The Nether World

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'I wish he'd married his old sweetheart,' observed Joseph, watching
the other's face.

'Who was that?'

'A girl called Clara Hewett.'

Their looks met. Scawthorne, in spite of habitual self-command,
betrayed an extreme surprise.

'I wonder what's become of her?' continued Joseph, still observing
his companion, and speaking with unmistakable significance.

'Just tell me something about this,' said Scawthorne peremptorily.

Joseph complied, and ended his story with a few more hints.

'I never saw her myself--at least I can't be sure that I did.
There was somebody of the same name--Clara--a friend of
Polkenhorne's wife.'

Scawthorne appeared to pay no attention; he mused with a wrinkled
brow.

'If only I could put something between Kirkwood and the girl,'
remarked Joseph, as if absently. 'I shouldn't wonder if it could be
made worth some one's while to give a bit of help that way. Don't
you think so?'

In the tone of one turning to a different subject, Scawthorne asked
suddenly:

'What use are you going to make of your father's offer?'

'Well, I'm not quite sure, Shouldn't wonder if I go in for filters.'

'Filters?'

Joseph explained. In the capacity of 'commission agent'--
denomination which includes and apologises for such a vast variety
of casual pursuits--he had of late been helping to make known to
the public a new filter, which promised to be a commercial success.
The owner of the patent lacked capital, and a judicious investment
might secure a share in the business; Joseph thought of broaching
the subject with him next day.

'You won't make a fool of yourself?' remarked Scawthorne.

'Trust me; I think I know my way about.'

For the present these gentlemen had nothing more to say to each
other; they emptied their glasses with deliberation, exchanged a
look which might mean either much or nothing, and so went their
several ways.

The filter project was put into execution. When Joseph had
communicated it in detail to his father, the latter took the
professional advice of his friend Mr. Percival, and in the course of
a few weeks Joseph found himself regularly established in a business
which had the--for him--novel characteristic of serving the
purposes of purity. The manufactory was situated in a by-street on
the north of Euston Road: a small concern, but at all events a
genuine one. On the window of the office you read, 'Lake, Snowdon, &
Co.' As it was necessary to account for this achievement to Clem and
Mrs. Peckover, Joseph made known to them a part of the truth; of the
will he said nothing, and, for reasons of his own, he allowed these
tender relatives to believe that he was in a fair way to inherit the
greater part of Michael's possessions. There was jubilation in
Clerkenwell Close, but mother and daughter kept stern watch upon
Joseph's proceedings.

Another acquaintance of ours benefited by this event. Michael made
it a stipulation that some kind of work should be found at the
factory for John Hewett, who, since his wife's death, had been
making a wretched struggle to establish a more decent home for the
children. The firm of Lake, Snowdon, & Co. took Hewett into their
employment as a porter, and paid him twenty-five shillings a week--
of which sum, however, the odd five shillings were privately made up
by Michael. On receiving this appointment, John drew the sigh of a
man who finds himself in haven after perilous beating about a lee
shore. The kitchen in King's Cross Bead was abandoned, and with
Sidney Kirkwood's aid the family found much more satisfactory
quarters. Friends of Sidney's, a man and wife of middle age without
children, happened to be looking for lodgings: it was decided that
they and John Hewett should join in the tenancy of a fiat, up on the
fifth storey of the huge block of tenements called Farringdon Road
Buildings. By this arrangement the children would be looked after,
and the weekly twenty-five shillings could be made to go much
further than on the ordinary system. As soon as everything had been
settled, and when Mr. and Mrs. Eagles had already housed themselves
in the one room which was all they needed for their private
accommodation, Hewett and the children began to pack together their
miserable sticks and rags for removal. Just then Sidney Kirkwood
looked in.

'Eagles wants to see you for a minute about something,' he said.
'Just walk round with me, will you?'

John obeyed, in the silent, spiritless way now usual with him. It
was but a short distance to the buildings: they went up the winding
stone staircase, and Sidney gave a hollow-sounding knock at one of
the two doors that faced each other on the fifth storey. Mrs. Eagles
opened, a decent, motherly woman, with a pleasant and rather curious
smile on her face. She led the way into one of the rooms which John
had seen empty only a few hours ago. How was this? Oil-cloth on the
floor, a blind at the window, a bedstead, a table, a chest of
drawers--

Mrs. Eagles withdrew, discreetly. Hewett stood with a look of uneasy
wonderment, and at length turned to his companion.

