Books: The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

R >> Robert Tressell >> The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56

Afterwards as they walked home saturated with rain and covered from
head to foot with mud, they said it was a great victory for the cause
of progress!

Truly the wolves have an easy prey.

Chapter 49

The Undesired

That evening about seven o'clock, whilst Easton was down-town seeing
the last of the election, Ruth's child was born.

After the doctor was gone, Mary Linden stayed with her during the
hours that elapsed before Easton came home, and downstairs Elsie and
Charley - who were allowed to stay up late to help their mother
because Mrs Easton was ill - crept about very quietly, and conversed
in hushed tones as they washed up the tea things and swept the floor
and tidied the kitchen.

Easton did not return until after midnight, and all through the
intervening hours, Ruth, weak and tired, but unable to sleep, was
lying in bed with the child by her side. Her wide-open eyes appeared
unnaturally large and brilliant, in contrast with the almost
death-like paleness of her face, and there was a look of fear in them,
as she waited and listened for the sound of Easton's footsteps.

Outside, the silence of the night was disturbed by many unusual
noises: a far-off roar, as of the breaking of waves on a seashore,
arose from the direction of the town, where the last scenes of the
election were being enacted. Every few minutes motor cars rushed past
the house at a furious rate, and the air was full of the sounds of
distant shouts and singing.

Ruth listened and started nervously at every passing footstep. Those
who can imagine the kind of expression there would be upon the face of
a hunted thief, who, finding himself encompassed and brought to bay by
his pursuers, looks wildly around in a vain search for some way of
escape, may be able to form some conception of the terror-stricken way
in which she listened to every sound that penetrated into the
stillness of the dimly lighted room. And ever and again, when her
wandering glance reverted to the frail atom of humanity nestling by
her side, her brows contracted and her eyes filled with bitter tears,
as she weakly reached out her trembling hand to adjust its coverings,
faintly murmuring, with quivering lips and a bursting heart, some
words of endearment and pity. And then - alarmed by the footsteps of
some chance passerby, or by the closing of the door of a neighbouring
house, and fearing that it was the sound she had been waiting for and
dreading through all those weary hours, she would turn in terror to
Mary Linden, sitting in the chair at the bedside, sewing by the light
of the shaded lamp, and take hold of her arm as if seeking protection
from some impending danger.

It was after twelve o'clock when Easton came home. Ruth recognized
his footsteps before he reached the house, and her heart seemed to
stop beating when she heard the clang of the gate, as it closed after
he had passed through.

It had been Mary's intention to withdraw before he came into the room,
but the sick woman clung to her in such evident fear, and entreated
her so earnestly not to go away, that she remained.

It was with a feeling of keen disappointment that Easton noticed how
Ruth shrank away from him, for he had expected and hoped, that after
this, they would be good friends once more; but he tried to think that
it was because she was ill, and when she would not let him touch the
child lest he should awaken it, he agreed without question.

The next day, and for the greater part of the time during the next
fortnight, Ruth was in a raging fever. There were intervals when
although weak and exhausted, she was in her right mind, but most of
the time she was quite unconscious of her surroundings and often
delirious. Mrs Owen came every day to help to look after her, because
Mary just then had a lot of needlework to do, and consequently could
only give part of her time to Ruth, who, in her delirium, lived and
told over and over again all the sorrow and suffering of the last few
months. And so the two friends, watching by her bedside, learned her
dreadful secret.

Sometimes - in her delirium - she seemed possessed of an intense and
terrible loathing for the poor little creature she had brought into
the world, and was with difficulty prevented from doing it violence.
Once she seized it cruelly and threw it fiercely from her to the foot
of the bed, as if it had been some poisonous or loathsome thing. And
so it often became necessary to take the child away out of the room,
so that she could not see or hear it, but when her senses came back to
her, her first thought was for the child, and there must have been in
her mind some faint recollection of what she had said and done in her
madness, for when she saw that the baby was not in its accustomed
place her distress and alarm were painful to see, as she entreated
them with tears to give it back to her. And then she would kiss and
fondle it with all manner of endearing words, and cry bitterly.

