The Nether World

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He was busy in the usual way this afternoon, as he sat on the bed,
coatless, a trade journal open on his knees. His wife never
disturbed him; she was a placid, ruminative woman, generally finding
the details of her own weekly budget quite a sufficient occupation.
When she had taken off her bonnet and was turning out the contents
of her bag, Eagles remarked quietly:

'They'll have a bad journey.'

'What a day for her to be travelling all that distance, poor thing!
But perhaps it ain't so bad out o' London.'

Lowering their voices, they began to talk of John Hewett and the
daughter he was bringing from Lancashire, where she had lain in
hospital for some weeks. Of the girl and her past they knew next to
nothing, but Hewett's restricted confidences suggested disagreeable
things. The truth of the situation was, that John had received by
post, from he knew not whom, a newspaper report of the inquest held
on the body of Grace Danver, wherein, of course, was an account of
what had happened to Clara Vale; in the margin was pencilled, 'Clara
Vale's real name is Clara Hewett.' An hour after receiving this John
encountered Sidney Kirkwood. They read the report together. Before
the coroner it had been made public that the dead woman was in truth
named Rudd; she who was injured refused to give any details
concerning herself, and her history escaped the reporters.
Harbouring no doubt of the information thus mysteriously sent him--
the handwriting seemed to be that of a man, but gave no further hint
as to its origin--Hewett the next day journeyed down into
Lancashire, Sidney supplying him with money. He found Clara in a
perilous condition; her face was horribly burnt with vitriol, and
the doctors could not as yet answer for the results of the shock she
had suffered. One consolation alone offered itself in the course of
Hewett's inquiries; Clara, if she recovered, would not have lost her
eyesight. The fluid had been thrown too low to effect the worst
injury; the accident of a trembling hand, of a movement on her part,
had kept her eyes untouched.

Necessity brought the father back to London almost at once, but the
news sent him at brief intervals continued to be favourable. Now
that the girl could be removed from the infirmary, there was no
retreat for her but her father's home. Mr. Peel, the manager, had
made her a present of 20_l_.--it was all he could do; the members
of the company had subscribed another 5_l_., generously enough,
seeing that their tour was come perforce to an abrupt close. Clara's
career as an actress had ended. . . .

When the fog's artificial night deepened at the close of the winter
evening, Mrs. Eagles made the Hewetts' two rooms as cheerful as
might be, expecting every moment the arrival of John and his
companion. The children were aware that an all but forgotten sister
was returning to them, and that she had been very ill; they promised
quietude. Amy set the tea-table in order, and kept the kettle ready.
. . . The knock for which they were waiting! Mrs. Eagles withdrew
into her own room; Amy went to the door.

A tall figure, so wrapped and veiled that nothing but the womanly
outline could be discerned, entered, supported by John Hewett.

'Is there a light in the other room, Amy?' John inquired in a thick
voice.

'Yes, father.'

He led the muffled form into the chamber where Amy and Annie slept.
The door closed, and for several minutes the three children stood
regarding each other, alarmed, mute. Then their father joined them.
He looked about in an absent way, slowly drew off his overcoat, and
when Amy offered to take it, bent and kissed her cheek. The girl was
startled to hear him sob and to see tears starting from his eyes.
Turning suddenly away, he stood before the fire and made a pretence
of warming himself; but his sobs overmastered him. He leaned his
arms on the mantel-piece.

'Shall I pour out the tea, father?' Amy ventured to ask, when there
was again perfect silence.

'Haven't you had yours?' he replied, half-facing her.

'Not yet.'

'Get it, then--all of you. Yes, you can pour me out a cup--and
put another on the little tray. Is this stuff in the saucepan
ready?' 'Mrs. Eagles said it would be in five minutes.'.

'All right. Get on with your eatin', all of you.'

He went to Mrs. Eagles' room and talked there for a short time.
Presently Mrs. Eagles herself came out and silently removed from the
saucepan a mixture of broth and meat. Having already taken the cup
of tea to Clara, Hewett now returned to her with this food. She was
sitting by the fire, her face resting upon her hands. The lamp was
extinguished; she had said that the firelight was enough. John
deposited his burden on the table, then touched her shoulder gently
and spoke in so soft a voice that one would not have recognised it
as his.

'You'll try an' eat a little, my dear? Here's somethin' as has been
made particular. After travellin'--just a spoonful or two.'