'Now, look here,' he growled, in an unsteady voice, 'what's all this
about?'

'Somebody seems to have got here before you,' replied Sidney,
smiling.

'How the devil am I to keep any self-respect if you go on treatin'
me in this fashion?' blustered John, hanging his head.

'It isn't my doing, Mr. Hewett.'

'Whose, then?'

'A friend's. Don't make a fuss. You shall know the person some day.'

CHAPTER XXIII

ON THE EVE OF TRIUMPH

'I have got your letter, but it tells me no more than the last did.
Why don't you say plainly what you mean? I suppose it's something
you are ashamed of. You say that there's a chance for me of earning
a large sum of money, and if you are in earnest, I shall be only too
glad to hear how it's to be done. This life is no better than what I
used to lead years ago; I'm no nearer to getting a good part than I
was when I first began acting, and unless I can get money to buy
dresses and all the rest of it, I may go on for ever at this hateful
drudgery. I shall take nothing more from you: I say it, and I mean
it; but as you tell me that this chance has nothing to do with
yourself, let me know what it really is. For a large sum of money
there are few things I wouldn't do. Of course it's something
disgraceful, but you needn't be afraid on that account; I haven't
lost all my pride yet, but I know what I'm fighting for, and I won't
be beaten. Cost what it may, I'll make people hear of me and talk of
me, and I'll pay myself back for all I've gone through.

So write in plain words, or come and see me.

C. V.'

She wrote at a round table, shaky on its central support, in the
parlour of an indifferent lodging-house; the October afternoon drew
towards dusk; the sky hung low and murky, or, rather, was itself
invisible, veiled by the fume of factory chimneys; a wailing wind
rattled the sash and the door. A newly lighted fire refused to flame
cheerfully, half smothered in its own smoke, which every now and
then was blown downwards and out into the room. The letter
finished--scribbled angrily with a bad pen and in pale ink--she put
it into its envelope--'C. H. Scawthorne, Esq.'

Then a long reverie, such as she always fell into when alone and
unoccupied. The face was older, but not greatly changed from that of
the girl who fought her dread fight with temptation, and lost it, in
the lodging at Islington, who, then as now, brooded over the wild
passions in her heart and defied the world that was her enemy. Still
a beautiful face, its haughty characteristics strengthened, the lips
a little more sensual, a little coarser; still the same stamp of
intellect upon the forehead, the same impatient scorn and misery in
her eyes. She asked no one's pity, but not many women breathed at
that moment who knew more of suffering.

For three weeks she had belonged to a company on tour in the
northern counties. In accordance with the modern custom--so
beneficial to actors and the public--their repertory consisted of
one play, the famous melodrama, 'A Secret of the Thames,'
recommended to provincial audiences by its run of four hundred and
thirty-seven nights at a London theatre. These, to be sure, were not
the London actors, but advertisements in local newspapers gave it to
be understood that they 'made an _ensemble_ in no respect inferior
to that which was so long the delight of the metropolis.' Starred on
the placards was the name of Mr. Samuel Peel, renowned in the North
of England; his was the company, and his the main glory in the
piece. As leading lady he had the distinguished Miss Erminia
Walcott; her part was a trying one, for she had to be half-strangled
by ruffians and flung--most decorously--over the parapet of
London Bridge. In the long list of subordinate performers occurred
two names with which we are familiar, Miss Grace Danver and Miss
Clara Vale. The present evening would be the third and last in a
certain town of Lancashire, one of those remarkable centres of
industry which pollute heaven and earth, and on that account are
spoken of with somewhat more of pride than stirred the Athenian when
he named his Acropolis.

Clara had just risen to stir the fire, compelled to move by the
smoke that was annoying her, when, after a tap at the door, there
came in a young woman of about five-and-twenty, in a plain walking
costume, tall, very slender, pretty, but looking ill. At this moment
there was a slight flush on her cheeks and a brightness in her eyes
which obviously came of some excitement. She paused just after
entering and said in an eager voice, which had a touch of huskiness:

'What do you think? Miss Walcott's taken her hook!'

