The Nether World Page 39

  Sidney was in anything but a mood to detect this little lapse in his visitor. He gave John a chair, but could not sit still himself. The garret was a spacious one, and whilst talking he moved from wall to wall.

  ‘You know that I saw Clara last night? She told me she should mention it to you.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I was afraid she’d never have made up her mind to it. It was the best way for you to see her alone first, poor girl! You won’t mind comin’ to us now, like you used?’

  ‘Did she tell you what she wished to speak to me about?’

  ‘Why, no, she hasn’t. Was there—anything particular?’

  ‘She feels the time very heavy on her hands. It seems you don’t like the thought of her looking for employment?’

  John rose from his chair and grasped the back of it.

  ‘You ain’t a-goin’ to encourage her to leave us? It ain’t that you was talkin’ about, Sidney?’

  ‘Leave you? Why, where should she go?’

  ‘No, no; it’s all right; so long as you wasn’t thinkin’ of her goin’ away again. See, Sidney, I ain’t got nothing to say against it, if she can find some kind of job for home. I know as the time must hang heavy. There she sit, poor thing! from mornin’ to night, an’ can’t get her thoughts away from herself. It’s easy enough to understand, ain’t it? I took a book home for her the other day, but she didn’t seem to care about it. There she sit, with her poor face on her hands, thinkin’ and thinkin’. It breaks my heart to see her. I’d rather she had some work, but she mustn’t go away from home for it.’

  Sidney took a few steps in silence.

  ‘You don’t misunderstand me,’ resumed the other, with suddenness. ‘You don’t think as I won’t trust her away from me. If she went, it ‘ud be because she thinks herself a burden—as if I wouldn’t gladly live on a crust for my day’s food an’ spare her goin’ among strangers! You can think yourself what it ‘ud be to her, Sidney. No, no, it mustn’t be nothing o’ that kind. But I can’t ear to see her livin’ as she does; it’s no life at all. I sit with her when I get back home at night, an’ I’m glad to say she seems to find it a pleasure to have me by her; but it’s the only bit o’ pleasure she gets, an’ there’s all the hours whilst I’m away. You see she don’t take much to Mrs. Eagles; that ain’t her sort of friend. Not as she’s got any pride left about her, poor girl don’t think that. I tell you, Sidney, she’s a dear good girl to her old father. If I could only see her a bit happier, I’d never grumble again as long as I lived, I wouldn’t!’

  Is there such a thing in this world as speech that has but one simple interpretation, one for him who utters it and for him who hears? Honester words were never spoken than these in which Hewett strove to represent Clara in a favourable light, and to show the pitifulness of her situation; yet he himself was conscious that they implied a second meaning, and Sidney was driven restlessly about the room by his perception of the same lurking motive in their pathos. John felt half-ashamed of himself when he ceased; it was a new thing for him to be practising subtleties with a view to his own ends. But had he said a word more than the truth?

  I suppose it was the association of contrast that turned Sidney’s thoughts to Joseph Snowdon. At all events it was of him he was thinking in the silence that followed. Which silence having been broken by a tap at the door, oddly enough there stood Joseph himself. Hewett, taken by surprise, showed embarrassment and awkwardness; it was always hard for him to reconcile his present subordination to Mr. Snowdon with the familiar terms on which they had been not long ago.

  ‘Ah, you here, Hewett!’ exclaimed Joseph, in a genial tone, designed to put the other at his ease. ‘I just wanted a word with our friend. Never mind; some other time.’

  For all that, he did not seem disposed to withdraw, but stood with a hand on the door, smiling. Sidney, having nodded to him, walked the length of the room, his head bent and his hands behind him.

  ‘Suppose I look in u bit later,’ said Hewett. ‘Or tomorrow night, Sidney?’

  ‘Very well, to-morrow night.’

  John took his leave, and on the visitor who remained Sidney turned a face almost of anger. Mr. Snowdon seated himself, supremely indifferent to the inconvenience he had probably caused. He seemed in excellent humour.

  ‘Decent fellow, Hewett,’ he observed, putting up one leg against the fireplace. ‘Very decent fellow. He’s getting old, unfortunately. Had a good deal of trouble, I understand; it breaks a man up.’

  Sidney scowled, and said nothing.

  ‘I thought I’d stay, as I was here,’ continued Joseph, unbuttoning his respectable overcoat and throwing it open. ‘There was something rather particular I had in mind. Won’t you sit down?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Joseph glanced at him, and smiled all the more.

  ‘I’ve had a little talk with the old man about Jane. By-the-by, I’m sorry to say he’s very shaky; doesn’t look himself at all. I didn’t know you had spoken to him quite so—you know what I mean. It seems to be his idea that everything’s at an end between you.’

  ‘Perhaps so.’

  ‘Well, now, look here. You won’t mind me just—Do you think it was wise to put it in that way to him? I’m afraid you’re making him feel just a little uncertain about you. I’m speaking as a friend, you know. In your own interest, Kirkwood. Old men get queer ideas into their heads. You know, he might begin to think that you had some sort of—eh?’