Easton did not see or hear most of this; he only knew that she was
very ill; for he went out every day on the almost hopeless quest for
work. Rushton's had next to nothing to do, and most of the other
shops were in a similar plight. Dauber and Botchit had one or two
jobs going on, and Easton tried several times to get a start for them,
but was always told they were full up. The sweating methods of this
firm continued to form a favourite topic of conversation with the
unemployed workmen, who railed at and cursed them horribly. It had
leaked out that they were paying only sixpence an hour to most of the
skilled workmen in their employment, and even then the conditions
under which they worked were, if possible, worse than those obtaining
at most other firms. The men were treated like so many convicts, and
every job was a hell where driving and bullying reigned supreme, and
obscene curses and blasphemy polluted the air from morning till night.
The resentment of those who were out of work was directed, not only
against the heads of the firm, but also against the miserable,
half-starved drudges in their employment. These poor wretches were
denounced as `scabs' and `wastrels' by the unemployed workmen but all
the same, whenever Dauber and Botchit wanted some extra hands they
never had any difficulty in obtaining them, and it often happened that
those who had been loudest and bitterest in their denunciations were
amongst the first to rush off eagerly to apply there for a job
whenever there was a chance of getting one.

Frequently the light was seen burning late at night in Rushton's
office, where Nimrod and his master were figuring out prices and
writing out estimates, cutting down the amounts to the lowest possible
point in the hope of underbidding their rivals. Now and then they
were successful but whether they secured the work or not, Nimrod
always appeared equally miserable. If they got the `job' it often
showed such a small margin of profit that Rushton used to grumble at
him and suggest mismanagement. If their estimates were too high and
they lost the work, he used to demand of Nimrod why it was possible
for Dauber and Botchit to do work so much more cheaply.

As the unemployed workmen stood in groups at the corners or walked
aimlessly about the streets, they often saw Hunter pass by on his
bicycle, looking worried and harassed. He was such a picture of
misery, that it began to be rumoured amongst the men, that he had
never been the same since the time he had that fall off the bike; and
some of them declared, that they wouldn't mind betting that ole Misery
would finish up by going off his bloody rocker.

At intervals - whenever a job came in - Owen, Crass, Slyme, Sawkins
and one or two others, continued to be employed at Rushton's, but they
seldom managed to make more than two or three days a week, even when
there was anything to do.

Chapter 50

Sundered

During the next few weeks Ruth continued very ill. Although the
delirium had left her and did not return, her manner was still very
strange, and it was remarkable that she slept but little and at long
intervals. Mrs Owen came to look after her every day, not going back
to her own home till the evening. Frankie used to call for her as he
came out of school and then they used to go home together, taking
little Freddie Easton with them also, for his own mother was not able
to look after him and Mary Linden had so much other work to do.

On Wednesday evening, when the child was about five weeks old, as Mrs
Owen was wishing her good night, Ruth took hold of her hand and after
saying how grateful she was for all that she had done, she asked
whether - supposing anything happened to herself - Nora would promise
to take charge of Freddie for Easton. Owen's wife gave the required
promise, at the same time affecting to regard the supposition as
altogether unlikely, and assuring her that she would soon be better,
but she secretly wondered why Ruth had not mentioned the other child
as well.

Nora went away about five o'clock, leaving Ruth's bedroom door open so
that Mrs Linden could hear her call if she needed anything. About a
quarter of an hour after Nora and the two children had gone, Mary
Linden went upstairs to see Ruth, who appeared to have fallen fast
asleep; so she returned to her needlework downstairs. The weather had
been very cloudy all day, there had been rain at intervals and it was
a dark evening, so dark that she had to light the lamp to see her
work. Charley sat on the hearthrug in front of the fire repairing one
of the wheels of a wooden cart that he had made with the assistance of
another boy, and Elsie busied herself preparing the tea.

Easton was not yet home; Rushton & Co. had a few jobs to do and he had
been at work since the previous Thursday. The place where he was
working was some considerable distance away, so it was nearly half
past six when he came home. They heard him at the gate and at her
mother's direction Elsie went quickly to the front door, which was
ajar, to ask him to walk as quietly as possible so as not to wake
Ruth.

