The Nether World

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His employment was irregular, but for the most part at
cabinet-making. The workshop where he was generally to be found was
owned by two brothers, who invariably spent the first half of each
week in steady drinking. Their money gone, they set to work and made
articles of furniture, which on Saturday they took round to the
shops of small dealers and sold for what they could get. When once
they took up their tools, these men worked with incredible
persistency, and they expected the same exertion from those they
employed. 'I wouldn't give a ---- for the chap as can't do his
six-and-thirty hours at the bench!' remarked one of them on the
occasion of a workman falling into a fainting-fit, caused by utter
exhaustion. Hewett was anything but strong, and he earned little.

Late on Saturday afternoon, Sidney Kirkwood and his friends were
back in London. As he drew near to Tysoe Street, carrying the bag
which was all the luggage he had needed, Sidney by chance
encountered Joseph Snowdon, who, after inquiring about his
relatives, said that he had just come from visiting the Hewetts.
Mrs. Hewett was very ill indeed; and it was scarcely to be expected
she would live more than a few days.

'You mean that?' exclaimed Kirkwood, upon whom, after his week of
holiday and of mental experiences which seemed to have changed the
face of the world for him, this sudden announcement came with a
painful shock, reviving all the miserable past. 'She is dying?'

'There's no doubt of it.'

And Joseph added his belief that John Hewett would certainly not
take it ill if the other went there before it was too late.

Sidney had no appetite now for the meal he would have purchased on
reaching home. A profound pity for the poor woman who had given him
so many proofs of her affection made his heart heavy almost to
tears. The perplexities of the present vanished in a revival of old
tenderness, of bygone sympathies and sorrows. He could not doubt but
that it was his duty to go to his former friends at a time such as
this. Perhaps, if he had overcome his pride, he might have sooner
brought the estrangement to an end.

He did not know, and had forgotten to ask of Snowdon, the number of
the house in King's Cross Road where the Hewetts lived. He could
find it, however, by visiting Pennyloaf. Conquering his hesitation,
he was on the point of going forth, when his landlady came up and
told him that a young girl wished to see him. It was Amy Hewett, and
her face told him on what errand she had come.

'Mr. Kirkwood,' she began, looking up with embarrassment, for he was
all but a stranger to her now, 'mother wants to know if you'd come
and see her. She's very bad; they're afraid she's--'

The word was choked. Amy had been crying, and the tears again rose
to her eyes.

'I was just coming,' Sidney answered, as he took her hand and
pressed it kindly.

They crossed Wilmington Square and descended by the streets that
slope to Coldbath Fields Prison. The cellar in which John Hewett and
his family were housed was underneath a milk. shop; Amy led the way
down stone steps from the pavement of the street into an area, where
more than two people would have had difficulty in standing together.
Sidney saw that the window which looked upon this space was draped
with a sheet. By an open door they entered a passage, then came to
the door of the room. Amy pushed it open, and showed that a lamp
gave light within.

To poor homes Sidney Kirkwood was no stranger, but a poorer than
this now disclosed to him he had never seen. The first view of it
made him draw in his breath, as though a pang went through him.
Hewett was not here. The two younger children were sitting upon a
mattress, eating bread. Amy stepped up to the bedside and bent to
examine her mother's face.

'I think she's asleep,' she whispered, turning round to Sidney.

Sleep, or loath? It might well be the latter, for anything Sidney
could determine to the contrary. The face he could not recognise, or
only when he had gazed at it for several minutes. Oh, pitiless
world, that pursues its business and its pleasure, that takes its
fill of life from the rising to the going down of the sun, and
within sound of its clamour is this hiding-place of anguish and
desolation!

'Mother, here's Mr. Kirkwood.'

Repeated several times, the words at length awoke consciousness. The
dying woman could not move her head from the pillow; her eyes
wandered, but in the end rested upon Sidney. He saw an expression of
surprise, of anxiety, then a smile of deep contentment.

'I knew you'd come. I did so want to see you. Don't go just yet,
will you?'

The lump in his throat hindered Sidney from replying. Hot tears, an
agony in the shedding, began to stream down his cheeks.

'Where's John?' she continued, trying to look about the room. 'Amy,
where's your father? He'll come soon, Sidney. I want you and him to
be friends again. He knows he'd never ought to a' said what he did.
Don't take on so, Sidney! There'll be Amy to look after the others.
She'll be a good girl. She's promised me. It's John I'm afraid for.
If only he can keep from drink. Will you try and help him, Sidney?'

