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Demos: A Story of English Socialism

<h2> CHAPTER XXXII </h2> Mr. Willis Rodman scarcely relished the process which deprived him of his town house and of the greater part of his means, but his exasperation happily did not seek vent for itself in cruelty to his wife. It might very well have done so, would all but certainly, had not Alice appealed to his sense of humour by her zeal in espousing his cause against her brother. That he could turn her round his finger was an old experience, but to see her spring so actively to arms on his behalf, when he was conscious that she had every excuse for detesting him, and even abandoning him, struck him as a highly comical instance of his power over women, a power on which he had always prided himself. He could not even explain it as self-interest in her; numberless things proved the contrary. Alice was still his slave, though he had not given himself the slightest trouble to preserve even her respect. He had shown himself to her freely as he was, jocosely cynical on everything that women prize, brutal when he chose to give way to his temper, faithless on principle, selfish to the core; perhaps the secret of the fascination he exercised over her was his very ingenuousness, his boldness in defying fortune, his clever grasp of circumstances. She said to him one day, when he had been telling her that as likely as not she might have to take in washing or set up a sewing-machine: ‘I am not afraid. You can always get money. There’s nothing you can’t do.’ He laughed. ‘That may be true. But how if I disappear some day and leave you to take care of yourself?’ He had often threatened this in his genial way, and it never failed to blanch her cheeks. ‘If you do that,’ she said, ‘I shall kill myself.’ At which he laughed yet more loudly. In her house at Wimbledon she perished of ennui, for she was as lonely as Adela in Holloway. Much lonelier; she had no resources in herself. Rodman was away all day in London, and very often he did not return at night; when the latter was the case, Alice cried miserably in her bed for hours, so that the next morning her face was like that of a wax doll that has suffered ill-usage. She had an endless supply of novels, and day after day bent over them till her head ached. Poor Princess! She had had her own romance, in its way brilliant and strange enough, but only the rags of it were left. She clung to them, she hoped against hope that they would yet recover their gloss and shimmer. If only he would not so neglect her! All else affected her but little now that she really knew what it meant to see her husband utterly careless, not to be held by any pettings or entreaties. She heard through him of her brother ‘Arry’s disgrace; it scarcely touched her. Her brother Richard she was never tired of railing against, railed so much, indeed, that it showed she by no means hated him as much as she declared. But nothing would have mattered if only her husband had cared for her. She had once said to Adela that she disliked children and hoped never to have any. It was now her despair that she remained childless. Perhaps that was why he had lost all affection? In the summer Rodman once quitted her for nearly three weeks, during which she only heard from him once. He was in Ireland, and, he asserted, on business. The famous ‘Irish Dairy Company,’ soon to occupy a share of public attention, was getting itself on foot. It was Rodman who promoted the company and who became its secretary, though the name of that functionary in all printed matter appeared as ‘Robert Delancey.’ However, I only mention it for the present to explain our friend’s absence in Ireland. Alice often worked herself up to a pitch of terror lest her husband had fulfilled his threat and really deserted her. He returned when it suited him to do so, and tortured her with a story of a wealthy Irish widow who had fallen desperately in love with him. ‘And I’ve a good mind to marry her,’ he added with an air of serious reflection. Of course I didn’t let her know my real name. I could manage it very nicely, and you would never know anything about it; I should remit you all the money you wanted, you needn’t be afraid.’ Alice tried to assume a face of stony indignation, but as usual she ended by breaking down and shedding tears. Then he told her that she was getting plainer than ever, and that it all came of her perpetual ‘water-works.’ Alice hit upon a brilliant idea. What if she endeavoured to make him jealous? In spite of her entreaties, he never would take her to town, though he saw that she was perishing for lack of amusement. Suppose she made him believe that she had gone on her own account, and at the invitation of someone whose name she would not divulge? I believe she found the trick in one of her novels. The poor child went to work most conscientiously. One morning when he came down to breakfast she pretended to have been reading a letter, crushed an old envelope into her pocket on his entering the room, and affected confusion. He observed her. ‘Had a letter?’ he asked. ‘Yes—no. Nothing of any importance.’ He smiled and applied himself to the ham, then left her in his ordinary way, without a word of courtesy, and went to town. She had asked him particularly when he should be back that night He named the train, which reached Wimbledon a little after ten. They had only one servant. Alice took the girl into her confidence, said she was going to play a trick, and it must not be spoilt. By ten o’clock at night she was dressed for going out, and when she heard her husband’s latch-key at the front door she slipped out at the back. It was her plan to walk about the roads for half an hour, then to enter and—make the best of the situation. Rodman, unable to find his wife, summoned the servant. ‘Where is your mistress?’ ‘Out, sir.’ He examined the girl shrewdly, with his eyes and with words. It was perfectly true that women—of a kind—could not resist him. In the end he discovered exactly what had happened. He laughed his wonted laugh of cynical merriment. ‘Go to bed,’ he said to the servant. ‘And if you hear anyone at the door, pay no attention.’ Then he locked up the house, front and back, and, having extinguished all lights except a small lantern by which he could read in the sitting-room without danger of its being discerned from outside, sat down with a sense of amusement. Presently there came a ring at the bell; it was repeated again and again. The month was October, the night decidedly cool. Rodman chuckled to himself; he had a steaming glass of whisky before him and sipped it delicately. The ringing continued for a quarter of an hour, then five minutes passed, and no sound came. Rodman stepped lightly to the front door, listened, heard nothing, unlocked and opened. Alice was standing in the middle of the road, her hands crossed over her breast and holding her shoulders as though she suffered from the cold. She came forward and entered the house without speaking. In the sitting-room she found the lantern and looked at her husband in surprise. His face was stern. ‘What’s all this?’ he asked sharply. ‘I’ve been to London,’ she answered, her teeth chattering with cold and her voice uncertain from fear. ‘Been to London? And what business had you to go without telling me?’ He spoke savagely. Alice was sinking with dread, but even yet had sufficient resolve to keep up the comedy. ‘I had an invitation. I don’t see why I shouldn’t go. I don’t ask you who you go about with.’ The table was laid for supper. Rodman darted to it, seized a carving-knife, and in an instant was holding it to her throat. She shrieked and fell upon her knees, her face ghastly with mortal terror. Then Rodman burst out laughing and showed that his anger had been feigned. She had barely strength to rise, but at length stood before him trembling and sobbing, unable to believe that he had not been in earnest. ‘You needn’t explain the trick,’ he said, with the appearance of great good-humour, ‘but just tell me why you played it. Did you think I should believe you were up to something queer, eh?’ ‘You must think what you like,’ she sobbed, utterly humiliated. He roared with laughter. ‘What a splendid idea! The Princess getting tired of propriety and making appointments in London! Little fool! do you think I should care one straw? Why shouldn’t you amuse yourself?’ Alice looked at him with eyes of wondering misery. ‘Do you mean that you don’t care enough for me to—to—’ ‘Don’t care one farthing’s worth! And to think you went and walked about in the mud and the east wind! Well, if that isn’t the best joke I ever heard! I’ll have a rare laugh over this story with some men I know to-morrow.’ She crept away to her bedroom. He had gone far towards killing the love that had known no rival in her heart. He bantered her ceaselessly through breakfast next morning, and for the first time she could find no word to reply to him. Her head drooped; she touched nothing on the table. Before going off he asked her what the appointment was for to-day, and advised her not to forget her latch-key. Alice scarcely heard him, she was shame-stricken and wobegone. Rodman, on the other hand, had never been in better spirits. The ‘Irish Dairy Company’ was attracting purchasers of shares. It was the kind of scheme which easily recommended itself to a host of the foolish people who are ever ready to risk their money, also to some not quite so foolish. The prospectus could show some respectable names: one or two Irish lords, a member of Parliament, some known capitalists. The profits could not but be considerable, and think of the good to ‘the unhappy sister country’—as the circular said. Butter, cheese, eggs of unassailable genuineness, to be sold in England at absurdly low prices, yet still putting the producers on a footing of comfort and proud independence. One of the best ideas that had yet occurred to Mr. Robert Delancey. He—the said Mr. Delancey, alias Mr. Willis Rodman, alias certain other names—spent much of his time just now in the society of a Mr. Hilary, a gentleman who, like himself, had seen men and manners in various quarters of the globe, and was at present making a tolerable income by the profession of philanthropy. Mr. Hilary’s name appeared among the directors of the company; it gave confidence to many who were familiar with it in connection with not a few enterprises started for the benefit of this or that depressed nationality, this or the other exploited class. He wrote frequently to the newspapers on the most various subjects; he was known to members of Parliament through his persistent endeavours to obtain legislation with regard to certain manufactures proved to be gravely deleterious to the health of those employed in them. To-day Mr. Delancey and Mr. Hilary passed some hours together in the latter’s chambers. Their talk was of the company. ‘So you saw Mutimer about it?’ Rodman asked, turning to a detail in which he was specially interested. ‘Yes. He is anxious to have shares.’ Mr. Hilary was a man of past middle age, long-bearded, somewhat cadaverous of hue. His head was venerable. ‘You were careful not to mention me?’ ‘I kept your caution in mind.’ Their tone to each other was one of perfect gravity. Mr. Hilary even went out of his way to choose becoming phrases. ‘He won’t have anything to do with it if he gets to know who R. Delancey is.’ ‘I was prudent, believe me. I laid before him the aspects of the undertaking which would especially interest him. I made it clear to him that our enterprise is no less one of social than of commercial importance; he entered into our views very heartily. The first time I saw him, I merely invited him to glance over our prospectus; yesterday he was more than willing to join our association—and share our profits.’ ‘Did he tell you how much he’d got out of those poor devils over there?’ ‘A matter of sixty pounds, I gathered. I am not a little astonished at his success.’ ‘Oh, he’d talk the devil himself into subscribing to a mission if it suited him to try.’ ‘He is clearly very anxious to get the highest interest possible for his money. His ideas on business seemed, I confess, rather vague. I did my best to help him with suggestions.’ ‘Of course.’ ‘He talked of taking some five hundred pounds’ worth of shares on his own account.’ The men regarded each other. Rodman’s lips curled; Mr. Hilary was as grave as ever. ‘You didn’t balk him?’ ‘I commended his discretion.’ Rodman could not check a laugh. ‘I am serious,’ said Mr. Hilary. ‘It may take a little time, but—’ ‘Just so. Did he question you at all about what we were doing?’ ‘A good deal. He said he should go and look over the Stores in the Strand.’ ‘By all means. He’s a clever man if he distinguishes between Irish butter and English butterine—I’m sure I couldn’t. And things really are looking up at the Stores?’ ‘Oh, distinctly.’ ‘By-the-by, I had rather a nasty letter from Lord Mountorry yesterday. He’s beginning to ask questions: wants to know when we’re going to conclude our contract with that tenant of his—I’ve forgotten the fellow’s name.’ ‘Well, that must be looked into. There’s perhaps no reason why the contract should not be concluded. Little by little we may come to justify our name; who knows? In the meantime, we at all events do a bona fide business.’ ‘Strictly so.’ Rodman had a good deal of business on hand besides that which arose from his connection with Irish dairies. If Alice imagined him strolling at his ease about the fashionable lounges of the town, she was much mistaken. He worked hard and enjoyed his work, on the sole condition that he was engaged in overreaching someone. This flattered his humour. He could not find leisure to dine till nearly nine o’clock. He had made up his mind not to return to Wimbledon, but to make use of a certain pied-a-terre which he had in Pimlico. His day’s work ended in Westminster, he dined at a restaurant with a friend. Afterwards billiards were proposed. They entered a house which Rodman did not know, and were passing before the bar to go to the billiard-room, when a man who stood there taking refreshment called out, ‘Hollo, Rodman!’ To announce a man’s name in this way is a decided breach of etiquette in the world to which Rodman belonged. He looked annoyed, and would have passed on, but his acquaintance, who had perhaps exceeded the limits of modest refreshment, called him again and obliged him to approach the bar. As he did so Rodman happened to glance at the woman who stood ready to fulfil the expected order. The glance was followed by a short but close scrutiny, after which he turned his back and endeavoured by a sign to draw his two acquaintances away. But at the same moment the barmaid addressed him. ‘What is yours, Mr. Rodman?’ He shrugged his shoulders, muttered a strong expression, and turned round again. The woman met his look steadily. She was perhaps thirty, rather tall, with features more refined than her position would have led one to expect. Her figure was good but meagre; her cheeks were very thin, and the expression of her face, not quite amiable at any time, was at present almost fierce. She seemed about to say something further, but restrained herself. Rodman recovered his good temper. ‘How do, Clara?’ he said, keeping his eye fixed on hers. ‘I’ll have a drop of absinthe, if you please.’ Then he pursued his conversation with the two men. The woman, having served them, disappeared. Rodman kept looking for her. In a few minutes he pretended to recollect an engagement and succeeded in going off alone. As he issued on to the pavement he found himself confronted by the barmaid, who now wore a hat and cloak. ‘Well?’ he said, carelessly. ‘Rodman’s your name, is it?’ was the reply. ‘To my particular friends. Let’s walk on; we can’t chat here very well.’ ‘What is to prevent me from calling that policeman and giving you in charge?’ she asked, looking into his face with a strange mixture of curiosity and anger. ‘Nothing, except that you have no charge to make against me. The law isn’t so obliging as all that. Come, we’ll take a walk.’ She moved along by his side. ‘You coward!’ she exclaimed, passionately but with none of the shrieking virulence of women who like to make a scene in the street. ‘You mean, contemptible, cold-blooded man! I suppose you hoped I was starved to death by this time, or in the workhouse, or—what did you care where I was! I knew I should find you some day.’ ‘I rather supposed you would stay on the other side of the water,’ Rodman remarked, glancing at her. ‘You’re changed a good deal. Now it’s a most extraordinary thing. Not so very long ago I was dreaming about you, and you were serving at a bar—queer thing, wasn’t it?’ They were walking towards Whitehall. When they came at length into an ill-lighted and quiet spot, the woman stopped. ‘Where do you live?’ she asked. ‘Live? Oh, just out here in Pimlico. Like to see my rooms?’ ‘What do you mean by talking to me like that? Do you make a joke of deserting your wife and child for seven years, leaving them without a penny, going about enjoying yourself, when, for anything you knew, they were begging their bread? You always were heartless—it was the blackest day of my life that I met you; and you ask me if I’d like to see your rooms! What thanks to you that I’m not as vile a creature as there is in London? How was I to support myself and the child? What was I to do when they turned me into the streets of New York because I couldn’t pay what you owed them nor the rent of a room to sleep in? You took good care you never went hungry. I’d only one thing to hold me up: I was an honest woman, and I made up my mind I’d keep honest, though I had such a man as you for my husband. I’ve hungered and worked, and I’ve made a living for myself and my child as best I could. I’m not like you: I’ve done nothing to disgrace myself. Now I will slave no more. You won’t run away from me this time. Leave me for a single night, and I go to the nearest police-station and tell all I know about you. If I wasn’t a fool I’d do it now. But I’ve hungered and worked for seven years, and now it’s time my husband did something for me.’ ‘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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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