WATCHING FROM AMBUSH
Mr. Joseph Snowdon, though presenting a calm countenance to the world
and seeming to enjoy comparative prosperity, was in truth much harassed
by the difficulties of his position. Domestic troubles he had
anticipated, but the unforeseen sequel of his marriage resulted in a
martyrdom at the hands of Clem and her mother such as he had never
dreamed of. His faults and weaknesses distinctly those of the civilised
man, he found himself in disastrous alliance with two savages, whose
characters so supplemented each other as to constitute in unison a
formidable engine of tyranny. Clem—suspicious, revengeful, fierce,
watching with cruel eyes every opportunity of taking payment on account
for the ridicule to which she had exposed herself; Mrs.
Peckover—ceaselessly occupied with the basest scheming, keen as an
Indian on any trail she happened to strike, excited by the scent of
money as a jackal by that of carrion; for this pair Joseph was no
match. Not only did they compel him to earn his daily bread by dint of
methodical effort such as was torture to his indolent disposition, but,
moreover, in pursuance of Mrs. Peckover’s crafty projects, he was
constrained to an assiduous hypocrisy in his relations with Michael and
Jane which wearied him beyond measure. Joseph did not belong to the
most desperate class of hungry mortals; he had neither the large
ambitions and the passionate sensual desires which make life an
unending fever, nor was he possessed with that foul itch of
covetousness which is the explanation of the greater part of the
world’s activity. He understood quite sufficiently the advantages of
wealth, and was prepared to go considerable lengths for the sake of
enjoying them, but his character lacked persistence. This defect
explained the rogueries and calamities of his life. He had brains in
abundance, and a somewhat better education would have made of him
either a successful honest man or a rascal of superior scope—it is
always a toss-up between these two results where a character such as
his is in question. Ever since he abandoned the craft to which his
father had had him trained, he had lived on his wits; there would be
matter for a volume in the history of his experiences at home and
abroad, a volume infinitely more valuable considered as a treatise on
modern civilisation than any professed work on that subject in
existence. With one episode only in his past can we here concern
ourselves; the retrospect is needful to make clear his relations with
Mr. Scawthorne.
On his return from America, Joseph possessed a matter of a hundred
pounds; the money was not quite legally earned (pray let us reserve the
word honesty for a truer use than the common one), and on the whole he
preferred to recommence life in the old country under a pseudonym—that
little affair of the desertion of his child would perhaps, in any case,
have made this advisable. A hundred pounds will not go very far, but
Joseph took care to be well-dressed, and allowed it to be surmised by
those with whom he came in contact that the resources at his command
were considerable. In early days, as we know, he had worked at
electroplating, and the natural bent of his intellect was towards
mechanical and physical science; by dint of experimenting at his old
pursuit, he persuaded himself, or at all events attained plausibility
for the persuading of others, that he had discovered a new and valuable
method of plating with nickel, He gave it out that he was in search of
a partner to join him in putting this method into practice. Gentlemen
thus situated naturally avail themselves of the advertisement columns
of the newspaper, and Joseph by this means had the happiness to form an
acquaintance with one Mr. Polkenhorne, who, like himself, had sundry
schemes for obtaining money without toiling for it in the usual vulgar
way. Polkenhorne was a man of thirty-five, much of a blackguard, but
keen-witted, handsome, and tolerably educated; the son of a Clerkenwell
clockmaker, he had run through an inheritance of a few thousand pounds,
and made no secret of his history—spoke of his experiences, indeed,
with a certain pride. Between these two a close intimacy sprang up, one
of those partnerships, beginning with mutual deception, which are so
common in the border-land of enterprise just skirting the criminal
courts. Polkenhorne resided at this time in Kennington; he was
married—or said that he was—to a young lady in the theatrical
profession, known to the public as Miss Grace Danver. To Mrs.
Polkenhorne, or Miss Danver, Joseph soon had the honour of being
presented, for she was just then playing at a London theatre; he found
her a pretty but consumptive-looking girl, not at all likely to achieve
great successes, earning enough, however, to support Mr. Polkenhorne
during this time of his misfortunes—a most pleasant and natural
arrangement.
Polkenhorne’s acquaintances were numerous, but, as he informed Joseph,
most of them were ‘played out,’ that is to say, no further use could be
made of them from Polkenhorne’s point of view. One, however, as yet
imperfectly known, promised to be useful, perchance as a victim, more
probably as an ally; his name was Scawthorne, and Polkenhorne had come
across him in consequence of a friendship existing between Grace Danver
and Mrs. Scawthorne—at all events, a young lady thus known—who was
preparing herself for the stage. This gentleman was ‘something in the
City;’ he had rather a close look, but proved genial enough, and was
very ready to discuss things in general with Mr. Polkenhorne and his
capitalist friend Mr. Camden, just from the United States.
