THE JOKE IS COMPLETED
Michael Snowdon—to distinguish the old man by name from the son who
thus unexpectedly returned to him—professed no formal religion. He
attended no Sunday service, nor had ever shown a wish that Jane should
do so. We have seen that he used the Bible as a source of moral
instruction; Jane and he still read passages together on a Sunday
morning, but only such were chosen as had a purely human significance,
and the comments to which they gave occasion never had any but a human
bearing. Doubtless Jane reflected on these things; it was her
grandfather’s purpose to lead her to such reflection, without himself
dogmatising on questions which from his own point of view were
unimportant. That Jane should possess the religious spirit was a desire
he never lost sight of; the single purpose of his life was involved
therein; but formalism was against the bent of his nature. Born and
bred amid the indifference of the London working classes, he was one of
the very numerous thinking men who have never needed to cast aside a
faith of childhood; from the dawn of rationality, they simply stand
apart from all religious dogmas, unable to understand the desire of
such helps to conduct, untouched by spiritual trouble—as that phrase is
commonly interpreted. And it seemed that Jane closely resembled him in
this matter. Sensitive to every prompting of humanity, instinct with
moral earnestness, she betrayed no slightest tendency to the religion
of church, chapel, or street-corner. A promenade of the Salvation Army
half-puzzled, half-amused her; she spoke of it altogether without
intolerance, as did her grandfather, but never dreamt that it was a
phenomenon which could gravely concern her. Prayers she had never said;
enough that her last thought before sleeping was one of kindness to
those beings amid whom she lived her life, that on awaking her mind
turned most naturally to projects of duty and helpfulness.
Excepting the Bible, Snowdon seldom made use of books either for
inquiry or amusement. Very imperfectly educated in his youth, he had
never found leisure for enriching his mind in the ordinary way until it
was too late; as an old man he had so much occupation in his thoughts
that the printed page made little appeal to him. Till quite recently he
had been in the habit of walking for several hours daily, always
choosing poor districts; now that his bodily powers were sensibly
failing him, he passed more and more of his time in profound brooding,
so forgetful of external things that Jane, on her return from work, had
more than once been troubled by noticing that he had taken no midday
meal. It was in unconsciousness such as this that he sat when his son
Joseph, receiving no reply to his knock, opened the door and entered;
but that his eyes were open, the posture of his body and the forward
drooping of his head would have made it appear that he slept. Joseph
stepped towards him, and at length the old man looked up. He gazed at
his visitor first unintelligently, then with wonder and growing
emotion.
‘Jo?—Jo, at last? You were in my mind only a few minutes ago, but I saw
you as a boy.’
He rose from the chair and held out both his hands, trembling more than
they were wont to do.
‘I almost wonder you knew me,’ said Joseph. ‘It’s seventeen years since
we saw each other. It was all Jane could do to remember me.’
‘Jane? Where have you seen her? At the house in the Close?’
‘Yes. It was me she went to see, but she didn’t know it. I’ve just been
married to Miss Peckover. Sit down again, father, and let’s talk over
things quietly.’
‘Married to Miss Peckover?’ repeated the old man, as if making an
effort to understand the words. ‘Then why didn’t you come here before?’
Joseph gave the explanation which he had already devised for the
benefit of his daughter. His manner of speaking was meant to be very
respectful, but it suggested that he looked upon the hearer as
suffering from feebleness of mind, as well as of body. He supplemented
his sentences with gestures and smiles, glancing about the room
meantime with looks of much curiosity.
‘So you’ve been living here a long time, father? It was uncommonly good
of you to take care of my girl. I dare say you’ve got so used to having
her by you, you wouldn’t care for her to go away now?’
‘Do you wish to take Jane away?’ Michael inquired gravely.
‘No, no; not I! Why, it’s nothing but her duty to keep you company and
be what use she can. She’s happy enough, that I can see. Well, well;
I’ve gone through a good deal since the old days, father, and I’m not
what you used to know me. I’m gladder than I can say to find you so
easy in your old age. Neither Mike nor me did our duty by you, that’s
only too sure. I wish I could have the time back again; but what’s the
good of that? Can you tell me anything about Mike?’
‘Yes. He died in Australia, about four years ago.’
