A DOUBLE CONSECRATION
Bessie Byass and her husband had, as you may suppose, devoted many an
hour to intimate gossip on the affairs of their top-floor lodgers.
Having no relations with Clerkenwell Close, they did not even hear the
rumours which spread from Mrs. Peckover’s house at the time of Jane’s
departure thence; their curiosity, which only grew keener as time went
on, found no appeasement save in conjecture. That Sidney Kirkwood was
in the secret from the first they had no doubt; Bessie made a sly
attempt now and then to get a hint from him, but without the least
result. The appearance on the scene of Jane’s father revived their
speculation, and just after the old man’s illness in the month of
August occurred something which gave them still fresh matter for
argument. The rooms on the first floor having become vacant, Michael
proposed certain new arrangements. His own chamber was too much that of
an invalid to serve any longer as sitting-room for Jane; he desired to
take the front-room below for that purpose, to make the other on the
same floor Jane’s bedroom, and then to share with the Byasses the
expense of keeping a servant, whose lodging would be in the chamber
thus set free. Hitherto Bessie and Jane and an occasional charwoman had
done all the work of the house; it was a day of jubilation for Mrs.
Byass when she found herself ruling over a capped and aproned maid. All
these things set it beyond doubt that Michael Snowdon had means greater
than one would have supposed from his way of living hitherto. Jane’s
removal from work could, of course, be explained by her grandfather’s
growing infirmities, but Bessie saw more than this in the new order of
things; she began to look upon the girl with a certain awe, as one
whose future might reveal marvels.
For Jane, as we know, the marvels had already begun. She came back from
Danbury not altogether like herself; unsettled a little, as it
appeared; and Michael’s illness, befalling so soon, brought her into a
nervous state such as she had not known for a long time. The immediate
effect of the disclosure made to her by Michael whilst he was
recovering was to overwhelm her with a sense of responsibilities, to
throw her mind into painful tumult. Slow of thought, habituated to the
simplest views of her own existence, very ignorant of the world beyond
the little circle in which her life had been passed, she could not at
once bring into the control of her reflection this wondrous future to
which her eyes had been opened. The way in which she had been made
acquainted with the facts was unfortunate. Michael Snowdon, in spite of
his deep affection for her, and of the trust he had come to repose in
her character, did not understand Jane well enough to bring about this
revelation with the needful prudence. Between him, a man burdened with
the sorrowful memories of a long life, originally of stern temperament,
and now, in the feebleness of his age, possessed by an enthusiasm which
in several respects disturbed his judgment, which made him desperately
eager to secure his end now that he felt life slipping away from
him—between him and such a girl as Jane there was a wider gulf than
either of them could be aware of. Little as he desired it, he could not
help using a tone which seemed severe rather than tenderly trustful.
Absorbed in his great idea, conscious that it had regulated every
detail in his treatment of Jane since she came to live with him, he
forgot that the girl herself was by no means adequately prepared to
receive the solemn injunctions which he now delivered to her. His
language was as general as were the ideas of beneficent activity which
he desired to embody in Jane’s future; but instead of inspiring her
with his own zeal, he afflicted her with grievous spiritual trouble.
For a time she could only feel that something great and hard and high
was suddenly required of her; the old man’s look seemed to keep
repeating, ‘Are you worthy?’ The tremor of bygone days came back upon
her as she listened, the anguish of timidity, the heart sinking, with
which she had been wont to strain her attention when Mrs. Peckover or
Clem imposed a harsh task.
One thing alone had she grasped as soon as it was uttered; one word of
reassurance she could recall when she sat down in solitude to collect
her thoughts. Her grandfather had mentioned that Sidney Kirkwood
already knew this secret. To Sidney her whole being turned in this hour
of distress; he was the friend who would help her with counsel and
teach her to be strong. But hereupon there revived in her a trouble
which for the moment she had forgotten, and it became so acute that she
was driven to speak to Michael in a way which had till now seemed
impossible. When she entered his room—it was the morning after their
grave conversation—Michael welcomed her with a face of joy, which,
however, she still felt to be somewhat stern and searching in its look.
When they had talked for a few moments, Jane said:
‘I may speak about this to Mr. Kirkwood, grandfather?’
‘I hope you will, Jane. Strangers needn’t know of it yet, but we can
speak freely to him.’