  It was not the second, nor yet the third, time that Joseph had looked in and begun to speak in this scrappy way, continuing the tone of that dialogue in which he had assumed a sort of community of interest between Kirkwood and himself. But the limit of Sidney’s endurance was reached.

  ‘There’s no knowing,’ he exclaimed, ‘what anyone may think of me, if people who have their own ends to serve go spreading calumnies. Let us understand each other, and have done with it. I told Mr. Snowdon that I could never be anything but a friend to Jane. I said it, and I meant it. If you’ve any doubt remaining, in a few days I hope it’ll be removed. What your real wishes maybe I don’t know, and I shall never after this have any need to know. I can’t help speaking in this way, and I want to tell you once for all that there shall never again be a word about Jane between us. Wait a day or two, and you’ll know the reason.’

  Joseph affected an air of gravity—of offended dignity.

  ‘That’s rather a queer sort of way to back out of your engagements, Kirkwood. I won’t say anything about myself, but with regard to my daughter—’

  ‘What do you mean by speaking like that?’ cried the young man, sternly. ‘You know very well that it’s what you wish most of all, to put an end to everything between your daughter and me! You’ve succeeded; be satisfied. If you’ve anything to say to me on any other subject, say it. If not, please let’s have done for the present. I don’t feel in a mood for beating about the bush any longer.’

  ‘You’ve misunderstood me altogether, Kirkwood,’ said Joseph, unable to conceal a twinkle of satisfaction in his eyes.

  ‘No; I’ve understood you perfectly well—too well. I don’t want to hear another word on the subject, and I won’t. It’s over; understand that.’

  ‘Well, well; you’re a bit out of sorts. I’ll say good-bye for the present.’

  He retired, and for a long time Sidney sat in black brooding.

  John Hewett did not fail to present himself next evening. As he entered the room he was somewhat surprised at the cheerful aspect with which Sidney met him; the grasp which his hand received seemed to have a significance. Sidney, after looking at him steadily, asked if he had not been home.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been home. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Hadn’t Clara anything to tell you?’

  ‘No. What is it?’

  ‘Did she know you were coming here?’

  ‘Why, yes; I mentioned it.’

  Sidney again regarded him fixedly, with a smile.

  ‘I suppose she preferred that I sho
uld tell you. I looked in at the Buildings this afternoon, and had a talk with Clara.’

  John hung upon his words, with lips slightly parted, with a trembling in the hairs of his grey beard.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘I had something to ask her, so I went when she was likely to be alone. It’s a long while ago since I asked her the question for the first time—but I’ve got the right answer at last.’

  John stared at him in pathetic agitation.

  ‘You mean to tell me you’ve asked Clara to marry you?’

  ‘There’s nothing very dreadful in that, I should think.’

  ‘Give us your hand again! Sidney Kirkwood, give us your hand again! If there’s a good-hearted man in this world, if there’s a faithful, honest man, as only lives to do kindness—What am I to say to you? It’s too much for me. I can’t find a word as I’d wish to speak. Stand out and let’s look at you. You make me as I can’t neither speak nor see—I’m just like a child—’

  He broke down utterly, and shook with the choking struggle of laughter and sobs. His emotion affected Sidney, who looked pale and troubled in spite of the smile still clinging feebly about his lips.

  ‘If it makes you glad to hear it,’ said the young man, in an uncertain voice, ‘I’m all the more glad myself, on that account.’

  ‘Makes me glad? That’s no word for it, boy; that’s no word for it! Give us your hand again. I feel as if I’d ought to go down on my old knees and crave your pardon. If only she could have lived to see this, the poor woman as died when things was at their worst! If I’d only listened to her there’d never have been them years of unfriendliness between us. You’ve gone on with one kindness after another, but this is more than I could ever a’ thought possible. Why, I took it for certain as you was goin’ to marry that other young girl; they told me as it was all settled.’

  ‘A mistake.’

  ‘I’d never have dared to hope it, Sidney. The one thing as I wished more than anything else on earth, and I couldn’t think ever to see it. Glad’s no word for what I feel. And to think as my girl kep’ it from me! Yes, yes; there was something on her face; I remember it now. “I’m just goin’ round to have a word with Sidney,” I says. “Are you, father?” she says. “Don’t stay too long.” And she had a sort o’ smile I couldn’t quite understand. She’ll be a good wife to you, Sidney. Her heart’s softened to all as she used to care for. She’ll be a good and faithful wife to you as long as she lives. But I must go back home and speak to her. There ain’t a man livin’, let him be as rich as he may, that feels such happiness as you’ve given me to-night.’

  He went stumbling down the stairs, and walked homewards at a great speed, so that when he reached the Buildings he had to wipe his face and stand for a moment before beginning the ascent. The children were at their home lessons; he astonished them by flinging his hat mirthfully on to the table.

  ‘Now then, father!’ cried young Tom, the eight-year-old, whose pen was knocked out of his hand.

  With a chuckle John advanced to Clara’s room. As he closed the door behind him she rose. His face was mottled; there were tear-stains about his eyes, and he had a wild, breathless look.