A word or two about Charles Henry Scawthorne, of the circumstances
which made him what you know, or what you conjecture. His father had a
small business as a dyer in Islington, and the boy, leaving school at
fourteen, was sent to become a copying-clerk in a solicitor’s office;
his tastes were so strongly intellectual that it seemed a pity to put
him to work he hated, and the clerkship was the best opening that could
be procured for him. Two years after, Mr. Scawthorne died; his wife
tried to keep on the business, but soon failed, and thenceforth her son
had to support her as well as himself. From sixteen to three-and-twenty
was the period of young Scawthorne’s life which assured his future
advancement—and his moral ruin. A grave, gentle, somewhat effeminate
boy, with a great love of books and a wonderful power of application to
study, he suffered so much during those years of early maturity, that,
as in almost all such eases, his nature was corrupted. Pity that some
self-made intellectual man of our time has not flung in the world’s
teeth a truthful autobiography. Scawthorne worked himself up to a
position which had at first seemed unattainable; what he paid for the
success was loss of all his pure ideals, of his sincerity, of his
disinterestedness, of the fine perceptions to which he was born.
Probably no one who is half-starved and overworked during those
critical years comes out of the trial with his moral nature uninjured;
to certain characters it is a wrong irreparable. To stab the root of a
young tree, to hang crushing burdens upon it, to rend off its early
branches—that is not the treatment likely to result in growth such as
nature purposed. There will come of it a vicious formation, and the
principle applies also to the youth of men.
Scawthorne was fond of the theatre; as soon as his time of incessant
toll was over, he not only attended performances frequently, but
managed to make personal acquaintance with sundry theatrical people.
Opportunity for this was afforded by his becoming member of a club,
consisting chiefly of solicitors’ clerks, which was frequently honoured
by visits from former associates who had taken to the stage; these
happy beings would condescend to recite at times, to give help in
getting up a dramatic entertainment, and soon, in this way, Scawthorne
came to know an old actor named Drake, who supported himself by
instructing novices, male and female, in his own profession; one of Mr.
Drake’s old pupils was Miss Grace Danver, in whom, as soon as he met
her, Scawthorne recognised the Grace Rudd of earlier days. And it was
not long after this that he brought to Mr. Drake a young girl of
interesting appearance, but very imperfect education, who fancied she
had a turn for acting; he succeeded in arranging for her instruction,
and a year and a half later she obtained her first engagement at a
theatre in Scotland. The name she adopted was Clara Vale. Joseph
Snowdon saw her once or twice before she left London, and from Grace
Danver he heard that Grace and she had been schoolfellows in
Clerkenwell. These facts revived in his memory when he afterwards heard
Clem speak of Clara Hewett.
Nothing came of the alliance between Polkenhorne and Joseph; when the
latter’s money was exhausted, they naturally fell apart. Joseph made a
living in sundry precarious ways, but at length sank into such straits
that he risked the step of going to Clerkenwell Close. Personal
interest in his child he had then none whatever; his short married life
seemed an episode in the remote past, recalled with indifference. But
in spite of his profound selfishness, it was not solely from the
speculative point of view that he regarded Jane, when he had had time
to realise that she was his daughter, and in a measure to appreciate
her character. With the merely base motives which led him to seek her
affection and put him at secret hostility with Sidney Kirkwood, there
mingled before long a strain of feeling which was natural and pure; he
became a little jealous of his father and of Sidney on other grounds
than those of self-interest. Intolerable as his home was, no wonder
that he found it a pleasant relief to spend an evening in Hanover
Street; he never came away without railing at himself for his
imbecility in having married Clem. For the present he had to plot with
his wife and Mrs. Peckover, but only let the chance for plotting
_against_ them offer itself! The opportunity might come. In the
meantime, the great thing was to postpone the marriage—he had no doubt
it was contemplated—between Jane and Sidney. That would be little less
than a fatality.