Mary had prepared the table for his tea in the kitchen, where there
was a bright fire with the kettle singing on the hob. He lit the lamp
and after removing his hat and overcoat, put the kettle on the fire
and while he was waiting for it to boil he went softly upstairs.
There was no lamp burning in the bedroom and the place would have been
in utter darkness but for the red glow of the fire, which did not
dispel the prevailing obscurity sufficiently to enable him to discern
the different objects in the room distinctly. The intense silence
that reigned struck him with a sudden terror. He crossed swiftly over
to the bed and a moment's examination sufficed to tell him that it was
empty. He called her name, but there was no answer, and a hurried
search only made it certain that she was nowhere in the house.

Mrs Linden now remembered what Owen's wife had told her of the strange
request that Ruth had made, and as she recounted it to Easton, his
fears became intensified a thousandfold. He was unable to form any
opinion of the reason of her going or of where she had gone, as he
rushed out to seek for her. Almost unconsciously he directed his
steps to Owen's house, and afterwards the two men went to every place
where they thought it possible she might have gone, but without
finding any trace of her.

Her father lived a short distance outside the town, and this was one
of the first places they went to, although Easton did not think it
likely she would go there, for she had not been on friendly terms with
her stepmother, and as he had anticipated, it was a fruitless journey.

They sought for her in every conceivable place, returning often to
Easton's house to see if she had come home, but they found no trace of
her, nor met anyone who had seen her, which was, perhaps, because the
dreary, rain-washed streets were deserted by all except those whose
business compelled them to be out.

About eleven o'clock Nora was standing at the front door waiting for
Owen and Easton, when she thought she could discern a woman's figure
in the shadow of the piers of the gate opposite. It was an unoccupied
house with a garden in front, and the outlines of the bushes it
contained were so vague in the darkness that it was impossible to be
certain; but the longer she looked the more convinced she became that
there was someone there. At last she summoned sufficient courage to
cross over the road, and as she nervously drew near the gate it became
evident that she had not been mistaken. There was a woman standing
there - a woman with a child in her arms, leaning against one of the
pillars and holding the iron bars of the gate with her left hand. It
was Ruth. Nora recognized her even in the semi-darkness. Her
attitude was one of extreme exhaustion, and as Nora touched her, she
perceived that she was wet through and trembling; but although she was
almost fainting with fatigue she would not consent to go indoors until
repeatedly assured that Easton was not there, and that Nora would not
let him see her if he came. And when at length she yielded and went
into the house she would not sit down or take off her hat or jacket
until - crouching on the floor beside Nora's chair with her face
hidden in the latter's lap - she had sobbed out her pitiful
confession, the same things that she had unwittingly told to the same
hearer so often before during the illness, the only fact that was new
was the account of her wanderings that night.

She cried so bitterly and looked so forlorn and heartbroken and
ashamed as she faltered out her woeful story; so consumed with
self-condemnation, making no excuse for herself except to repeat over
and over again that she had never meant to do wrong, that Nora could
not refrain from weeping also as she listened.

It appeared that, unable to bear the reproach that Easton's presence
seemed to imply, or to endure the burden of her secret any longer, and
always haunted by the thought of the lake in the park, Ruth had formed
the dreadful resolution of taking her own life and the child's. When
she arrived at the park gates they were closed and locked for the
night but she remembered that there was another means of entering -
the place at the far end of the valley where the park was not fenced
in, so she had gone there - nearly three miles - only to find that
railings had recently been erected and therefore it was no longer
possible to get into the park by that way. And then, when she found
it impossible to put her resolve into practice, she had realized for
the first time the folly and wickedness of the act she had meant to
commit. But although she had abandoned her first intention, she said
she could never go home again; she would take a room somewhere and get
some work to do, or perhaps she might be able to get a situation where
they would allow her to have the child with her, or failing that she
would work and pay someone to look after it; but she could never go
home any more. If she only had somewhere to stay for a few days until
she could get something to do, she was sure she would be able to earn
her living, but she could not go back home; she felt that she would
rather walk about the streets all night than go there again.

