adela—if ever you’ve the chance? She’ll have to live with us, of course unless she’d rather live with mother. We mustn’t tell her for a long time, till she’s strong enough to bear it.’
He with difficulty ate a few mouthfuls and went off to Clerkenwell. In the erstwhile dancing-saloon it was a night of tempest. Mutimer had never before addressed an unfriendly audience. After the first few interruptions he lost his temper, and with it his cause, as far as these present hearers were concerned. When he left them, it was amid the mutterings of a storm which was not quite—only not quite—ready to burst in fury.
‘Who knows you won’t take yer ‘ook before to-morrow?’ cried a voice as he neared the door.
‘Wait and see!’ Mutimer shouted in reply, with a savage laugh. ‘I’ve a word or two to say yet to blackguards like you.’
He could count on some twenty pairs of fists in the room, if it came to that point; but he was allowed to depart unmolested.
On the way home he called at the hospital. There was no change in Alice’s condition.
The next day he remained at home till it was time to start for Clerkenwell Green. He was all but worn out, and there was nothing of any use to be done before the meeting assembled. Adela went for him to the hospital and brought back still the same report. He ate fairly well of his midday dinner, seeming somewhat calmer. Adela, foreseeing his main danger, begged him to address the people without anger, assured him that a dignified self-possession would go much farther than any amount of blustering. He was induced to promise that he would follow her advice.
He purposed walking to the Green; the exercise would perhaps keep his nerves in order. When it was time to start, he took Adela’s hand, and for a second time kissed it. She made an effort over herself and held her lips to him. The ‘good-bye’ was exchanged, with a word of strengthening from Adela; but still he did not go. He was endeavouring to speak.
‘I don’t think I’ve thanked you half enough,’ he said at length, ‘for what you did on Friday night.’
‘Yes, more than enough,’ was the reply.
‘You make little of it, but it’s a thing very few women would have done. And it was hard for you, because you’re a lady.’
‘No less a woman,’ murmured Adela, her head bowed.
‘And a good woman—I believe with all my heart. I want to ask you to forgive me—for things I once said to you. I was a brute. Perhaps if I had been brought up in the same kind of way that you were—that’s the difference between us, you see. But try if you can to forget it. I’ll never think anything but good of you as long as I live.’
She could not reply, for a great sob was choking her. She pressed his band; the tears broke from her eyes as she turned away.
It being Sunday afternoon, visitors were admitted to the hospital in which Alice lay. Mutimer had allowed himself time to pass five minutes by his sister’s bedside on the way to Clerkenwell. Alice was still unconscious; she lay motionless, but her lips muttered unintelligible words. He bent over her and spoke, but she did not regard him. It was perhaps the keenest pain Mutimer had ever known to look into those eyes and meet no answering intelligence. By close listening he believed he heard her utter the name of her husband. It was useless to stay; he kissed her and left the ward.
On his arrival at Clerkenwell Green—a large triangular space which merits the name of Green as much as the Strand—he found a considerable gathering already assembled about the cart from which he was to speak. The inner circle consisted of his friends—some fifty who remained staunch in their faith. Prominent among them was the man Redgrave, he who had presented the address when Mutimer took leave of his New Wanley workpeople. He had come to London at the same time as his leader, and had done much to recommend Mutimer’s scheme in the East End. His muscular height made those about him look puny. He was red in the face with the excitement of abusing Mutimer’s enemies, and looked as if nothing would please him better than to second words with arguments more cogent. He and those about him hailed the agitator’s appearance with three ringing cheers. A little later came a supporter whom Richard had not expected to see—Mr. Westlake. Only this morning intelligence of what was going on had reached his ears. At once he had scouted the accusations as incredible; he deemed it a duty to present himself on Mutimer’s side. Outside this small cluster was an indefinable mob, a portion of it bitterly hostile, a part indifferent; among the latter a large element of mere drifting blackguardism, the raff of a city, anticipating with pleasure an uproar which would give them unwonted opportunities of violence and pillage. These gentle men would with equal zeal declare for Mutimer or his opponents, as the fortune of the day directed them.
The core of the hostile party consisted of those who followed the banner of Comrade Roodhouse, the ralliers to the ‘Tocsin.’ For them it was a great occasion. The previous evening had seen a clamorous assembly in the room behind the Hoxton coffee-shop. Comrade Roodhouse professed to have full details of the scandal which had just come to light. According to him, there was no doubt whatever that Mutimer had known from the first the character of the bogus Company, and had wittingly used the money of the East-Enders to aid in floating a concern which would benefit himself and a few others. Roodhouse disclosed the identity of Mr. Robert Delancey, and explained the relations existing between Rodman and Mutimer, ignoring the fact that a lawsuit had of late turned their friendship to mutual animosity. It was an opportunity not to be missed for paying back the hard things Mutimer had constantly said of the ‘Tocsin’ party. Comrade Roodhouse was busy in the crowd, sowing calumnies and fermenting wrath. In the crowd were our old acquaintances Messrs. Cowes and Cullen, each haranguing as many as could be got to form a circle and listen, indulging themselves in measureless vituperation, crying shame on traitors to the noble cause. Here, too, was Daniel Dabbs, mainly interested in the occasion as an admirable provocative of thirst. He was much disposed to believe Mutimer guilty, but understood that it was none of his business to openly take part with either side. He stood well on the limits of the throng; it was not impossible that the debate might end in the cracking of crowns, in which case Mr. Dabbs, as a respectable licensed victualler whose weekly profits had long since made him smile at the follies of his youth, would certainly incur no needless risk to his own valuable scalp.
The throng thickened; it was impossible that the speakers should be audible to the whole assembly. Hastily it was decided to arrange two centres. Whilst Mutimer was speaking at the lower end of the Green, Redgrave would lift up his voice in the opposite part, and make it understood that Mutimer would repeat his address there as soon as he had satisfied the hearers below. The meeting was announced for three o’clock, but it was half an hour later before Mutimer stood up on the cart and extended his hand in appeal for silence. It at first seemed as if he could not succeed in making his voice heard at all. A cluster of Roodhouse’s followers, under the pretence of demanding quiet, made incessant tumult. But ultimately the majority, those who were merely curious, and such of the angry East-Enders as really wanted to hear what Mutimer had to say for himself, imposed silence. Richard began his speech.