‘Did he now? Well, I’ve been in America, but I never got so far as
Australia. So Mike’s dead, is he? I hope he had better luck than me.’
The old man did not cease from examining his son’s countenance.
‘What is your position, at present?’ he asked, after a pause. ‘You
don’t look unprosperous.’
‘Nothing to boast of, father. I’ve gone through all kinds of trades. In
the States I both made and lost money. I invented a new method of
nickel-plating, but it did me no good, and then I gave up that line
altogether. Since I’ve been back in England—two years about—I’ve mostly
gone in for canvassing, advertising agencies, and that kind of thing. I
make an honest living, and that’s about all. But I shouldn’t wonder if
things go a bit better now; I feel as if I was settled at last. What
with having a home of my own, and you and Janey near at hand—You won’t
mind if I come and see you both now and then?’
‘I shall hope to see you often,’ replied the other, still keeping his
grave face and tone. ‘It’s been my strong desire that we might come
together again, and I’ve done the best I could to find you. But, as you
said, we’ve been parted for a very long time, and it isn’t in a day
that we can come to understand each other. These seventeen years have
made an old man of me, Jo; I think and speak and act slowly:—better for
us all if I had learned to do so long ago! Your coming was unexpected;
I shall need a little time to get used to the change it makes.’
‘To be sure; that’s true enough. Plenty of time to talk over things. As
far as I’m concerned, father, the less said about bygones the better;
it’s the future that I care about now. I want to put things right
between us—as they ought to be between father and son. You understand
me, I hope?’
Michael nodded, keeping his eyes upon the ground. Again there was a
silence, then Joseph said that if Jane would come in and speak a few
words—so as to make things home-like—it would be time for him to take
his leave for the present. At her grandfather’s summons Jane entered
the room. She was still oppressed by the strangeness of her position,
and with difficulty took part in the colloquy. Joseph, still touching
the note of humility in his talk, eyed his relatives alternately, and
exhibited reluctance to quit them.
When he returned to the Close, it was with a face expressing
dissatisfaction. Clem’s eager inquiries he met at first with an
ill-tempered phrase or two, which informed her of nothing; but when
dinner was over he allowed himself to be drawn into a confidential
talk, in which Mrs. Peckover took part. The old man, he remarked, was
devilish close; it looked as if ‘some game was on.’ Mrs. Peckover
ridiculed this remark; of course there was a game on; she spoke of
Sidney Kirkwood, the influence he had obtained over Snowdon, the
designs he was obviously pursuing. If Joseph thought he would recover
his rights, at this time of day, save by direct measures, it only
proved how needful it was for him to be instructed by shrewd people.
The old man was a hard nut to crack; why he lived in Hanover Street,
and sent Jane to work, when it was certain that he had wealth at
command, Mrs. Peckover could not pretend to explain, but in all
probability he found a pleasure in accumulating money, and was abetted
therein by Sidney Kirkwood. Clem could bear witness that Jane always
seemed to have secrets to hide; nevertheless a good deal of information
had been extracted from the girl during the last year or so, and it all
went to confirm the views which Mrs. Peckover now put forth. After long
discussion, it was resolved that Joseph should call upon the lawyers
whose names had appeared in the advertisement addressed to himself. If
he was met with any shuffling, or if they merely referred him to his
father, the next step would be plain enough.
Clem began to exhibit sullenness; her words were few, and it was
fortunate for Joseph that he could oppose a philosophical indifference
to the trouble with which his honeymoon was threatened. As early as
possible on Monday morning he ascended the stairs of a building in
Furnival’s Inn and discovered the office of Messrs. Percival and Feel.
He was hesitating whether to knock or simply turn the handle, when a
man came up to the same door, with the quick step of one at home in the
place.
‘Business with us?’ inquired the new-comer, as Joseph drew back.
They looked at each other. He who had spoken was comparatively a young
man, dressed with much propriety, gravely polite in manner.
‘Ha! How do you do?’ exclaimed Snowdon, with embarrassment, and in an
undertone. ‘I wasn’t expecting—’
The recognition was mutual, and whilst Joseph, though disconcerted,
expressed his feelings in a familiar smile, the other cast a quick
glance of uneasiness towards the stairs, his mouth compressed, his
eyebrows twitching a little.