It was arranged that Ruth should have the small apartment which had
been Frankie's playroom, the necessary furniture being obtained from a
second-hand shop close by. Easton did not learn the real reason of
her flight until three days afterwards. At first he attributed it to
a recurrence of the mental disorder that she had suffered from after
the birth of the child, and he had been glad to leave her at Owen's
place in Nora's care, but on the evening of the third day when he
returned home from work, he found a letter in Ruth's handwriting which
told him all there was to tell.

When he recovered from the stupefaction into which he was thrown by
the perusal of this letter, his first thought was to seek out Slyme,
but he found upon inquiring that the latter had left the town the
previous morning. Slyme's landlady said he had told her that he had
been offered several months' work in London, which he had accepted.
The truth was that Slyme had heard of Ruth's flight - nearly everyone
knew about it as a result of the inquiries that had been made for her -
and, guessing the cause, he had prudently cleared out.

Easton made no attempt to see Ruth, but he went to Owen's and took
Freddie away, saying he would pay Mrs Linden to look after the child
whilst he was at work. His manner was that of a deeply injured man -
the possibility that he was in any way to blame for what had happened
did not seem to occur to his mind at all.

As for Ruth she made no resistance to his taking the child away from
her, although she cried about it in secret. She got some work a few
days afterwards - helping the servants at one of the large boarding-
houses on the Grand Parade.

Nora looked after the baby for her while she was at work, an
arrangement that pleased Frankie vastly; he said it was almost as good
as having a baby of their very own.

For the first few weeks after Ruth went away Easton tried to persuade
himself that he did not very much regret what had happened. Mrs
Linden looked after Freddie, and Easton tried to believe that he would
really be better off now that he had only himself and the child to
provide for.

At first, whenever he happened to meet Owen, they used to speak of
Ruth, or to be more correct, Easton used to speak of her; but one day
when the two men were working together Owen had expressed himself
rather offensively. He seemed to think that Easton was more to blame
than she was; and afterwards they avoided the subject, although Easton
found it difficult to avoid the thoughts the other man's words
suggested.

Now and then he heard of Ruth and learnt that she was still working at
the same place; and once he met her suddenly and unexpectedly in the
street. They passed each other hurriedly and he did not see the
scarlet flush that for an instant dyed her face, nor the deathly
pallor that succeeded it.

He never went to Owen's place or sent any communication to Ruth, nor
did she ever send him any; but although Easton did not know it she
frequently saw Freddie, for when Elsie Linden took the child out she
often called to see Mrs Owen.

As time went on and the resentment he had felt towards her lost its
first bitterness, Easton began to think there was perhaps some little
justification for what Owen had said, and gradually there grew within
him an immense desire for reconciliation - to start afresh and to
forget all that had happened; but the more he thought of this the more
hopeless and impossible of realization it seemed.

Although perhaps he was not conscious of it, this desire arose solely
from selfish motives. The money he earned seemed to melt away almost
as soon as he received it; to his surprise he found that he was not
nearly so well off in regard to personal comfort as he had been
formerly, and the house seemed to grow more dreary and desolate as the
wintry days dragged slowly by. Sometimes - when he had the money - he
sought forgetfulness in the society of Crass and the other frequenters
of the Cricketers, but somehow or other he could not take the same
pleasure in the conversation of these people as formerly, when he had
found it - as he now sometimes wondered to remember - so entertaining
as to almost make him forget Ruth's existence.

One evening about three weeks before Christmas, as he and Owen were
walking homewards together from work, Easton reverted for the first
time to their former conversation. He spoke with a superior air: his
manner and tone indicating that he thought he was behaving with great
generosity. He would be willing to forgive her and have her back, he
said, if she would come: but he would never be able to tolerate the
child. Of course it might be sent to an orphanage or some similar
institution, but he was afraid Ruth would never consent to that, and
he knew that her stepmother would not take it.

