The Ivory Gate, a new edition

He spoke with a little distress, as if the very thought of the necessary effort troubled him.

'Believe me, my dear Master,' said Elsie, 'I would not vex you. Only for some of the things which you do remember. For instance, the world always wants to know about the private fortunes of its great men. Your own affairs, you told me once, are in the hands of a – Mr. – Mr. – what is his name?'

'Dering – Dering. A very well known solicitor. His office is in New Square, Lincoln's Inn – he manages my money matters. I am, I believe, what the world calls wealthy.'

'That gives you independence and the power of working for Humanity, does it not?'

'It does,' said the Scourge and Destroyer of Property, unconscious of the incongruity. 'Dering, my solicitor, is, I believe, a very honest man. Narrow in his views – wedded to the old school – quite unable to see the advance of the tide. But trustworthy. He belongs to a tribe which is indispensable so long as Property is suffered to exist.'

'Yes – only so long. Property and lawyers will go out hand in hand.'

'And magistrates,' he added with enthusiasm. 'And Courts of Justice and prisons. And criminals, because the chief incentive to crime will be destroyed. What a glorious world without a law, or a lawyer, or a policeman!'

'Mr. Dering, is it? Why, my dear Master, I know something about Mr. Dering. My brother Athelstan was articled to him. He became a managing clerk for him. Then there was trouble about a cheque. Something was wrong about it. He was unjustly blamed or suspected, and he left the House. I wonder, now, whether you could throw any light upon that business of the cheque?'

'I, my dear child? A single solitary cheque at a lawyer's office? How should I possibly know anything about it?'

'Oh! but you might remember this cheque, because, now I think of it, your own name was connected with it. Yes – it was. I am certain it was. The cheque was drawn in March in the year 1882 – a cheque for seven hundred and twenty pounds, payable to your order – the order of Edmund Gray.'

'A cheque for seven hundred and twenty pounds? In March 1882? That must have been: yes – yes – that was about the time. Now, this is really most remarkable, child, most remarkable that you should actually hit upon a cheque – one of thousands issued from that office – which I should remember perfectly. Life is full of coincidences – one is always hearing odd things said, meeting faces which one knows. – Well, it is most remarkable, because I received a cheque for that very amount at that very time from Dering. Oh! I remember perfectly. It was when I had a scheme – I thought it then, being younger than I am now – a very good scheme indeed. It was intended for the gradual destruction of Property. I did not understand at that time so fully as I do now the rising of the tide and the direction of the current which is steadily advancing to overwhelm Property without any feeble efforts on my part. Yet my scheme was good so far as it went, and it might have been started with good effect, but for the apathy of the workers. You see, they were not educated up to it. I had already begun upon my scheme by advancing to certain working men sums which should make them independent of their employers until they should have produced enough to sell directly, without the aid of an employer, at their own co-operative stores. Unfortunately, most of them drank the money: the few who used it properly, instead of backing up their fellow-workmen, became themselves employers, and are now wealthy. Well, I thought I would extend this method. I thought that if I got together a chosen band – say, of seventy or so – and if, after teaching them and educating them a bit, I gave them, say, ten pounds apiece, to tide them over the first few weeks, that I might next open a distributive and co-operative store for them, and so take the first step to abolishing the middle-man – the man of trade.'

'I see; and so you drew the money for that purpose?'

'Yes. But as I told you, I was obliged to abandon my scheme. The men were not sufficiently advanced. They listened; they professed great willingness to receive the money; but they gave me no encouragement to hope that they would carry out my plan. So it fell through. And the men remain to this day with their employers. And so – you see – I never used the money. I remember that I had the cheque cashed in ten-pound notes for the purpose.'

'What became of the notes?'

'I don't know. They are in the Bank, I suppose – wandering about the world. I gave them back to Dering.'

'Oh! my dear Master' – Elsie sprang to her feet and laid a sheet of paper on the table – 'this is most Providential! I cannot tell you what a dreadful cause of trouble this cheque has been to us. It has half ruined my brother's life. For Heaven's sake, write it all down for me. Quick! quick! before you forget it all.'