  ‘An’ you never told me! You let me go without half a word!’

  Clara put her hands upon his shoulders and kissed him. ‘I didn’t quite know whether it was true or not, father.’

  ‘My darling! My dear girl! Come an’ sit on my knee, like you used to when you was a little ‘un. I’m a rough old father for such as you, but nobody’ll never love you better than I do, an’ always have done. So he’s been faithful to you, for all they said. There ain’t a better man livin’! “It’s a long time since I first asked the question,” he says, “but she’s give me the right answer at last.” And he looks that glad of it.’

  ‘He does? You’re sure he does?’

  ‘Sure? Why, you should a’ seen him when I went into the room! There’s nothing more as I wish for now. I only hope I may live a while longer, to see you forget all your troubles, my dear. He’ll make you happy, will Sidney; he’s got a deal more education than anyone else I ever knew, and you’ll suit each other. But you won’t forget all about your old father? You’ll let me come an’ have a talk with you now and then, my dear, just you an’ me together, you know?’

  ‘I shall love you and be grateful to you always, father. You’ve kept a warm heart for me all this time.’

  ‘I couldn’t do nothing else, Clara; you’ve always been what I loved most, and you always will be.’

  ‘If I hadn’t had you to come back to, what would have become of me?’

  ‘We’ll never think of that. We’ll never speak another word of that.’

  ‘Father—Oh, if I had my face again! If I had my own face!’

  A great anguish shook her; she lay in his arms and sobbed. It was the farewell, even in her fulness of heart and deep sense of consolation, to all she had most vehemently desired, Gratitude and self-pity being indivisible in her emotions, she knew not herself whether the ache of regret or the soothing restfulness of deliverance made her tears flow. But at least there was no conscious duplicity, and for the moment no doubt that she had found her haven. It is a virtuous world, and our frequent condemnations are invariably based on justice; will it be greatly harmful if for once we temper our righteous judgment with ever so little mercy?

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  A FALL FROM THE IDEAL

  Joseph Snowdon waxed daily in respectability. He was, for one thing, clothing himself in flesh, and, though still anything but a portly man, bore himself as becomes one who can indulge a taste for eating and drinking; his step was more deliberate, he no longer presented the suppleness of limb that so often accompanies a needy condition in the man of wits, he grew attentive to his personal equipment, he was always well combed and well shaven, and generally, in hours of leisure, you perceived a fragrance breathing from his handkerchief. Nor was this refinement addressed only to the public. To Clem he behaved with a correctness which kept that lady in a state of acute suspicion; not seldom he brought her a trifling gift, which he would offer with compliments, and he made a point of consulting her pleasure or convenience in all matters that affected them in common. A similar dignity of bearing marked his relations with Hanover Street. When he entered Jane’s parlour it was with a beautiful blending of familiarity and courtesy; he took his daughter’s hand with an air of graceful affection, retaining it for a moment between his own, and regarding her with a gentle smile which hinted the pride of a parent. In speaking with the old man he habitually subdued his voice, respectfully bending forward, solicitously watching the opportunity of a service. Michael had pleasure in his company and conversation. Without overdoing it, Joseph accustomed himself to speak of philanthropic interests. He propounded a scheme for supplying the poor with a certain excellent filter at a price all but nominal; who did not know the benefit to humble homes of pure water for use as a beverage? The filter was not made yet, but Lake, Snowdon, & Co., had it under their consideration.

  Michael kept his room a good deal in these wretched days of winter, so that Joseph had no difficulty in obtaining private interviews with his daughter. Every such occasion he used assiduously, his great end being to possess himself of Jane’s confidence. He did not succeed quite so well with the girl as with her grandfather; there was always a reserve in her behaviour which as yet he found it impossible to overcome. Observation led him to conclude that much of this arose from the view she took of his relations with Sidney Kirkwood. Jane was in love with Sidney; on that point he could have no doubt; and in all likelihood she regarded him as unfriendly to Sidney’s suit—women are so shrewd in these affairs. Accordingly, Joseph made it his business by artful degrees to remove this prepossession from her mind. In the course of this endeavour he naturally pressed into his service the gradually discovered fact that Sidney had scruples of conscience regarding Jane’s fortune. Marvellous as it appeared to him, he had all but come to the conclusion that this was a fact
. Now, given Jane’s character, which he believed he had sounded; given her love for Kirkwood, which was obviously causing her anxiety and unhappiness; Joseph saw his way to an admirable piece of strategy. What could be easier, if he played his cards well and patiently enough, than to lead Jane to regard the fortune as her most threatening enemy? Valuable results might come of that, whether before or after the death of the old man.

  The conversation in which he first ventured to strike this note undisguisedly took place on the same evening as that unpleasant scene when Sidney as good as quarrelled with him—the evening before the day on which Sidney asked Clara Hewett to be his wife. Having found Jane alone, he began to talk in his most paternal manner, his chair very near hers, his eyes fixed on her sewing. And presently, when the ground was prepared: