It was not a command to be disregarded. Arry rose, but half-defiantly.
What have you to do with it? Youre not my master.
Do you hear what I say? Richard observed, yet more autocratically. Take yourself off, and at once!
The lad growled, hesitated, but approached the door. His motion was slinking; he could not face Richards eye. They heard him stumble up the stairs.
CHAPTER V
On ordinary days Richard of necessity rose early; a holiday did not lead him to break the rule, for free hours were precious. He had his body well under control; six hours of sleep he found sufficient to keep him in health, and temptations to personal ease, in whatever form, he resisted as a matter of principle.
Easter Monday found him down-stairs at half-past six. His mother would to-day allow herself another hour. Arry would be down just in time to breakfast, not daring to be late. The Princess might be looked forsome time in the course of the morning; she was licensed.
Richard, for purposes of study, used the front parlour. In drawing up the blind, he disclosed a room precisely resembling in essential features hundreds of front parlours in that neighbourhood, or, indeed, in any working-class district of London. Everything was clean; most things were bright-hued or glistening of surface. There was the gilt-framed mirror over the mantelpiece, with a yellow clockwhich did not goand glass ornaments in front. There was a small round table before the window, supporting wax fruit under a glass case. There was a hearthrug with a dazzling pattern of imaginary flowers. On the blue cloth of the middle table were four showily-bound volumes, arranged symmetrically. On the head of the sofa lay a covering worked of blue and yellow Berlin wools. Two arm-chairs were draped with long white antimacassars, ready to slip off at a touch. As in the kitchen, there was a smell of cleanlinesof furniture polish, hearthstone, and black-lead.
I should mention the ornaments of the walls. The pictures were: a striking landscape of the Swiss type, an engraved portrait of Garibaldi, an unframed view of a certain insurance office, a British baby on a large scale from the Christmas number of an illustrated paper.
The one singular feature of the room was a small, glass-doored bookcase, full of volumes. They were all of Richards purchasing; to survey them was to understand the man, at all events on his intellectual side. Without exception they belonged to that order of literature which, if studied exclusively and for its own sake,as here it was,brands a man indelibly, declaring at once the incompleteness of his education and the deficiency of his instincts. Social, political, religious,under these three heads the volumes classed themselves, and each class was represented by productions of the extreme school. The books which a bright youth of fair opportunities reads as a matter of course, rejoices in for a year or two, then throws aside for ever, were here treasured to be the guides of a lifetime. Certain writers of the last century, long ago become only historically interesting, were for Richard an armoury whence he girded himself for the battles of the day; cheap reprints or translations of Malthus, of Robert Owen, of Volneys Ruins, of Thomas Paine, of sundry works of Voltaire, ranked upon his shelves. Moreover, there was a large collection of pamphlets, titled wonderfully and of yet more remarkable contents, the authoritative utterances of contemporary gentlemenand ladieswho made it the end of their existence to prove: that there cannot by any possibility be such a person as Satan; that the story of creation contained in the Book of Genesis is on no account to be received; that the begetting of children is a most deplorable oversight; that to eat flesh is wholly unworthy of a civilised being; that if every man and woman performed their quota of the worlds labour it would be necessary to work for one hour and thirty-seven minutes daily, no jot longer, and that the author, in each case, is the one person capable of restoring dignity to a down-trodden race and happiness to a blasted universe. Alas, alas! On this food had Richard Mutimer pastured his soul since he grew to manhood, on this and this only. English literature was to him a sealed volume; poetry he scarcely knew by name; of history he was worse than ignorant, having looked at this period and that through distorting media, and congratulating himself on his clear vision because he saw men as trees walking; the bent of his mind would have led him to natural science, but opportunities of instruction were lacking, and the chosen directors of his prejudice taught him to regard every fact, every discovery, as for or against something.
A library of pathetic significance, the individual alone considered. Viewed as representative, not without alarming suggestiveness to those who can any longer trouble themselves about the worlds future. One dreams of the age when free thoughtin the popular sensewill have become universal, when art shall have lost its meaning, worship its holiness, when the Bible will only exist in comic editions, and Shakespeare be down-cried by most sweet voices as a mountebank of reactionary tendencies.
