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Demos: A Story of English Socialism

<h2> CHAPTER VIII </h2> Adela reached the house door at the very moment that Mutimer’s trap drove up. She had run nearly all the way down the hill, and her soberer pace during the last ten minutes had not quite reduced the flush in her cheeks. Mutimer raised his hat with much aplomb before he had pulled up his horse, and his look stayed on her whilst Alfred Waltham was descending and taking leave. ‘I was lucky enough to overtake your brother in Agworth,’ he said. ‘Ah, you have deprived him of what he calls his constitutional,’ laughed Adela. ‘Have I? Well, it isn’t often I’m here over Saturday, so he can generally feel safe.’ The hat was again aired, and Richard drove away to the Wheatsheaf Inn, where he kept his horse at present. Brother and sister went together into the parlour, where Mrs. Waltham immediately joined them, having descended from an upper room. ‘So Mr. Mutimer drove you home!’ she exclaimed, with the interest which provincial ladies, lacking scope for their energies, will display in very small incidents. ‘Yes. By the way, I’ve asked him to come and have dinner with us to-morrow. He hadn’t any special reason for going to town, and was uncertain whether to do so or not, so I thought I might as well have him here.’ Mr. Alfred always spoke in a somewhat emphatic first person singular when domestic arrangements were under, discussion; occasionally the habit led to a passing unpleasantness of tone between himself and Mrs. Waltham. In the present instance, however, nothing of the kind was to be feared; his mother smiled very graciously. ‘I’m glad you thought of it,’ she said. ‘It would have been very lonely for him in his lodgings.’ Neither of the two happened to be regarding Adela, or they would have seen a look of dismay flit across her countenance and pass into one of annoyance. When the talk had gone on for a few minutes Adela interposed a question. ‘Will Mr. Mutimer stay for tea also, do you think, Alfred?’ ‘Oh, of course; why shouldn’t he?’ It is the country habit; Adela might have known what answer she would receive. She got out of the difficulty by means of a little disingenuousness. ‘He won’t want us to talk about Socialism all the time, will he?’ ‘Of course not, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Waltham. ‘Why, it will be Sunday.’ 4 Alfred shouted in mirthful scorn. ‘Well, that’s one of the finest things I’ve heard for a long time, mother! It’ll be Sunday, and therefore we are not to talk about improving the lot of the human race. Ye gods!’ Mrs. Waltham was puzzled for an instant, but the Puritan assurance did not fail her. ‘Yes, but that is only improvement of their bodies, Alfred—food and clothing. The six days are for that you know.’ ‘Mother, mother, you will kill me! You are so uncommonly funny! I wonder your friends haven’t long ago found some way of doing without bodies altogether. Now, I pray you, do not talk nonsense. Surely that is forbidden on the Sabbath, if only the Jewish one.’ ‘Mother is quite right, Alfred,’ remarked Adela, with quiet affimativeness, as soon as her voice could be heard. ‘Your Socialism is earthly; we have to think of other things besides bodily comforts.’ ‘Who said we hadn’t?’ cried her brother. ‘But I take leave to inform you that you won’t get much spiritual excellence out of a man who lives a harder life than the nigger-slaves. If you women could only put aside your theories and look a little at obstinate facts! You’re all of a piece. Which of you was it that talked the other day about getting the vicar to pray for rain? Ho, ho, ho! Just the same kind of thing.’ Alfred’s combativeness had grown markedly since his making acquaintance with Mutimer. He had never excelled in the suaver virtues, and now the whole of the time he spent at home was devoted to vociferous railing at capitalists, priests, and women, his mother and sister serving for illustrations of the vices prevalent in the last-mentioned class. In talking he always paced the room, hands in pockets, and at times fairly stammered in his endeavour to hit upon sufficiently trenchant epithets or comparisons. When reasoning failed with his auditors, he had recourse to volleys of contemptuous laughter. At times he lost his temper, muttered words such as ‘fools!’—‘idiots!’ and flung out into the open air. It looked as if the present evening was to be a stormy one. Adela noted the presage and allowed herself a protest in limine. ‘Alfred, I do hope you won’t go on in this way whilst Letty is here. You mayn’t think it, but you pain her very much.’ ‘Pain her! It’s her education. She’s had none yet, no more than you have. It’s time you both began to learn.’ It being close upon the hour for tea, the young lady of whom there was question was heard to ring the door-bell. We have already had a passing glimpse of her, but since then she has been honoured by becoming Alfred’s affianced. Letty Tew fulfilled all the conditions desirable in one called to so trying a destiny. She was a pretty, supple, sweet-mannered girl, and, as is the case with such girls, found it possible to worship a man whom in consistency she must have deemed the most condemnable of heretics. She and Adela were close friends; Adela indeed, had no other friend in the nearer sense. The two were made of very different fibre, but that had not as yet distinctly shown. Adela’s reproof was not wholly without effect; her brother got through the evening without proceeding to his extremest truculence, still the conversation was entirely of his leading, consequently not a little argumentative. He had brought home, as he always did on Saturday, a batch of ultra periodicals, among them the ‘Fiery Cross,’ and his own eloquence was supplemented by the reading of excerpts from these lively columns. It was a combat of three to one, but the majority did little beyond throwing up hands at anything particularly outrageous. Adela said much less than usual. ‘I tell you what it is, you three!’ Alfred cried, at a certain climax of enthusiasm, addressing the ladies with characteristic courtesy, ‘we’ll found a branch of the Union in Wanley; I mean, in our particular circle of thickheads. Then, as soon as Mutimer’s settlement gets going, we can coalesce. Now you two girls give next week to going round and soliciting subscriptions for the “Fiery Cross.” People have had time to get over the first scare, and you know they can’t refuse such as you. Quarterly, one-and-eightpence, including postage.’ ‘But, my dear Alfred,’ cried Adela, ‘remember that Letty and I are not Socialists!’ ‘Letty is, because I expect it of her, and you can’t refuse to keep her in countenance.’ The girls laughed merrily at this anticipated lordship; but Letty said presently— ‘I believe father will take the paper if I ask him. One is better than nothing, isn’t it, Alfred?’ ‘Good. We book Stephen Tew, Esquire.’ ‘But surely you mustn’t call him Esquire?’ suggested Adela. ‘Oh, he is yet unregenerate; let him keep his baubles.’ ‘How are the regenerate designated?’ ‘Comrade, we prefer.’ ‘Also applied to women?’ ‘Well, I suppose not. As the word hasn’t a feminine, call yourselves plain Letty Tew and Adela Waltham, without meaningless prefix.’ ‘What nonsense you are talking, Alfred!’ remarked his mother. ‘As if everybody in Wanley could address young ladies by their Christian names!’ In this way did Alfred begin the ‘propaganda’ at home. Already the village was much occupied with the vague new doctrines represented by the name of Richard Mutimer; the parlour of the Wheatsheaf was loud of evenings with extraordinary debate, and gossips of a higher station had at length found a topic which promised to be inexhaustible. Of course the vicar was eagerly sounded as to his views. Mr. Wyvern preserved an attitude of scrupulous neutrality, contenting himself with correction of palpable absurdities in the stories going about. ‘But surely you are not a Socialist, Mr. Wyvern?’ cried Mrs. Mewling, after doing her best to pump the reverend gentleman, and discovering nothing. ‘I am a Christian, madam,’ was the reply, ‘and have nothing to do with economic doctrines.’ Mrs. Mewling spread the phrase ‘economic doctrines,’ shaking her head upon the adjective, which was interpreted by her hearers as condemnatory in significance. The half-dozen shopkeepers were disposed to secret jubilation; it was probable that, in consequence of the doings in the valley, trade would look up. Mutimer himself was a centre of interest such as Wanley had never known. When he walked down the street the news that he was visible seemed to spread like wildfire; every house had its gazers. Excepting the case of the Walthams, he had not as yet sought to make personal acquaintances, appearing rather to avoid opportunities. On the whole it seemed likely that he would be popular. The little group of mothers with marriageable daughters waited eagerly for the day when, by establishing himself at the Manor, he would throw off the present semi-incognito, and become the recognised head of Wanley society. He would discover the necessity of having a lady to share his honours and preside at his table. Persistent inquiry seemed to have settled the fact that he was not married already. To be sure, there were awesome rumours that Socialists repudiated laws divine and human in matrimonial affairs, but the more sanguine were inclined to regard this as calumny, their charity finding a support in their personal ambitions. The interest formerly attaching to the Eldons had altogether vanished. Mrs. Eldon and her son were now mere obstacles to be got rid of as quickly as possible. It was the general opinion that Hubert Eldon’s illness was purposely protracted, to suit his mother’s convenience. Until Mutimer’s arrival there had been much talk about Hubert; whether owing to Dr. Mann’s indiscretion or through the servants at the Manor, it had become known that the young man was suffering from a bullet-wound, and the story circulated by Mrs. Mewling led gossips to suppose that he had been murderously assailed in that land of notorious profligacy known to Wanley as ‘abroad.’ That, however, was now become an old story. Wanley was anxious for the Eldons to go their way, and leave the stage clear. Everyone of course was aware that Mutimer spent his Sundays in London (a circumstance, it was admitted, not altogether reassuring to the ladies with marriageable daughters), and his unwonted appearance in the village on the evening of the present Saturday excited universal comment. Would he appear at church next morning? There was a general directing of eyes to the Manor pew. This pew had not been occupied since the fateful Sunday when, at the conclusion of the morning service, old Mr. Mutimer was discovered to have breathed his last. It was a notable object in the dim little church, having a wooden canopy supported on four slim oak pillars with vermicular moulding. From pillar to pillar hung dark curtains, so that when these were drawn the interior of the pew was entirely protected from observation. Even on the brightest days its occupants were veiled in gloom. To-day the curtains remained drawn as usual, and Richard Mutimer disappointed the congregation. Wanley had obtained assurance on one point—Socialism involved Atheism. Then it came to pass that someone saw Mutimer approach the Walthams’ house just before dinner time; saw him, moreover, ring and enter. A couple of hours, and the ominous event was