Clara expressed reluctance.

'I don't feel hungry, father. Presently, perhaps.'

'Well, well; it do want to cool a bit. Do you feel able to sit up?'

'Yes. Don't take so much trouble, father. I'd rather you left me
alone.'

The tone was not exactly impatient; it spoke a weary indifference to
everything and every person.

'Yes, I'll go away, dear. But you'll eat just a bit? If you don't
like this, you must tell me, and I'll get something you could
fancy.'

'It'll do well enough. I'll eat it presently; I promise you.'

John hesitated before going.

'Clara--shall you mind Amy and Annie comin' to sleep here? If
you'd rather, we'll manage it somehow else.'

'No. What does it matter? They can come when they like, only they
mustn't want me to talk to them.'

He went softly from the room, and joined the children at their tea.
His mood had grown brighter. Though in talking he kept his tone much
softened, there was a smile upon his face, and he answered freely
the questions put to him about his journey. Overcome at first by the
dark aspect of this home-coming, he now began to taste the joy of
having Clara under his roof, rescued alike from those vague dangers
of the past and from the recent peril. Impossible to separate the
sorrow he felt for her blighted life, her broken spirit, and the
solace lurking in the thought that henceforth she could not abandon
him. Never a word to reproach her for the unalterable; it should be
as though there were no gap between the old love and its renewal in
the present. For Clara used to love him, and already she had shown
that his tenderness did not appeal to her in vain; during the
journey she had once or twice pressed his hand in gratitude. How
well it was that he had this home in which to receive her! Half a
year ago, and what should he have done? He would not admit to
himself that there were any difficulties ahead; if it came to that,
he would manage to get some extra work in the evening and on
Saturday afternoons. He would take Sidney into council. But
thereupon his face darkened again, and he lost himself in troubled
musing.

Midway in the Sunday morning Amy told him that Clara had risen and
would like him to go and sit with her. She would not leave her room;
Amy had put it in order, and the blind was drawn low. Clara sat by
the fireside, in her attitude of last night, hiding her face as far
as she was able. The beauty of her form would have impressed anyone
who approached her, the grace of her bent head; but the countenance
was no longer that of Clara Hewett; none must now look at her,
unless to pity. Feeling herself thus utterly changed, she could not
speak in her former natural voice; her utterance was oppressed,
unmusical, monotonous.

When her father had taken a place near her she asked him, 'Have you
got that piece of newspaper still?'

He had, and at her wish produced it. Clara held it in the light of
the fire, and regarded the pencilled words closely. Then she
inquired if he wished to keep it, and on his answering in the
negative threw it to be burnt. Hewett took her hand, and for a while
they kept silence.

'Do you live comfortably here, father?' she said presently.

'We do, Clara. It's a bit high up, but that don't matter much.'

'You've got new furniture.'

'Yes, some new things. The old was all done for, you know.'

'And where did you live before you came here?'

'Oh, we had a place in King's Cross Road--it wasn't much of a
place, but I suppose it might a' been worse.'

'And that was where--?'

'Yes--yes--it was there.'

'And how did you manage to buy this furniture?' Clara asked, after a
pause.

'Well, my dear, to tell you the truth--it was a friend as--an
old friend helped us a bit.'

'You wouldn't care to say who it was?'

John was gravely embarrassed. Clara moved her head a little, so as
to regard him, but at once turned away, shrinkingiy, when she met
his eyes.

'Why don't you like to tell me, father? Was it Mr. Kirkwood?'

'Yes, my dear, it was.'

Neither spoke for a long time. Clara's head sank lower; she drew her
hand away from her father's, and used it to shield her face. When
she spoke, it was as if to herself.

'I suppose he's altered in some ways?'

'Not much; I don't see much change, myself, but then of course--
No, he's pretty much the same.'

'He's married, isn't he?

'Married? Why, what made you think that. Clara? No, not he. He had
to move not long ago; his lodgin's is in Red Lion Street now.'

'And does he ever come here?'

'He has been--just now an' then.'

'Have you told him ?'

'Why--yes, dear--I felt I had to.'

'There's no harm. You couldn't keep it a secret. But he mustn't come
whilst I'm here; you understand that, father?'

'No, no, he shan't. He shall never come, if you don't wish it.'

'Only whilst I'm here.'

