DIALOGUE AND COMMENT
‘Will it be late before he comes back?’ asked Sidney, his smile of
greeting shadowed with disappointment.
‘Not later than half-past ten, he said.’
Sidney turned his face to the stairs. The homeward prospect was dreary
after that glimpse of the familiar room through the doorway. The breach
of habit discomposed him, and something more positive strengthened his
reluctance to be gone. It was not his custom to hang in hesitancy and
court chance by indirectness of speech; recognising and admitting his
motives, he said simply:
‘I should like to stay a little, if you will let me—if I shan’t be in
your way?’
‘Oh no! Please come in. I’m only sewing.’
There were two round-backed wooden chairs in the room; one stood on
each side of the fireplace, and between them, beside the table, Jane
always had her place on a small chair of the ordinary comfortless kind.
She seated herself as usual, and Sidney took his familiar position,
with the vacant chair opposite. Snowdon and he were accustomed to smoke
their pipes whilst conversing, but this evening Sidney dispensed with
tobacco.
It was very quiet here. On the floor below dwelt at present two sisters
who kept themselves alive (it is quite inaccurate to use any other
phrase in such instances) by doing all manner of skilful needlework;
they were middle-aged women, gentle-natured, and so thoroughly subdued
to the hopelessness of their lot that scarcely ever could even their
footfall be heard as they went up and down stairs; their voices were
always sunk to a soft murmur. Just now no infant wailing came from the
Byasses’ regions. Kirkwood enjoyed a sense of restfulness, intenser,
perhaps, for the momentary disappointment he had encountered. He had no
desire to talk; enough for a few minutes to sit and watch Jane’s hand
as it moved backwards and forwards with the needle.
‘I went to see Pennyloaf as I came back from work,’ Jane said at
length, just looking up.
‘Did you? Do things seem to be any better?’
‘Not much, I’m afraid. Mr. Kirkwood, don’t you think you might do
something? If you tried again with her husband?’
‘The fact is,’ replied Sidney, ‘I’m so afraid of doing more harm than
good.’
‘You think—But then perhaps that’s just what _I’m_ doing?’
Jane let her hand fall on the sewing and regarded him anxiously.
‘No, no! I’m quite sure _you_ can’t do harm. Pennyloaf can get nothing
but good from having you as a friend. She likes you; she misses you
when you happen not to have seen her for a few days. I’m sorry to say
it’s quite a different thing with Bob and me. We’re friendly enough—as
friendly as ever—but I haven’t a scrap of influence with him like you
have with his wife. It was all very well to get hold of him once, and
try to make him understand, in a half-joking way, that he wasn’t
behaving as well as he might. He didn’t take it amiss—just that once.
But you can’t think how difficult it is for one man to begin preaching
to another. The natural thought is: Mind your own business. If I was
the parson of the parish—’
He paused, and in the same instant their eyes met. The suggestion was
irresistible; Jane began to laugh merrily.
What sweet laughter it was? How unlike the shrill discord whereby the
ordinary work-girl expresses her foolish mirth! For years Sidney
Kirkwood had been unused to utter any sound of merriment; even his
smiling was done sadly. But of late he had grown conscious of the
element of joy in Jane’s character, had accustomed himself to look for
its manifestations—to observe the brightening of her eyes which
foretold a smile, the moving of her lips which suggested inward
laughter—and he knew that herein, as in many another matter, a profound
sympathy was transforming him. Sorrow such as he had suffered will
leave its mark upon the countenance long after time has done its kindly
healing, and in Sidney’s case there was more than the mere personal
affliction tending to confirm his life in sadness. With the ripening of
his intellect, he saw only more and more reason to condemn and execrate
those social disorders of which his own wretched experience was but an
illustration. From the first, his friendship with Snowdon had exercised
upon him a subduing influence; the old man was stern enough in his
criticism of society, but he did not belong to the same school as John
Hewett, and the sober authority of his character made appeal to much in
Sidney that had found no satisfaction amid the uproar of Clerkenwell
Green. For all that, Kirkwood could not become other than himself; his
vehemence was moderated, but he never affected to be at one with
Snowdon in that grave enthusiasm of far-off hope which at times made
the old man’s speech that of an exhorting prophet. Their natural parts
were reversed; the young eyes declared that they could see nothing but
an horizon of blackest cloud, whilst those enfeebled by years bore
ceaseless witness to the raying forth of dawn.