Richard was to lecture on the ensuing Sunday at one of the branch meeting-places of his society; he engaged himself this morning in collecting certain data of a statistical kind. He was still at his work when the sound of the postmans knock began to be heard in the square, coming from house to house, drawing nearer at each repetition. Richard paid no heed to it; he expected no letter. Yet it seemed there was one for some member of the family; the letter-carriers regular tread ascended the five steps to the door, and then two small thunderclaps echoed through the house. There was no letter-box; Richard went to answer the knock. An envelope addressed to himself in a small, formal hand.
His thoughts still busy with other things, he opened the letter mechanically as he re-entered the room. He had never in his life been calmer; the early hour of study had kept his mind pleasantly active whilst his breakfast appetite sharpened itself. Never was man less prepared to receive startling intelligence.
He read, then raised his eyes and let them stray from the papers on the table to the wax-fruit before the window, thence to the young leafage of the trees around the Baptist Chapel. He was like a man whose face had been overflashed by lightning. He read again, then, holding the letter behind him, closed his right hand upon his beard with thoughtful tension. He read a third time, then returned the letter to its envelope, put it in his pocket, and sat down again to his book.
He was summoned to breakfast in ten minutes. His mother was alone in the kitchen; she gave him his bloater and his cup of coffee, and he cut himself a solid slice of bread and butter.
Was the letter for you? she asked.
He replied with a nod, and fell patiently to work on the dissection of his bony delicacy. In five minutes Henry approached the table with a furtive glance at his elder brother. But Richard had no remark to make. The meal proceeded in silence.
When Richard had finished, he rose and said to his mother
Have you that railway-guide I brought home a week ago?
I believe I have somewhere. Just look in the cupboard.
The guide was found. Richard consulted it for a few moments.
I have to go out of London, he then observed. Its just possible I shant get back to-night.
A little talk followed about the arrangements of the day, and whether anyone was likely to be at home for dinner. Richard did not show much interest in the matter; he went upstairs whistling, and changed the clothing he wore for his best suit. In a quarter of an hour he had left the house.
He did not return till the evening of the following day. It was presumed that he had gone after a job.
When he reached home his mother and Alice were at tea. He walked to the kitchen fireplace, turned his back to it, and gazed with a peculiar expression at the two who sat at table.
Dicks got work, observed Alice, after a glance at him. I can see that in his face..
Have you, Dick? asked Mrs. Mutimer.
I have. Work likely to last.
So well hope, commented his mother. Where is it?
A good way out of London. Pour me a cup, mother. Wheres Arry?
Gone out, as usual.
And why are you having tea with your hat on, Princess?
Because Im in a hurry, if you must know everything.
Richard did not seek further information. He drank his tea standing. In five minutes Alice had bustled away for an evening with friends. Mrs. Mutimer cleared the table without speaking.
Now get your sewing, mother, and sit down, began Richard. I want to have a talk with you.
The mother cast a rather suspicious glance. There was an impressiveness in the young mans look and tone which disposed her to obey without remark.
How long is it, Richard asked, when attention waited upon him, since you heard anything of fathers uncle, my namesake?
Mrs. Mutimers face exhibited the dawning of intelligence, an unwrinkling here and there, a slight rounding of the lips.
Why, what of him? she asked in an undertone, leaving a needle unthreaded.
The old mans just dead.
Agitation seized the listener, agitation of a kind most unusual in her. Her hands trembled, her eyes grew wide.
You havent heard anything of him lately? pursued Richard.
Heard? Not I. No more did your father ever since two years afore we was married. Id always thought he was dead long ago. What of him, Dick?
From what Im told I thought youd perhaps been keeping things to yourself. Twouldnt have been unlike you, mother. He knew all about us, so the lawyer tells me.
The lawyer?
Well, Id better out with it. Hes died without a will. His real propertythat means his houses and landbelongs to me; his personal propertythats his moneyll have to be divided between me, and Alice, and Arry. Youre out of the sharing, mother.
He said it jokingly, but Mrs. Mutimer did not join in his laugh. Her palms were closely pressed together; still trembling, she gazed straight before her, with a far-off look.