There was a terrible earnestness of appeal in the look she fixed
upon him. Sidney replied that he would hold nothing more sacred than
the charge she gave him.

'It'll be easier for them to live,' continued the feeble voice.
'I've been ill so long, and there's been so much expense. Amy'll be
earning something before long.'

'Don't trouble,' Sidney answered. 'They shall never want as long as
I live--never!'

'Sidney, come a bit nearer. Do you know anything about _her_?'

He shook his head.

'If ever--if ever she comes back, don't turn away from her--will
you?'

'I would welcome her as I would a sister of my own.'

'There's such hard things in a woman's life. What would a' become of
me, if John hadn't took pity on me! The world's a hard place; I
should be glad to leave it, if it wasn't for them as has to go on in
their trouble. I knew you'd come when I sent Amy. Oh, I feel that
easier in my mind!'

'Why didn't you send long before? No, it's my fault. Why didn't I
come? Why didn't I come?'

There was a footstep in the passage, a slow, uncertain step; then
the door moved a little. With blurred vision Sidney saw Hewett enter
and come forward. They grasped each other's hands without speaking,
and John, as though his strength were at an end, dropped upon the
chair by the bedside. For the last four or five nights he had sat
there; if he got half an hour's painful slumber now and then it was
the utmost. His face was like that of some prisoner, whom the long
torture of a foul dungeon has brought to the point of madness. He
uttered only a few words during the half-hour that Sidney still
remained in the room. The latter, when Mrs. Hewett's relapse into
unconsciousness made it useless for him to stay, beckoned Amy to
follow him out into the area and put money in her hand, begging her
to get whatever was needed without troubling her father. He would
come again in the morning.

Mrs. Hewett died just before daybreak without a pang, as though
death had compassion on her. When Sidney came, about nine o'clock,
he found Amy standing at the door of the milk-shop; the people who
kept it had brought the children up into their room. Hewett still
sat by the bed; seeing Kirkwood, he pointed to the hidden face.

'How am I to bury her?' he whispered hoarsely. 'Haven't you heard
about it? They've stole the club-money; they've robbed me of it; I
haven't as much as'll pay for her coffin.'

Sidney fancied at first that the man's mind was wandering, but
Hewett took out of his pocket a scrap of newspaper in which the
matter was briefly reported.

'See, it's there. I've known since last Sunday, and I had to keep it
from her. No need to be afraid of speakin' now. They've robbed me,
and I haven't as much as'll pay for her coffin. It's a nice blasted
world, this is, where they won't let you live, and then make you pay
if you don't want to be buried like a dog! She's had nothing but
pain and poverty all her life, and now they'll pitch her out of the
way in a parish box. Do you remember what hopes I used to have when
we were first married? See the end of 'em--look at this
underground hole--look at this bed as she lays on! Is it my fault?
By God, I wonder I haven't killed myself before this! I've been
drove mad, I tell you--mad! It's well if I don't do murder yet;
every man as I see go by with a good coat on his back and a face fat
with good feeding, it's all I can do to keep from catchin' his
throat an tearin' the life out of him!'

'Let's talk about the burial,' interposed Sidney. 'Make your mind at
ease. I've got enough to pay for all that, and you must let me lend
you what you want.'

'Lend me money? You as I haven't spoke to for years?'

'The more fault mine. I ought to have come back again long since;
you wouldn't have refused an old friend that never meant an
unkindness to you.'

'No, it was me as was to blame,' said the other, with choking voice.
'She always told me so, and she always said what was right. But I
can't take it of you, Sidney; I can't! Lend it? An' where am I goin'
to get it from to pay you back? It won't be so long before I lie
like she does there. It's getting too much for me.'

The first tears he had shed rose at this generosity of the man he
had so little claim upon. His passionate grief and the spirit of
rebellion, which grew more frenzied as he grew older, were subdued
to a sobbing gratitude for the kindness which visited him in his
need. Nerveless, voiceless, he fell back again upon the chair and
let his head lie by that of the dead woman.