Clara did not allow herself to be moved at this announcement. For
several days what is called unpleasantness had existed between the
leading lady and the manager: in other words, they had been
quarrelling violently on certain professional matters, and Miss
Walcott had threatened to ruin the tour by withdrawing her
invaluable services. The menace was at last executed, in good
earnest, and the cause of Grace Danver's excitement was that she, as
Miss Walcott's understudy, would to-night, in all probability, be
called upon to take the leading part.

'I'm glad to hear it,' Clara replied, very soberly.

'You don't look as if you cared much,' rejoined the other, with a
little irritation.

'What do you want me to do? Am I to scream with joy because the
greatest actress in the world has got her chance at last?'

There was bitterness in the irony. Whatever their friendship in days
gone by, these two were clearly not on the most amiable terms at
present. This was their first engagement in the same company, and it
had needed but a week of association to put a jealousy and
ill-feeling between them which proved fatal to such mutual kindness
as they had previously cherished. Grace, now no less than in her
schooldays, was fond of patronising: as the elder in years and in
experience, she adopted a tone which Clara speedily resented. To
heighten the danger of a conflict between natures essentially
incompatible, both were in a morbid and nervous state, consumed with
discontent, sensitive to the most trifling injury, abandoned to a
fierce egoism, which the course of their lives and the circumstances
of their profession kept constantly inflamed. Grace was of acrid and
violent temper; when stung with words such as Clara was only too apt
at using, she speedily lost command of herself and spoke, or even
acted, frantically. Except that she had not Clara's sensibilities,
her lot was the harder of the two; for she knew herself stricken
with a malady which would hunt her unsparingly to the grave. On her
story I have no time to dwell; it was fall of wretchedness, which
had caused her, about a year ago, to make an attempt at suicide. A
little generosity, and Clara might have helped to soothe the pains
of one so much weaker than herself; but noble feeling was extinct in
the girl, or so nearly extinct that a breath of petty rivalry could
make her base, cruel, remorseless.

'At all events I _have_ got my chance !' exclaimed Grace, with a
harsh laugh. 'When you get yours, ask me to congratulate you.'

And she swept her skirts out of the room. In a few minutes Clara put
a stamp on her letter and went out to the post. Her presence at the
theatre would not be necessary for another two hours, but as the
distance was slight, and nervousness would not let her remain at
home, she walked on to make inquiry concerning Grace's news. Rain
had just begun to fall, and with it descended the smut and grime
that darkened above the houses; the pavement was speedily
over-smeared with sticky mud, and passing vehicles flung splashes in
every direction. Odours of oil and shoddy, and all such things as
characterised the town, grew more pungent under the heavy shower. On
reaching the stage-door, Clara found two or three of her companions
just within; the sudden departure of Miss Walcott had become known
to everyone, and at this moment Mr. Peel was holding a council, to
which, as the doorkeeper testified, Miss Danver had been summoned.

The manager decided to make no public announcement of what had
happened before the hour came for drawing up the curtain. A scrappy
rehearsal for the benefit of Grace Danver and the two or three other
ladies who were affected by the necessary rearrangement went on
until the last possible moment, then Mr. Peel presented himself
before the drop and made a little speech. The gallery was fall of
mill-hands; in the pit was a sprinkling of people; the circles and
boxes presented half a dozen occupants. 'Sudden domestic calamity
. . . enforced absence of the lady who played . . . efficient
substitution . . . deep regret, but confidence in the friendly
feeling of audience on this last evening.'

They growled, but in the end applauded the actor-manager, who had
succeeded in delicately hinting that, after all, the great
attraction was still present in his own person. The play went very
much as usual, but those behind the scenes were not allowed to
forget that Mr. Peel was in a furious temper: the ladies noticed
with satisfaction that more than once he glared ominously at Miss
Danver, who naturally could not aid him to make his 'points' as Miss
Walcott had accustomed herself to do. At his final exit, it was
observed that he shrugged his shoulders and muttered a few oaths.