'But--Clara--you'll _always_ be here.'

'Oh no! Do you think I'm going to burden you all the rest of my
life? I shall find some way of earning a living, and then I shall go
and get a room for myself.'

'Now don't--now don't talk like that!' exclaimed her father,
putting his hand on her. 'You shall do what else you like, my girl,
but don't talk about goin' away from me. That's the one thing as I
couldn't bear. I ain't so young as I was, and I've had things as was
hard to go through--I mean when the mother died and--and other
things at that time. Let you an' me stay by each other whilst we
may, my girl. You know it was always you as I thought most of, and I
want to keep you by me--I do, Clara. You won't speak about goin'
away?'

She remained mute. Shadows from the firelight rose and fell upon the
walls of the half-darkened room. It was a cloudy morning; every now
and then a gust flung rain against the window.

'If you went,' he continued, huskily, 'I should be afraid myself. I
haven't told you. I didn't behave as I'd ought have done to the poor
mother, Clara; I got into drinkin' too much; yes, I did. I've broke
myself off that; but if you was to leave me--I've had hard
things to go through. Do you know the Burial Club broke up just
before she died? I couldn't get not a ha'penny! A lot o' the money
was stolen. You may think how I felt, Clara, with her lyin' there,
and I hadn't got as much as would pay for a coffin. It was Sidney
Kirkwood found the money--he did! There was never man had as good
a friend as he's been to me; I shall never have a chance of payin'
what I owe him. Things is better with me now, but I'd rather beg my
bread in the streets than you should go away. Don't be afraid, my
dearest. I promise you nobody shan't come near. You won't mind Mrs.
Eagles; she's very good to the children. But I must keep you near to
me, my poor girl!'

Perhaps sit was that word of pity--though the man's shaken voice
was throughout deeply moving. For the first time since the exultant
hope of her life was blasted, Clara shed tears.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SOUP-KITCHEN

With the first breath of winter there passes a voice half-menacing,
half-mournful, through all the barren ways and phantom-haunted
refuges of the nether world. Too quickly has vanished the brief
season when the sky is clement, when a little food suffices, and the
chances of earning that little are more numerous than at other
times; this wind that gives utterance to its familiar warning is the
vaunt-courier of cold and hunger and solicitude that knows not
sleep. Will the winter be a hard one? It is the question that
concerns this world before all others, that occupies alike the
patient workfolk who have yet their home unbroken, the strugglers
foredoomed to loss of such scant needments as the summer gifted them
withal, the hopeless and the self-abandoned and the lurking
creatures of prey. To all of them the first chill breath from a
lowering sky has its voice of admonition; they set their faces; they
sigh, or whisper a prayer, or fling out a curse, each according to
his nature.

And as though the strife here were not already hard enough, behold
from many corners of the land come needy emigrants, prospectless
among their own people, fearing the dark season which has so often
meant for them the end of wages and of food, tempted hither by
thought that in the shadow of palaces work and charity are both more
plentiful. Vagabonds, too, no longer able to lie about the country
roads, creep back to their remembered lairs and join the combat for
crusts flung forth by casual hands. Day after day the stress becomes
more grim. One would think that hosts of the weaker combatants might
surely find it seasonable to let themselves be trodden out of
existence, and so make room for those of more useful sinew; somehow
they cling to life; so few in comparison yield utterly. The
thoughtful in the world above look about them with contentment when
carriage-ways are deep with new-fallen snow. 'Good; here is work for
the unemployed.' Ah, if the winter did but last a few months longer,
if the wonted bounds of endurance were but, by some freak of nature,
sensibly overpassed, the carriage-ways would find another kind of
sweeping! . . .

This winter was the last that Shooter's Gardens were destined to
know. The leases had all but run out; the middlemen were garnering
their latest profits; in the spring there would come a wholesale
demolition, and model-lodgings would thereafter occupy the site.
Meanwhile the Gardens looked their surliest; the walls stood in a
perpetual black sweat; a mouldy reek came from the open doorways;
the beings that passed in and out seemed soaked with grimy moisture,
puffed into distortions, hung about with rotting garments. One such
was Mrs. Candy, Pennyloaf's mother. Her clothing consisted of a
single gown and a shawl made out of the fragments of an old
counterpane; her clothing--with exception of the shoes on her
feet, those two articles were literally all that covered her bare
body. Rage for drink was with her reaching the final mania. Useless
to bestow anything upon her; straightway it or its value passed over
the counter of the beershop in Rosoman Street. She cared only for
beer, the brave, thick, medicated draught, that was so cheap and
frenzied her so speedily.