And so it was with a sensation of surprise that Sidney first became
aware of light-heartedness in the young girl who was a silent hearer of
so many lugubrious discussions. Ridiculous as it may sound—as Sidney
felt it to be—he almost resented this evidence of happiness; to him,
only just recovering from a shock which would leave its mark upon his
life to the end, his youth wronged by bitter necessities, forced into
brooding over problems of ill when nature would have bidden him enjoy,
it seemed for the moment a sign of shallowness that Jane could look and
speak cheerfully. This extreme of morbid feeling proved its own cure;
even in reflecting upon it, Sidney was constrained to laugh
contemptuously at himself. And therewith opened for him a new world of
thought. He began to study the girl. Of course he had already occupied
himself much with the peculiarities of her position, but of Jane
herself he knew very little; she was still, in his imagination, the
fearful and miserable child over whose shoulders he had thrown his coat
one bitter night; his impulse towards her was one of compassion merely,
justified now by what he heard of her mental slowness, her bodily
sufferings. It would take very long to analyse the process whereby this
mode of feeling was changed, until it became the sense of
ever-deepening sympathy which so possessed him this evening. Little by
little Jane’s happiness justified itself to him, and in so doing began
subtly to modify his own temper. With wonder he recognised that the
poor little serf of former days had been meant by nature for one of the
most joyous among children. What must that heart have suffered, so
scorned and trampled upon! But now that the days of misery were over,
behold nature having its way after all. If the thousands are never
rescued from oppression, if they perish abortive in their wretchedness,
is that a reason for refusing to rejoice with the one whom fate has
blest? Sidney knew too much of Jane by this time to judge her
shallow-hearted. This instinct of gladness had a very different
significance from the animal vitality which prompted the constant
laughter of Bessie Byass; it was but one manifestation of a moral force
which made itself nobly felt in many another way. In himself Sidney was
experiencing its pure effects, and it was owing to his conviction of
Jane’s power for good that he had made her acquainted with Bob Hewett’s
wife. Snowdon warmly approved of this; the suggestion led him to speak
expressly of Jane, a thing he very seldom did, and to utter a strong
wish that she should begin to concern herself with the sorrows she
might in some measure relieve.
Sidney joined in the laughter he had excited by picturing himself the
parson of the parish. But the topic under discussion was a serious one,
and Jane speedily recovered her gravity.
‘Yes, I see how hard it is,’ she said. ‘But it’s a cruel thing for him
to neglect poor Pennyloaf as he does. She never gave him any cause.’
‘Not knowingly, I quite believe,’ replied Kirkwood. ‘But what a
miserable home it is!’
‘Yes.’ Jane shook her head. ‘She doesn’t seem to know how to keep
things in order. She doesn’t seem even to understand me when I try to
show her how it might be different.’
‘There’s the root of the trouble, Jane. What chance had Pennyloaf of
ever learning how to keep a decent home, and bring up her children
properly? How was _she_ brought up? The wonder is that there’s so much
downright good in her; I feel the same wonder about people every day.
Suppose Pennyloaf behaved as badly as her mother does, who on earth
would have the right to blame her? But we can’t expect miracles; so
long as she lives decently, it’s the most that can be looked for. And
there you are; that isn’t enough to keep a fellow like Bob Hewett in
order. I doubt whether any wife would manage it, but as for poor
Pennyloaf—’
‘I shall speak to him myself,’ said Jane quietly.
‘Do! There’s much more hope in that than in anything I could say. Bob
isn’t a bad fellow; the worst thing I know of him is his conceit. He’s
good-looking, and he’s clever in all sorts of ways, and unfortunately
he can’t think of anything but his own merits. Of course he’d no
business to marry at all whilst he was nothing but a boy.’
Jane plied her needle, musing.
‘Do you know whether he ever goes to see his father?’ Sidney inquired
presently.
‘No, I don’t,’ Jane answered, looking at him, but immediately dropping
her eyes.
‘If he doesn’t I should think worse of him. Nobody ever had a kinder
father, and there’s many a reason why he should be careful to pay the
debt he owes.’
Jane waited a moment, then again raised her eyes to him. It seemed as
though she would ask a question, and Sidney’s grave attentiveness
indicated a surmise of what she was about to say. But her thought
remained unuttered, and there was a prolongation of silence.