The week that Jane spent in Essex was of course a time of desperate
anxiety with Joseph; immediately on her return he hastened to assure
himself that things remained as before. It seemed to him that Jane’s
greeting had more warmth than she was wont to display when they met;
sundry other little changes in her demeanour struck him at the same
interview, and he was rather surprised that she had not so much
blitheness as before she went away. But his speculation on minutiae
such as these was suddenly interrupted a day or two later by news which
threw him into a state of excitement; Jane sent word that her
grandfather was very unwell, that he appeared to have caught a chill in
the journey home, and could not at present leave his bed. For a week
the old man suffered from feverish symptoms, and, though he threw off
the ailment, it was in a state of much feebleness that he at length
resumed the ordinary tenor of his way. Jane had of course stayed at
home to nurse him; a fortnight, a month passed, and Michael still kept
her from work. Then it happened that, on Joseph’s looking in one
evening, the old man said quietly, ‘I think I’d rather Jane stayed at
home in future. We’ve had a long talk about it this afternoon.’
Joseph glanced at his daughter, who met the look very gravely. He had a
feeling that the girl was of a sudden grown older; when she spoke it
was in brief phrases, and with but little of her natural spontaneity;
noiseless as always in her movements, she walked with a staider gait,
held herself less girlishly, and on saying good-night she let her cheek
rest for a moment against her father’s, a thing she had never yet done.
The explanation of it all came a few minutes after Jane’s retirement.
Michael, warned by his illness how unstable was the tenure on which he
henceforth held his life, had resolved to have an end of mystery and
explain to his son all that he had already made known to Sidney
Kirkwood. With Jane he had spoken a few hours ago, revealing to her the
power that was in his hands, the solemn significance he attached to it,
the responsibility with which her future was to be invested. To make
the same things known to Joseph was a task of more difficulty. He could
not here count on sympathetic intelligence; it was but too certain that
his son would listen with disappointment, if not with bitterness. In
order to mitigate the worst results, he began by making known the fact
of his wealth and asking if Joseph had any practical views which could
be furthered by a moderate sum put at his disposal.
‘At my death,’ he added, ‘you’ll find that I haven’t dealt unkindly by
you. But you’re a man of middle age, and I should like to see you in
some fixed way of life before I go.’
Having heard all, Joseph promised to think over the proposal which
concerned himself. It was in a strange state of mind that he returned
to the Close; one thing only he was clear upon, that to Clem and her
mother he would breathe no word of what had been told him. After a
night passed without a wink of sleep, struggling with the amazement,
the incredulity, the confusion of understanding caused by his father’s
words, he betook himself to a familiar public-house, and there penned a
note to Scawthorne, requesting an interview as soon as possible. The
meeting took place that evening at the retreat behind Lincoln’s Inn
Fields where the two had held colloquies on several occasions during
the last half-year. Scawthorne received with gravity what his
acquaintance had to communicate. Then he observed:
‘The will was executed ten days ago.’
‘It was? And what’s he left me?’
‘Seven thousand pounds—less legacy duty.’
‘And thirty thousand to Jane?’
‘Just so.’
Joseph drew in his breath; his teeth ground together for a moment; his
eyes grew very wide. With a smile Scawthorne proceeded to explain that
Jane’s trustees were Mr. Percival, senior, and his son. Should she die
unmarried before attaining her twenty-first birthday, the money
bequeathed to her was to be distributed among certain charities.
‘It’s my belief there’s a crank in the old fellow,’ exclaimed Joseph.
‘Is he really such a fool as to think Jane won’t use the money for
herself? And what about Kirkwood? I tell you what it is; he’s a deep
fellow, is Kirkwood. I wish you knew him.’
Scawthorne confessed that he had the same wish, but added that there
was no chance of its being realised; prudence forbade any move in that
direction.
‘If he marries her,’ questioned Joseph, ‘will the money be his?’
‘No; it will be settled on her. But it comes to very much the same
thing; there’s to be no restraint on her discretion in using it.’
‘She might give her affectionate parent a hundred or so now and then,
if she chose?’
‘If she chose.’
Scawthorne began a detailed inquiry into the humanitarian projects of
which Joseph had given but a rude and contemptuous explanation. The
finer qualities of his mind enabled him to see the matter in quite a
different light from that in which it presented itself to Jane’s
father; he had once or twice had an opportunity of observing Michael
Snowdon at the office, and could realise in a measure the character
which directed its energies to such an ideal aim. Concerning Jane he
asked many questions; then the conversation turned once more to Sidney
Kirkwood.
‘I wish he’d married his old sweetheart,’ observed Joseph, watching the
other’s face.
‘Who was that?’
‘A girl called Clara Hewett.’
Their looks met. Scawthorne, in spite of habitual self-command,
betrayed an extreme surprise.
‘I wonder what’s become of her?’ continued Joseph, still observing his
companion, and speaking with unmistakable significance.
