while lady harman was slowly accustoming her mind to this idea that the development of those hostels was her appointed career in life, so far as a wife may have a career outside her connubial duties, and while she was getting insensibly to believe in mr. brumley's theory of their exemplary social importance, the hostels themselves with a haste that she felt constantly was premature, were achieving a concrete existence. they were developing upon lines that here and there disregarded mr. brumley's ideas very widely; they gained in practicality what perhaps they lost in social value, through the entirely indirect relations between mr. brumley on the one hand and sir isaac on the other. for sir isaac manifestly did not consider and would have been altogether indisposed to consider mr. brumley as entitled to plan or suggest anything of the slightest importance in this affair, and whatever of mr. brumley reached that gentleman reached him in a very carefully transmitted form as lady harman's own unaided idea. sir isaac had sound victorian ideas about the place of literature in life. if anyone had suggested to him that literature could supply ideas to practical men he would have had a choking fit, and he regarded mr. brumley's sedulous attentions to these hostel schemes with feelings, the kindlier elements of whose admixture was a belief that ultimately he would write some elegant and respectful approval of the established undertaking.
the entire admixture of sir isaac's feelings towards mr. brumley was by no means kindly. he disliked any man to come near lady harman, any man at all; he had a faint uneasiness even about waiters and hotel porters and the clergy. of course he had agreed she should have friends of her own and he couldn't very well rescind that without something definite to go upon. but still this persistent follower kept him uneasy. he kept this uneasiness within bounds by reassuring himself upon the point of lady harman's virtuous obedience, and so reassured he was able to temper his distrust with a certain contempt. the man was in love with his wife; that was manifest enough, and dangled after her.... let him dangle. what after all did he get for it?...
but occasionally he broke through this complacency, betrayed a fitful ingenious jealousy, interfered so that she missed appointments and had to break engagements. he was now more and more a being of pathological moods. the subtle changes of secretion that were hardening his arteries, tightening his breath and poisoning his blood, reflected themselves upon his spirit in an uncertainty of temper and exasperating fatigues and led to startling outbreaks. then for a time he would readjust himself, become in his manner reasonable again, become accessible.
he was the medium through which this vision that was growing up in her mind of a reorganized social life, had to translate itself, as much as it could ever translate itself, into reality. he called these hostels her hostels, made her the approver of all he did, but he kept every particle of control in his own hands. all her ideas and desires had to be realized by him. and his attitudes varied with his moods; sometimes he was keenly interested in the work of organization and then he terrified her by his bias towards acute economies, sometimes he was resentful at the burthen of the whole thing, sometimes he seemed to scent brumley or at least some moral influence behind her mind and met her suggestions with a bitter resentment as though any suggestion must needs be a disloyalty to him. there was a remarkable outbreak upon her first tentative proposal that the hostel system might ultimately be extended to married couples.
he heard her with his lips pressing tighter and tighter together until they were yellow white and creased with a hundred wicked little horizontal creases. then he interrupted her with silent gesticulations. then words came.
"i never did, elly," he said. "i never did. reely—there are times when you ain't rational. married couples who're assistants in shops and places!"
for a little while he sought some adequate expression of his point of view.
"nice thing to go keeping a place for these chaps to have their cheap bits of skirt in," he said at last.
then further: "if a man wants a girl let him work himself up until he can keep her. married couples indeed!"
he began to expand the possibilities of the case with a quite unusual vividness. "double beds in each cubicle, i suppose," he said, and played for a time about this fancy.... "well, to hear such an idea from you of all people, elly. i never did."
he couldn't leave it alone. he had to go on to the bitter end with the vision she had evoked in his mind. he was jealous, passionately jealous, it was only too manifest, of the possible happinesses of these young people. he was possessed by that instinctive hatred for the realized love of others which lies at the base of so much of our moral legislation. the bare thought—whole corridors of bridal chambers!—made his face white and his hand quiver. his young men and young women! the fires of a hundred vigilance committees blazed suddenly in his reddened eyes. he might have been a concentrated society for preventing the rapid multiplication of the unfit. the idea of facilitating early marriages was manifestly shameful to him, a disgraceful service to render, a job for pandarus. what was she thinking of? elly of all people! elly who had been as innocent as driven snow before georgina came interfering!
it ended in a fit of abuse and a panting seizure, and for a day or so he was too ill to resume the discussion, to do more than indicate a disgusted aloofness....
and then it may be the obscure chemicals at work within him changed their phase of reaction. at any rate he mended, became gentler, was more loving to his wife than he had been for some time and astonished her by saying that if she wanted hostels for married couples, it wasn't perhaps so entirely unreasonable. selected cases, he stipulated, it would have to be and above a certain age limit, sober people. "it might even be a check on immorality," he said, "properly managed...."
but that was as far as his acquiescence went and lady harman was destined to be a widow before she saw the foundation of any hostel for young married couples in london.