`If you can persuade her to return to you, we'll take the child,' said
Owen.

`Do you think your wife would be willing?'

`She has already suggested doing so.'

`To Ruth?'

`No: to me. We thought it a possible way for you, and my wife would
like to have the child.'

`But would you be able to afford it?' said Easton.

`We should manage all right.'

`Of course,' said Easton, `if Slyme comes back he might agree to pay
something for its keep.'

Owen flushed.

`I wouldn't take his money.'

After a long pause Easton continued: `Would you mind asking Mrs Owen
to suggest it to Ruth?'

`If you like I'll get her to suggest it - as a message from you.'

`What I meant,' said Easton hesitatingly, `was that your wife might
just suggest it - casual like - and advise her that it would be the
best way, and then you could let me know what Ruth said.'

`No,' replied Owen, unable any longer to control his resentment of the
other's manner, `as things stand now, if it were not for the other
child, I should advise her to have nothing further to do with you.
You seem to think that you are acting a very generous part in being
"willing" to have her back, but she's better off now than she was with
you. I see no reason - except for the other child - why she should go
back to you. As far as I understand it, you had a good wife and you
ill-treated her.'

`I never ill-treated her! I never raised my hand to her - at least
only once, and then I didn't hurt her. Does she say I ill-treated
her.'

`Oh no: from what my wife tells me she only blames herself, but I'm
drawing my own conclusions. You may not have struck her, but you did
worse - you treated her with indifference and exposed her to
temptation. What has happened is the natural result of your neglect
and want of care for her. The responsibility for what has happened is
mainly yours, but apparently you wish to pose now as being very
generous and to "forgive her" - you're "willing" to take her back; but
it seems to me that it would be more fitting that you should ask her
to forgive you.'

Easton made no answer and after a long silence the other continued:

`I would not advise her to go back to you on such terms as you seem to
think right, because if you became reconciled on such terms I don't
think either of you could be happy. Your only chance of happiness is
to realize that you have both done wrong; that each of you has
something to forgive; to forgive and never speak of it again.'

Easton made no reply and a few minutes afterwards, their ways
diverging, they wished each other `Good night'.

They were working for Rushton - painting the outside of a new
conservatory at Mr Sweater's house, `The Cave'. This job was finished
the next day and at four o'clock the boy brought the handcart, which
they loaded with their ladders and other materials. They took these
back to the yard and then, as it was Friday night, they went up to the
front shop and handed in their time sheets. Afterwards, as they were
about to separate, Easton again referred to the subject of their
conversation of the previous evening. He had been very reserved and
silent all day, scarcely uttering a word except when the work they had
been engaged in made it necessary to do so, and there was now a sort
of catch in his voice as he spoke.

`I've been thinking over what you said last night; it's quite true.
I've been a great deal to blame. I wrote to Ruth last night and
admitted it to her. I'll take it as a favour if you and your wife
will say what you can to help me get her back.'

Owen stretched out his hand and as the other took it, said: `You may
rely on us both to do our best.'

Chapter 51

The Widow's Son

The next morning when they went to the yard at half past eight o'clock
Hunter told them that there was nothing to do, but that they had
better come on Monday in case some work came in. They accordingly
went on the Monday, and Tuesday and Wednesday, but as nothing `came
in' of course they did not do any work. On Thursday morning the
weather was dark and bitterly cold. The sky presented an unbroken
expanse of dull grey and a keen north wind swept through the cheerless
streets. Owen - who had caught cold whilst painting the outside of
the conservatory at Sweater's house the previous week - did not get to
the yard until ten o'clock. He felt so ill that he would not have
gone at all if they had not needed the money he would be able to earn
if there was anything to do. Strange though it may appear to the
advocates of thrift, although he had been so fortunate as to be in
employment when so many others were idle, they had not saved any
money. On the contrary, during all the summer they had not been able
to afford to have proper food or clothing. Every week most of the
money went to pay arrears of rent or some other debts, so that even
whilst he was at work they had often to go without some of the
necessaries of life. They had broken boots, shabby, insufficient
clothing, and barely enough to eat.