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 cheeks. ‘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.