Clara had her familiar part; it was a poor one from every point of
view, and the imbecility of the words she had to speak affected her
to-night with exceptional irritation. Clara always acted in
ill-humour. She despised her audience for their acceptance of the
playwright's claptrap; she felt that she could do better than any of
the actresses entrusted with the more important characters; her
imagination was for ever turning to powerful scenes in plays she had
studied privately, and despair possessed her at the thought that she
would perhaps never have a chance of putting forth her strength.
Tonight her mood was one of sullen carelessness; she did little more
than 'walk through' her part, feeling a pleasure in thus insulting
the house. One scrap of dialogue she had with Grace, and her eyes
answered with a flash of hatred to the arrogance of the other's
regard. At another point she all but missed her cue, for her
thoughts were busy with that letter to which she had replied this
afternoon. Mr. Peel looked at her savagely, and she met his silent
rebuke with an air of indifference. After that the manager appeared
to pay peculiar attention to her as often as they were together
before the footlights. It was not the first time that Mr. Peel had
allowed her to see that she was an object of interest to him.

There was an after-piece, but Clara was not engaged in it. When, at
the fall of the curtain on the melodrama, she went to the shabby
dressing-room which she shared with two companions, a message
delivered by the call boy bade her repair as soon as possible to the
manager's office. What might this mean? She was startled on the
instant, but speedily recovered her self-control; most likely she
was to receive a rating--let it come! Without unusual hurry, she
washed, changed her dress, and obeyed the summons.

Mr. Peel was still a young man, of tall and robust stature,
sanguine, with much sham refinement in his manner; he prided himself
on the civility with which he behaved to all who had business
relations with him, but every now and then the veneer gave an
awkward crack, and, as in his debate with Miss Walcott, the man
himself was discovered to be of coarse grain. His aspect was
singular when, on Clara's entrance into the private room, he laid
down his cigarette and scrutinised her. There was a fiery hue on his
visage, and the scowl of his black eyebrows had a peculiar ugliness.

'Miss Vale,' he began, after hesitation, 'do you consider that you
played your part this evening with the conscientiousness that may
fairly be expected of you?'

'Perhaps not,' replied the girl, averting her eyes, and resting her
hand on the table.

'And may I ask _why_ not?'

'I didn't feel in the humour. The house saw no difference.'

'Indeed? The house saw no difference? Do you mean to imply that you
always play badly?'

'I mean that the part isn't worth any attention--even if they were
able to judge.'

There was a perfection of insolence in her tone that in itself spoke
strongly for the abilities she could display if occasion offered.

'This is rather an offhand way of treating the subject, madam,'
cried Mr. Peel. 'If you disparage our audiences, I beg you to
observe that it is much the same thing as telling me that my own
successes are worthless!'

'I intended nothing of the kind.'

'Perhaps not.' He thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked down
at his boots for an instant. 'So you are discontented with your
part?'

'It's only natural that I should be.'

'I presume you think yourself equal to Juliet, or perhaps Lady
Macbeth?'

'I could play either a good deal better than most women do.'

The manager laughed, by no means ill-humouredly.

'I'm sorry I can't bring you out in Shakespeare just at present,
Miss Vale; but--should you think it a condescension to play Laura
Denton?'

This was Miss Walcott's part, now Grace Danver's. Clara looked at
him with mistrust; her breath did not come quite naturally.

'How long would it take you, do you think,' pursued the other, 'to
get the words?'

'An hour or two; I all but know them.'

The manager took a few paces this way and that.

'We go on to Bolton to-morrow morning. Could you undertake to be
perfect for the afternoon rehearsal?'

'Yes.'

'Then I'll try you. Here's a copy you can take. I make no terms, you
understand; it's an experiment. We'll have another talk to-morrow.
Good-night.'

She left the room. Near the door stood Grace Danver and another
actress, both of whom were bidden to wait upon the manager before
leaving. Clara passed under the fire of their eyes, but scarcely
observed them.

Rain drenched her between the theatre and her lodgings, for she did
not think of putting up an umbrella; she thought indeed of nothing;
there was fire and tumult in her brain. On the round table in her
sitting-room supper was made ready, but she did not heed it.
Excitement compelled her to walk incessantly round and round the
scanty space of floor. Already she had begun to rehearse the chief
scenes of Laura Denton; she spoke the words with all appropriate
loudness and emphasis; her gestures were those of the stage, as
though an audience sat before her; she seemed to have grown taller.
There came a double knock at the house-door, but it did not attract
her attention; a knock at her own room, and only when some one
entered was she recalled to the present. It was Grace again; her
lodging was elsewhere, and this late visit could have but one
motive.

They stood face to face. The elder woman was so incensed that her
lips moved fruitlessly, like those of a paralytic.

