The Nether World Page 46

  ‘I’m sure you oughtn’t to go there to-day,’ was Bessie’s opinion. ‘You’ve quite enough trouble of your own, my dear.’

  ‘And that’s just what I was a-sayin’, mum,’ assented Mrs. Griffin, who had won Bessie’s highest opinion by her free use of respectful forms of address. ‘I never saw no one look iller, as you may say, than the young lady.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will go,’ said Jane, rising. ‘My trouble’s nothing to hers. Oh, I shall go at once.’

  ‘But remember your father’s coming at half-past nine,’ urged Bessie, ‘and he said he wanted to speak to you particular.’

  ‘What is the time now? A quarter to nine. I can be back by half-past, I think, and then I can go again. Father wouldn’t mind waiting a few minutes. I must go at once, Mrs. Byass.’

  She would hear no objection, and speedily left the house in Mrs. Griffin’s company.

  At half-past nine, punctually, Mr. Snowdon’s double knock sounded at the door. Joseph looked more respectable than ever in his black frock-coat and silk hat with the deep band. His bow to Mrs. Byass was solemn, but gallant; he pressed her fingers like a clergyman paying a visit of consolation, and in a subdued voice made affectionate inquiry after his daughter.

  ‘She has slept, I hope, poor child?’

  Bessie took him into the sitting-room, and explained Jane’s absence.

  ‘A good girl; a good girl,’ he remarked, after listening with elevated brows, ‘But she must be careful of her health. My visit this morning is on matters of business; no doubt she will tell you the principal points of our conversation afterwards. An excellent friend you have been to her, Mrs. Byass—excellent.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t see how anyone could help liking her,’ said Bessie, inwardly delighted with the expectation of hearing at length what Jane’s circumstances really were.

  ‘Indeed, so good a friend,’ pursued Joseph, ‘that I’m afraid it would distress her if she could no longer live with you. And the fact is’—he bent forward and smiled sadly—’I’m sure I may speak freely to you, Mrs. Byass—but the fact is, that I’m very doubtful indeed whether she could be happy if she lived with Mrs. Snowdon. I suppose there’s always more or less difficulty where step-children are concerned, and in this case—well, I fear the incompatibility would be too great. To be sure, it places me in a difficult position. Jane’s very young—very young; only just turned seventeen, poor child! Out of the question for her to live with strangers. I had some hopes—I wonder whether I ought to speak of it? You know Mr. Kirkwood?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I can’t tell you how surprised I was, Mr. Snowdon. And there seems to be such a mystery about it, too.’

  Bessie positively glowed with delight in such confidential talk. It was her dread that Jane’s arrival might put an end to it before everything was revealed.

  ‘A mystery, you may well say, Mrs. Byass. I think highly of Mr. Kirkwood, very highly; but really in this affair! It’s almost too painful to talk about—to you.’

  Bessie blushed, as becomes the Englishwoman of mature years when she is gracefully supposed to be ignorant of all it most behoves her to know.

  ‘Well, well; he is on the point of marrying a young person with whom I should certainly not like my daughter to associate—fortunately there is little chance of that. You were never acquainted with Miss Hewett?’

  ‘Ye—yes. A long time ago.’

  ‘Well, well; we must be charitable. You know that she is dreadfully disfigured?’

  ‘Disfigured? Jane didn’t say a word about that. She only told me that Mr. Kirkwood was going to marry her, and I didn’t like to ask too many questions. I hadn’t even heard as she was at home.’

  Joseph related to her the whole story, whilst Bessie fidgeted with satisfaction.

  ‘I thought,’ he added, ‘that you could perhaps throw some light on the mystery. We can only suppose that Kirkwood has acted from the highest motives, but I really think—well, well, we won’t talk of it any more. I was led to this subject from speaking of this poor girl’s position. I wonder whether it will be possible for her to continue to live in your friendly care Mrs. Byass?’

  ‘Oh, I shall be only too glad, Mr. Snowdon!’

  ‘Now how kind that is of you! Of course she wouldn’t want more than two rooms.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Joseph was going further into details, when a latch-key was heard opening the front door. Jane entered hurriedly. The rapid walk had brought colour to her check; in her simple mourning attire she looked very interesting, very sweet and girlish. She had been shedding tears, and it was with unsteady voice that she excused herself for keeping her father waiting.

  ‘Never mind that, my dear,’ replied Joseph, as he kissed her cheek. ‘You have been doing good—unselfish as always. Sit down and rest; you must be careful not to over-exert yourself.’

  Bessie busied herself affectionately in removing Jane’s hat and jacket, then withdrew that father and child might converse in private. Joseph looked at his daughter. His praise of her was not all mere affectation of sentiment. He had spoken truly when he said to Scawthorne that, but for Clem, he would ask nothing better than to settle down with this gentle girl for his companion. Selfishness, for the most part, but implying appreciation of her qualities. She did not love him, but he was sincere enough with himself to admit that this was perfectly natural. Had circumstances permitted, he would have tried hard to win some affection from her. Poor little girl! How would it affect her when she heard what he was going to say? He felt angry with Kirkwood; yes, truly indignant—men are capable of greater inconsistencies than this. She would not have cared much about the money had Kirkwood married her; of that he felt sure. She had lost her lover; now he was going to deprive her of her inheritance. Cruel! Yes; but he really felt so well-disposed to her, so determined to make her a comfortable provision for the future; and had the money been hers, impossible to have regarded her thus. Joseph was thankful to the chance which, in making him wealthy, had also enabled him to nourish such virtuous feeling.

