“That is very interesting,” said Sir Charles. “What a noble thing — refusing fifteen hundred pounds! He could ill afford it, probably.”
“Heroic — according to nineteenth century notions of heroism. Voluntarily to throw away a chance of making money! that is the ne plus ultra of martyrdom. Brown’s wife was extremely angry with him for doing it.”
“It is an interesting story — or might be made so,” said Erskine. “But you make my head spin with your confounded exchange values and stuff. Everything is a question of figures with you.”
“That comes of my not being a poet,” said Trefusis. “But we Socialists need to study the romantic side of our movement to interest women in it. If you want to make a cause grow, instruct every woman you meet in it. She is or will one day be a wife, and will contradict her husband with scraps of your arguments. A squabble will follow. The son will listen, and will be set thinking if he be capable of thought. And so the mind of the people gets leavened. I have converted many young women. Most of them know no more of the economic theory of Socialism than they know of Chaldee; but they no longer fear or condemn its name. Oh, I assure you that much can be done in that way by men who are not afraid of women, and who are not in too great a hurry to see the harvest they have sown for.”
“Take care. Some of your lady proselytes may get the better of you some day. The future husband to be contradicted may be Sidney Trefusis. Ha! ha! ha!” Sir Charles had emptied a second large goblet of wine, and was a little flushed and boisterous.
“No,” said Trefusis, “I have had enough of love myself, and am not likely to inspire it. Women do not care for men to whom, as Erskine says, everything is a question of figures. I used to flirt with women; now I lecture them, and abhor a man-flirt worse than I do a woman one. Some more wine? Oh, you must not waste the remainder of this bottle.”
“I think we had better go, Brandon,” said Erskine, his mistrust of Trefusis growing. “We promised to be back before two.”
“So you shall,” said Trefusis. “It is not yet a quarter past one. By-the-bye, I have not shown you Donovan Brown’s pet instrument for the regeneration of society. Here it is. A monster petition praying that the holding back from the laborer of any portion of the net value produced by his labor be declared a felony. That is all.”
Erskine nudged Sir Charles, who said hastily, “Thank you, but I had rather not sign anything.”
“A baronet sign such a petition!” exclaimed Trefusis. “I did not think of asking you. I only show it to you as an interesting historical document, containing the autographs of a few artists and poets. There is Donovan Brown’s for example. It was he who suggested the petition, which is not likely to do much good, as the thing cannot be done in any such fashion However, I have promised Brown to get as many signatures as I can; so you may as well sign it, Erskine. It says nothing in blank verse about the holiness of slaying a tyrant, but it is a step in the right direction. You will not stick at such a trifle — unless the reviews have frightened you. Come, your name and address.”
Erskine shook his head.
“Do you then only commit yourself to revolutionary sentiments when there is a chance of winning fame as a poet by them?”
“I will not sign, simply because I do not choose to,” said Erskine warmly.
“My dear fellow,” said Trefusis, almost affectionately, “if a man has a conscience he can have no choice in matters of conviction. I have read somewhere in your book that the man who will not shed his blood for the liberty of his brothers is a coward and a slave. Will you not shed a drop of ink — my ink, too — for the right of your brothers to the work of their hands? I at first sight did not care to sign this petition, because I would as soon petition a tiger to share his prey with me as our rulers to relax their grip of the stolen labor they live on. But Donovan Brown said to me, ‘You have no choice. Either you believe that the laborer should have the fruit of his labor or you do not. If you do, put your conviction on record, even if it should be as useless as Pilate’s washing his hands.’ So I signed.”
“Donovan Brown was right,” said Sir Charles. “I will sign.” And he did so with a flourish.
“Brown will be delighted,” said Trefusis. “I will write to him to-day that I have got another good signature for him.”
“Two more,” said Sir Charles. “You shall sign, Erskine; hang me if you shan’t! It is only against rascals that run away without paying their men their wages.”
“Or that don’t pay them in full,” observed Trefusis, with a curious smile. “But do not sign if you feel uncomfortable about it.”
“If you don’t sign after me, you are a sneak, Chester,” said Sir Charles.
“I don’t know what it means,” said Erskine, wavering. “I don’t understand petitions.”
“It means what it says; you cannot be held responsible for any meaning that is not expressed in it,” said Trefusis. “But never mind. You mistrust me a little, I fancy, and would rather not meddle with my petitions; but you will think better of that as you grow used to me. Meanwhile, there is no hurry. Don’t sign yet.”
“Nonsense! I don’t doubt your good faith,” said Erskine, hastily disavowing suspicions which he felt but could not account for. “Here goes!” And he signed.
“Well done!” said Trefusis. “This will make Brown happy for the rest of the month.”
“It is time for us to go now,” said Erskine gloomily.
“Look in upon me at any time; you shall be welcome,” said Trefusis. “You need not stand upon any sort of ceremony.”
Then they parted; Sir Charles assuring Trefusis that he had never spent a more interesting morning, and shaking hands with him at considerable length three times. Erskine said little until he was in the Riverside Road with his friend, when he suddenly burst out:
“What the devil do you mean by drinking two tumblers of such staggering stuff at one o’clock in the day in the house of a dangerous man like that? I am very sorry I went into the fellow’s place. I had misgivings about it, and they have been fully borne out.”
“How so?” said Sir Charles, taken aback.
“He has overreached us. I was a deuced fool to sign that paper, and so were you. It was for that that he invited us.”
“Rubbish, my dear boy. It was not his paper, but Donovan Brown’s.”
“I doubt it. Most likely he talked Brown into signing it just as he talked us. I tell you his ways are all crooked, like his ideas. Did you hear how he lied about Miss Lindsay?”
“Oh, you were mistaken about that. He does not care two straws for her or for anyone.”
“Well, if you are satisfied, I am not. You would not be in such high spirits over it if you had taken as little wine as I.”
“Pshaw! you’re too ridiculous. It was capital wine. Do you mean to say I am drunk?”
“No. But you would not have signed if you had not taken that second goblet. If you had not forced me — I could not get out of it after you set the example — I would have seen him d — d sooner than have had anything to do with his petition.”
“I don’t see what harm can come of it,” said Sir Charles, braving out some secret disquietude.
“I will never go into his house again,” said Erskine moodily. “We were just like two flies in a spider’s web.”
Meanwhile,