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:
'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 understanding 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 Lant 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 ears, 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 in 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.'
The truth, beyond a doubt. Pale face, showing now the thinness which it had not wholly outgrown, the inheritance from miserable childhood; no face of a stern heroine, counting as idle all the natural longings of the heart, consecrated to a lifelong combat with giant wrongs. Nothing better nor worse than the face of one who can love and must be loved in turn.
She came to herself, and at the same moment Michael went from the room.
'There now; there now,' crooned Bessie, with much patting of the hands and stroking of the checks. 'Why, what's come to you, Jane? Cry away; don't try to prevent yourself; it'll do you good to cry a bit. Of course, here comes Sam with all sorts of things, when there's no need of him. He's always either too soon or too late, is Sam. Just look at him, Jane; now if he don't make you laugh, nothing will!'
Mr. Byass retired, shamefaced. Leaning against Bessie's shoulder, Jane sobbed for a long time, sobbed in the misery of shame. She saw that her grandfather had gone away. How should she ever face him after this? It was precious comfort to feel Bessie's sturdy arms about her, and to hear the foolish affectionate words, which asked nothing but that she should take them kindly and have done with her trouble.
'Did grandfather tell you how it was?' she asked, with a sudden fear lest Bessie should have learnt her pitiful weakness.
'Why, no; how did it come?'
'I don't know. We were talking. I can stand up now, Mrs. Byass, thank you. I'll go up to my room. I've forgotten the time; is it late?'
It was only nine o'clock. Bessie would have gone upstairs with her, but Jane insisted that she was quite herself. On the stairs she trod as lightly as possible, and she closed her door without a sound. Alone, she again gave way to tears. Michael's face was angry in her memory; he had never looked at her in that way before, and now he would never look with the old kindness. What a change had been wrought in these few minutes!
And Sidney never anything but her friend—cold, meaningless word! If he knew how she had fallen, would that be likely to bring him nearer to her? She had lost both things, that was all.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE DEBT REPAID
She rose early, in the murky cola of the winter morning. When, at eight o'clock, she knocked as usual at her grandfather's door his answer made her tremble.
'I shall be down in a few minutes, Jane; I'll have breakfast with you.'
It was long since he had risen at this hour. His voice sounded less like that of an old man, and, in spite of his calling her by her name, she felt the tone to be severe. When he reached the parlour he did not offer to take her hand, and she feared to approach him. She saw that his features bore the mark of sleeplessness. Hers, poor girl! were yet more woeful in their pallor.
Through the meal he affected to occupy himself with the book Miss Lant had sent—the sight of which was intolerable to Jane. And not for a full hour did he speak anything but casual words. Jane had taken her sewing; unexpectedly he addressed her.
'Let's have a word or two together, Jane. I think we ought to, oughtn't we?'
She forced herself to regard him.
'I think you meant what you said last night?'
'Grandfather, I will do whatever you bid me. I'll do it faithfully. I was ungrateful. I feel ashamed to have spoken so.'
'That's nothing to do with it, Jane. You're not ungrateful; anything but that. But I've had a night to think over your words. You couldn't speak like that if you weren't driven to it by the strongest feeling you ever knew or will know. I hadn't thought of it in that way; I hadn't thought of you in that way.'
He began gently, but in the last words was a touch of reproof, almost of scorn. He gazed at her from under his grey eyebrows, perhaps hoping to elicit some resistance of her spirit, some sign of strength that would help him to reconstruct his shattered ideal.
'Grandfather, I'll try with all my strength to be what you wish—I will!'
'And suppose the strength isn't sufficient, child?'
Even in her humility she could not but feel that this was unjust. Had she ever boasted? Had she ever done more than promise tremblingly what he demanded? But the fear was legitimate. A weak thing, all but heart-broken, could she hope to tread firmly in any difficult path? She hung her head, making no answer.
He examined her, seeming to measure the slightness of her frame. Sad, unutterably sad, was the deep breath he drew as he turned his eyes away again.
'Do you feel well this morning, Jane?'
'Yes, grandfather.'
'Have you slept?'
'I couldn't. You were grieving about me. I hoped never to have disappointed you.'
He fell into reverie. Was he thinking of that poor wife of his, dead long, long ago, the well-meaning girl of whom he had expected impossible things? A second time had he thus erred, no longer with the excuse of inexperience and hot blood. That cry of Jane's had made its way to his heart. An enthusiast, he was yet capable of seeing by the common light of day, when his affections were deeply stirred. And in the night he had pondered much over his son's behaviour. Was he being deceived in that quarter also, and there intentionally? Did Joseph know this child better than he had done, and calculate upon her weakness? The shock, instead of disabling him, had caused a revival of his strength. He could walk more firmly this morning than at any time since his accident. His brain was clear and active; he knew that it behoved him to reconsider all he had been doing, and that quickly, ere it was too late. He must even forget that aching of the heart until he had leisure to indulge it.