'I shall not forget it. Nevertheless, Elsie, if a statement of the facts can be of any use to you' – he changed his seat and took up the pen – 'certainly I will write it for you.'

'I am requested,' he wrote, 'by Miss Elsie Arundel, my Scholar, to state what I know of a certain transaction which took place in March 1882. The facts are as follows: I had need of a sum of seven hundred and twenty pounds. For certain purposes I wanted it in ten-pound notes. I asked my agent, Mr. Dering, to give me a cheque; and as I thought that I should want the money immediately, perhaps in an hour or so, I asked him to make it payable to my order, and not to cross the cheque. He drew the cheque and gave it to me in his office. I then went to the hotel where I was stopping – a place in Arundel Street, Strand, and sent a commissionaire to the Bank for the money. He brought it, as I had requested, in ten-pound notes. In a few days I discovered that my plan could not be even commenced without the greatest danger of defeating its own object. I therefore took the notes to Mr. Dering's office and placed them in his safe. I suppose that he has long since returned them to the Bank.'

'There, child,' he said, reading this statement aloud. 'That is what I recollect about this matter.'

'Sign it.' Elsie gave him the pen again. 'Sign it, dear Master. – Oh! thanks – thanks a thousand times! You don't know – oh! you will never know or understand – I hope – how precious this document will be for me' – she folded the paper in an envelope and placed it in her handbag – 'and for my people – my brother and all. Oh! my dear Master.' She stooped and kissed his hand, to hide the tears in her eyes. Athelstan's name was safe now whatever happened. He would be completely cleared at last.

'Why, my dear Scholar – my dear daughter.' Mr. Edmund Gray was moved himself almost to tears at this unexpected burst of feeling. 'As if there was anything I would not do for you if I could. I, who have never loved any woman before, love one now. She is my daughter – my grandchild. – So your brother will be helped by this little reminiscence – will he? Actually, your brother! I wonder if there is anything more that I could remember for you in this uneventful life of mine.'

'Oh no! – that would be too much to hope. Yet there is a chance – just a chance. I wonder if I may tell you. There is still time before us. If we are at the Hall by six we shall do very well. It is no more than half-past four. Shall I tell you the trouble? Oh! But it is a shame. And you with this great work laid upon you! No – no – I must not.' Oh! Delilah! oh! Circe! for she looked as if, in spite of her unwilling words, she wanted to tell it very badly indeed.

'Nay, my dear. You must, and you shall. – What? You are in trouble, and you will not tell me what it is. You – my Scholar – my clear-eyed disciple, who can see what these dull creatures of clay around us can never understand – you are in trouble, and you hesitate to tell me? – Fie! fie! Speak now. Tell me all.'

'I have told you that I have a lover, and that I am engaged to be married.'

'Yes – yes. His name, too, you have told me. It is George – George Austin. There were Austins once – I seem to remember – but that does not matter.'

'We are to be married on Wednesday.'

'So soon? But you have promised that I shall not lose my pupil.'

'No, dear Master. As soon as we come back from our holiday, I will come and see you again and learn of you. Do not doubt that. I can never again let you go out of my life. I shall bring my – my husband with me.'

'If I thought your marriage would take you away from me, I should be the most unhappy of men. But I will spare you for a month – two months – as long as you please. Now, tell me what is on your mind.'

'George was one of Mr. Dering's managing clerks – your Mr. Dering, you know.' – Mr. Edmund Gray nodded gravely. 'He had no money when we were engaged, and we thought that we were going to be quite a poor and humble pair. But a great piece of good fortune happened to him, for Mr. Dering made him a Partner.'

'Did he? Very lucky for your friend. But I always thought that Dering ought to have a Partner. At his age it was only prudent – necessary, even.'

'So we were made very happy; and I thought we were the luckiest couple in the world. But just then there was a discovery made at the office – a very singular discovery – I hardly know how to describe it, because it is not quite clear to me even yet. It was concerned with the buying or selling or transfer of certain stocks and shares and coupons and that kind of thing. Mr. Dering seems not to remember having signed the papers concerned. There is a fear that they are in wrong hands. There is a suspicion of forgery even. I am ashamed even to mention such a thing to you, but my lover's name has been connected with the business; and Dering's clerk, Checkley – you know Checkley?' —

'Certainly – Dering's old servant.'