‘Just tell me something about this,’ said Scawthorne peremptorily.
Joseph complied, and ended his story with a few more hints.
‘I never saw her myself—at least I can’t be sure that I did. There was
somebody of the same name—Clara—a friend of Polkenhorne’s wife.’
Scawthorne appeared to pay no attention; he mused with a wrinkled brow.
‘If only I could put something between Kirkwood and the girl,’ remarked
Joseph, as if absently. ‘I shouldn’t wonder if it could be made worth
some one’s while to give a bit of help that way. Don’t you think so?’
In the tone of one turning to a different subject, Scawthorne asked
suddenly:
‘What use are you going to make of your father’s offer?’
‘Well, I’m not quite sure. Shouldn’t wonder if I go in for filters.’
‘Filters?’
Joseph explained. In the capacity of ‘commission agent’—denomination
which includes and apologises for such a vast variety of casual
pursuits—he had of late been helping to make known to the public a new
filter, which promised to be a commercial success. The owner of the
patent lacked capital, and a judicious investment might secure a share
in the business; Joseph thought of broaching the subject with him next
day.
‘You won’t make a fool of yourself?’ remarked Scawthorne.
‘Trust me; I think I know my way about.’
For the present these gentlemen had nothing more to say to each other;
they emptied their glasses with deliberation, exchanged a look which
might mean either much or nothing, and so went their several ways.
The filter project was put into execution. When Joseph had communicated
it in detail to his father, the latter took the professional advice of
his friend Mr. Percival, and in the course of a few weeks Joseph found
himself regularly established in a business which had the—for him—novel
characteristic of serving the purposes of purity. The manufactory was
situated in a by-street on the north of Euston Road: a small concern,
but at all events a genuine one. On the window of the office you read,
‘Lake, Snowdon, & Co.’ As it was necessary to account for this
achievement to Clem and Mrs. Peckover, Joseph made known to them a part
of the truth; of the will he said nothing, and, for reasons of his own,
he allowed these tender relatives to believe that he was in a fair way
to inherit the greater part of Michael’s possessions. There was
jubilation in Clerkenwell Close, but mother and daughter kept stern
watch upon Joseph’s proceedings.
Another acquaintance of ours benefited by this event. Michael made it a
stipulation that some kind of work should be found at the factory for
John Hewett, who, since his wife’s death, had been making a wretched
struggle to establish a more decent home for the children. The firm of
Lake, Snowdon, & Co. took Hewett into their employment as a porter, and
paid him twenty-five shillings a week—of which sum, however, the odd
five shillings were privately made up by Michael. On receiving this
appointment, John drew the sigh of a man who finds himself in haven
after perilous beating about a lee shore. The kitchen in King’s Cross
Road was abandoned, and with Sidney Kirkwood’s aid the family found
much more satisfactory quarters. Friends of Sidney’s, a man and wife of
middle age without children, happened to be looking for lodgings: it
was decided that they and John Hewett should join in the tenancy of a
flat, up on the fifth storey of the huge block of tenements called
Farringdon Road Buildings. By this arrangement the children would be
looked after, and the weekly twenty-five shillings could be made to go
much further than on the ordinary system. As soon as everything had
been settled, and when Mr. and Mrs. Eagles had already housed
themselves in the one room which was all they needed for their private
accommodation, Hewett and the children began to pack together their
miserable sticks and rags for removal. Just then Sidney Kirkwood looked
in.
‘Eagles wants to see you for a minute about something,’ he said. ‘Just
walk round with me, will you?’
John obeyed, in the silent, spiritless way now usual with him. It was
but a short distance to the buildings: they went up the winding stone
staircase, and Sidney gave a hollow-sounding knock at one of the two
doors that faced each other on the fifth storey. Mrs. Eagles opened, a
decent, motherly woman, with a pleasant and rather curious smile on her
face. She led the way into one of the rooms which John had seen empty
only a few hours ago. How was this? Oil-cloth on the floor, a blind at
the window, a bedstead, a table, a chest of drawers—
Mrs. Eagles withdrew, discreetly. Hewett stood with a look of uneasy
wonderment, and at length turned to his companion.
‘Now, look here,’ he growled, in an unsteady voice, ‘what’s all this
about?’
‘Somebody seems to have got here before you,’ replied Sidney, smiling.
‘How the devil am I to keep any self-respect if you go on treatin’ me
in this fashion?’ blustered John, hanging his head.
‘It isn’t my doing, Mr. Hewett.’
‘Whose, then?’
‘A friend’s. Don’t make a fuss. You shall know the person some day.’