The Nether World

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'Can't you find a few more orders?' observed Samuel.

'Hold your tongue! Jane doesn't mind; do you, Jane? Now, Sam, are
you ready? Bless the man, if he hasn't got a great piece of bread
sticking in his whiskers! How _did_ it get there? Off you go!'

Jane followed them, and stood at the front door for a moment,
watching them as they departed.

Then she went upstairs. On the first floor the doors of the two
rooms stood open, and the rooms were bare. The lodgers who had
occupied this part of the house had recently left; a card was again
hanging in the window of Bessie's parlour. Jane passed up the
succeeding flight and entered the chamber which looked out upon
Hanover Street. The truckle-bed on which her grandfather slept had
been arranged for the day some two hours ago; Snowdon rose at six,
and everything was orderly in the room when Jane came to prepare
breakfast an hour later. At present the old man was sitting by the
open window, smoking a pipe. He spoke a few words with reference to
the Byasses, then seemed to resume a train of thought, and for a
long time there was unbroken silence. Jane seated herself at a
table, on which were a few books and writing materials. She began to
copy something, using the pen with difficulty, and taking extreme
pains. Occasionally her eyes wandered, and once they rested upon her
grandfather's face for several minutes. But for the cry of a milkman
or a paper-boy in the street, no sound broke the quietness of the
summer morning. The blessed sunshine, so rarely shed from a London
sky--sunshine, the source of all solace to mind and body--
reigned gloriously in heaven and on earth.

When more than an hour had passed, Snowdon came and sat down beside
the girl. Without speaking she showed him what she had written. He
nodded approvingly.

'Shall I say it to you, grandfather?'

'Yes.'

Jane collected her thoughts, then began to repeat the parable of the
Samaritan. From the first words it was evident that she frequently
thus delivered passages committed to memory; evident, too, that
instruction and a natural good sense guarded her against the
gabbling method of recitation. When she had finished Snowdon spoke
with her for awhile on the subject of the story. In all he said
there was the earnestness of deep personal feeling. His theme was
the virtue of Compassion; he appeared to rate it above all other
forms of moral goodness, to regard it as the saving principle of
human life.

'If only we had pity on one another, all the worst things we suffer
from in this world would be at an end. It's because men's hearts are
hard that life is so full of misery. If we could only learn to be
kind and gentle and forgiving--never mind anything else. We act as
if we were all each other's enemies; we can't be merciful, because
we expect no mercy; we struggle to get as much as we can for
ourselves and care nothing for others. Think about it; never let it
go out of your mind. Perhaps some day it'll help you in your own
life.'

Then there was silence again. Snowdon went back to his scat by the
window and relit his pipe; to muse in the sunshine seemed sufficient
occupation for him. Jane opened another book and read to herself.

In the afternoon they went out together. The old man had grown more
talkative. He passed cheerfully from subject to subject, now telling
a story of his experiences abroad, now reviving recollections of
London as he had known it sixty years ago. Jane listened with quiet
interest. She did not say much herself, and when she did speak it
was with a noticeable effort to overcome her habit of diffidence.
She was happy, but her nature had yet to develop itself under these
strangely novel conditions.

A little before sunset there came a knocking at the house-door. Jane
went down to open, and found that the visitor was Sidney Kirkwood.
The joyful look with which she recognised him changed almost in the
same moment; his face wore an expression that alarmed her; it was
stern, hard-set in trouble, and his smile could not disguise the
truth. Without speaking, he walked upstairs and entered Snowdon's
room. To Sidney there was always something peculiarly impressive in
the first view of this quiet chamber; simple as were its
appointments, it produced a sense of remoteness from the common
conditions of life. Invariably he subdued his voice when conversing
here. A few flowers such as can be bought in the street generally
diffused a slight scent through the air, making another peculiarity
which had its effect on Sidney's imagination. When Jane moved about,
it was with a soundless step; if she placed a chair or arranged
things on the table, it was as if with careful avoidance of the
least noise. When his thoughts turned hitherwards, Sidney always
pictured the old man sitting in his familiar mood of reverie, and
Jane, in like silence, bending over a book at the table. Peace, the
thing most difficult to find in the world that Sidney knew, had here
made itself a dwelling.

He shook hands with Snowdon and seated himself. A few friendly words
were spoken, and the old man referred to an excursion they had
agreed to make together on the morrow, the general holiday.

'I'm very sorry,' replied Kirkwood, 'but it'll be impossible for me
to go.'

Jane was standing near him; her countenance fell, expressing
uttermost disappointment.

