The Nether World

by George Gissing

  In reading, Joseph James scratched his bald head thoughtfully. Before he had reached the end there were signs of emotion in his projecting lower lip. At length he regarded Clem, no longer smiling, but without any of the wrath she had anticipated.

  ‘Ha, ha! This was your game, was it? Well, I don’t object, old girl—so long as you tell me a bit more about it. Now there’s no need for any more lies, perhaps you’ll mention where the old fellow is.’

  ‘He’s livin’ not so far away, an’ Jane with him.’

  Put somewhat at her ease, Clem drew her hand from the neighbourhood of the bread-knife, and detailed all she knew with regard to old Mr. Snowdon and his affairs. Her mother had from the first suspected that he possessed money, seeing that he paid, with very little demur, the sum she demanded for Jane’s board and lodging. True, he went to live in poor lodgings, but that was doubtless a personal eccentricity. An important piece of evidence subsequently forthcoming was the fact that in sundry newspapers there appeared advertisements addressed to Joseph James Snowdon, requesting him to communicate with Messrs. Percival & Peel of Furnival’s Inn, whereupon Mrs. Peckover made inquiries of the legal firm in question (by means of an anonymous letter), and received a simple assurance that Mr. Snowdon was being sought for his own advantage.

  ‘You’re cool hands, you and your mother,’ observed Joseph James, with a certain involuntary admiration. ‘This was not quite three years ago, you say; just when I was in America. Ha—hum! What I can’t make out is, how the devil that brother of mine came to leave anything to me. We never did anything but curse each other from the time we were children to when we parted for good. And so the old man went out to Australia, did he? That’s a rum affair, too; Mike and he could never get on together. Well, I suppose there’s no mistake about it. I shouldn’t much mind if there was, just to see the face you’d pull, young woman. On the whole, perhaps it’s as well for you that I am fairly good-tempered—eh?’

  Clem stood apart, smiling dubiously, now and then eyeing him askance. His last words once more put her on her guard; she moved towards the table again.

  ‘Give me the address,’ said her husband. ‘I’ll go and have a talk with my relations. What sort of a girl’s Janey grown up—eh?’

  ‘If you’ll wait a bit, you can see for yourself. She’s goin’ to call here at twelve.’

  ‘Oh, she is? I suppose you’ve arranged a pleasant little surprise for her? Well, I must say you’re a cool band, Clem. I shouldn’t wonder if she’s been in the house several times since I’ve been here?’

  ‘No, she hasn’t. It wouldn’t have been safe, you see.’

  ‘Give me the corkscrew, and I’ll open this bottle of whisky. It takes it out of a fellow, this kind of thing. Here’s to you, Mrs. Clem! Have a drink? All right; go downstairs and show your mother you’re alive still; and let me know when Jane comes. I want to think a bit.’

  When he had sat for a quarter of an hour in solitary reflection the door opened, and Clem led into the room a young girl, whose face expressed timid curiosity. Joseph James stood up, joined his hands under his coat-tail, and examined the stranger.

  ‘Do you know who it is?’ asked Clem of her companion.

  ‘Your husband—but I don’t know his name.’

  ‘You ought to, it seems to me,’ said Clem, giggling. ‘Look at him.’

  Jane tried to regard the man for a moment. Her cheeks flushed with confusion. Again she looked at him, and the colour rapidly faded. In her eyes was a strange light of painfully struggling recollection. She turned to Clem, and read her countenance with distress.

  ‘Well, I’m quite sure I should never have known you, Janey,’ said Snowdon, advancing. ‘Don’t you remember your father?’

  Yes; as soon as consciousness could reconcile what seemed impossibilities Jane had remembered him. She was not seven years old when he forsook her, and a life of anything but orderly progress had told upon his features. Nevertheless Jane recognised the face she had never had cause to love, recognised yet more certainly the voice which carried her back to childhood. But what did it all mean? The shock was making her heart throb as it was wont to do before her fits of illness. She looked about her with dazed eyes.

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ said her father, not without a note of genuine feeling. ‘It’s been a bit too much for you—like something else was for me just now. Put some water in that glass, Clem; a drop of this will do her good.’

  The smell of what was offered her proved sufficient to restore Jane; she shook her head and put the glass away. After an uncomfortable silence, during which Joseph dragged his feet about the floor, Clem remarked:

  ‘He wants you to take him home to see your grandfather, Jane. There’s been reasons why he couldn’t go before. Hadn’t you better go at once, Jo?’

  Jane rose and waited whilst her father assumed his hat and drew on a new pair of gloves. She could not look at either husband or wife. Presently she found herself in the street, walking without consciousness of things in the homeward direction.

  ‘You’ve grown up a very nice, modest girl, Jane,’ was her father’s first observation. ‘I can see your grandfather has taken good care of you.’

  He tried to speak as if the situation were perfectly simple. Jane could find no reply.

  ‘I thought it was better,’ he continued, in the same matter-of-fact voice, ‘not to see either of you till this marriage of mine was over. I’ve had a great deal of trouble in life—I’ll tell you all about it some day, my dear—and I wanted just to settle myself before—I dare say you’ll understand what I mean. I suppose your grandfather has often spoken to you about me?’

  ‘Not very often, father,’ was the murmured answer.

  ‘Well, well; things’ll soon be set right. I feel quite proud of you, Janey; I do, indeed. And I suppose you just keep house for him, eh?’

  ‘I go to work as well.’

  ‘What? You go to work? How’s that, I wonder?’

  ‘Didn’t Miss Peckover tell you?’

  Joseph laughed. The girl could not grasp all these astonishing facts at once, and the presence of her father made her forget who Miss Peckover had become.

  ‘You mean my wife, Janey! No, no; she didn’t tell me you went to work;—an accident. But I’m delighted you and Clem are such good friends. Kind-hearted girl, isn’t she?’

  Jane whispered an assent.

  ‘No doubt your grandfather often tells you about Australia, and your uncle that died there?’

  ‘No, he never speaks of Australia. And I never heard of my uncle.’

  ‘Indeed? Ha—hum!’

  Joseph continued his examination all the way to Hanover Street, often expressing surprise, but never varying from the tone of affection and geniality. When they reached the door of the house he said:

  ‘Just let me go into the room by myself. I think it’ll be better. He’s alone, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll come up and show you the door.’

  She did so, then turned aside into her own room, where she sat motionless for a long time.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  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 newcomer, 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.

&nb
sp; ‘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?’