After many endeavours to find words that would veil her thought, she
constrained herself to ask:
‘Does he think I can be all you wish?’
Michael looked at her with a smile.
‘Sidney has no less faith in you than I have, be sure of that.’
‘I’ve been thinking—that perhaps he distrusted me a little.’
‘Why, my child?’
‘I don’t quite know. But there’s been a little difference in him, I
think, since we came back.’
Michael’s countenance fell.
‘Difference? How?’
But Jane could not go further. She wished she had not spoken. Her face
began to grow hot, and she moved away.
‘It’s only your fancy,’ continued Michael. ‘But may be that—You think
he isn’t quite so easy in his talking to you as he was?’
‘I’ve fancied it. But it was only—’
‘Well, you may be partly right,’ said her grandfather, softening his
voice. ‘See, Jane, I’ll tell you something. I think there’s no harm;
perhaps I ought to. You must know that I hadn’t meant to speak to
Sidney of these things just when I did. It came about, because _he_ had
something to tell _me_, and something I was well pleased to hear. It
was about you, Jane, and in that way I got talking—something about you,
my child. Afterwards, I asked him whether he wouldn’t speak to you
yourself, but he said no—not till you’d heard all that was before you.
I think I understood him, and I dare say you will, if you think it
over.’
Matter enough for thinking over, in these words. Did she understand
them aright? Before leaving the room she had not dared to look her
grandfather in the face, but she knew well that he was regarding her
still with the same smile. Did she understand him aright?
Try to read her mind. The world had all at once grown very large, a
distress to her imagination; worse still, she had herself become a
person of magnified importance, irrecognisable in her own sight,
moving, thinking so unnaturally. Jane, I assure you, had thought very
little of herself hitherto—in both senses of the phrase. Joyous because
she could not help it, full of gratitude, admiration, generosity, she
occupied her thoughts very much with other people, but knew not
self-seeking, knew not self-esteem. The one thing affecting herself
over which she mused frequently was her suffering as a little thrall in
Clerkenwell Close, and the result was to make her very humble. She had
been an ill-used, ragged, work-worn child, and something of that
degradation seemed, in her feeling, still to cling to her. Could she
have known Bob Hewett’s view of her position, she would have felt its
injustice, but at the same time would have bowed her head. And in this
spirit had she looked up to Sidney Kirkwood, regarding him as when she
was a child, save for that subtle modification which began on the day
when she brought news of Clara Hewett’s disappearance. Perfect in
kindness, Sidney had never addressed a word to her which implied more
than friendship—never until that evening at the farm; then for the
first time had he struck a new note. His words seemed spoken with the
express purpose of altering his and her relations to each other. So
much Jane had felt, and his change since then was all the more painful
to her, all the more confusing. Now that of a sudden she had to regard
herself in an entirely new way, the dearest interest of her life
necessarily entered upon another phase. Struggling to understand how
her grandfather could think her worthy of such high trust, she
inevitably searched her mind for testimony as to the account in which
Sidney held her. A fearful hope had already flushed her cheeks before
Michael spoke the words which surely could have but one meaning.
On one point Sidney had left her no doubts; that his love for Clara
Hewett was a thing of the past he had told her distinctly. And why did
he wish her to be assured of that? Oh, had her grandfather been
mistaken in those words he reported? Durst she put faith in them,
coming thus to her by another’s voice?
Doubts and dreads and self-reproofs might still visit her from hour to
hour, but the instinct of joy would not allow her to refuse admission
to this supreme hope. As if in spite of herself, the former
gladness—nay, a gladness multiplied beyond conception—reigned once more
in her heart. Her grandfather would not speak lightly in such a matter
as this; the meaning of his words was confessed, to all eternity
immutable. Had it, then, come to this? The friend to whom she looked up
with such reverence, with voiceless gratitude, when he condescended to
speak kindly to _her_, the Peckovers’ miserable little servant—he,
after all these changes and chances of life, sought her now that she
was a woman, and had it on his lips to say that he loved her. Hitherto
the impossible, the silly thought to be laughed out of her head, the
desire for which she would have chid herself durst she have faced it
seriously—was it become a very truth? ‘Keep a good heart, Jane;
things’ll be better some day.’ How many years since the rainy and windy
night when he threw his coat over her and spoke those words? Yet she
could hear them now, and the tears that rushed to her eyes as she
blessed him for his manly goodness were as much those of the desolate
child as of the full-hearted woman.