  How should he begin? He had a bright idea, an idea worthy of him. Thrusting his hand into his pocket he brought out half-a-crown. Then:

  ‘Your humble friend’s in a sad condition, I’m afraid, Jane?’

  ‘She is, father.’

  ‘Suppose you give her this! Every little helps, you know.’

  Jane received the coin and murmured thanks for his kindness, but could not help betraying some surprise. Joseph was on the watch for this. It gave him his exquisite opportunity.

  ‘You’re surprised at me offering you money, Jane? I believe your poor grandfather led you to suppose that—that his will was made almost entirely in your favour?’

  Jane could not reply; she searched his face.

  ‘Would it disappoint you very much, my child,’ he continued, sympathetically, ‘if it turned out that he had either’ altered his mind or by some accident had neglected to make his will? I speak as your father, Janey, and I think I have some knowledge of your character. I think I know that you are as free from avarice as anyone could be.’

  Was it true? he began to ask himself. Why, then, had her countenance fallen? Why did such a look of deep distress pass over it?

  ‘The fact is, Janey,’ he continued, hardening himself a little as he noted her expression, ‘your grandfather left no will. The result—the legal result—of that is, that all his property becomes—ah—mine. He—in fact he destroyed his will a very short time, comparatively speaking, before he died, and he neglected to make another. Unfortunately, you see, under these circumstances we can’t be sure what his wish was.’

  She was deadly pale; there was anguish in the look with which she regarded her father.

  ‘I’m very sorry it pains you so, my dear,’ Joseph remarked, still more coldly. ‘I didn’t think you were so taken up with the thought of money. Really, Jane, a young girl at your time of life—’

  ‘Father, father, how can you think that? It wasn’t to be for m
yself; I thought you knew; indeed you did know!’

  ‘But you looked so very strange, my dear. Evidently you felt—’

  ‘Yes—I feel it—I do feel it! But because it means that grandfather couldn’t get back his trust in me. Oh, it is too hard! When did he destroy his will? When, father?’

  ‘Ten days before his death.’

  ‘Yes; that was when it happened. You never heard; he promised to tell nobody. I disappointed him. I showed myself very foolish and weak in—in something that happened then. I made grandfather think that I was too selfish to live as he hoped—that I couldn’t do what I’d undertaken. That was why he destroyed his will. And I thought he had forgiven me! I thought he trusted me again! O grandfather!’

  Snowdon was astonished at the explanation of his own good luck, and yet more at Jane’s display of feeling. So quiet, so reserved as he had always known her, she seemed to have become another person. For some moments he could only gaze at her in wonder. Never yet had he heard, never again would he hear, the utterance of an emotion so profound and so noble.

  ‘Jane—try and control yourself, my dear. Let’s talk it over, Jane.’

  ‘I feel as if it would break my heart. I thought I had that one thing to comfort me. It’s like losing him again—losing his confidence. To think I should have disappointed him in just what he hoped more than anything!’

  ‘But you’re mistaken,’ Joseph exclaimed, a generous feeling for once getting the better of prudence. ‘Listen, my dear, and I’ll explain to you. I hadn’t finished when you interrupted me.’

  She clasped her hands upon her lap and gazed at him in eager appeal.

  ‘Did he say anything to you, father?’

  ‘No—and you may be quite sure that if he hasn’t trusted you, he would have said something. What’s more, on the very day before his death he wrote a letter to Mr. Percival, to say that he wanted to make his will again. He was going to do it on the Monday—there now. It was only an accident; he hadn’t time to do what he wished.’

  This was making a concession which he had expressly resolved to guard against; but Joseph’s designs ripened, lost their crudity, as he saw more and more of his daughter’s disposition. He was again grateful to her; she had made things smoother than he could have hoped.

  ‘You really think, father, that he would have made the same will as before?’

  ‘Not a doubt about it, my love; not a doubt of it. In fact—now let me set your poor little mind at rest—only two days before his death—when was it I saw him last? Friday? Thursday?—he said to me that he had a higher opinion of you than ever. There now, Jane!’

  She would have deemed it impossible for anyone to utter less than truth in such connection as this. Her eyes gleamed with joy.

  ‘Now you understand just how it was, Jane. What we have to talk about now is, how we can arrange things so as to carry out your grandfather’s wish. I am your guardian, my dear. Now I’m sure you wouldn’t desire to have command of large sums of money before you are twenty-one? Just so; your grandfather didn’t intend it. Well, first let me ask you this question. Would you rather live with—with your stepmother, or with your excellent friend Mrs. Byass? I see what your answer is, and I approve it; I fully approve it. Now suppose we arrange that you are to have an allowance of two pounds a week? It is just possible—just possible—that I may have to go abroad on business before long; in that case the payment would be made to you through an agent. Do you feel it would be satisfactory?’

