The Nether World

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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 t 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 should 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 hi 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 any. thing 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:

'Jane, there's something I've been wanting to say to you for a long
time. My dear, I'm uneasy about you.'

'Uneasy, father?' and she glanced at him nervously.

'Yes, I'm uneasy. But whether I ought to tell you why, I'm sure I
don't know. You're my own child, Janey, and you become dearer to me
every day; but--it's hard to say it--there naturally isn't all
the confidence between us that there might have been if--well,
well, I won't speak of that.'

'But won't you tell me what makes you anxious?'

He laid the tips of his fingers on her head. 'Janey, shall you be
offended if I speak about Mr. Kirkwood?'

'No, father.'

She tried in vain to continue sewing.

'My dear--I believe there's no actual engagement between you?'

'Oh no, father,' she replied, faintly.

'And yet--don't be angry with me, my child--I think you are
something more than friends?'

She made no answer.

'And I can't help thinking, Janey--I think about you very often
indeed--that Mr. Kirkwood has rather exaggerated views about the
necessity of--of altering things between you.'

Quite recently Joseph had become aware of the under. standing
between Michael and Kirkwood. The old man still hesitated to break
the news to Jane, saying to himself that it was better for Sidney to
prepare her by the change in his behaviour.

'Of altering things?' Jane repeated, under her breath.

'It seems to me wrong--wrong to both of you,' Joseph pursued, in a
pathetic voice. 'I can't help noticing my child's looks. I know she
isn't what she used to be, poor little girl! And I know Kirkwood
isn't what he used to be. It's very hard, and I feel for you--for
both of you.'

Jane sat motionless, not daring to lift her eyes, scarcely daring to
breathe.

'Janey.'

' Yes, father.'

'I wonder whether I'm doing wrong to your grandfather in speaking to
you confidentially like this? I can't believe he notices things as I
do; he'd never wish you to be unhappy.'

'But I don't quite understand, father. What do you mean about Mr.
Kirkwood? Why should he--'

The impulse failed her. A fear which she had harboured for many
weary days was being confirmed and she could not ask directly for
the word that would kill hope.

'Have I a right to tell you? I thought perhaps you understood.'

'As you have gone So far, I think you must explain. I don't see how
you can be doing wrong.'

'Poor Kirkwood! You see, he's in such a delicate position, my dear.
I think myself that he's acting rather strangely, after everything;
but it's--it's your money, Jane. He doesn't think he ought to ask
you to marry him, under the circumstances.'

She trembled.

'Now who should stand by you, in a case like this, if not your own
father? Of course he can't say a word to you himself; and of course
you can't say a word to him; and altogether it's a pitiful
business.'

Jane shrank from discussing such a topic with her father. Her next
words were uttered with difficulty.

'But the money isn't my own--it'll never be my own. He--Mr.
Kirkwood knows that.'

'He does, to be sure. But it makes no difference. He has told your
grandfather, my love, that--that the responsibility would be too
great. He has told him distinctly that everything's at an end--
everything that _might_ have happened.'

She just looked at him, then dropped her eyes on her sewing.

'Now, as your father, Janey, I know it's right that you should be
told of this. I feel you're being very cruelly treated, my child.
And I wish to goodness I could only see any way out of it for you
both. Of course I'm powerless either for acting or speaking: you can
understand that. But I want you to think of me as your truest
friend, my love.'

More still he said, but Jane had no ears for it. When he left her,
she bade him good-bye mechanically, and stood on the same spot by
the door, without thought, stunned by what she had learnt.

That Sidney would be impelled to such a decision as this she had
never imagined. His reserve whilst yet she was in ignorance of her
true position she could understand: also his delaying for a while
even after everything had been explained to her. But that he should
draw away from her altogether seemed inexplicable, for it implied a
change in him which nothing had prepared her to think possible.
Unaltered in his love, he refused to share the task of her life, to
aid in. the work which he regarded with such fervent sympathy. Her
mind was not subtle enough to conceive those objections to Michael's
idea which had weighed with Sidney almost from the first, for though
she had herself shrunk from the great undertaking, it was merely in
weakness--a reason she never dreamt of attributing to him. Nor had
she caught as much as a glimpse of those base, scheming interests,
contact with which had aroused Sidney's vehement disgust. Was her
father to be trusted? This was the first question that shaped itself
in her mind. He did not like Sidney; that she had felt all along, as
well as the reciprocal coldness on Sidney's part. But did his
unfriendliness go so far as to prompt him to intervene with
untruths? 'Of course you can't say a word to him'--that remark
would bear an evil interpretation, which her tormented mind did not
fail to suggest. Moreover, he had seemed so anxious that she should
not broach the subject with her grandfather. But what constrained
her to silence? If, indeed, he had nothing but her happiness at
heart, he could not take it ill that she should seek to understand
the whole truth, and Michael must tell her whether Sidney had indeed
thus spoken to him.