CHAPTER XXII

WATCHING FROM AMBUSH

Mr. Joseph Snowdon, though presenting a calm countenance to the
world and seeming to enjoy comparative prosperity, was in truth much
harassed by the difficulties of his position. Domestic troubles he
had anticipated, but the unforeseen sequel of his marriage resulted
in a martyrdom at the hands of Clem and her mother such as he had
never dreamed of. His faults and weaknesses distinctly those of the
civilised man, he found himself in disastrous alliance with two
savages, whose characters so supplemented each other as to
constitute in unison a formidable engine of tyranny. Clem--
suspicious, revengeful, fierce, watching with cruel eyes every
opportunity of taking payment on account for the ridicule to which
she had exposed herself; Mrs. Peckover--ceaselessly occupied with
the basest scheming, keen as an Indian on any trail she happened to
strike, excited by the scent of money as a jackal by that of
carrion; for this pair Joseph was no match. Not only did they compel
him to earn his daily bread by dint of methodical effort such as was
torture to his indolent disposition, but, moreover, in pursuance of
Mrs. Peckover's crafty projects, he was constrained to an assiduous
hypocrisy in his relations with Michael and Jane which wearied him
beyond measure. Joseph did not belong to the most desperate class of
hungry mortals; he had neither the large ambitions and the
passionate sensual desires which make life an unending fever, nor
was he possessed with that foul itch of covetousness which is the
explanation of the greater part of the world's activity. He
understood quite sufficiently the advantages of wealth, and was
prepared to go considerable lengths for the sake of enjoying them,
but his character lacked persistence. This defect explained the
rogueries and calamities of his life. He had brains in abundance,
and a somewhat better education would have made of him either a
successful honest man or a rascal of superior scope--it is always
a toss-up between these two results where a character such as his is
in question. Ever since he abandoned the craft to which his father
had had him trained, he had lived on his wits; there would be matter
for a volume in the history of his experiences at home and abroad, a
volume infinitely more valuable considered as a treatise on modern
civilisation than any professed work on that subject in existence.
With one episode only in his past can we here concern ourselves; the
retrospect is needful to make clear his relations with Mr.
Scawthorne.

On his return from America, Joseph possessed a matter of a hundred
pounds; the money was not quite legally earned (pray let us reserve
the word honesty for a truer use than the common one), and on the
whole he preferred to recommence life in the old country under a
pseudonym--that little affair of the desertion of his child would
perhaps, in any case, have made this advisable. A hundred pounds
will not go very far, but Joseph took care to be well dressed, and
allowed it to be surmised by those with whom he came in contact that
the resources at his command were considerable. In early days, as we
know, he had worked at electroplating, and the natural bent of his
intellect was towards mechanical and physical science; by dint of
experimenting at his old pursuit, he persuaded himself, or at all
events attained plausibility for the persuading of others, that he
had discovered a new and valuable method of plating with nickel, He
gave it out that he was in search of a partner to join him in
putting this method into practice. Gentlemen thus situated naturally
avail themselves of the advertisement columns of the newspaper, and
Joseph by this means had the happiness to form an acquaintance with
one Mr. Polkenhorne, who, like himself, had sundry schemes for
obtaining money without toiling for it in the usual vulgar way.
Polkenhorne was a man of thirty-five, much of a blackguard, but
keen-witted, handsome, and tolerably educated; the son of a
Clerkenwell clockmaker, he had run through an inheritance of a few
thousand pounds, and made no secret of his history--spoke of his
experiences, indeed, with a certain pride. Between these two a close
intimacy sprang up, one of those partnerships, beginning with mutual
deception, which are so common in the border-land of enterprise just
skirting the criminal courts. Polkenhorne resided at this time in
Kennington; he was married--or said that he was--to a young lady
in the theatrical profession, known to the public as Miss Grace
Danver. To Mrs. Polkenhorne, or Miss Danver, Joseph soon had the
honour of being presented, for she was just then playing at a London
theatre; he found her a pretty but consumptive-looking girl, not at
all likely to achieve great successes, earning enough, however, to
support Mr. Polkenhorne during this time of his misfortunes--a
most pleasant and natural arrangement.

Polkenhorne's acquaintances were numerous, but, as he informed
Joseph, most of them were 'played out,' that is to say, no further
use could be made of them from Polkenhorne's point of view. One,
however, as yet imperfectly known, promised to be useful, perchance
as a victim, more probably as an ally; his name was Scawthorne, and
Polkenhorne had come across him in consequence of a friendship
existing between Grace Danver and Mrs. Scawthorne--at all events,
a young lady thus known--who was preparing herself for the stage.
This gentleman was 'something in the City;' he had rather a close
look, but proved genial enough, and was very ready to discuss things
in general with Mr. Polkenhorne and his capitalist friend Mr.
Camden, just from the United States.