Of course they were both thinking of Clara. That name had never been
spoken by either of them in the other’s presence, but as often as
conversation turned upon the Hewetts, it was impossible for them not to
supplement their spoken words by a silent colloquy of which Clara was
the subject. From her grandfather Jane knew that, to this day, nothing
had been heard of Hewett’s daughter; what people said at the time of
the girl’s disappearance she had learned fully enough from Clem
Peckover, who even yet found it pleasant to revive the scandal, and by
contemptuous comments revenge herself for Clara’s haughty usage in old
days. Time had not impaired Jane’s vivid recollection of that
Bank-holiday morning when she herself was the first to make it known
that Clara had gone away. Many a time since then she had visited the
street whither Snowdon led her—had turned aside from her wonted paths
in the thought that it was not impossible she might meet Clara, though
whether with more hope or fear of such a meeting she could not have
said. When two years had gone by, her grandfather one day led the talk
to that subject; he was then beginning to change in certain respects
the tone he had hitherto used with her, and to address her as one who
had outgrown childhood. He explained to her how it came about that
Sidney could no longer be even on terms of acquaintance with John
Hewett. The conversation originated in Jane’s bringing the news that
Hewett and his family had at length left Mrs. Peckover’s house. For two
years things had gone miserably with them, their only piece of good
fortune being the death of the youngest child. John was confirmed in a
habit of drinking. Not that he had become a brutal sot; sometimes for
as much as a month he would keep sober, and even when he gave way to
temptation he never behaved with violence to his wife and children.
Still, the character of his life had once more suffered a degradation,
and he possessed no friends who could be of the least use to him.
Snowdon, for some reason of his own, maintained a slight intercourse
with the Peckovers, and through them he endeavoured to establish an
intimacy with Hewett; but the project utterly failed. Probably on
Kirkwood’s account, John met the old man’s advances with something more
than coldness. Sternly he had forbidden his wife and the little ones to
exchange a word of any kind with Sidney, or with any friend of his. He
appeared to nourish incessantly the bitter resentment to which he gave
expression when Sidney and he last met.
There was no topic on which Sidney was more desirous of speaking with
Jane than this which now occupied both their minds. How far she
understood Clara’s story, and his part in it, he had no knowledge; for
between Snowdon and himself there had long been absolute silence on
that matter. It was not improbable that Jane had been instructed in the
truth; he hoped she had not been left to gather what she could from
Clem Peckover’s gossip. Yet the difficulty with which he found himself
beset, now that an obvious opportunity offered for frank speech, was so
great that, after a few struggles, he fell back on the reflection with
which he was wont to soothe himself: Jane was still so young, and the
progress of time, by confirming her knowledge of him, would make it all
the simpler to explain the miserable past. Had he, in fact, any right
to relate this story, to seek her sympathy in that direct way? It was
one aspect of a very grave question which occupied more and more of
Sidney’s thought.
With an effort, he turned the dialogue into quite a new direction, and
Jane, though a little absent for some minutes, seemed at length to
forget the abruptness of the change. Sidney had of late been resuming
his old interest in pencil-work; two or three of his drawings hung on
these walls, and he spoke of making new sketches when he next went into
the country. Years ago, one of his favourite excursions—of the longer
ones which he now and then allowed himself—was to Danbury Hill, some
five miles to the east of Chelmsford, one of the few pieces of rising
ground in Essex, famous for its view over Maldon and the estuary of the
Blackwater. Thither Snowdon and Jane accompanied him during the last
summer but one, and the former found so much pleasure in the place that
he took lodgings with certain old friends of Sidney’s, and gave his
granddaughter a week of healthful holiday. In the summer that followed,
the lodgings were again taken for a week, and this year the same
expedition was in view. Sidney had as good as promised that he would
join his friends for the whole time of their absence, and now he talked
with Jane of memories and anticipations. Neither was sensible how the
quarters and the half-hours went by in such chatting. Sidney abandoned
himself to the enjoyment of peace such as he had never known save in
this room, to a delicious restfulness such as was always inspired in
him by the girl’s gentle voice, by her laughter, by her occasional
quiet movements. The same influence was affecting his whole life. To
Jane he owed the gradual transition from tumultuous politics and social
bitterness to the mood which could find pleasure as of old in nature
and art. This was his truer self, emancipated from the distorting
effect of the evil amid which he perforce lived. He was recovering
somewhat of his spontaneous boyhood; at the same time, reaching after a
new ideal of existence which only ripened manhood could appreciate.
Snowdon returned at eleven; it alarmed Sidney to find how late he had
allowed himself to remain, and he began shaping apologies. But the old
man had nothing but the familiar smile and friendly words.
‘Haven’t you given Mr. Kirkwood any supper?’ he asked of Jane, looking
at the table.
‘I really forgot all about it, grandfather,’ was the laughing reply.
Then Snowdon laughed, and Sidney joined in the merriment; but he would
not be persuaded to stay longer.