'You shan't disappoint me, my dear,' he said gravely. 'It's my own fault if I don't take your kindness as you mean it. I have to go out, Jane, but I shall be back to dinner. Perhaps we'll talk again afterwards.'
Of late, on the rare occasions of his leaving the house, he had always told her where he was going, and for what purpose; Jane understood that this confidence was at an end. When he was gone she found occupation for a short time, but presently could only sit over the fire, nursing her many griefs. She was no longer deemed worthy of confidence; worse than that, she had no more faith in herself. If Sidney learnt what had happened he could not even retain his respect for her. In this way she thought of it, judging Kirkwood by the ideal standard, which fortunately is so unlike human nature; taking it for granted—so oppressed was her mind by the habit of dwelling on artificial motives—that he only liked her because he had believed her strong in purpose, forgetting altogether that his love had grown before he was aware that anything unusual was required of her. She did remember, indeed, that it was only the depth of her love for him which had caused her disgrace; but, even if he came to understand that, it would not, she feared, weigh in her favour against his judgment.
It was the natural result of the influences to which she had been subjected. Her mind, overwrought by resolute contemplation of ideas beyond its scope, her gentle nature bent beneath a burden of duty to which it was unequal, and taught to consider with painful solemnity those impulses of kindness which would otherwise have been merely the simple joys of life, she had come to distrust every instinct which did not subserve the supreme purpose. Even of Sidney's conduct she could not reason in a natural way. Instinct would have bidden her reproach him, though ever so gently; was it well done to draw away when he must have known how she looked for his aid? Her artificial self urged, on the other hand, that he had not acted thus without some gravely considered motive. What it was she could not pretend to divine; her faith in his nobleness overcame every perplexity. Of the persons constituting this little group and playing their several parts, she alone had fallen altogether below what was expected of her. As humble now as in the days of her serfdom, Jane was incapable of revolting against the tyranny of circumstances. Life had grown very hard for her again, but she believed that this was to a great extent her own fault, the outcome of her own unworthy weakness.
At Michael's return she did her best to betray no idle despondency. Their midday meal was almost as silent as breakfast had been; his eyes avoided her, and frequently he lost himself in thought. As he was rising from the table Jane observed an unsteadiness in his movement; he shook his head mechanically and leaned forward on both his hands, as if feeling giddy. She approached him, but did not venture to speak.
'I'll go upstairs,' he said, having sighed slightly.
'May I come and read to you, grandfather?'
'Not just now, Jane. Go out whilst it's a bit fine.'
He went from the room, still with an unsteady walk. Reaching his own room, where there was a cheerful fire, he sat down, and remained for a long time unoccupied, save with his reflections. This chamber had scarcely changed in a detail of its arrangement since he first came to inhabit it. There was the chair which Sidney always used, and that on which Jane had sat since she was the silent, frail child of thirteen. Here had his vision taken form, growing more definite with the growth of his granddaughter, seeming to become at length a splendid reality. What talk had been held here between Kirkwood and himself whilst Jane listened! All gone into silence; gone, too, the hope it had encouraged.
He was weary after the morning's absence from home, and fell into a light slumber. Dreams troubled him. First he found himself in Australia; he heard again the sudden news of his son's death; the shock awoke him. Another dozing fit, and he was a young man with a wife and children to support; haunted with the fear of coming to want; harsh, unreasonable in his exactions at home. Something like a large black coffin came into his dream, and in dread of it he again returned to consciousness.
All night he had been thinking of the dark story of long ago—his wife's form motionless on the bed—the bottle which told him what had happened. Why must that memory revive to trouble his last days? Part of his zeal for the great project had come of a feeling that he might thus in some degree repair his former ill-doing; Jane would be a providence to many hapless women whose burden was as heavy as his own wife's had been. Must he abandon that solace? In any case he could bestow his money for charitable purposes, but it would not be the same, it would not effect what he had aimed at.
Late in the afternoon he drew from the inner pocket of his coat a long envelope and took thence a folded paper. It was covered with clerkly writing, which he perused several times. At length he tore the paper slowly across the middle, again tore the fragments, and threw them on to the fire. . . .