'Something has happened,' pursued Sidney, 'that won't let me go
away, even for a few hours. I don't mean to say that it would really
prevent me, but I should be so uneasy in my mind all the time that I
couldn't enjoy myself, and I should only spoil your pleasure. Of
course you'll go just the same?'

Snowdon reassured him on this point. Jane had just been about to lay
supper; she continued her task, and Sidney made a show of sharing
the meal. Soon after, as if conscious that Sidney would speak with
more freedom of his trouble but for her presence, Jane bade them
good-night and went to her own room. There ensued a break in the
conversation; then Kirkwood said, with the abruptness of one who is
broaching a difficult subject:

'I should like to tell you what it is that's going wrong with me. I
don't think anyone's advice would be the least good, but it's a
miserable affair, and I shall feel better for speaking about it.'

Snowdon regarded him with eyes of calm sympathy. There is a look of
helpful attention peculiar to the faces of some who have known much
suffering; in this instance, the grave force of character which at
all times made the countenance impressive heightened the effect of
its gentleness. In external matters, the two men knew little more of
each other now than after their first meeting, but the spiritual
alliance between them had strengthened with every conversation. Each
understood the other's outlook upon problems of life, which are not
commonly discussed in the top rooms of lodging-houses; they felt and
thought differently at times, but in essentials they were at one,
and it was the first time that either had found such fruitful
companionship.

'Did you hear anything from the Peckovers of Clara Hewett?' Sidney
began by asking.

'Not from them. Jane has often spoken of her.'

Sidney again hesitated, then, from a fragmentary beginning, passed
into a detailed account of his relations with Clara. The girl
herself, had she overheard him, could not have found fault with the
way in which the story was narrated. lie represented his love as
from the first without response which could give him serious hope;
her faults he dealt with not as characteristics to be condemned, but
as evidences of suffering, the outcome of cruel conditions. Her
engagement at the luncheon-bar he spoke of as a detestable slavery,
which had wasted her health and driven her in the end to an act of
desperation. What now could be done to aid her? John Hewett was
still in ignorance of the step she had taken, and Sidney described
himself as distracted by conflict between what he felt to be his
duty, and fear of what might happen if he invoked Hewett's
authority. At intervals through the day he had been going backwards
and forwards in the street where Clara had her lodging. He did not
think she would seek to escape from her friends altogether, but her
character and circumstances made it perilous for her to live thus
alone.

'What does she really wish for?' inquired Snowdon, when there had
been a short silence.

'She doesn't know, poor girl! Everything in the life she has been
living is hateful to her--everything since she left school. She
can't rest in the position to which she was born; she aims at an
impossible change of circumstances. It comes from her father; she
can't help rebelling against what seem to her unjust restraints. But
what's to come of it? She may perhaps get a place in a large
restaurant--and what does that mean?'

He broke off, but in a moment resumed even more passionately:

'What a vile, cursed world this is, where you may see men and women
perish before your eyes, and no more chance of saving them than if
they were going down in mid-ocean! She's only a child--only just
seventeen--and already she's gone through a lifetime of miseries.
And I, like a fool, I've often been angry with her; I was angry
yesterday. How can she help her nature? How can we any of us help
what we're driven to in a world like this? Clara isn't made to be
one of those who slave to keep themselves alive. Just a chance of
birth! Suppose she'd been the daughter of a rich man; then
everything we now call a fault in her would either have been of no
account or actually a virtue. Just because we haven't money we may
go to perdition, and comfortable people tell us we've only ourselves
to blame. Put _them_ in our place!'

Snowdon's face had gone through various changes as Sidney flung out
his vehement words. When he spoke, it was in a tone of some
severity.

'Has she no natural affection for her father? Does she care nothing
for what trouble she brings him?'

Sidney did not reply at once; as he was about to speak, Snowdon bent
forward suddenly and touched his arm.

'Let me see her. Let me send Jane to her to-morrow morning, and ask
her to come here. I might--I can't say--but I might do some
good.'

To this Sidney gave willing assent, but without sanguine
expectation. In further talk it was agreed between them that, if
this step had no result, John Hewett ought to be immediately
informed of the state of things.

This was at ten o'clock on Sunday evening. So do we play our
tragi-comedies in the eye of fate.

The mention of Jane led to a brief conversation regarding her before
Sidney took his leave. Since her recovery she had been going
regularly to school, to make up for the time of which she had been
defrauded by Mrs. Peckover. Her grand. father's proposal was, that
she should continue thus for another six months, after which, he
said, it would be time for her to learn a business. Mrs. Byass had
suggested the choice of artificial-flower making, to which she
herself had been brought up; possibly that would do as well as
anything else.