'Has openly charged George – on no evidence, to be sure – of having forged the letters or of having assisted in the forgery.'

'This is very serious.'

'It is very serious; but we do not intend to let the thing interfere with our wedding. Only, unless I can remove the last ray of suspicion before Wednesday, we shall spend our honeymoon at home, in order to watch the case from day to day.'

'Buying or selling stocks? Dering would be constantly doing that.'

'It appears that these transactions were the only things of the kind that he has done this year. That is to say, he denies having done these.'

'Well – as for these having been the only transactions of the kind, he managed a good bit of such business for me this last spring.'

'Did he? Do you remember the details of that business?'

'Clearly. It was only yesterday, so to speak.'

'Was it the purchase or transfer of stock or shares?'

'Certainly. To a very large amount. I have told you about my Industrial Village, have I not? The Village where all are to be equal – all are to work for a certain time every day, and no longer – all are to be paid in rations and clothes and houses, and there is to be no private property – my Ideal Village.'

'I know. A lovely Village.'

'It was early in the spring that I finished my designs for it. Then it occurred to me that it would be well if, instead of always going to my lawyer for money, I had a large sum at my command lying at my Bank. So I instructed Dering to transfer to my name a great quantity of stocks lying in his name. He was a trustee or a – well – it is rather unusual, but I like having all my business affairs managed for me, and – But this will not interest you' – this with the look of irritation or bewilderment which sometimes passed over his face. 'The important thing is that it was done, and that my Bank received those transfers, and has instructions to receive the dividends.'

'Oh! And has all the papers, I suppose?'

'It had them. But I thought that perhaps my old friend might think it looked like want of confidence if I left them there, so I sent for them, and took them to his office. They are now in the safe. I put them there myself with my own hand; or he did with his own hand – I forget. Sometimes – it is very odd – when I think of things done at that office, I seem to have done it myself; and sometimes I think that he did it. Not that it matters.'

'Not at all. The papers are actually in the safe again?'

'Certainly. I – that is – he – he or I – put them there.'

'Oh! my dear Master' – Elsie clapped her hands – 'this is even more important than the other. You do not know – you cannot guess – what mischiefs you are able to stop. If I had only been able to talk to you about these things before! The paper you have already written is for my brother. Now sit down, my Master, and write another that will do for me.'

'I will do anything you ask me – and everything. But as for this, why not ask Dering? His memory never fails. His mind is like a box which holds everything and can never be filled. Perhaps he would not like these private affairs – as between solicitor and client – to be talked about.'

'We cannot go to Mr. Dering. There are certain reasons which would not interest you. All we want is a clear, straightforward statement, an exact statement of what happened. Sit down now and write me a full account of each transaction.'

'Certainly; if it will be of the least use to you.'

'Early in the present year,' he began, 'I found that my plan of an Industrial Village if it was to be carried into effect would want all the money I could command. It occurred to me that it would be well to transfer a certain sum from the hands of my agent, and to place it in my own Bank ready to hand. I began then, in March, with a sum of six thousand pounds, which Dering, by my instructions, handed over to my Bank in the form of shares and stocks. I believe they were transfers of certain stocks held by him in his own name, but forming part of my fortune – my large private fortune. The Bank was instructed to receive the dividends on that sum. A month or so later I obtained from Dering other stock to the value of twelve thousand pounds, the papers of which were also given to my Bank. And after that I took out papers representing twenty thousand pounds; so that I had in my hands, ready to be sold out and used at a moment's notice, no less than thirty-eight thousand pounds. All this money I intended to devote to my Industrial Village. The scheme is still one in which I put my whole confidence. But it has not yet been carried into effect, in consequence of the difficulty of finding working men equal to the situation. They understand working for the man who has the money; they do not understand working for the man who has none, that is for each other and for themselves. For my own part I could only find working men of that stamp. Perhaps I am too much in the study. I do not go about enough among working men. There must be some advanced to my stage of development. – Well, for want of men, I could not start my Village, and I have not used the money. As for the papers, I have taken them out of the Bank and placed them in Dering's safe.'