And the change that she had observed in him since that evening at
Danbury? A real change, but only of manner. He would not say to her
what he had meant to say until she knew the truth about her own
circumstances. In simple words, she being rich and he having only what
he earned by his daily work, Sidney did not think it right to speak
whilst she was still in ignorance. The delicacy of her instincts, and
the sympathies awakened by her affection, made this perfectly clear to
her, strange and difficult to grasp as the situation was at first. When
she understood, how her soul laughed with exulting merriment!
Consecration to a great idea, endowment with the means of wide
beneficence—this not only left her cold, but weighed upon her,
afflicted her beyond her strength. What was it, in truth, that restored
her to herself and made her heart beat joyously? Knit your brows
against her; shake your head and raze her name from that catalogue of
saints whereon you have inscribed it in anticipation. Jane rejoiced
simply because she loved a poor man, and had riches that she could lay
at his feet.
Great sums of money, vague and disturbing to her imagination when she
was bidden hold them in trust for unknown people, gleamed and made
music now that she could think of them as a gift of love. By this way
of thought she could escape from the confusion in which Michael’s
solemn appeal had left her. Exalted by her great hope, calmed by the
assurance of aid that would never fail her, she began to feel the
beauty of the task to which she was summoned; the appalling
responsibility became a high privilege now that it was to be shared
with one in whose wisdom and strength she had measureless confidence.
She knew now what wealth meant; it was a great and glorious power, a
source of blessings incalculable. This power it would be hers to
bestow, and no man more worthy than he who should receive it at her
hands.
It was not without result that Jane had been so long a listener to the
conversations between Michael and Kirkwood. Defective as was her
instruction in the ordinary sense, those evenings spent in the company
of the two men had done much to refine her modes of thought. In spite
of the humble powers of her mind and her narrow experience, she had
learned to think on matters which are wholly strange to girls of her
station, to regard the life of the world and the individual in a light
of idealism and with a freedom from ignoble association rare enough in
any class. Her forecast of the future to be spent with Sidney was
pathetic in its simplicity, but had the stamp of nobleness. Thinking of
the past years, she made clear to herself all the significance of her
training. In her general view of things, wealth was naturally allied
with education, but she understood why Michael had had her taught so
little. A wealthy woman is called a lady; yes, but that was exactly
what she was not to become. On that account she had gone to work, when
in reality there was no need for her to do so. Never must she remove
herself from the poor and the laborious, her kin, her care; never must
she forget those bitter sufferings of her childhood, precious as
enabling her to comprehend the misery of others for whom had come no
rescue. She saw, moreover, what was meant by Michael’s religious
teaching, why he chose for her study such parts of the Bible as taught
the beauty of compassion, of service rendered to those whom the world
casts forth and leaves to perish. All this grew upon her, when once the
gladness of her heart was revived. It was of the essence of her being
to exercise all human and self-forgetful virtues, and the consecration
to a life of beneficence moved her profoundly now that it followed upon
consecration to the warmer love.
When Sidney paid his next visit Jane was alone in the new sitting-room;
her grandfather said he did not feel well enough to come down this
evening. It was the first time that Kirkwood had seen the new room.
After making his inquiries about Michael he surveyed the arrangements,
which were as simple as they could be, and spoke a few words regarding
the comfort Jane would find in them. He had his hand on a chair, but
did not sit down, nor lay aside his hat. Jane suffered from a
constraint which she had never before felt in his presence.
‘You know what grandfather has been telling me?’ she said at length,
regarding him with grave eyes.
‘Yes. He told me of his intention.’
‘I asked him if I might speak to you about it. It was hard to
understand at first.’
‘It would be, I’ve no doubt.’
Jane moved a little, took up some sewing, and seated herself. Sidney
let his hat drop on to the chair, but remained standing, his arms
resting on the back.
‘It’s a very short time since I myself knew of it,’ he continued. ‘Till
then, I as little imagined as you did that—’ He paused, then resumed
more quickly, ‘But it explains many things which I had always
understood in a simpler way.’
‘I feel, too, that I know grandfather much better than I did,’ Jane
said. ‘He’s always been thinking about the time when I should be old
enough to hear what plans he’d made for me. I do so hope he really
trusts me, Mr. Kirkwood! I don’t know whether I speak about it as he
wishes. It isn’t easy to say all I think, but I mean to do my best to
be what he—’
‘He knows that very well. Don’t be anxious; he feels that all his hopes
have been realised in you.’