  Jane was thinking how much of this sum could be saved to give away.

  ‘It seems little? But you see—’

  ‘No, no, father. It is quite enough.’

  ‘Good. We understand each other. Of course this is a temporary arrangement. I must have time to think over grandfather’s ideas. Why, you are a mere child yet, Janey. Seventeen! A mere child, my dear!’

  Forgetting the decorum imposed by his costume, Joseph became all but gay, so delightfully were things arranging themselves. A hundred a year he could very well afford just to keep his conscience at ease; and for Jane it would be wealth. Excellent Mrs. Byass was as good a guardian as could anywhere be found, and Jane’s discretion forbade any fear on her account when—business should take him away.

  ‘Well now, we’ve talked quite long enough. Don’t think for a moment that you hadn’t your grandfather’s confidence, my dear; it would be distressing yourself wholly without reason—wholly. Be a good girl—why, there you see; I speak to you as if you were a child. And so you are, poor little girl—far too young to have worldly troubles. No, no; I must relieve you of all that, until—Well now, I’ll leave you for to-day. Good-bye, my dear.’

  He kissed her cheek, but Jane, sobbing a little, put her pure lips to his. Joseph looked about him for an instant as if he had forgotten something, then departed with what seemed unnecessary haste.

  Jane and Mrs. Byass had a long talk before dinner-time. Mystery was at an end between them now; they talked much of the past, more of the future.

  At two o’clock Jane received a visit from Miss Lant. This lady was already apprised by her friend Mr. Percival of all that had come to pass; she was prepared to exercise much discretion, but Jane soon showed her that this was needless, The subject of pressing importance to the latter was Pennyloaf’s disastrous circumstances; unable to do all she wished, Jane was much relieved when her charitable friend proposed to set off to Merlin Place forthwith and ascertain how help could most effectually be given. Yes; it was good to be constrained to think of another’s sorrows.

  There passed a fortnight, during which Jane spent some hours each day with Pennyloaf. By the kindness of fate only one of Bob’s children survived him, but it was just this luckless infant whose existence made Pennyloaf’s position so difficult. Alone, she could have gone back to her slop-work, or some less miserable slavery might have been discovered; but Pennyloaf dreaded leaving her child each day in the care of strangers, being only too well aware what that meant. Mrs. Candy was, of course, worse than useless; Stephen the potman had more than his work set in looking after her. Whilst Miss Lant and Jane were straining their wits on the hardest of all problems—to find a means of livelihood for one whom society pronounced utterly superfluous, Pennyloaf most unexpectedly solved the question by her own effort. Somewhere near the Meat Market, one night, she encountered an acquaintance, a woman of not much more than her own age, who had recently become a widow, and was supporting herself (as well as four little ones) by keeping a stall at which she sold children’s secondhand clothing; her difficulty was to dispose of her children whilst she was doing business at night. Pennyloaf explained her own position, and with the result that her acquaintance, by name Mrs. Todd, proposed a partnership. Why shouldn’t they share a room, work together with the needle in patching and making, and by Pennyloaf’s staying at home each evening keep the tribe of youngsters out of danger? This project was carried out; the two brought their furniture together into a garret, and it seemed probable that they would succeed in keeping themselves alive.

  But before this settlement was effected Jane’s own prospects had undergone a change of some importance. For a fortnight nothing was heard of Joseph Snowdon in Hanover Street; then there came a letter from him; it bore a Liverpool postmark, but was headed with no address. Joseph wrote that the business to which he had alluded was already summoning him from England; he regretted that there had not even been time for him to say farewell to his daughter. However, he would write to her occasionally during his absence, and hoped to hear from her. The allowance of two pounds a week would be duly paid by an agent, and on receiving it each Saturday she was to forward an acknowledgment to ‘Mr. H. Jones,’ at certain reading-rooms in the City. Let her in the meantime be a good girl, remain with her excellent friend Mrs. Byass, and repose absolute confidence in her affectionate father—J. S.

  That same morning there came also a letter from Liverpool to Mrs. Joseph Snowdon, a letter which ran thus:

  ‘Clem, old girl, I regret
very much that affairs of pressing importance call me away from my happy home. It is especially distressing that this occurs just at the time when we were on the point of taking our house, in which we hoped to spend the rest of our lives in bliss. Alas, that is not to be! Do not repine, and do not break the furniture in the lodgings, as your means will henceforth be limited, I fear. You will remember that I was in your debt, with reference to a little affair which happened in Clerkenwell Close, not such a long time ago; please accept this intimation as payment in full. When I am established in the country to which business summons me, I shall of course send for you immediately, but it may happen that some little time will intervene before I am able to take that delightful step. In the meanwhile your mother will supply you with all the money you need; she has full authority from me to do so. All blessings upon you, and may you be happy.—With tears I sign myself,