10
the reinforced concrete rose steadily amidst lady harman's questionings and mr. brumley's speculations. the harmans returned from a recuperative visit to kissingen, to which sir isaac had gone because of a suspicion that his marienbad specialist had failed to cure him completely in order to get him back again, to find the first of the five hostels nearly ripe for its opening. there had to be a manageress and a staff organized and neither lady harman nor mr. brumley were prepared for that sort of business. a number of abler people however had become aware of the opportunities of the new development and mrs. hubert plessington, that busy publicist, got the harmans to a helpful little dinner, before lady harman had the slightest suspicion of the needs that were now so urgent. there shone a neat compact widow, a mrs. pembrose, who had buried her husband some eighteen months ago after studying social questions with him with great éclat for ten happy years, and she had done settlement work and girls' club work and had perhaps more power of organization—given a suitable director to provide for her lack of creativeness, mrs. plessington told sir isaac, than any other woman in london. afterwards sir isaac had an opportunity of talking to her; he discussed the suffrage movement with her and was pleased to find her views remarkably sympathetic with his own. she was, he declared, a sensible woman, anxious to hear a man out and capable, it was evident, of a detachment from feminist particularism rare in her sex at the present time. lady harman had seen less of the lady that evening, she was chiefly struck by her pallor, by a kind of animated silence about her, and by the deep impression her capabilities had made on mr. plessington, who had hitherto seemed to her to be altogether too overworked in admiring his wife to perceive the points of any other human being. afterwards lady harman was surprised to hear from one or two quite separate people that mrs. pembrose was the only possible person to act as general director of the new hostels. lady beach-mandarin was so enthusiastic in the matter that she made a special call. "you've known her a long time?" said lady harman.
"long enough to see what a chance she is!" said lady beach-mandarin.
lady harman perceived equivocation. "now how long is that really?" she said.
"count not in years, nor yet in moments on a dial," said lady beach-mandarin with a fine air of quotation. "i'm thinking of her quiet strength of character. mrs. plessington brought her round to see me the other afternoon."
"did she talk to you?"
"i saw, my dear, i saw."
a vague aversion from mrs. pembrose was in some mysterious way strengthened in lady harman by this extraordinary convergence of testimony. when sir isaac mentioned the lady with a kind of forced casualness at breakfast as the only conceivable person for the work of initiation and organization that lay before them, lady harman determined to see more of her. with a quickened subtlety she asked her to tea. "i have heard so much of your knowledge of social questions and i want you to advise me about my work," she wrote, and then scribbled a note to mr. brumley to call and help her judgments.
mrs. pembrose appeared dressed in dove colour with a near bonnetesque straw hat to match. she had a pale slightly freckled complexion, little hard blue-grey eyes with that sort of nose which redeems a squarish shape by a certain delicacy of structure; her chin was long and protruding and her voice had a wooden resonance and a ghost of a lisp. her talk had a false consecutiveness due to the frequent use of the word "yes." her bearing was erect and her manner guardedly alert.
from the first she betrayed a conviction that mr. brumley was incidental and unnecessary and that her real interest lay with sir isaac. she might almost have been in possession of special information upon that point.
"yes," she said, "i'm rather specially up in this sort of question. i worked side by side with my poor frederick all his life, we were collaborators, and this question of the urban distributive employee was one of his special studies. yes, he would have been tremendously interested in sir isaac's project."
"you know what we are doing?"
"every one is interested in sir isaac's enterprise. naturally. yes, i think i have a fairly good idea of what you mean to do. it's a great experiment."
"you think it is likely to answer?" said mr. brumley.
"in sir isaac's hands it is very likely to answer," said mrs. pembrose with her eye steadily on lady harman.
there was a little pause. "yes, now you wrote of difficulties and drawing upon my experience. of course just now i'm quite at sir isaac's disposal."
lady harman found herself thrust perforce into the rôle of her husband's spokeswoman. she asked mrs. pembrose if she knew the exact nature of the experiment they contemplated.
mrs. pembrose hadn't a doubt she knew. of course for a long time and more especially in the metropolis where the distances were so great and increasing so rapidly, there had been a gathering feeling not only in the catering trade, but in very many factory industries, against the daily journey to employment and home again. it was irksome and wasteful to everyone concerned, there was a great loss in control, later hours of beginning, uncertain service. "yes, my husband calculated the hours lost in london every week, hours that are neither work nor play, mere tiresome stuffy journeying. it made an enormous sum. it worked out at hundreds of working lives per week." sir isaac's project was to abolish all that, to bring his staff into line with the drapers and grocers who kept their assistants on the living-in system....
"i thought people objected to the living-in system," said mr. brumley.
"there's an agitation against it on the part of a small trade union of shop assistants," said mrs. pembrose. "but they have no real alternative to propose."
"and this isn't living in," said mr. brumley.
"yes, i think you'll find it is," said mrs. pembrose with a nice little expert smile.
"living-in isn't quite what we want," said lady harman slowly and with knitted brows, seeking a method of saying just what the difference was to be.
"yes, not perhaps in the strictest sense," said mrs. pembrose giving her no chance, and went on to make fine distinctions. strictly speaking, living-in meant sleeping over the shop and eating underneath it, and this hostel idea was an affair of a separate house and of occupants who would be assistants from a number of shops. "yes, collectivism, if you like," said mrs. pembrose. but the word collectivism, she assured them, wouldn't frighten her, she was a collectivist, a socialist, as her husband had always been. the day was past when socialist could be used as a term of reproach. "yes, instead of the individual employer of labour, we already begin to have the collective employer of labour, with a labour bureau—and so on. we share them. we no longer compete for them. it's the keynote of the time."
mr. brumley followed this with a lifted eyebrow. he was still new to these modern developments of collectivist ideas, this socialism of the employer.
the whole thing mrs. pembrose declared was a step forward in civilization, it was a step in the organization and discipline of labour. of course the unruly and the insubordinate would cry out. but the benefits were plain enough, space, light, baths, association, reasonable recreations, opportunities for improvement——
"but freedom?" said mr. brumley.
mrs. pembrose inclined her head a little on one side, looked at him this time and smiled the expert smile again. "if you knew as much as i do of the difficulties of social work," she said, "you wouldn't be very much in love with freedom."
"but—it's the very substance of the soul!"
"you must permit me to differ," said mrs. pembrose, and for weeks afterwards mr. brumley was still seeking a proper polite retort to that difficult counterstroke. it was such a featureless reply. it was like having your nose punched suddenly by a man without a face.
they descended to a more particular treatment of the problems ahead. mrs. pembrose quoted certain precedents from the girls' club union.
"the people lady harman contemplates—entertaining," said mr. brumley, "are of a slightly more self-respecting type than those young women."
"it's largely veneer," said mrs. pembrose....
"detestable little wretch," said mr. brumley when at last she had departed. he was very uncomfortable. "she's just the quintessence of all one fears and dreads about these new developments, she's perfect—in that way—self-confident, arrogant, instinctively aggressive, with a tremendous class contempt. there's a multitude of such people about who hate the employed classes, who want to see them broken in and subjugated. i suppose that kind of thing is in humanity. every boy's school has louts of that kind, who love to torment fags for their own good, who spring upon a chance smut on the face of a little boy to scrub him painfully, who have a kind of lust to dominate under the pretence of improving. i remember——but never mind that now. keep that woman out of things or your hostels work for the devil."
"yes," said lady harman. "certainly she shall not——. no."
but there she reckoned without her husband.
"i've settled it," he said to her at dinner two nights later.
"what?"
"mrs. pembrose."
"you've not made her——?"
"yes, i have. and i think we're very lucky to get her."
"but—isaac! i don't want her!"
"you should have told me that before, elly. i've made an agreement."
she suddenly wanted to cry. "but——you said i should manage these hostels myself."
"so you shall, elly. but we must have somebody. when we go abroad and all that and for all the sort of business stuff and looking after things that you can't do. we've got to have her. she's the only thing going of her sort."
"but—i don't like her."
"well," cried sir isaac, "why in goodness couldn't you tell me that before, elly? i've been and engaged her."
she sat pale-faced staring at him with wide open eyes in which tears of acute disappointment were shining. she did not dare another word because of her trick of weeping.
"it's all right, elly," said sir isaac. "how touchy you are! anything you want about these hostels of yours, you've only got to tell me and it's done."