everywhere being discussed. Well, well, it was not difficult to see what that meant. Trust Mrs. Waltham for shrewd generalship. Adela Waltham had been formerly talked of in connection with young Eldon; but Eldon was now out of the question, and behold his successor, in a double sense! Mrs. Mewling surrendered her Sunday afternoon nap and flew from house to house—of course in time for the dessert wine at each. Her cry was haro! Really, this was sharp practice on Mrs. Waltham’s part; it was stealing a march before the commencement of the game. Did there not exist a tacit understanding that movements were postponed until Mutimer’s occupation of the Manor? Adela was a very nice young girl, to be sure, a very nice girl indeed, but one must confess that she had her eyes open. Would it not be well for united Wanley to let her know its opinion of such doings? In the meantime Richard was enjoying himself, with as little thought of the Wanley gossips as of—shall we say, the old curtained pew in Wanley Church? He was perfectly aware that the Walthams did not represent the highest gentility, that there was a considerable interval, for example, between Mrs. Waltham and Mrs. Westlake; but the fact remained that he had never yet been on intimate terms with a family so refined. Radical revolutionist though he was, he had none of the grossness or obstinacy which would have denied to the bourgeois household any advantage over those of his own class. At dinner he found himself behaving circumspectly. He knew already that the cultivated taste objects to the use of a table-knife save for purposes of cutting; on the whole he saw grounds for the objection. He knew, moreover, that manducation and the absorption of fluids must be performed without audible gusto; the knowledge cost him some self-criticism. But there were numerous minor points of convention on which he was not so clear; it had never occurred to him, for instance, that civilisation demands the breaking of bread, that, in the absence of silver, a fork must suffice for the dissection of fish, that a napkin is a graceful auxiliary in the process of a meal and not rather an embarrassing superfluity of furtive application. Like a wise man, he did not talk much during dinner, devoting his mind to observation. Of one thing he speedily became aware, namely, that Mr. Alfred Waltham was so very much in his own house that it was not wholly safe to regard his demeanour as exemplary. Another point well certified was that if any person in the world could be pointed to as an unassailable pattern of comely behaviour that person was Mr. Alfred Waltham’s sister. Richard observed Adela as closely as good manners would allow. Talking little as yet—the young man at the head of the table gave others every facility for silence—Richard could occupy his thought in many directions. Among other things, he instituted a comparison between the young lady who sat opposite to him and someone—not a young lady, it is true, but of the same sex and about the same age. He tried to imagine Emma Vine seated at this table; the effort resulted in a disagreeable warmth in the lobes of his ears. Yes, but—he attacked himself—not Emma Vine dressed as he was accustomed to see her; suppose her possessed of all Adela Waltham’s exterior advantages. As his imagination was working on the hint, Adela herself addressed a question to him. He looked up, he let her voice repeat itself in inward echo. His ears were still more disagreeably warm. It was a lovely day—warm enough to dine with the windows open. The faintest air seemed to waft sunlight from corner to corner of the room; numberless birds sang on the near boughs and hedges; the flowers on the table were like a careless gift of gold-hearted prodigal summer. Richard transferred himself in spirit to a certain square on the borders of Hoxton and Islington, within scent of the Regent’s Canal. The house there was now inhabited by Emma and her sisters; they also would be at dinner. Suppose he had the choice: there or here? Adela addressed to him another question. The square vanished into space. How often he had spoken scornfully of that word ‘lady’! Were not all of the sex women? What need for that hateful distinction? Richard tried another experiment with his imagination. ‘I had dinner with some people called Waltham last Sunday. The old woman I didn’t much care about; but there was a young woman—’ Well, why not? On the other hand, suppose Emma Vine called at his lodgings. ‘A young woman called this morning, sir—’ Well, why not? Dessert was on the table. He saw Adela’s fingers take an orange, her other hand holding a little fruit-knife. Now, who could have imagined that the simple paring of an orange could be achieved at once with such consummate grace and so naturally? In Richard’s country they first bite off a fraction of the skin, then dig away with what of finger-nail may be available. He knew someone who would assuredly proceed in that way. Metamorphosis! Richard Mutimer speculates on asthetic problems. ‘You, gentlemen, I dare say will be wicked enough to smoke,’ remarked Mrs. Waltham, as she rose from the table. ‘I tell you what we shall be wicked enough to do, mother,’ exclaimed Alfred. ‘We shall have two cups of coffee brought out into the garden, and spare your furniture!’ ‘Very well, my son. Your two cups evidently mean that Adela and I are not invited to the garden.’ ‘Nothing of the kind. But I know you always go to sleep, and Adela doesn’t like tobacco smoke.’ ‘I go to sleep, Alfred! You know very well that I have a very different occupation for my Sunday afternoons.’ ‘I really don’t care anything about smoking,’ observed Mutimer, with a glance at Adela. ‘Oh, you certainly shall not deprive yourself on my account, Mr. Mutimer,’ said the girl, good-naturedly. ‘I hope soon to come out into the garden, and I am not at all sure that my objection to tobacco is serious.’ Ah, if Mrs. Mewling could have heard that speech! Mrs. Mewling’s age was something less than fifty; probably she had had time to forget how a young girl such as Adela speaks in pure frankness and never looks back to muse over a double meaning. It was nearly three o’clock. Adela compared her watch with the sitting-room clock, and, the gentlemen having retired, moved about the room with a look of uneasiness. Her mother stood at the window, seemingly regarding the sky, in reality occupying her thoughts with things much nearer. She turned and found Adela looking at her. ‘I want just to run over and speak to Letty,’ Adela said. ‘I shall very soon be back.’ ‘Very well, dear,’ replied her mother, scanning her face absently. ‘But don’t let them keep you.’ Adela quickly fetched her hat and left the house. It was her habit to walk at a good pace, always with the same airy movement, as though her feet only in appearance pressed the ground. On the way she again consulted her watch, and it caused her to flit still faster. Arrived at the abode of the Tews, she fortunately found Letty in the garden, sitting with two younger sisters, one a child of five years. Miss Tew was reading aloud to them, her book being ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ At the sight of Adela the youngest of the three slipped down from her seat and ran to meet her with laughter and shaking of curls. ‘Carry me round! carry me round!’ cried the little one. For it was Adela’s habit to snatch up the flaxen little maiden, seat her upon her shoulder, and trot merrily round a circular path in the garden. But the sister next in age, whose thirteenth year had developed deep convictions, interposed sharply— ‘Eva, don’t be naughty! Isn’t it Sunday?’ The little one, saved on the very brink of iniquity, turned away in confusion and stood with a finger in her mouth. ‘I’ll come and carry you round to-morrow, Eva,’ said the visitor, stooping to kiss the reluctant face. Then, turning to the admonitress, ‘Jessie, will you read a little? I want just to speak to Letty.’ Miss Jessie took the volume, made her countenance yet sterner, and, having drawn Eva to her side, began to read in measured tones, reproducing as well as she could the enunciation of the pulpit. Adela beckoned to her friend, and the two walked apart. ‘I’m in such a fix,’ she began, speaking hurriedly, ‘and there isn’t a minute to lose. Mr. Mutimer has been having dinner with us; Alfred invited him. And I expect Mr. Eldon to come about four o’clock. I met him yesterday on the Hill; he came up just as I was looking out for Alfred with the glass, and I asked him if he wouldn’t come and say good-bye to mother this afternoon. Of course I’d no idea that Mr. Mutimer would come to dinner; he always goes away for Sunday. Isn’t it dreadfully awkward?’ ‘You think he wouldn’t like to meet Mr. Mutimer?’ asked Letty, savouring the gravity of the situation. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t. He spoke about him yesterday. Of course he didn’t say anything against Mr. Mutimer, but I could tell from his way of speaking. And then it’s quite natural, isn’t it? I’m really afraid. He’ll think it so unkind of me. I told him we should be alone, and I shan’t be able to explain. Isn’t it tiresome?’ ‘It is, really! But of course Mr. Eldon will understand. To think that it should happen just this day!’ An idea flashed across Miss Tew’s mind. ‘Couldn’t you be at the door when he comes, and just—just say, you know, that you’re sorry, that you knew nothing about Mr. Mutimer coming?’ ‘I’ve thought of something else,’ returned Adela, lowering her voice, as if to impart a project of doubtful propriety. ‘Suppose I walk towards the Manor and—and meet him on the way, before he gets very far? Then I could save him the annoyance, couldn’t I, dear?’ Letty widened her eyes. The idea was splendid, but— ‘You don’t think, dear, that it might be a little—that you might find it—?’ Adela reddened. ‘It is only a piece of kindness. Mr. Eldon will understand, I’m sure. He asked me so particularly if we should be alone. I really feel it a duty. Don’t you think I may go? I must decide at once.’ Letty hesitated. ‘If you really advise me not to—’ pursued Adela. ‘But I’m sure I shall be glad when it’s done.’ ‘Then go, dear. Yes, I would go if I were you.’ Adela now faltered. ‘You really would go, in my place?’ ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure I should. You see, it isn’t as if it was Mr. Mutimer you were going to meet.’ ‘Oh, no, no That would be impossible.’ ‘He will be very grateful,’ murmured Letty, without looking up. ‘If I go, it must be at once.’ ‘Your mother doesn’t know he was coming?’ ‘No. I don’t know why I haven’t told her, really. I suppose we were talking so much of other things last night. And then I only got home just as Alfred did, and he said at once that he had invited Mr. Mutimer. Yes, I will go. Perhaps I’ll come and see you again after church.’ Letty went back to ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ Her sister Jessie enjoyed the sound of her own voice, and did not offer to surrender the book, so she sat by little Eva’s side and resumed her Sunday face. Adela took the road for the Manor, resisting the impulse to cast glances on either side as she passed the houses at the end of the village. She felt it to be more than likely that eyes were observing her, as it was an unusual time for her to be abroad, and the direction of her walk pointed unmistakably to one destination. But she made no account of secrecy; her errand was perfectly simple and with an object that no one could censure. If people tattled, they alone were to blame. For the first time she experienced a little resentment of the public criticism which was so rife in Wanley, and the experience was useful—one of those inappreciable aids to independence which act by cumulative stress on a character capable of development and softly mould its outlines. She passed the church, then the vicarage, and entered the hedgeway which by a long curve led to the Manor. She was slackening her pace, not wishing to approach too near to the house, when she at length saw Hubert Eldon walking towards her. He advanced with a look which was not exactly indifferent yet showed no surprise; the smile only came to his face when he was near enough to speak. ‘I have come to meet you,’ Adela began, with frankness which cost her a little agitation of breath. ‘I am so very sorry to have misled you yesterday. As soon as I reached home, I found that my brother had invited Mr. Mutimer for to-day. I thought it would be best if I came and told you that—that we were not quite alone, as I said we should be.’ As she spoke Adela became distressed by perceiving, or seeming to perceive, that the cause which had led her to this step was quite inadequate. Of course it was the result of her having to forbear mention of the real point at issue; she could not say that she feared it might be disagreeable to her hearer to meet Mutimer. But, put in the other way, her pretext for coming appeared trivial. Only with an extreme effort she preserved her even tone to the end of her speech. ‘It is very kind of you,’ Hubert replied almost warmly. ‘I’m very sorry you have had the trouble.’ As she disclaimed thanks, Eldon’s tact discovered the way of safety. Facing her with a quiet openness of look, he said, in a tone of pleasant directness which Adela had often felt to be peculiarly his own— ‘I shall best thank you by admitting that I should have found it very unpleasant to meet Mr. Mutimer. You felt that, and hence your kindness. At the same time, no doubt, you pity me for my littleness.’ ‘I think it perfectly natural that such a meeting should be disagreeable. I believe I understand your feeling. Indeed, you explained it to me yesterday.’ ‘I explained it?’ ‘In what you said about the works in the valley.’ ‘True. Many people would have interpreted me less liberally.’ Adela’s eyes brightened a little. But when she raised them, they fell upon something which disturbed her cheerfulness. This was the face of Mrs. Mewling, who had come up from the direction of Wanley and was clearly about to pay a visit at the Manor. The lady smiled and murmured a greeting as she passed by. ‘I suppose Mrs. Mewling is going to see my mother,’ said Hubert, who also had lost a little of his naturalness. A few more words and they again parted. Nothing further was said of the postponed visit. Adela hastened homewards, dreading lest she had made a great mistake, yet glad that she had ventured to come. Her mother was just going out into the garden, where Alfred’s voice sounded frequently in laughter or denunciation. Adela would have been glad to sit alone for a short time, for Mrs. Waltham seemed to wish for her company She had only time to glance at herself in her looking-glass and just press a palm against each cheek. Alfred was puffing clouds from his briar pipe, but Mutimer had ceased smoking. Near the latter was a vacant seat; Adela took it, as there was no other. ‘What a good thing the day of rest is!’ exclaimed Mrs. Waltham. ‘I always feel thankful when I think of the poor men who toil so all through the week in Belwick, and how they must enjoy their Sunday. You surely wouldn’t make any change in that, Mr. Mutimer?’ ‘The change I should like to see would be in the other direction,’ Richard replied. ‘I would have holidays far more frequent. In the towns you can scarcely call Sunday a holiday. There’s nothing to do but to walk about the streets. On the whole it does far more harm than good.’ ‘Do they never go to church?’ asked Adela. She was experiencing a sort of irritation against their guest, a feeling traceable to more than one source; Mutimer’s frequent glances did not tend to soothe it. She asked the question rather in a spirit of adverse criticism. ‘The working people don’t,’ was the reply, ‘except a Dissenting family here and there.’ ‘Perhaps that is one explanation of the Sundays being useless to them.’ Adela would scarcely have ventured upon such a tone in reference to any secular matter; the subject being religion, she was of course justified in expressing herself freely. Mutimer smiled and held back his rejoinder for a moment. By that time Alfred had taken his pipe from his lips and was giving utterance to unmeasured scorn. ‘But, Mr. Mutimer,’ said Mrs. Waltham, waving aside her son’s vehemence, ‘you don’t seriously tell us that the working people have no religion? Surely that would be too shocking!’ ‘Yes, I say it seriously, Mrs. Waltham. In the ordinary sense of the word, they have no religion. The truth is, they have no time to think of it.’ ‘Oh, but surely it needs no thought—’ Alfred exploded. ‘I mean,’ pursued his mother, ‘that, however busy we are, there must always be intervals to be spared from the world.’ Mutimer again delayed his reply. A look which he cast at Adela appeared to move her to speech. ‘Have they not their evenings free, as well as every Sunday?’ ‘Happily, Miss Waltham, you can’t realise their lives,’ Richard began. He was not smiling now; Adela’s tone had struck him like a challenge, and he collected himself to meet her. ‘The man who lives on wages is never free; he sells himself body and soul to his employer. What sort of freedom does a man enjoy who may any day find himself and his family on the point of starvation just because he has lost his work? All his life long he has before his mind the fear of want—not only of straitened means, mind you, but of destitution and the workhouse. How can such a man put aside his common cares? Religion is a luxury; the working man has no luxuries. Now, you speak of the free evenings; people always do, when they’re asking why the working classes don’t educate themselves. Do you understand what that free evening means? He gets home, say, at six o’clock, tired out; he has to be up again perhaps at five next morning. What can he do but just lie about half asleep? Why, that’s the whole principle of the capitalist system of employment; it’s calculated exactly how long a man can be made to work in a day without making him incapable of beginning again on the day following—just as it’s calculated exactly how little a man can live upon, in the regulation of wages. If the workman returned home with strength to spare, employers would soon find it out, and workshop legislation would be revised—because of course it’s the capitalists that make the laws. The principle is that a man shall have no strength left for himself; it’s all paid for, every scrap of it, bought with the wages at each week end. What religion can such men have? Religion, I suppose, means thankfulness for life and its pleasures—at all events, that’s a great part of it—and what has a wage-earner to be thankful for?’ ‘It sounds very shocking,’ observed Mrs. Waltham, somewhat disturbed by the speaker’s growing earnestness. Richard paid no attention and continued to address Adela. ‘I dare say you’ve heard of the early trains—workmen’s trains—that they run on the London railways. If only you could travel once by one of those! Between station and station there’s scarcely a man or boy in the carriage who can keep awake; there they sit, leaning over against each other, their heads dropping forward, their eyelids that heavy they can’t hold them up. I tell you it’s one of the most miserable sights to be seen in this world. If you saw it, Miss Waltham, you’d pity them, I’m very sure of that! You only need to know what their life means. People who have never known hardship often speak more cruelly than they think, and of course it always will be so as long as the rich and the poor are two different races, as much apart as if there was an ocean between them.’ Adela’s cheeks were warm. It was a novel sensation to be rebuked in this unconventional way. She was feeling a touch of shame as well as the slight resentment which was partly her class-instinct, partly of her sex. ‘I feel that I have no right to give any opinion,’ she said in an undertone. ‘Meaning, Adela,’ commented her brother, ‘that you have a very strong opinion and stick to it.’ ‘One thing I dare say you are thinking, Miss Waltham,’ Richard pursued, ‘if you’ll allow me to say it. You think that I myself don’t exactly prove what I’ve been saying—I mean to say, that I at all events have had free time, not only to read and reflect, but to give lectures and so on. Yes, and I’ll explain that. It was my good fortune to have a father and mother who were very careful and hard-working and thoughtful people; I and my sister and brother were brought up in an orderly home, and taught from the first that ceaseless labour and strict economy were the things always to be kept in mind. All that was just fortunate chance; I’m not praising myself in saying I’ve been able to get more into my time than most other working men; it’s my father and mother I have to thank for it. Suppose they’d been as ignorant and careless as most of their class are made by the hard lot they have to endure; why, I should have followed them, that’s all. We’ve never had to go without a meal, and why? Just because we’ve all of us worked like slaves and never allowed ourselves to think of rest or enjoyment. When my father died, of course we had to be more careful than ever; but there were three of us to earn money, fortunately, and we kept up the home. We put our money by for the club every week, what’s more.’ ‘The club?’ queried Miss Waltham, to whom the word suggested Pall Mall and vague glories which dwelt in her imagination. ‘That’s to make provision for times when we’re ill or can’t get work,’ Mutimer explained. ‘If a wage-earner falls ill, what has he to look to? The capitalist won’t trouble himself to keep him alive; there’s plenty to take his place. Well, that’s my position, or was a few months ago. I don’t suppose any workman has had more advantages. Take it as an example of the most we can hope for, and pray say what it amounts to! Just on the right side, just keeping afloat, just screwing out an hour here and there to work your brain when you ought to be taking wholesome recreation! That’s nothing very grand, it seems to me. Yet people will point to it and ask what there is to grumble at!’ Adela sat uneasily under Mutimer’s gaze; she kept her eyes down. ‘And I’m not sure that I should always have got on as easily,’ the speaker continued. ‘Only a day or two before I heard of my relative’s death, I’d just been dismissed from my employment; that was because they didn’t like my opinions. Well, I don’t say they hadn’t a right to dismiss me, just as I suppose you’ve a right to kill as many of the enemy as you can in time of war. But suppose I couldn’t have got work anywhere. I had nothing but my hands to depend upon; if I couldn’t sell my muscles I must starve, that’s all.’ Adela looked at him for almost the first time. She had heard this story from her brother, but it came more impressively from Mutimer’s own lips. A sort of heroism was involved in it, the championship of a cause regardless of self. She remained thoughtful with troublous colours on her face. Mrs. Waltham was more obviously uneasy. There are certain things to which in good society one does not refer, first and foremost humiliating antecedents. The present circumstances were exceptional to be sure, but it was to be hoped that Mr. Mutimer would outgrow this habit of advertising his origin. Let him talk of the working-classes if he liked, but always in the third person. The good lady began to reflect whether she might not venture shortly to give him friendly hints on this and similar subjects. But it was nearly tea-time. Mrs. Waltham shortly rose and went into the house, whither Alfred followed her. Mutimer kept his seat, and Adela could not leave him to himself, though for the moment he seemed unconscious of her presence. When they had been alone together for a little while, Richard broke the silence. ‘I hope I didn’t speak rudely to you; Miss Waltham. I don’t think I need fear to say what I mean, but I know there are always two ways of saying things, and perhaps I chose the roughest.’ Adela was conscious of having said a few hard things mentally, and this apology, delivered in a very honest voice, appealed to her instinct of justice. She did not like Mutimer, and consequently strove against the prejudice which the very sound of his voice aroused in her; it was her nature to aim thus at equity in her personal judgments. ‘To describe hard things we must use hard words,’ she replied pleasantly, ‘but you said nothing that could offend.’ ‘I fear you haven’t much sympathy with my way of looking at the question. I seem to you to be going to work the wrong way.’ ‘I certainly think you value too little the means of happiness that we all have within our reach, rich and poor alike.’ ‘Ah, if you could only see into the life of the poor, you would acknowledge that those means are and can be nothing to them. Besides, my way of thinking in such things is the same as your brother’s, and I can’t expect you to see any good in it.’ Adela shook her head slightly. She had risen and was examining the leaves upon an apple branch which she had drawn down. ‘But I’m sure you feel that there is need for doing something,’ he urged, quitting his seat. ‘You’re not indifferent to the hard lives of the people, as most people are who have always lived comfortable lives?’ She let the branch spring up, and spoke more coldly. ‘I hope I am not indifferent; but it is not in my power to do anything.’ ‘Will you let me say that you are mistaken in that?’ Mutimer had never before felt himself constrained to qualify and adorn his phrases; the necessity made him awkward. Not only did he aim at polite modes of speech altogether foreign to his lips, but his own voice sounded strange to him in its forced suppression. He did not as yet succeed in regarding himself from the outside and criticising the influences which had got hold upon him; he was only conscious that a young lady—the very type of young lady that a little while ago he would have held up for scorn—was subduing his nature by her mere presence and exacting homage from him to which she was wholly indifferent. ‘Everyone can give help in such a cause as this. You can work upon the minds of the people you talk with and get them to throw away their prejudices. The cause of the working classes seems so hopeless just because they’re too far away to catch the ears of those who oppress them.’ ‘I do not oppress them, Mr. Mutimer.’ Adela spoke with a touch of impatience. She wished to bring this conversation to an end, and the man would give her no opportunity of doing so. She was not in reality paying attention to his arguments, as was evident in her echo of his last words. ‘Not willingly, but none the less you do so,’ he rejoined. ‘Everyone who lives at ease and without a thought of changing the present state of society is tyrannising over the people. Every article of clothing you put on means a life worn out somewhere in a factory. What would your existence be without the toil of those men and women who live and die in want of every comfort which seems as natural to you as the air you breathe? Don’t you feel that you owe them something? It’s a debt that can very easily be forgotten, I know that, and just because the creditors are too weak to claim it. Think of it in that way, and I’m quite sure you won’t let it slip from your mind again.’ Alfred came towards them, announcing that tea was ready, and Adela gladly moved away. ‘You won’t make any impression there,’ said Alfred with a shrug of good-natured contempt. ‘Argument isn’t understood by women. Now, if you were a revivalist preacher—’ Mrs. Waltham and Adela went to church. Mutimer returned to his lodgings, leaving his friend Waltham smoking in the garden. On the way home after service, Adela had a brief murmured conversation with Letty Tew. Her mother was walking out with Mrs. Mewling. ‘It was evidently pre-arranged,’ said the latter, after recounting certain details in a tone of confidence. ‘I was quite shocked. On his part such conduct is nothing less than disgraceful. Adela, of course, cannot be expected to know.’ ‘I must tell her,’ was the reply. Adela was sitting rather dreamily in her bedroom a couple of hours later when her mother entered. ‘Little girls shouldn’t tell stories,’ Mrs. Waltham began, with playfulness which was not quite natural. ‘Who was it that wanted to go and speak a word to Letty this afternoon?’ ‘It wasn’t altogether a story, mother,’ pleaded the girl, shamed, but with an endeavour to speak independently. ‘I did want to speak to Letty.’ ‘And you put it off, I suppose? Really, Adela, you must remember that a girl of your age has to be mindful of her self-respect. In Wanley you can’t escape notice; besides—’ ‘Let me explain, mother.’ Adela’s voice was made firm by the suggestion that she had behaved unbecomingly. ‘I went to Letty first of all to tell her of a difficulty I was in. Yesterday afternoon I happened to meet Mr. Eldon, and when he was saying good-bye I asked him if he wouldn’t come and see you before he left Wanley. He promised to come this afternoon. At the time of course I didn’t know that Alfred had invited Mr. Mutimer. It would have been so disagreeable for Mr. Eldon to meet him here, I made up my mind to walk towards the Manor and tell Mr. Eldon what had happened.’ ‘Why should Mr. Eldon have found the meeting with Mr. Mutimer disagreeable?’ ‘They don’t like each other.’ ‘I dare say not. Perhaps it was as well Mr. Eldon didn’t come. I should most likely have refused to see him.’ ‘Refused to see him, mother?’ Adela gazed in the utmost astonishment. ‘Yes, my dear. I haven’t spoken to you about Mr. Eldon, just because I took it for granted that he would never come in your way again. That he should have dared to speak to you is something beyond what I could have imagined. When I went to see Mrs. Eldon on Friday I didn’t take you with me, for fear lest that young man should show himself. It was impossible for you to be in the same room with him.’ ‘With Mr. Hubert Eldon? My dearest mother, what are you saying?’ ‘Of course it surprises you, Adela. I too was surprised. I thought there might be no need to speak to you of things you ought never to hear mentioned, but now I am afraid I have no choice. The sad truth is that Mr. Eldon has utterly disgraced himself. When he ought to have been here to attend Mr. Mutimer’s funeral, he was living at Paris and other such places in the most shocking dissipation. Things are reported of him which I could not breathe to you; he is a bad young man!’ The inclusiveness of that description! Mrs. Waltham’s head quivered as she gave utterance to the words, for at least half of the feeling she expressed was genuine. To her hearer the final phrase was like a thunderstroke. In a certain profound work on the history of her country which she had been in the habit of studying, the author, discussing the character of Oliver Cromwell, achieved a most impressive climax in the words, ‘He was a bold, bad man.’ The adjective ‘bad’ derived for Adela a dark energy from her recollection of that passage; it connoted every imaginable phase of moral degradation. ‘Dissipation’ too; to her pure mind the word had a terrible sound; it sketched in lurid outlines hideous lurking places of vice and disease. ‘Paris and other such places.’ With the name of Paris she associated a feeling of reprobation; Paris was the head-quarters of sin—at all events on earth. In Paris people went to the theatre on Sunday; that fact alone shed storm-light over the iniquitous capital. She stood mute with misery, appalled, horrified. It did not occur to her to doubt the truth of her mother’s accusations; the strange circumstance of Hubert’s absence when every sentiment of decency would have summoned him home corroborated the charge. And she had talked familiarly with this man a few hours ago! Her head swam. ‘Mr. Mutimer knew it,’ proceeded her mother, noting with satisfaction the effect she was producing. ‘That was why he destroyed the will in which he had left everything to Mr. Eldon; I have no doubt the grief killed him. And one thing more I may tell you. Mr. Eldon’s illness was the result of a wound he received in some shameful quarrel; it is believed that he fought a duel.’ The girl sank back upon her chair. She was white and breathed with difficulty. ‘You will understand now, my dear,’ Mrs. Waltham continued, more in her ordinary voice, ‘why it so shocked me to hear that you had been seen talking with Mr. Eldon near the Manor. I feared it was an appointment. Your explanation is all I wanted: it relieves me. The worst of it is, other people will hear of it, and of course we can’t explain to everyone.’ ‘Why should people hear?’ Adela exclaimed, in a quivering voice. It was not that she feared to have the story known, but mingled feelings made her almost passionate. ‘Mrs. Mewling has no right to go about talking of me. It is very ill-bred, to say nothing of the unkindness.’ ‘Ah, but it is what we have to be prepared for, Adela. That is the world, my child. You see how very careful one has to be. But never mind; it is most fortunate that the Eldons are going. I am so sorry for poor Mrs. Eldon; who could have thought that her son would turn out so badly! And to think that he would have dared to come into my house! At least he had the decency not to show himself at church.’ Adela sat silent. The warring of her heart made outward sounds indistinct. ‘After all,’ pursued her mother, as if making a great concession, ‘I fear it is only too true that those old families become degenerate. One does hear such shocking stories of the aristocracy. But get to bed, dear, and don’t let this trouble you. What a very good thing that all that wealth didn’t go into such hands, isn’t it? Mr. Mutimer will at all events use it in a decent way; it won’t be scattered in vulgar dissipation.—Now kiss me, dear. I haven’t been scolding you, pet; it was only that I felt I had perhaps made a mistake in not telling you these things before, and I blamed myself rather than you.’ Mrs. Waltham returned to her own room, and after a brief turning over of speculations and projects begotten of the new aspect of things, found her reward for conscientiousness in peaceful slumber. But Adela was late in falling asleep. She, too, had many things to revolve, not worldly calculations, but the troubled phantasies of a virgin mind which is experiencing its first shock against the barriers of fate. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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