There was silence. Jane made a pretence of using her needle, and Sidney
watched her hands.
‘He spoke to you of a lady called Mrs. Lant?’ were his next words.
‘Yes. He just mentioned her.’
‘Are you going to see her soon?’
‘I don’t know. Have _you_ seen her?’
‘No. But I believe she’s a woman you could soon be friendly with. I
hope your grandfather will ask her to come here before long.’
‘I’m rather afraid of strangers.’
‘No doubt,’ said the other, smiling. ‘But you’ll get over that. I shall
do my best to persuade Mr. Snowdon to make you acquainted with her.’
Jane drew in her breath uneasily.
‘She won’t want me to know other people, I hope?’
‘Oh, if she does, they’ll be kind and nice and easy to talk to.’
Jane raised her eyes and said half-laughingly:
‘I feel as if I was very childish, and that makes me feel it still
more. Of course, if it’s necessary, I’ll do my best to talk to
strangers. But they won’t expect too much of me, at first? I mean, if
they find me a little slow, they won’t be impatient?’
‘You mustn’t think that hard things are going to be asked of you.
You’ll never be required to say or do anything that you haven’t already
said and done many a time, quite naturally. Why, it’s some time since
you began the kind of work of which your grandfather has been
speaking.’
‘I have begun it? How?’
‘Who has been such a good friend to Pennyloaf, and helped her as nobody
else could have done?’
‘Oh, but that’s nothing!’
Sidney was on the point of replying, but suddenly altered his
intention. He raised himself from the leaning attitude, and took his
hat.
‘Well, we’ll talk about it another time,’ he said carelessly. ‘I can’t
stop long to-night, so I’ll go up and see your grandfather.’
Jane rose silently.
‘I’ll just look in and say good-night before I go,’ Sidney added, as he
left the room.
He did so, twenty minutes after. When he opened the door Jane was
sewing busily, but it was only on hearing his footsteps that she had so
applied herself. He gave a friendly nod, and departed.
Still the same change in his manner. A little while ago he would have
chatted freely and forgotten the time.
Another week, and Jane made the acquaintance of the lady whose name we
have once or twice heard, Miss Lant, the friend of old Mr. Percival. Of
middle age and with very plain features, Miss Lant had devoted herself
to philanthropic work; she had an income of a few hundred pounds, and
lived almost as simply as the Snowdons in order to save money for
charitable expenditure. Unfortunately the earlier years of her life had
been joyless, and in the energy which she brought to this self-denying
enterprise there was just a touch of excess, common enough in those who
have been defrauded of their natural satisfactions and find a resource
in altruism. She was no pietist, but there is nowadays coming into
existence a class of persons who substitute for the old religious
acerbity a narrow and oppressive zeal for good works of purely human
sanction, and to this order Miss Lant might be said to belong. However,
nothing but what was agreeable manifested itself in her intercourse
with Michael and Jane; the former found her ardent spirit very
congenial, and the latter was soon at ease in her company.
It was a keen distress to Jane when she heard from Pennyloaf that Bob
would allow no future meetings between them. In vain she sought an
explanation; Pennyloaf professed to know nothing of her husband’s
motives, but implored her friend to keep away for a time, as any
disregard of Bob’s injunction would only result in worse troubles than
she yet had to endure. Jane sought the aid of Kirkwood, begging him to
interfere with young Hewett; the attempt was made, but proved
fruitless. ‘_Sic volo, sic jubeo_,’ was Bob’s standpoint, and he as
good as bade Sidney mind his own affairs.
Jane suffered, and more than she herself would have anticipated. She
had conceived a liking, almost an affection, for poor, shiftless
Pennyloaf, strengthened, of course, by the devotion with which the
latter repaid her. But something more than this injury to her feelings
was involved in her distress on being excluded from those sorry
lodgings. Pennyloaf was comparatively an old friend; she represented
the past, its contented work, its familiar associations, its abundant
happiness. And now, though Jane did not acknowledge to herself that she
regretted the old state of things, still less that she feared the
future, it was undeniable that the past seemed very bright in her
memory, and that something weighed upon her heart, forbidding such
gladsomeness as she had known.