'I suppose so,' was Sidney's reluctant acquiescence. 'Or as ill as
anything else, would be a better way to put it.'

Snowdon regarded him with unusual fixedness, and seemed on the point
of making some significant remark; but immediately his face
expressed change of purpose, and he said, without emphasis:

'Jane must be able to earn her own living.'

Sidney, before going home, walked round to the street in which he
had already lingered several times to-day, and where yesterday he
had spoken with Clara. The windows of the house he gazed at were
dark.

CHAPTER XII

'IO SATURNALIA!'

So at length came Monday, the first Monday in August, a day gravely
set apart for the repose and recreation of multitudes who neither
know how to rest nor how to refresh themselves with pastime. To-day
will the slaves of industrialism don the _pileus_. It is high
summertide. With joy does the awaking publican look forth upon the
blue-misty heavens, and address his adorations to the Sun-god,
inspirer of thirst. Throw wide the doors of the temple of Alcohol!
Behold, we come in our thousands, jingling the coins that shall
purchase us this one day of tragical mirth. Before us is the dark
and dreary autumn; it is a far cry to the foggy joys of Christmas.
Io Saturnalia!

For certain friends of ours this morning brought an event of
importance. At a church in Clerkenwell were joined together in holy
matrimony Robert Hewett and Penelope (otherwise Pennyloaf) Candy,
the former aged nineteen, the latter less than that by nearly three
years. John Hewett would have nothing to do with an alliance so
disreputable; Mrs. Hewett had in vain besought her stepson not to
marry so unworthily. Even as a young man of good birth has been
known to enjoy a subtle self-flattery in the thought that he
graciously bestows his name upon a maiden who, to all intents and
purposes, may be said never to have been born at all, so did Bob
Hewett feel when he put a ring upon the scrubby finger of Pennyloaf.
Proudly conscious was Bob that he a 'married beneath him'--
conscious also that Clem Peckover was gnawing her lips in rage.

Mrs. Candy was still sober at the hour of the ceremony. Her husband,
not a bad fellow in his way, had long since returned to her, and as
yet had not done more than threaten a repetition of his assault.
Both were present at church. A week ago Bob had established himself
in a room in Shooter's Gardens, henceforth to be shared with him by
his bride. Probably he might have discovered a more inviting abode
for the early days of married life, but Bob had something of the
artist's temperament and could not trouble about practical details;
for the present this room would do as well as another. It was cheap,
and he had need of all the money he could save from everyday
expenses. Pennyloaf would go en with her shirt-making, of course,
and all they wanted was a roof over their heads at night.

And in truth he was fond of Pennyloaf. The poor little slave
worshipped him so sincerely; she repaid his affectionate words with
such fervent gratitude; and there was no denying that she had rather
a pretty face, which had attracted him from the first. But above
all, this preference accorded to so humble a rival had set Clem
Peckover beside herself. It was all very well for Clem to make
pretence of having transferred her affections to Jack Bartley. Why,
Suke Jollop (ostensibly Clem's bosom friend, but treacherous at
times because she had herself given an eye to Jack)--Suke Jollop
reported that Clem would have killed Pennyloaf had she dared.
Pennyloaf had been going about in fear for her life since that
attack upon her in Myddelton Passage. 'I dursn't marry you, Bob! I
dursn't!' she kept saying, when the proposal was first made. But Bob
laughed with contemptuous defiance. He carried his point, and now he
was going to spend his wedding-day at the Crystal Palace--choosing
that resort because he knew Clem would be there, and Jack Bartley,
and Suke Jollop, and many another acquaintance, before whom he was
resolved to make display of magnanimity.

Pennyloaf shone in most unwonted apparel. Everything was new except
her boots--it had been decided that these only needed soleing. Her
broad-brimmed hat of yellow straw was graced with the reddest
feather purchasable in the City Road; she had a dolman of most
fashionable cut, blue, lustrous; blue likewise was her dress, hung
about with bows and streamers. And the gleaming ring on the scrubby
small finger! On that hand most assuredly Pennyloaf would wear no
glove. How proud she was of her ring! How she turned it round and
round when nobody was looking! Gold, Penny. loaf, real gold! The
pawnbroker would lend her seven-and-sixpence on it, any time.