His houseshis land? she murmured, as if she had not quite heard. What did he want with more than one house?
The absurd question was all that could find utterance. She seemed to be reflecting on that point.
Would you like to hear what it all comes to? Richard resumed. His voice was unnatural, forcibly suppressed, quivering at pauses. His eyes gleamed, and there was a centre of warm colour on each of his cheeks. He had taken a note-book from his pocket, and the leaves rustled under his tremulous fingers.
The lawyer, a man called Yottle, just gave me an idea of the different investments and so on. The real property consists of a couple of houses in Belwick, both let, and an estate at a place called Wanley. The old man had begun mining there; theres iron. Ive got my ideas about that. I didnt go into the house; people are there still. Now the income.
He read his notes: So much in railways, so much averaged yearly from iron-works in Belwick, so much in foreign securities, so much disposable at home. Total
Stop, Dick, stop! uttered his mother, under her breath. Them figures frighten me; I dont know what they mean. Its a mistake; theyre leading you astray. Now, mind what I saytheres a mistake! No man with all that money ud die without a will. You wont get me to believe it, Dick.
Richard laughed excitedly. Believe it or not, mother; Ive got my ears and eyes, I hope. And theres a particular reason why he left no will. There was one, but somethingI dont know whathappened just before his death, and he was going to make a new one. The will was burnt. He died in church on a Sunday morning; if hed lived another day, hed have made a new will. Its no more a mistake than the Baptist Chapel is in the square! A comparison which hardly conveyed all Richards meaning; but he was speaking in agitation, more and more quickly, at last almost angrily.
Mrs. Mutimer raised her hand. Be quiet a bit, Dick. Its took me too sudden. I feel queer like.
There was silence. The mother rose as if with difficulty, and drew water in a tea-cup from the filter. When she resumed her place, her hands prepared to resume sewing. She looked up, solemnly, sternly.
Dick, its bad, bad news! Im an old woman, and I must say what I think. It upsets me; it frightens me. I thought he might a left you a hundred pounds.
Mother, dont talk about it till youve had time to think, said Richard, stubbornly. If this is bad news, what the deuce would you call good? Just because Ive been born and bred a mechanic, does that say Ive got no common sense or self-respect? Are you afraid I shall go and drink myself to death? You talk like the people who make it their business to sneer at usthe improvidence of the working classes, and such dd slander. Its good news for me, and itll be good news for many another man. Wait and see.
The mother became silent, keeping her lips tight, and struggling to regain her calmness. She was not convinced, but in argument with her eldest son she always gave way, affection and the pride she had in him aiding her instincts of discretion. In practice she still maintained something of maternal authority, often gaining her point by merely seeming offended. To the two who had not yet reached the year of emancipation she allowed, in essentials, no appeal from her decision. Between her and Richard there had been many a sharp conflict in former days, invariably ending with the lads submission; the respect which his mother exacted he in truth felt to be her due, and it was now long since they had openly been at issue on any point. Mrs. Mutimers views were distinctly Conservative, and hitherto she had never taken Richards Radicalism seriously; on the whole she had regarded it as a fairly harmless recreation for his leisure hoursdecidedly preferable to a haunting of public-houses and music-halls. The loss of his employment caused her a good deal of uneasiness, but she had not ventured to do more than throw out hints of her disapproval; and now, as it seemed, the matter was of no moment. Henceforth she had far other apprehensions, but this first conflict of their views made her reticent.
Just let me tell you how things stand, Richard pursued, when his excitement had somewhat subsided; and he went on to explain the relations between old Mr. Mutimer and the Eldons, which in outline had been described to him by Mr. Yottle. And then
The will he had made left all the property to this young Eldon, who was to be trustee for a little money to be doled out to me yearly, just to save me from ruining myself, of course. Richards lips curled in scorn. I dont know whether the lawyer thought we ought to offer to give everything up; he seemed precious anxious to make me understand that the old man had never intended us to have it, and that he did want these other people to have it. Of course, weve nothing to do with that. Lucks luck, and I think I know wholl make best use of it.
Why didnt you tell all this when Alice was here? inquired his mother, seeming herself again, though very grave.