‘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 lie 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 ab
out 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.
CHAPTER XIX
A RETREAT
Visiting his friends as usual on Sunday evening, Sidney Kirkwood felt, before he had been many minutes in the room, that something unwonted was troubling the quiet he always found here. Michael Snowdon was unlike himself, nervously inattentive, moving frequently, indisposed to converse on any subject. Neither had Jane her accustomed brightness, and the frequent glances she east at her grandfather seemed to show that the latter’s condition was causing her anxiety. She withdrew very early, and, as at once appeared, in order that Sidney might hear in private what had that day happened. The story of Clem Peckover’s marriage naturally occasioned no little astonishment in Sidney.
‘And how will all this affect Jane?’ he asked involuntarily.
‘That is what I cannot tell,’ replied Michael. ‘It troubles me. My son is a stranger; all these years have made him quite a different man from what I remember; and the worst is, I can no longer trust myself to judge him. Yet I must know the truth—Sidney, I must know the truth. It’s hard to speak ill of the only son left to me out of the four I once had, but if I think of him as he was seventeen years ago—no, no, he must have changed as he has grown older. But you must help me to know him, Sidney.’
And in a very few days Sidney had his first opportunity of observing Jane’s father. At this meeting Joseph seemed to desire nothing so much as to recommend himself by an amiable bearing. Impossible to speak with more engaging frankness than he did whilst strolling away from Hanover Street in Sidney’s company. Thereafter the two saw a great deal of each other. Joseph was soon a familiar visitor in Tysoe Street; he would come about nine o’clock of an evening, and sit till after midnight. The staple of his talk was at first the painfully unnatural relations existing between his father, his daughter, and himself. He had led a most unsatisfactory life; he owned it, deplored it. That the old man should distrust him was but natural; but would not Sidney, as a common friend, do his best to dispel this prejudice? On the subject of his brother Mike he kept absolute silence. The accident of meeting an intimate acquaintance at the office of Messrs. Percival and Peel had rendered it possible for him to pursue his inquiries in that direction without it becoming known to Michael Snowdon that he had done anything of the kind; and the policy he elaborated for himself demanded the appearance of absolute disinterestedness in all his dealings with his father. Aided by the shrewd Mrs. Peckover, he succeeded in reconciling Clem to a present disappointment, bitter as it was, by pointing out that there was every chance of his profiting largely upon the old man’s death, which could not be a very remote contingency. At present there was little that could be done save to curry favour in Hanover Street, and keep an eye on what went forward between Kirkwood and Jane. This latter was, of course, an issue of supreme importance. A very little observation convinced Joseph that his daughter had learned to regard Sidney as more than a friend; whether there existed any mutual understanding between them he could only discover by direct inquiry, and for the present it seemed wiser to make no reference to the subject. He preserved the attitude of one who has forfeited his natural rights, and only seeks with humility the chance of proving that he is a reformed character. Was, or was not, Kirkwood aware of the old man’s wealth? That too must be left uncertain, though it was more than probable he had seen the advertisement in the newspapers, and, like Mrs. Peckover, had based conclusions thereupon. Another possibility was, that Kirkwood had wormed himself into Michael’s complete confidence. From Joseph’s point of view, subtle machinations were naturally attributed to the young man—whose appearance proved him anything but a commonplace person. The situation was full of obscurities and dangers. From Scawthorne Joseph received an assurance that the whole of the Australian property had been capitalised and placed in English investments; also, that the income was regularly drawn and in some way disposed of; the manner of such disposal being kept private between old Mr. Percival and his client.
In the meantime family discussions in the Close had brought to Joseph’s knowledge a circumstance regarding Kirkwood which interested him in a high degree. When talking of Sidney’s character, it was natural that the Peckovers should relate the story of his relations with Clara Hewett.
‘Clara?’ exclaimed Mr. Snowdon, as if struck by the name. ‘Disappeared, has she? What sort of a girl to look at?’
Clem was ready with a malicious description, whereto her husband attended very carefully. He mused over it, and proceeded to make inquiries about Clara’s family. The Hewetts were now living in another part of Clerkenwell, but there was no hostility between them and the Peckovers. Was anything to be gained by keeping up intimacy with them? Joseph, after further musing, decided that it would be just as well to do so; suppose Clem called upon them and presented the husband of whom she was so proud? He would like, if possible, to hear a little more about their daughter; an idea he had—never mind exactly what. So this call was paid, and in a few weeks Joseph had established an acquaintance with John Hewett.
Sidney, on his part, had a difficulty in coming to definite conclusions respecting Jane’s father. Of course he was prejudiced against the man, and though himself too little acquainted with the facts of the case to distinguish Joseph’s motives, he felt that the middle-aged prodigal’s return was anything but a fortunate event for Michael and his granddaughter. The secret marriage with Clem was not likely, in were not lacking grounds for hesitation in refusing to accept any case, to have a respectable significance. True, there Joseph’s account of himself. He had a fund of natural amiability; he had a good provision of intellect; his talk was at times very persuasive and much like that of one who has been brought to a passable degree of honesty by the slow development of his better instincts. But his face was against him; the worn, sallow features, the eyes which so obviously made a struggle to look with frankness, the vicious lower lip, awoke suspicion and told tales of base experience such as leaves its stamp upon a man for ever. All the more repugnant was this face to Sidney because it presented, in certain aspects, an undeniable resemblance to Jane’s; impossible to say which feature put forth this claim of kindred, but the impression was there, and it made Sidney turn away his eyes in disgust as often as he perceived it. He strove, however, to behave with friendliness, for it was Michael’s desire that he should do so. That Joseph was using every opportunity of prying into his thoughts, of learning the details of his history, he soon became perfectly conscious; but he knew of nothing that he need conceal.
It was impossible that Sidney should not have reflected many a time on Michael Snowdon’s position, and have been moved to curiosity by hints of the mysterious when he thought of his friends in Hanover Street. As it happened, he never saw those newspaper advertisements addressed to Joseph, and his speculation had nothing whatever to support it save the very few allusions to the past which Michael had permitted himself in the course of talk. Plainly the old man had means sufficient for his support, end in all likelihood this independence was connected with his visit to Australia; but no act or word of Michael’s had ever suggested that he possessed more than a very modest competency. It was not, indeed, the circumstances, so much as the character and views, of his friend that set Kirkwood p
ondering. He did not yet know Michael Snowdon; of that he was convinced. He had not fathomed his mind, got at the prime motive of his being. Moreover, he felt that the old man was waiting for some moment, or some event, to make revelation of himself. Since Joseph’s appearance, it had become more noticeable than ever that Snowdon suffered from some agitation of the mind; Sidney had met his eyes fixed upon him in a painful interrogation, and seemed to discern the importunity of a desire that was refused utterance. His own condition was affected by sympathy with this restlessness, and he could not overcome the feeling that some decisive change was at hand for him. Though nothing positive justified the idea, he began to connect this anticipation of change with the holiday that was approaching, the week to be spent in Essex at the end of July. It had been his fear that Joseph’s presence might affect these arrangements, but Michael was evidently resolved to allow nothing of the kind. One evening, a fortnight before the day agreed upon for leaving town, and when Joseph had made a call in Hanover Street, the old man took occasion to speak of the matter. Joseph accepted the information with his usual pliancy.
The Nether World Page 21