Demos. George Gissing

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘He says he wants to see you. I think it’s something particular; he seemed disappointed you weren’t at the meeting on Sunday.’

      ‘Did he? I’ll see if I can get round to-night. If you like to have something cooked for me about eight o’clock, mother,’ he added, consulting his watch, ‘I shall be ready for it then.’

      He turned to his brother again.

      ‘Is there a class to-night? No? Very well, when they’ve cleared away, get your books out and show me what you’ve been doing. What are you going to do with yourself, Alice?’

      The two addressed, as well as their mother, appeared to have some special cause for embarrassment. Instead of immediately replying, Alice played with crumbs and stole glances on either side.

      ‘Me and ‘Arry are going out,’ she said at length, with a rather timid smile and a poise of the head in pretty wilfulness.

      ‘Not ‘Arry,’ Richard observed significantly.

      ‘Why not?’ came from the younger Mutimer, with access of boldness.

      ‘If you’re not well enough to go to work you certainly don’t go out at night for your pleasure.’

      ‘But it’s a particular occasion,’ explained Mice, leaning back with crossed arms, evidently prepared to do battle. ‘A friend of ‘Arry’s is going to call and take us to the theatre.’

      ‘Oh, indeed! And what friend is that?’

      Mrs. Mutimer, who had been talked over to compliance with a project she felt Richard would not approve—she had no longer the old authority, and spent her days in trying to piece on the present life to the former—found refuge in a habit more suitable to the kitchen than the dining-room; she had collected all the teaspoons within reach and was pouring hot-water upon them in the slop-basin, the familiar preliminary to washing up.

      ‘A gen’leman as lives near here,’ responded ‘Arry. ‘He writes for the newspapers. His name’s Keene.’

      ‘Oh? And how came you to know him?’

      ‘Met him,’ was the airy reply.

      ‘And you’ve brought him here?’

      ‘Well, he’s been here once.’

      ‘He said as he wanted to know you, Dick,’ put in Mrs. Mutimer. ‘He was really a civil-spoken man, and he gave ‘Arry a lot of help with his books.’

      ‘When was he here?’

      ‘Last Friday.’

      ‘And to-night he wants to take you to the theatre?’

      The question was addressed to Alice.

      ‘It won’t cost him anything,’ she replied. ‘He says he can always get free passes.’

      ‘No doubt. Is he coming here to fetch you? I shall be glad to see him.’

      Richard’s tone was ambiguous. He put down his cup, and said to Alice—

      ‘Come and let me hear how you get on with your playing.’ Alice followed into the drawing-room. For the furnishing of the new house Richard had not trusted to his own instincts, but had taken counsel with a firm that he knew from advertisements. The result was commonplace, but not intolerable. His front room was regarded as the Princess’s peculiar domain; she alone dared to use it freely—declined, indeed, to sit elsewhere. Her mother only came a few feet within the door now and then; if obliged by Alice to sit down, she did so on the edge of a chair as near to the door as possible. Most of her time Mrs. Mutimer still spent in the kitchen. She had resolutely refused to keep more than one servant, and everything that servant did she all Alice’s objections she opposed an obstinate silence. What herself performed over again, even to the making of beds. To was the poor woman to do? She had never in her life read more than an occasional paragraph of police news, and could not be expected to take up literature at her age. Though she made no complaint, signs were not wanting that she had begun to suffer in health. She fretted through the nights, and was never really at peace save when she anticipated the servant in rising early, and had an honest scrub at saucepans or fireirons before breakfast. Her main discomfort came of the feeling that she no longer had a house of her own; nothing about her seemed to be her 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 СКАЧАТЬ