Her husband was gone for good. One choking night of November he beat
her to such purpose that she was carried off to the police-station
as dead; the man effected his escape, and was not likely to show
himself in the Gardens again. With her still lived her son Stephen,
the potman. His payment was ten shillings a week (with a daily
allowance of three pints), and he saw to it that there was always a
loaf of bread in the room they occupied together. Stephen took
things with much philosophy; his mother would, of course, drink
herself to death--what was there astonishing in that? He himself
had heart disease, and surely enough would drop down dead one of
these days; the one doom was no more to be quarrelled with than the
other. Pennyloaf came to see them at very long intervals; what was
the use of making her visits more frequent? She, too, viewed with a
certain equanimity the progress of her mother's fate. Vain every
kind of interposition; worse than imprudence to give the poor
creature money or money's worth. It could only be hoped that the end
would come before very long.

An interesting house, this in which Mrs. Candy resided. It contained
in all seven rooms, and each room was the home of a family; under
the roof slept twenty-five persons, men, women, and children; the
lowest rent paid by one of these domestic groups was
four-and-sixpence. You would have enjoyed a peep into the rear
chamber on the ground floor. There dwelt a family named Hope--Mr.
and Mrs. Hope, Sarah Hope, aged fifteen, Dick Hope, aged twelve,
Betsy Hope, aged three. The father was a cripple; he and his wife
occupied themselves in the picking of rags--of course at home--
and I can assure you that the atmosphere of their abode was worthy
of its aspect. Mr. Hope drank, but not desperately. His forte was
the use of language so peculiarly violent that even in Shooter's
Gardens it gained him a proud reputation. On the slightest excuse he
would threaten to brain one of his children, to disembowel another,
to gouge out the eyes of the third. He showed much ingenuity in
varying the forms of menaced punishment. Not a child in the Gardens
but was constantly threatened by its parents with a violent death;
this was so familiar that it had lost its effect; where the nurse or
mother in the upper world cries, 'I shall scold you!' in the nether
the phrase is, 'I'll knock yer 'ed orff!' To 'I shall be very angry
with you' in the one sphere, corresponds in the other, 'I'll murder
you!' These are conventions--matters of no importance. But Mr.
Rope was a man of individuality; he could make his family tremble;
he could bring lodgers about the door to listen and admire his
resources.

In another room abode a mother with four children. This woman drank
moderately, but was very conscientious in despatching her three
younger children to school. True, there was just a little
inconvenience in this punctuality of hers, at all events from the
youngsters' point of view, for only on the first three days of the
week had they the slightest chance of a mouthful of breakfast before
they departed. 'Never mind, I'll have some dinner for you,' their
parent was wont to say. Common enough in the Board schools, this
pursuit of knowledge on an empty stomach. But then the end is so
inestimable!

Yet another home. It was tenanted by two persons only; they appeared
to be man and wife, but in the legal sense were not so, nor did they
for a moment seek to deceive their neighbours. With the female you
are slightly acquainted; christened Sukey Jollop, she first became
Mrs. Jack Bartley, and now, for courtesy's sake, was styled Mrs.
Higgs. Sukey had strayed on to a downward path; conscious of it, she
abandoned herself to her taste for strong drink, and braved out her
degradation. Jealousy of Clem Peckover was the first cause of
discord between her and Jack Bartley; a robust young woman, she
finally sent Jack about his business by literal force of arms, and
entered into an alliance with Ned Higgs, a notorious swashbuckler,
the captain of a gang of young ruffians who at this date were giving
much trouble to the Clerkenwell police. Their speciality was the
skilful use, as an offensive weapon, of a stout leathern belt
heavily buckled; Mr. Higgs boasted that with one stroke of his belt
he could, if it seemed good to him, kill his man, but the fitting
opportunity for this display of prowess had not yet offered. . . .