A word or two about Charles Henry Scawthorne, of the circumstances
which made him what you know, or what you conjecture. His father had
a small business as a dyer in Islington, and the boy, leaving school
at fourteen, was sent to become a copying-clerk in a solicitor's
office; his tastes were so strongly intellectual that it seemed a
pity to put him to work he hated, and the clerkship was the best
opening that could be procured for him. Two years after, Mr.
Scawthorne died; his wife tried to keep on the business, but soon
failed, and thenceforth her son had to support her as well as
himself. From sixteen to three-and-twenty was the period of young
Scawthorne's life which assured his future advancement--and his
moral ruin. A grave, gentle, somewhat effeminate boy, with a great
love of books and a wonderful power of application to study, he
suffered so much during those years of early maturity, that, as in
almost all such eases, his nature was corrupted. Pity that some
self-made intellectual man of our time has not flung in the world's
teeth a truthful autobiography. Scawthorne worked himself up to a
position which had at first seemed unattainable; what he paid for
the success was loss of all his pure ideals, of his sincerity, of
his disinterestedness, of the fine perceptions to which he was born.
Probably no one who is half-starved and overworked during those
critical years comes out of the trial with his moral nature
uninjured; to certain characters it is a wrong irreparable. To stab
the root of a young tree, to hang crushing burdens upon it, to rend
off its early branches--that is not the treatment likely to result
in growth such as nature purposed. There will come of it a vicious
formation, and the principle applies also to the youth of men.

Scawthorne was fond of the theatre; as soon as his time of incessant
toll was over, he not only attended performances frequently, but
managed to make personal acquaintance with sundry theatrical people.
Opportunity for this was afforded by his becoming member of a club,
consisting chiefly of solicitors' clerks, which was frequently
honoured by visits from former associates who had taken to the
stage; these happy beings would condescend to recite at times, to
give help in getting up a dramatic entertainment, and soon, in this
way, Scawthorne came to know an old actor named Drake, who supported
himself by instructing novices, male and female, in his own
profession; one of Mr. Drake's old pupils was Miss Grace Danver, in
whom, as soon as he met her, Scawthorne recognised the Grace Rudd of
earlier days. And it was not long after this that he brought to Mr.
Drake a young girl of interesting appearance, but very imperfect
education, who fancied she had a turn for acting; he succeeded in
arranging for her instruction, and a year and a half later she
obtained her first engagement at a theatre in Scotland. The name she
adopted was Clara Vale. Joseph Snowdon saw her once or twice before
she left London, and from Grace Danver he heard that Grace and she
had been schoolfellows in Clerkenwell. These facts revived in his
memory when he afterwards heard Clem speak of Clara Hewett.

Nothing came of the alliance between Polkenhorne and Joseph; when
the latter's money was exhausted, they naturally fell apart. Joseph
made a living in sundry precarious ways, but at length sank into
such straits that he risked the step of going to Clerkenwell Close.
Personal interest in his child he had then none whatever; his short
married life seemed an episode in the remote past, recalled with
indifference. But in spite of his profound selfishness, it was not
solely from the speculative point of view that he regarded Jane,
when he had had time to realise that she was his daughter, and in a
measure to appreciate her character. With the merely base motives
which led him to seek her affection and put him at secret hostility
with Sidney Kirkwood, there mingled before long a strain of feeling
which was natural and pure; he became a little jealous of his father
and of Sidney on other grounds than those of self-interest.
Intolerable as his home was, no wonder that he found it a pleasant
relief to spend an evening in Hanover Street; he never came away
without railing at himself for his imbecility in having married
Clem. For the present he had to plot with his wife and Mrs.
Peckover, but only let the chance for plotting _against_ them offer
itself! The opportunity might come. In the meantime, the great thing
was to postpone the marriage--he had no doubt it was contemplated--between
Jane and Sidney. That would be little less than a
fatality.