Before she had obtained any show of control over her agitation
Michael came into the room. Evening was the old man's best time, and
when he had kept his own chamber through the day he liked to come
and sit with Jane as she had her supper.

'Didn't I hear your father's voice?' he asked, as he moved slowly to
his accustomed chair.

'Yes. He couldn't stay.'

Jane stood in an attitude of indecision. Having seated himself,
Michael glanced at her. His regard had not its old directness; it
seemed apprehensive, as if seeking to probe her thought.

'Has Miss Lent sent you the book she promised?'

'Yes, grandfather.'

This was a recently published volume dealing with charitable
enterprise in some part of London. Michael noticed with surprise the
uninterested tone of Jane's reply. Again he looked at her, and more
searchingly.

'Would you like to read me a little of it?'

She reached the book from a side-table, drew near, and stood turning
the pages. The confusion of her mind was such that she could not
have read a word with understanding. Then she spoke, involuntarily.

'Grandfather, has Mr. Kirkwood said anything more--about me?'

The words made painful discord in her cars, but instead of showing
heightened colour she grew pallid. Holding the book partly open, she
felt all her nerves and muscles strained as if in some physical
effort; her feet were rooted to the spot.

'Have you heard anything from him?' returned the old man, resting
his hands on the sides of the easy-chair.

'Father has been speaking about him. He says Mr. Kirkwood has told
you something.'

'Yes. Come and sit down by me, Jane.'

She could not move nearer. Though unable to form a distinct
conception, she felt a foreboding of what must come to pass. The
dread failure of strength was more than threatening her; her heart
was sinking, and by no effort of will could she summon the thoughts
that should aid her against herself.

'What has your father told you?' Michael asked, when he perceived
her distress. He spoke with a revival of energy, clearly,
commandingly.

'He says that Mr. Kirkwood wishes you to forget what he told you,
and what you repeated to me.'

'Did he give you any reason?'

'Yes. I don't understand, though.'

'Come here by me, Jane. Let's talk about it quietly. Sidney doesn't
feel able to help you as he thought he could. We mustn't blame him
for that; he must judge for himself. He thinks it'll be better if
you continue to be only friends.'

Jane averted her face, his steady look being more than she could
bear. For an instant a sense of uttermost shame thrilled through
her, and without knowing what she did, she moved a little and laid
the book down.

'Come here, my child,' he repeated, in a gentler voice.

She approached him.

'You feel it hard. But when you've thought about it a little you
won't grieve; I'm sure you won't. Remember, your life is not to be
like that of ordinary women. You've higher objects before you, and
you'll find a higher reward. You know that, don't you? There's no
need for me to remind you of what we've talked about so often, is
there? If it's a sacrifice, you're strong enough to face it; yes,
yes, strong enough to face more than this, my Jane is! Only fix your
thoughts on the work you're going to do. It'll take up all your
life, Jane, won't it? You'll have no time to give to such things as
occupy other women--no mind for them.'

His grey eyes searched her countenance with that horrible intensity
of fanaticism which is so like the look of cruelty, of greed, of any
passion originating in the baser self. Unlike too, of course, but it
is the pitilessness common to both extremes that shows most strongly
in an old, wrinkled visage. He had laid his hand upon her. Every
word was a stab ill the girl's heart, and so dreadful became her
torture, so intolerable the sense of being drawn by a fierce will
away from all she desired, that at length a cry escaped her lips.
She fell on her knees by him, and pleaded in a choking voice.

'I can't! Grandfather, don't ask it of me! Give it all to some one
else--to some one else! I'm not strong enough to make such a
sacrifice. Let me be as I was before!'

Michael's face darkened. He drew his hand away and rose from the
seat; with more than surprise, with anger and even bitterness, he
looked down at the crouching girl. She did not sob; her face buried
in her arms, she lay against the chair, quivering, silent.

'Jane, stand up and speak to me!'

She did not move.

'Jane!'

He laid his hand on her. Jane raised her head, and endeavoured to
obey him; in the act she moaned and fell insensible.

Michael strode to the door and called twice or thrice for Mrs.
Byass; then he stooped by the lifeless girl and supported her head.
Bessie was immediately at hand, with a cry of consternation, but
also with helpful activity.

'Why, I thought she'd got over this; it's a long time since she was
took last isn't it? Sam's downstairs, Mr. Snowdon; do just shout out
to him to go for some brandy. Tell him to bring my smelling-bottle
first, if he knows where it is--I'm blest if I do! Poor thing! She
ain't been at all well lately, and that's the truth.'

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