Jane obeyed her grandfather's word and went out for an hour. She wished for news of Pennyloaf, who had been ill, and was now very near the time of her confinement. At the door of the house in Merlin Place she was surprised to encounter Bob Hewett, who stood in a lounging attitude; he had never appeared to her so disreputable—not that his clothes were worse than usual, but his face and hands were dirty, and the former was set in a hang-dog look.
'Is your wife upstairs, Mr. Hewett?' Jane asked, when he had nodded sullenly in reply to her greeting.
'Yes; and somebody else too as could have been dispensed with. There's another mouth to feed.'
'No, there ain't,' cried a woman's voice just behind him.
Jane recognised the speaker, a Mrs. Griffin, who lived in the house and was neighbourly to Pennyloaf.
'There ain't?' inquired Bob, gruffly.
'The child's dead.'
'Thank goodness for that, any way!'
Mrs. Griffin explained to Jane that the birth had taken place twelve hours ago. Pennyloaf was 'very low,' but not in a state to cause anxiety; perhaps it would be better for Jane to wait until to-morrow before seeing her.
'She didn't say "thank goodness," added the woman, with a scornful glance at Bob, 'but I don't think she's over sorry as it's gone, an' small blame to her. There's some people as doesn't care much what sort o' times she has—not meanin' you, Miss, but them as had ought to care.'
Bob looked more disreputable than ever. His eyes were fixed on Jane, and with such a singular expression that the latter, meeting their gaze, felt startled, she did not know why. At the same moment he stepped down from the threshold and walked away without speaking.
'I shouldn't care to have him for a 'usband,' pursued Mrs. Griffin. 'Of course he must go an' lose his work, just when his wife's wantin' a few little extries, as you may say.'
'Lost his work?'
'Day 'fore yes'day. I don't like him, an' I don't like his ways; he'll be gettin' into trouble before long, you mind what I say. His family's a queer lot, 'cordin' to what they tell. Do you know them, Miss?'
'I used to, a long time ago.'
'You knew his sister—her as is come 'ome?'
'His sister?'
'Her as was a actress. Mrs. Bannister was tellin' me only last night; she had it from Mrs. Horrocks, as heard from a friend of hers as lives in the Farrin'don Buildin's, where the Hewetts lives too. They tell me it was in the Sunday paper, though I don't remember nothing about it at the time. It seems as how a woman threw vitrol over her an' burnt her face so as there's no knowin' her, an' she goes about with a veil, an' 'cause she can't get her own livin' no more, of course she's come back 'ome, for all she ran away an' disgraced herself shameful.'
Jane gazed fixedly at the speaker, scarcely able to gather the sense of what was said.
'Miss Hewett, you mean? Mr. Hewett's eldest daughter?'
'So I understand.'
'She has come home? When?'
'I can't just say; but a few weeks ago, I believe. They say it's nearly two months since it was in the paper.'
'Does Mrs. Hewett know about it?'
'I can't say. She's never spoke to me as if she did. And, as I tell you, I only heard yes'day myself. If you're a friend of theirs, p'r'aps I hadn't oughtn't to a' mentioned it. It just come to my lips in the way o' tallin'. Of course I don't know nothin' about the young woman myself; it's only what you comes to 'ear in the way o' talkin', you know.'
This apology was doubtless produced by the listener's troubled countenance. Jane asked no further question, but said she would come to see Pennyloaf on the morrow, and so took her leave.
At ten o'clock next morning, just when Jane was preparing for her visit to Merlin Place, so possessed with anxiety to ascertain if Pennyloaf knew anything about Clara Hewett that all her troubles were for the moment in the back ground, Bessie Byass came running upstairs with a strange announcement. Sidney Kirkwood had called, and wished to see Miss Snowdon in private for a few minutes.
'Something must have happened,' said Jane, her heart standing still.
Bessie had a significant smile, but suppressed it when she noticed the agitation into which her friend was fallen.
'Shall I ask him up into the front room?'
Michael was in his own chamber, which he had not left this morning. On going to the parlour Jane found her visitor standing in expectancy. Yes, something had happened; it needed but to look at him to be convinced of that. And before a word was spoken Jane knew that his coming had reference to Clara Hewett, knew it with the strangest certainty.
'I didn't go to work this morning,' Sidney began, 'because I was very anxious to see you—alone. I have something to speak about—to tell you.'
'Let us sit down.'
Sidney waited till he met her look; she regarded him without self-consciousness, without any effort to conceal her agitated interest.
'You see young Hewett and his wife sometimes. Have you heard from either of them that Clara Hewett is living with her father again?'