Elsie looked over his shoulder, reading every word. 'The letters which Mr. Dering wrote to the stockbroker in accordance with your instructions. They were written for him – perhaps – by you. It is unusual, but – '

'I told you,' he replied sharply. 'What is the use of saying things twice? There are some things which confuse a man. I wrote them – he wrote them – he acted for me – or I acted for myself. What matter? The end is as I have written down for you. – Now, will this paper be of any use to you?'

'Of the greatest use. Please sign it, dear Master.'

He obeyed, and signed 'Edmund Gray.'

'There is one thing more.' Elsie saw in his face signs of disquiet, and hastened on. 'You have got your Bank book here?'

'Yes. The Manager sent it here with an impertinent note about references, which I have sent on to Dering. – What do you want with the Bank book? It is in one of those drawers. See – here it is – cheque book too.'

'If I were you, Master, I would have no more trouble about the money. You have given Mr. Dering the transfers and papers – why not give him back the money as well? Do not be bothered with money matters. It is of all things important to you to be free from all kinds of business and money matters. Who ever heard of a Prophet drawing a cheque? You sit here and work and meditate. You go to the Hall of Science and teach. It is the business of your friends to see that all your necessities are properly supplied. – Now, if you will in these minor matters suffer your friends to advise – '

'Surely. I ask for nothing else.'

'Then, dear Master, here is your cheque book and here your Bank book. Draw a cheque payable to the order of Edward Dering for all the money that is lying here – I see it is seven hundred and twenty-three pounds five shillings and threepence. – I will take care of the cheque – so. – Oh! you have signed Edward Dering – careless Master! Draw another – now sign it Edmund Gray. – That will do. – And you had better at the same time write a letter to the Bank asking the Manager in future to receive the dividends for the account of Mr. Dering. I will write the letter, and you shall sign it. Now – no – no – not Edward Dering – Edmund Gray. Your thoughts are wandering. – There! – Now, dear Master, you are free from everything that might trouble you.'

The Master pushed back the blotting-pad with impatience, and rose from the chair. Elsie took possession of the signed cheques, the cheque book, the Bank book, and the letter. She had all – the statement in Edmund Gray's own handwriting-all – all – that was wanted to clear up the business from the beginning to the end. She put everything together in her handbag. She glanced at her companion: she perceived that his face was troubled. 'I wish,' he said fretfully, 'that you had not worried me with those questions about the past. They disturb me. The current of my thoughts is checked. I am full of Dering and his office and his safe – his safe – and all – '

Elsie trembled. His face was changing – in a minute he would have returned to Mr. Dering, and she would have had to explain. 'Master,' she cried, laying her hand upon his arm, 'think. We are going to the Hall of Science – your Hall of Science – yours. The people are waiting for their Prophet. You are to address them. To-night you must surpass yourself, because there are strangers coming. Tell us – once again – all over again – of that world where there is no crime, no suffering, no iniquity, no sin, no sorrow – where there are no poor creatures deprived by a cruel social order of liberty, of leisure, of comfort, of virtue, of everything – poor wretches born only to toil and to endure. Think of them. Speak for them. Plan for them. Make our hearts burn within us for shame and rage. Oh, Master' – for his face was troubled still and doubtful, as if he was hovering on the border-land between himself and his other self – 'no one can speak to them like you; no one has your power of speech: make them feel that new world – make them see it – actually see it with their earthly eyes – make them feel it in their hearts.'

'Child' – he sighed; his face fell back into repose – 'you comfort me. I was falling – before you came to me I often used to fall – into a fit of gloom – I don't know why. Something irritates me; something jars; something awakens a feeling as if I ought to remember – remember – what? I do not know. – I am better now. Your voice, my dear, at such a moment is to me like the sound of David's harp to Saul. It chases away the shadows. Oh! I am better already. I am well. If you want to ask any other questions, do so. As for those transactions – they are perfectly correct in form and everything. I cannot for the life of me understand why Dering, who is a practical man – '

'Never mind Dering, my dear Master – or those transactions. Think only of the world of the New Humanity. Leave the transactions and the papers to me. I hope that you will never find out why they were wanted, or how they were to be used. – Now let us start. We shall be in excellent time.'