‘Business with Mr. Percival?’ he inquired confidentially, but without
Joseph’s familiar accentuation.
‘Yes. That is—Is he here?’
‘Won’t be for another hour. Anything I could see about for you?’
Joseph moved in uncertainty, debating with himself. Their eyes met
again.
‘Well, we might have a word or two about it,’ he said. ‘Better meet
somewhere else, perhaps?’
‘Could you be at the top of Chancery Lane at six o’clock?’
With a look of mutual understanding, they parted. Joseph went home, and
explained that, to his surprise, he had found an old acquaintance at
the lawyer’s office, a man named Scawthorne, whom he was going to see
in private before having an interview with the lawyer himself. At six
o’clock the appointed meeting took place, and from Chancery Lane the
pair walked to a quiet house of refreshment in the vicinity of
Lincoln’s Inn Fields. On the way they exchanged a few insignificant
remarks, having reference to a former intimacy and a period during
which they had not come across each other. Established in a
semi-private room, with a modest stimulant to aid conversation, they
became more at ease; Mr. Scawthorne allowed himself a discreet smile,
and Joseph, fingering his glass, broached the matter at issue with a
cautious question.
‘Do you know anything of a man called Snowdon?’
‘What Snowdon?’
‘Joseph James Snowdon—a friend of mine. Your people advertised for him
about three years ago. Perhaps you haven’t been at the office as long
as that?’
‘Oh yes. I remember the name. What about him?’
‘Your people wanted to find him—something to his advantage. Do you
happen to know whether it’s any use his coming forward now?’
Mr. Scawthorne was not distinguished by directness of gaze. He had
handsome features, and a not unpleasant cast of countenance, but
something, possibly the habit of professional prudence, made his regard
coldly, fitfully, absently observant. It was markedly so as he turned
his face towards Joseph whilst the latter was speaking. After a
moment’s silence he remarked, without emphasis:
‘A relative of yours, you said?’
‘No, I said a friend—intimate friend. Polkenhorne knows him too.’
‘Does he? I haven’t seen Polkenhorne for a long time.’
‘You don’t care to talk about the business? Perhaps you’d better
introduce me to Mr. Percival.’
‘By the name of Camden?’
‘Hang it! I may as well tell you at once. Snowdon is my own name.’
‘Indeed? And how am I to be sure of that?’
‘Come and see me where I’m living, in Clerkenwell Close, and then make
inquiries of my father, in Hanover Street, Islington. There’s no reason
now for keeping up the old name—a little affair—all put right. But the
fact is, I’d as soon find out what this business is with your office
without my father knowing. I have reasons; shouldn’t mind talking them
over with you, if you can give me the information I want.’
‘I can do that,’ replied Scawthorne with a smile. ‘If you are J. J.
Snowdon, you are requested to communicate with Michael Snowdon—that’s
all.’
‘Oh! but I _have_ communicated with him, and he’s nothing particular to
say to me, as far as I can see.’
Scawthorne sipped at his glass, gave a stroke to each side of his
moustache, and seemed to reflect.
‘You were coming to ask Mr. Percival privately for information?’
‘That’s just it. Of course if you can’t give me any, I must see him
to-morrow.’
‘He won’t tell you anything more than I have.’
‘And you don’t _know_ anything more?’
‘I didn’t say that, my dear fellow. Suppose you begin by telling me a
little more about yourself?’
It was a matter of time, but at length the dialogue took another
character. The glasses of stimulant were renewed, and as Joseph grew
expansive Scawthorne laid aside something of his professional reserve,
without, however, losing the discretion which led him to subdue his
voice and express himself in uncompromising phrases. Their sitting
lasted about an hour, and before taking leave of each other they
arranged for a meeting at a different place in the course of a few
days.
Joseph walked homewards with deliberation, in absent mood, his
countenance alternating strangely between a look of mischievous
jocoseness and irritable concern; occasionally he muttered to himself.
Just before reaching the Close he turned into a public-house; when he
came forth the malicious smile was on his face, and he walked with the
air of a man who has business of moment before him. He admitted himself
to the house.
