Demos. George Gissing
property with the exception of her old kitchen clock, and one or two articles she could not have borne to part with. From being a rather talkative woman she had become very reticent; she went about uneasily, with a look of suspicion or of fear. Her children she no longer ventured to command; the secret of their wealth weighed upon her, she was in constant dread on their behalf. It is a bad thing for one such as Mrs. Mutimer to be thrown back upon herself in novel circumstances, and practically debarred from the only relief which will avail her—free discussion with her own kind. The result is a species of shock to the system, sure to manifest itself before long in one or other form of debility.
Alice seated herself at the piano, and began a finger exercise, laboriously, imperfectly. For the first week or two it had given her vast satisfaction to be learning the piano; what more certain sign of having achieved ladyhood? It pleased her to assume airs with her teacher—a very deferential lady—to put off a lesson for a fit of languidness; to let it be understood how entirely time was at her command. Now she was growing rather weary of flats and sharps, and much preferred to read of persons to whom the same nomenclature was very applicable in the books she obtained from a circulating library. Her reading had hitherto been confined to the fiction of the penny papers; to procure her pleasure in three gaily-bound volumes was another evidence of rise in the social scale; it was like ordering your wine by the dozen after being accustomed to a poor chance bottle now and then. At present Alice spent the greater part of her day floating on the gentle milky stream of English romance. Her brother was made a little uneasy by this taste; he had not studied the literature in question.
At half-past six a loud knock at the front door announced the expected visitor. Alice turned from the piano, and looked at her brother apprehensively. Richard rose, and established himself on the hearthrug, his hands behind him.
‘What are you going to say to him, Dick?’ Alice asked hurriedly.
‘He says he wants to know me. I shall say, “Here I am.”’
There were voices outside. ‘Arry had opened the door himself, and now he ushered his acquaintance into the drawing-room. Mr. Keene proved to be a man of uncertain age—he might be eight-and-twenty, but was more probably ten years older. He was meagre, and of shrewd visage; he wore a black frock coat—rather shiny at the back—and his collar was obviously of paper. Incipient baldness endowed him in appearance with a noble forehead; he carried eye-glasses.
Whilst ‘Arry mumbled a form of introduction, the journalist—so Mr. Keene described himself—stood in a bowing attitude, one hand to his glasses, seeming to inspect Richard with extreme yet respectful interest. When he spoke, it was in a rather mincing way, with interjected murmurs—the involuntary overflow, as it were, of his deep satisfaction.
‘There are few persons in England whose acquaintance I desire more than that of Mr. Richard Mutimer; indeed, I may leave the statement unqualified and say at once that there is no one. I have heard you speak in public, Mr. Mutimer. My profession has necessarily led me to hear most of our platform orators, and in one respect you distance them all—in the quality of sincerity. No speaker ever moved me as you did. I had long been interested in your cause; I had long wished for time and opportunity to examine into it thoroughly. Your address—I speak seriously—removed the necessity of further study. I am of your party, Mr. Mutimer. There is nothing I desire so much as to give and take the hand of brotherhood.’
He jerked his hand forward, still preserving his respectful attitude. Richard gave his own hand carelessly, smiling as a man does who cannot but enjoy flattery yet has a strong desire to kick the flatterer out of the room.
‘Are you a member of the Union?’ he inquired.
‘With pride I profess myself a member. Some day—and that at no remote date—I may have it in my power to serve the cause materially.’ He smiled meaningly. ‘The press—you understand?’ He spread his fingers to represent wide dominion. ‘An ally to whom the columns of the bourgeois press are open—you perceive? It is the task of my life.’
‘What papers do you write for?’ asked Mutimer bluntly.
‘Several, several. Not as yet in a leading capacity. In fact, I am feeling my way. With ends such as I propose to myself it won’t do to stand committed to any formal creed in politics. Politics, indeed! Ha, ha!’
He laughed scornfully. Then, turning to Alice—
‘You will forgive me, I am sure, Miss Mutimer, that I address myself first to your brother—I had almost said your illustrious brother. To be confessed illustrious some day, depend upon it. I trust you are well?’
‘Thanks, I’m very well indeed,’ murmured Alice, rather disconcerted by such politeness.
‘And Mrs. Mutimer? That is well. By-the-by,’ he proceeded to Richard, ‘I have a piece of work in hand that will deeply interest you. I am translating the great treatise of Marx, “Das capital.” It occurs to me that a chapter now and then might see the light in the “Fiery Cross.” How do you view that suggestion?’
Richard did not care to hide his suspicion, and even such an announcement as this failed to move him to cordiality.
‘You might drop a line about it to Mr. Westlake,’ he said.
‘Mr. Westlake? Oh! but I quite understood that you had practically the conduct of the paper.’
Richard again smiled.
‘Mr. Westlake edits it,’ he said.
Mr. Keene waved his hand in sign of friendly intelligence. Then he changed the subject.
‘I ventured to put at Miss Mutimer’s disposal certain tickets I hold—professionally—for the Regent’s Theatre to-night—the dress circle. I have five seats in all. May I have the pleasure of your company, Mr. Mutimer?’
‘I’m only in town for a night,’ Richard replied; ‘and I can’t very well spare the time.’
‘To be sure, to be sure; I was inconsiderate. Then Miss Mutimer and my friend Harry—’
‘I’m sorry they’re not at liberty,’ was Richard’s answer to the murmured interrogation. ‘If they had accepted your invitation be’ so good as to excuse them. I happen to want them particularly this evening.’
‘In that case, I have of course not a word to say, save to express my deep regret at losing the pleasure of their company. But another time, I trust. I—I feel presumptuous, but it is my earnest hope to be allowed to stand on the footing not only of a comrade in the cause, but of a neighbour; I live quite near. Forgive me if I seem a little precipitate. The privilege is so inestimable.’
Richard made no answer, and Mr. Keene forthwith took his leave, suave to the last. When he was gone, Richard went to the dining-room, where his mother was sitting. Mrs. Mutimer would have given much to be allowed to sit in the kitchen; she had a room of her own upstairs, but there she felt too remote from the centre of domestic operations, and the dining-room was a compromise. Her chair was always placed in a rather dusky corner; she generally had sewing on her lap, but the consciousness that her needle was not really in demand, and that she might just as well have sat idle, troubled her habits of mind. She often had the face of one growing prematurely aged.
‘I hope you won’t let them bring anyone they like,’ Richard said to her. ‘I’ve sent that fellow about his business; he’s here for no good. He mustn’t come again.’
‘They won’t heed me,’ replied Mrs. Mutimer, using the tone of little interest with which she was accustomed to speak of details of the new order.
‘Well, then, they’ve got to heed you, and I’ll have that understood.—Why didn’t ‘Arry go to work to-day?’
‘Didn’t want to, I s’pose.’
‘Has he stayed at home often lately?’
‘Not at ‘ome, but I expect he doesn’t always go to work.’
‘Will you go and sit with Alice in the front room? I’ll have a talk with him.’
‘Arry came whistling at the summons. There was a nasty look on his face, the look