At Holborn Viaduct there was a perpetual rush of people for the
trains to the 'Paliss.' As soon as a train was full, off it went,
and another long string of empty carriages drew up in its place. No
distinction between 'classes' to-day; get in where you like, where
you can. Positively, Pennyloaf found herself seated in a first-class
carriage; she would have been awe-struck, but that Bob flung himself
back on the cushions with such an easy air, and nodded laughingly at
her. Among their companions was a youth with a concertina; as soon
as the train moved he burst into melody. It was the natural
invitation to song, and all joined in the latest ditties learnt at
the music-hall. Away they sped, over the roofs of South London,
about them the universal glare of sunlight, the carriage dense with
tobacco-smoke. Ho for the bottle of muddy ale, passed round in
genial fellowship from mouth to mouth! Pennyloaf would not drink of
it; she had a dread of all such bottles. In her heart she rejoiced
that Bob knew no craving for strong liquor. Towards the end of the
journey the young man with the concertina passed round his hat.

Clem Peckover had come by the same train; she was one of a large
party which had followed close behind Bob and Pennyloaf to the
railway station. Now they followed along the long corridors into the
'Paliss,' with many a loud expression of mockery, with hee-hawing
laughter, with coarse jokes. Depend upon it, Clem was gorgeously
arrayed; amid her satellites she swept on 'like a stately ship of
Tarsus, bound for the isles of Javan or Gadire;' her face was
aflame, her eyes flashed in enjoyment of the uproar. Jack Bartley
wore a high hat--Bob never had owned one in his life--and about
his neck was a tie of crimson; yellow was his waistcoat, even such a
waistcoat as you may see in Pall Mall, and his walking-stick had a
nigger's head for handle. He was the oracle of the maidens around
him; every moment the appeal was to 'Jeck! Jeck!' Suke Jollop, who
would in reality have preferred to accompany Bob and his allies,
whispered it about that Jack had two-pound-ten in his pocket, and
was going to spend every penny of it before he left the 'Paliss'--
yes, 'every bloomin' penny!'

Thus early in the day, the grounds were of course preferred to the
interior of the glass house. Bob and Pennyloaf bent their steps to
the fair. Here already was gathered much goodly company; above their
heads hung a thick white wavering cloud of dust. Swing-boats and
merry-go-rounds are from of old the chief features of these rural
festivities; they soared and dipped and circled to the joyous music
of organs which played the same tune automatically for any number of
hours, whilst raucous voices invited all and sundry to take their
turn. Should this delight pall, behold on every hand such sports as
are dearest to the Briton, those which call for strength of sinew
and exactitude of aim. The philosophic mind would have noted with
interest how ingeniously these games were made to appeal to the
patriotism of the throng. Did you choose to 'shy' sticks in the
contest for cocoa-nuts, behold your object was a wooden model of the
treacherous Afghan or the base African. If you took up the mallet to
smite upon a spring and make proof of how far you could send a ball
flying upwards, your blow descended upon the head of some other
recent foeman. Try your fist at the indicator of muscularity, and
with zeal you smote full in the stomach of a guy made to represent a
Russian. If you essayed the pop-gun, the mark set you was on the
flank of a wooden donkey, so contrived that it would kick when hit
in the true spot. What a joy to observe the tendency of all these
diversions! How characteristic of a high-spirited people that
nowhere could be found any amusement appealing to the mere mind, or
calculated to effeminate by encouraging a love of beauty.

Bob had a sovereign to get rid of. He shied for cocoa-nuts, he swung
in the boat with Pennyloaf, he rode with her on the whirligigs. When
they were choked, and whitened from head to foot, with dust, it was
natural to seek the nearest refreshment-booth. Bob had some
half-dozen male and female acquaintances clustered about him by now;
of course. he must celebrate the occasion by entertaining all of
them. Consumed with thirst, he began to drink without counting the
glasses. Pennyloaf plucked at his elbow, but Bob was beginning to
feel that he must display spirit. Because he was married, that was
no reason for his relinquishing the claims to leadership in
gallantry which had always been recognised. Hollo! Here was Suke
Jollop! She had just quarrelled with Clem, and had been searching
for the hostile camp. 'Have a drink, Suke!' cried Bob, when he heard
her acrimonious charges against Clem and Jack. A pretty girl, Suke,
and with a hat which made itself proudly manifest a quarter of a
mile away. Drink! of course she would drink; that thirsty she could
almost drop! Bob enjoyed this secession from the enemy. He knew
Suke's old fondness for him, and began to play upon it. Elated with
beer and vanity, he no longer paid the least attention to
Pennyloaf's remonstrances; nay, he at length bade her 'hold her
bloomin' row!' Pennyloaf had a tear in her eye; she looked fiercely
at Miss Jollop.