‘That you, Jo?’ cried Clem’s voice from upstairs.
‘Me, sure enough,’ was the reply, with a chuckle. ‘Come up sharp,
then.’
Humming a tune, Joseph ascended to the sitting-room on the first floor,
and threw himself on a seat. His wife stood just in front of him, her
sturdy arms a-kimbo; her look was fiercely expectant, answering in some
degree to the smile with which he looked here and there.
‘Well, can’t you speak?’
‘No hurry, Mrs. Clem; no hurry, my dear. It’s all right. The old man’s
rolling in money.’
‘And what about your share?’
Joseph laughed obstreperously, his wife’s brow lowering the while.
‘Just tell me, can’t you?’ she cried.
‘Of course I will. The best joke you ever heard. You had yours
yesterday, Mrs. Clem; my turn comes to-day. My share is—just nothing at
all. Not a penny! Not a cent! Swallow that, old girl, and tell me how
it tastes.’
‘You’re a liar!’ shouted the other, her face flushing scarlet, her eyes
aflame with rage.
‘Never told a lie in my life,’ replied her husband, still laughing
noisily. But for that last glass of cordial on the way home he could
scarcely have enjoyed so thoroughly the dramatic flavour of the
situation. Joseph was neither a bully nor a man of courage; the joke
with which he was delighting himself was certainly a rich one, but it
had its element of danger, and only by abandoning himself to riotous
mirth could he overcome the nervousness with which Clem’s fury
threatened to affect him. She, coming forward in the attitude of an
enraged fishwife, for a few moments made the room ring with foul abuse,
that vituperative vernacular of the nether world, which has never yet
been exhibited by typography, and presumably never will be.
‘Go it, Clem!’ cried her husband, pushing his chair a little back. ‘Go
it, my angel! When you’ve eased your mind a little, I’ll explain how it
happens.’
She became silent, glaring at him with murderous eyes. But just at that
moment Mrs. Peckover put her head in at the door, inquiring ‘What’s
up?’
‘Come in, if you want to know,’ cried her daughter. ‘See what you’ve
let me in for! Didn’t I tell you as it might be all a mistake? Oh yes,
you may look!’
Mrs. Peckover was startled; her small, cunning eyes went rapidly from
Clem to Joseph, and she fixed the latter with a gaze of angry
suspicion.
‘Got a bit of news for you, mother,’ resumed Joseph, nodding. ‘You and
Clem were precious artful, weren’t you now? It’s my turn now. Thought
I’d got money—ha, ha!’
‘And so you have,’ replied Mrs. Peckover. ‘We know all about it, so you
needn’t try your little game.’
‘Know all about it, do you? Well, see here. My brother Mike died out in
Australia, and his son died at the same time—they was drowned. Mike
left no will, and his wife was dead before him. What’s the law, eh?
Pity you didn’t make sure of that. Why, all his money went to the old
man, every cent of it. I’ve no claim on a penny. That’s the law, my
pretty dears!’
‘He’s a —— liar!’ roared Clem, who at the best of times would have
brought small understanding to a legal question. ‘What did my brother
say in his letter?’
‘He was told wrong, that’s all, or else he got the idea out of his own
head.’
‘Then why did they advertise for you?’ inquired Mrs. Peckover, keeping
perfect command of her temper.
‘The old man thought he’d like to find his son again, that’s all. Ha,
ha! Why can’t you take it good-humoured, Clem? You had your joke
yesterday, and you can’t say I cut up rough about it. I’m a
good-natured fellow, I am. There’s many a man would have broke every
bone in your body, my angel, you just remember that!’
It rather seemed as if the merry proceeding would in this case be
reversed; Joseph had risen, and was prepared to defend himself from an
onslaught. But Mrs. Peckover came between the newly-wedded pair, and by
degrees induced Clem to take a calmer view of the situation, or at all
events to postpone her vengeance. It was absurd, she argued, to act as
if the matter were hopeless. Michael Snowdon would certainly leave
Joseph money in his will, if only the right steps were taken to secure
his favour. Instead of quarrelling, they must put their heads together
and scheme. She had her ideas; let them listen to her.
‘Clem, you go and get a pot of old six for supper, and don’t be such a
—— fool,’ was her final remark.