The week that Jane spent in Essex was of course a time of desperate
anxiety with Joseph; immediately on her return he hastened to assure
himself that things remained as before. It seemed to him that Jane's
greeting had more warmth than she was wont to display when they met;
sundry other little changes in her demeanour struck him at the same
interview, and he was rather surprised that she had not so much
blitheness as before she went away. But his speculation on
minutiae such as these was suddenly interrupted a day or two
later by news which threw him into a state of excitement; Jane sent
word that her grandfather was very unwell, that he appeared to have
caught a chill in the journey home, and could not at present leave
his bed. For a week the old man suffered from feverish symptoms,
and, though he threw off the ailment, it was in a state of much
feebleness that he at length resumed the ordinary tenor of his way.
Jane had of course stayed at home to nurse him; a fortnight, a month
passed, and Michael still kept her from work. Then it happened that,
on Joseph's looking in one evening, the old man said quietly, 'I
think I'd rather Jane stayed at home in future. We've had a long
talk about it this afternoon.'

Joseph glanced at his daughter, who met the look very gravely. He
had a feeling that the girl was of a sudden grown older; when she
spoke it was in brief phrases, and with but little of her natural
spontaneity; noiseless as always in her movements, she walked with a
staider gait, held herself less girlishly, and on saying good-night
she let her cheek rest for a moment against her father's, a thing
she had never yet done.

The explanation of it all came a few minutes after Jane's
retirement. Michael, warned by his illness bow unstable was the
tenure on which he henceforth held his life, had resolved to have an
end of mystery and explain to his son all that he had already made
known to Sidney Kirkwood. With Jane he had spoken a few hours ago,
revealing to her the power that was in his hands, the solemn
significance he attached to it, the responsibility with which her
future was to be invested. To make the same things known to Joseph
was a task of more difficulty. He could not here count on
sympathetic intelligence; it was but too certain that his son would
listen with disappointment, if not with bitterness. In order to
mitigate the worst results, he began by making known the fact of his
wealth and asking if Joseph had any practical views which could be
furthered by a moderate sum put at his disposal.

'At my death,' he added, 'you'll find that I haven't dealt unkindly
by you. But you're a man of middle age, and I should like to see you
in some fixed way of life before I go.'

Having heard all, Joseph promised to think over the proposal which
concerned himself. It was in a strange state of mind that he
returned to the Close; one thing only he was clear upon, that to
Clem and her mother he would breathe no word of what had been told
him. After a night passed without a wink of sleep, struggling with
the amazement, the incredulity, the confusion of understanding
caused by his father's words, he betook himself to a familiar
public-house, and there penned a note to Scawthorne, requesting an
interview as soon as possible. The meeting took place that evening
at the retreat behind Lincoln's Inn Fields where the two had held
colloquies on several occasions during the last half-year.
Scawthorne received with gravity what his acquaintance had to
communicate. Then he observed:

'The will was executed ten days ago.'

'It was? And what's he left me?'

'Seven thousand pounds--less legacy duty.'

'And thirty thousand to Jane?'

'Just so.'

Joseph drew in his breath; his teeth ground together for a moment;
his eyes grew very wide. With a smile Scawthorne proceeded to
explain that Jane's trustees were Mr. Percival, senior, and his son.
Should she die unmarried before attaining her twenty-first birthday,
the money bequeathed to her was to be distributed among certain
charities.

'It's my belief there's a crank in the old fellow,' exclaimed
Joseph. 'Is he really such a fool as to think Jane won't use the
money for herself? And what about Kirkwood? I tell you what it is;
he's a deep fellow, is Kirkwood. I wish you knew him.'

Scawthorne confessed that he had the same wish, but added that there
was no chance of its being realised; prudence forbade any move in
that direction.

'If he marries her,' questioned Joseph, 'will the money be his?'

'No; it will be settled on her. But it comes to very much the same
thing; there's to be no restraint on her discretion in using it.'

'She might give her affectionate parent a hundred or so now and
then, if she chose?'

'If she chose.'

Scawthorne began a detailed inquiry into the humanitarian projects
of which Joseph had given but a rude and contemptuous explanation.
The finer qualities of his mind enabled him to see the matter in
quite a different light from that in which it presented itself to
Jane's father; he had once or twice had an opportunity of observing
Michael Snowdon at the office, and could realise in a measure the
character which directed its energies to such an ideal aim.
Concerning Jane he asked many questions; then the conversation
turned once more to Sidney Kirkwood.

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