'I suppose you're going to make a scene,' Clara addressed her.
'Please remember how late it is, and don't let all the house hear
you.'

'You mean to tell me you accepted that offer of Peel's--without
saying a word--without as much as telling him that he ought to
speak to me first?'

'Certainly I did. I've waited long enough; I'm not going to beat
about the bush when my chance comes.'

'And you called yourself my friend?'

'I'm nobody's friend but my own in an affair of this kind. If you'd
been in my place you'd have done just the same.'

'I wouldn't! I _couldn't_ have been such a mean creature! Every man
and woman in the company'll cry shame on you.'

'Don't deafen me with your nonsense! If you played the part badly, I
suppose some one else must take it. You were only on trial, like I
shall be.'

Grace was livid with fury.

'Played badly! As if we didn't all know how you've managed it! Much
it has to do with good or bad acting! We know how creatures of your
kind get what they want.'

Before the last word was uttered she was seized with a violent fit
of coughing; her cheeks flamed, and spots of blood reddened on the
handkerchief she put to her mouth. Half-stifled, she lay back in the
angle of the wall by the door. Clara regarded her with a
contemptuous pity, and when the cough had nearly ceased, said
coldly:

'I'm not going to try and match you in insulting language; I dare
say you'd beat me at that. If you take my advice, you'll go home and
take care of yourself; you look ill enough to be in bed. I don't
care what you or anyone else thinks of me; what you said just now
was a lie, but it doesn't matter. I've got the part, and I'll take
good care that I keep it. You talk about us being friends; I should
have thought you knew by this time that there's no such thing as
friendship or generosity or feeling for women who have to make their
way in the world. You've had your hard times as well as I, and
what's the use of pretending what you don't believe? You wouldn't
give up a chance for me; I'm sure I should never expect you to. We
have to fight, to fight for everything, and the weak get beaten.
That's what life has taught me.'

'You're right,' was the other's reply. given with a strangely sudden
calmness. 'And we'll see who wins.'

Clara gave no thought to the words, nor to the look of deadly enmity
that accompanied them. Alone again, she speedily became absorbed in
a vision of the triumph which she never doubted was near at hand. A
long, long time it seemed since she had sold herself to degradation:
with this one hope. You see that she had formulated her philosophy
of life since then; a child of the nether world whom fate had
endowed with intellect, she gave articulate utterance to what is
seething in the brains of thousands who fight and perish in the
obscure depths. The bitter bargain was issuing to her profit at
last; she would yet attain that end which had shone through all her
misery--to be known as a successful actress by those she had
abandoned, whose faces were growing dim to her memory, but of whom,
in truth, she still thought more than of all the multitudinous
unknown public. A great success during the remainder of this tour,
and she might hope for an engagement in London. Her portraits would
at length be in the windows; some would recognise her.

Yet she was not so pitiless as she boasted. The next morning, when
she met Grace, there came a pain at her heart in seeing the ghastly,
bloodless countenance which refused to turn towards her. Would Grace
be able to act at all at the next town? Yes, one more scene.

They reached Bolton. In the afternoon the rehearsal took place, but
the first representation was not until to-morrow. Clara saw her name
attached to the leading female character on bills rapidly printed
and distributed through the town. She went about in a dream, rather
a delirium. Mr. Peel used his most affable manner to her; his
compliments after the rehearsal were an augury of great things. And
the eventful evening approached.

To give herself plenty of time to dress (the costumes needed for the
part were fortunately simple, and Mr. Peel had advanced her money to
make needful purchases) she left her lodgings at half-past six. It
was a fine evening, but very dark in the two or three by-streets
along which she had to pass to reach the theatre. She waited a
minute on the doorstep to let a troop of female mill-hands go by;
their shoes clanked on the pavement, and they were singing in
chorus, a common habit of their kind in leaving work. Then she
started and walked quickly. .

Close by the stage-door, which was in a dark, narrow passage, stood
a woman with veiled face, a shawl muffling the upper part of her
body. Since six o'clock she had been waiting about the spot,
occasionally walking to a short distance, but always keeping her
face turned towards the door. One or two persons came up and
entered; she observed them, but held aloof. Another drew near. The
woman advanced, and, as she did so, freed one of her arms from the
shawl.

'That you, Grace?' said Clara, almost kindly, for in her victorious
joy she was ready to be at peace with all the world.

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