The Hall of Science was half full of people – the usual gathering – those who came every Sunday evening and took the simple feast of fraternity. The table was spread with the white cloth, on which were laid out the toast and muffins, the ham and shrimps, and bread and butter and watercress; and on the appearance of the Chief, the tea was brought up, and they all sat down. Now, it had been observed by all that since the adhesion of this young lady the Leader's discourses had been much more confident, his manner had been clearer, his points more forcibly put. This was because, for the first time, he had had an opportunity of discussing his own doctrines with a mind able to follow him. Nothing so valuable to a teacher of new things as a sympathetic woman for listener and disciple. Witness the leading example of the Prophet Mohammed. Also, their leader had never before been so cheerful – so hopeful – so full of life and youth and spring. He was young again: he talked like a young man, though his hair was gray. This was because he loved a woman, for the first time in his life: he called it paternal affection: whatever kind of love it was, it worked in him the same miracle that love always works in man – young or old – it gave him back the fire of youth.

This evening he sat at the head of the table dispensing his simple hospitality with a geniality and a heartiness unknown before the arrival of this young lady. He talked, meantime, in the lofty vein, above the style and manner common to his hearers, but not above their comprehension; he spoke of a higher life attainable by man at his best, when the victory over nature should be complete, and every force should be subdued and made slave to man, and all diseases should be swept away, and the Perfect man should stand upon the earth at last, Lord and Master of all – Adamus Redivivus. When that time should come, there would be no Property, of course; everything was to be in common; but the new life would be full of love and joy; there would be long-continued youth, so that none should be made to rise from the feast unsatisfied; nay, it seemed to this Dreamer that everyone should continue at the feast as long as he pleased, till he was satiated and desired a change. Long-continued youth; all were to be young, and to keep young; the girls were to be beautiful and the men strong; he pronounced – he – the hermit – the anchorite – the celibate who knew not love – a eulogy on the beauty of women: and he mourned over those men who miss their share of love.

The hearts of those who heard were uplifted, for this man had the mesmeric faculty of compelling those who heard him to feel what he wanted them to feel. Most of them had been accustomed to regard their Leader as a man of benevolent manners but austere principles. Now he was tender and human, full of sympathy even with those weak vessels who fall in love, and for the sake of love are content to be all their lives slaves – yea, even slaves to Property.

After tea, the tables being cleared, the Chief pronounced his weekly address or sermon. It was generally a discourse on the principles, which all professed, of equality and the abolition of Property. To-night, he carried on the theme on which he had spoken at tea-time, and discoursed on the part which should be played by Love in the New Humanity. Never before had he spoken so convincingly. Never had orator an audience more in sympathy with him.

Shortly after the beginning of the address, there arrived two gentlemen, young and well dressed, who sat down modestly just within the door and listened. The people turned and looked at them with interest. They were not quite the kind of young man peculiar to the street or to the quarter.

When the lecture was over and the audience crowded together to talk before they separated, Elsie slipped across to the new-comers and led them to the lecturer. 'Master,' she said, 'this is my brother Athelstan.'

Mr. Edmund Gray shook hands with him. 'Why, Elsie,' he said, 'your brother and I have met already in Gray's Inn.'

'And this is my friend George Austin, Partner of Mr. Dering.'

'Mr. Austin,' said Mr. Edmund Gray, 'I am glad to meet the man who is about to enter into the most sacred of all bonds with one whom I venture to love, sir, as much as you yourself can do, though I love her as my daughter, and you love her as your bride. You will be the happiest of men. Take care, sir, that you deserve your happiness.'

'This day,' said Elsie, 'you have rendered us all such a service as can never be acknowledged, or repaid, or forgotten. Yet we hope and pray that somehow you will never understand how great it is.'