The day wore on. For utter weariness Pennyloaf was constrained to
beg that they might go into the 'Paliss' and find a shadowed seat.
Her tone revived tenderness in Bob; again he became gracious,
devoted; he promised that not another glass of beer should pass his
lips, and Sake Jollop, with all her like, might go to perdition. But
heavens! how sweltering it was under this glass canopy How the dust
rose from the trampled boards! Come, let's have tea. The programme
says there'll be a military band playing presently, and we shall
return refreshed to hear it.

So they made their way to the 'Shilling Tea-room.' Having paid at
the entrance, they were admitted to feed freely on all that lay
before them. With difficulty could a seat be found in the huge room;
the uproar of voices was deafening. On the tables lay bread, butter,
cake in hunches, tea-pots, milk-jugs, sugar-basins--all things to
whomso could secure them in the conflict. Along the gangways coursed
perspiring waiters, heaping up giant structures of used plates and
cups, distributing clean utensils, and miraculously sharp in
securing the gratuity expected from each guest as he rose satiate.
Muscular men in aprons wheeled hither the supplies of steaming fluid
in immense cans on heavy trucks. Here practical joking found the
most graceful of opportunities, whether it were the deft direction
of a piece of cake at the nose of a person sitting opposite, or the
emptying of a saucer down your neighbour's back, or the ingenious
jogging of an arm which was in the act of raising a full tea-cup.
Now and then an ill-conditioned fellow, whose beer disagreed with
him, would resent some piece of elegant trifling, and the waiters
would find it needful to request gentlemen not to fight until they
had left the room. These cases, however, were exceptional. On the
whole there reigned a spirit of imbecile joviality. Shrieks of
female laughter testified to the success of the entertainment.

As Bob and his companion quitted this sphere of delight, ill-luck
brought it to pass that Mr. Jack Bartley and his train were on the
point of entering. Jack uttered a phrase of stinging sarcasm with
reference to Pennyloaf's red feather; whereupon Bob smote him
exactly between the eyes. Yells arose; there was a scuffle, a rush,
a tumult. The two were separated before further harm came of the
little misunderstanding, but Jack went to the tea-tables vowing
vengeance.

Poor Pennyloaf shed tears as Bob led her to the place where the band
had begun playing. Only her husband's anger prevented her from
yielding to utter misery. But now they had come to the centre of the
building, and by dint of much struggle in the crowd they obtained a
standing whence they could see the vast amphitheatre, filled with
thousands of faces. Here at length was quietness, intermission of
folly and brutality. Bob became another man as he stood and
listened. He looked with kindness into Pennyloaf's pale, weary face,
and his arm stole about her waist to support her. Ha! Pennyloaf was
happy! The last trace of tears vanished. She too was sensible of the
influences of music; her heart throbbed as she let herself lean
against her husband.

Well, as every one must needs have his panacea for the ills of
society, let me inform you of mine. To humanise the multitude two
things are necessary--two things of the simplest kind conceivable.
In the first place, you must effect an entire change of economic
conditions: a preliminary step of which every tyro will recognise
the easiness; then you must bring to bear on the new order of things
the constant influence of music. Does not the prescription recommend
itself? It is jesting in earnest. For, work as you will, there is no
chance of a new and better world until the old be utterly destroyed.
Destroy, sweep away, prepare the ground; then shall music the holy,
music the civiliser, breathe over the renewed earth, and with
Orphean magic raise in perfected beauty the towers of the City of
Man.

Hours yet before the fireworks begin. Never mind; here by good luck
we find seats where we can watch the throng passing and repassing.
It is a great review of the People. On the whole how respectable
they are, how sober, how deadly dull! See how worn-out the poor
girls are becoming, how they gape, what listless eyes most of them
have! The stoop in the shoulders so universal among them merely
means over-toil in the workroom. Not one in a thousand shows the
elements of taste in dress; vulgarity and worse glares in all but
every costume. Observe the middle-aged women; it would be small
surprise that their good looks had vanished, but whence comes it
they are animal, repulsive, absolutely vicious in ugliness? Mark the
men in their turn: four in every six have visages so deformed by
ill-health that they excite disgust; their hair is cut down to
within half an inch of the scalp; their legs are twisted out of
shape by evil conditions of life from birth upwards. Whenever a
youth and a girl come along arm-in-arm, how flagrantly shows the
man's coarseness! They are pretty, so many of these girls, delicate
of feature, graceful did but their slavery allow them natural
development; and the heart sinks as one sees them side by side with
the men who are to be their husbands.

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