Now it happened that, at the time of her making Jane Snowdon's
acquaintance, Miss Lant was particularly interested in Shooter's
Gardens and the immediate vicinity. She had associated herself with
certain ladies who undertook the control of a soup-kitchen in the
neighbourhood, and as the winter advanced she engaged Jane in this
work of charity. It was a good means, as Michael Snowdon agreed, of
enabling the girl to form acquaintances among the very poorest,
those whom she hoped to serve effectively--not with aid of money
alone, but by her personal influence. And I think it will be worth
while to dwell a little on the story of this same soup-kitchen; it
is significant, and shall take the place of abstract comment on Miss
Lant's philanthropic enterprises.

The kitchen had been doing successful work for some years; the
society which established it entrusted its practical conduct to very
practical people, a man and wife who were themselves of the nether
world, and knew the ways thereof. The 'stock' which formed the basis
of the soup was wholesome and nutritious; the peas were of excellent
quality; twopence a quart was the price at which this fluid could be
purchased (one penny if a ticket from a member of the committee were
presented), and sometimes as much as five hundred quarts would be
sold in a day. Satisfactory enough this. When the people came with
complaints, saying that they were tired of this particular soup, and
would like another kind for a change, Mr. and Mrs. Batterby, with
perfect understanding of the situation, bade their customers 'take
it or leave it--an' none o' your cheek here, or you won't get
nothing at all!' The result was much good-humour all round.

But the present year saw a change in the constitution of the
committee: two or three philanthropic ladies of great
conscientiousness began to inquire busily into the working of the
soup-kitchen, and they soon found reason to be altogether
dissatisfied with Mr. and Mrs. Batterby. No, no; these managers were
of too coarse a type; they spoke grossly; what possibility of their
exerting a humanising influence on the people to whom they dispensed
soup? Soup and refinement must be disseminated at one and the same
time, over the same counter. Mr. and Mrs. Batterby were dismissed,
and quite a new order of things began. Not only were the ladies
zealous for a high ideal in the matter of soup-distributing, they
also aimed at practical economy in the use of funds. Having engaged
a cook after their own hearts, and acting upon the advice of
competent physiologists, they proceeded to make a 'stock' out of
sheep's and bullocks' heads; moreover, they ordered their peas from
the City, thus getting them at two shillings a sack less than the
price formerly paid by the Batterbys to a dealer in Clerkenwell.
But, alas! these things could not be done secretly; the story leaked
out; Shooter's Gardens and vicinity broke into the most excited
feeling. I need not tell you that the nether world will consume--
when others supply it--nothing but the very finest quality of
food, that the heads of sheep and bullocks are peculiarly offensive
to its stomach, that a saving effected on sacks of peas outrages its
dearest sensibilities. What was the result? Shooter's Gardens,
convinced of the fraud practised upon them, nobly brought back their
quarts of soup to the kitchen, and with proud independence of
language demanded to have their money returned. On being met with a
refusal, they--what think you ?--emptied the soup on to the
floor, and went away with heads exalted.

Vast was the indignation of Miss Lant and the other ladies. 'This is
their gratitude!' Now if you or I had been there, what an
opportunity for easing our minds! 'Gratitude, mesdames? You have
entered upon this work with expectation of gratitude?--And can you
not perceive that these people of Shooter's Gardens are poor,
besotted, disease-struck creatures, of whom--in the mass--
scarcely a human quality is to be expected? Have you still to learn
what this nether world has been made by those who belong to the
sphere above it?--Gratitude, quotha?--Nay, do _you_ be grateful
that these hapless, half-starved women do not turn and rend you. At
present they satisfy themselves with insolence. Take it silently,
you who at all events hold some count of their dire state; and
endeavour to feed them without arousing their animosity!'

Well, the kitchen threatened to be a failure. It turned out that the
cheaper peas were, in fact, of inferior quality, and the ladies
hastened to go back to the dealer in Clerkenwell. This was
something, but now came a new trouble; the complaint with which Mr.
and Mrs. Batterby had known so well how to deal revived in view of
the concessions made by the new managers. Shooter's Gardens would
have no more peas; let some other vegetable be used. Again the point
was conceded; a trial was made of barley soup. Shooter's Gardens
came, looked, smelt, and shook their heads. 'it don't look nice,'
was their comment; they would none of it.

For two or three weeks, just at this crisis in the kitchen's fate,
Jane Snowdon attended with Miss Lant to help in the dispensing of
the decoction. Jane was made very nervous by the disturbances that
went on, but she was able to review the matter at issue in a far
more fruitful way than Miss Lant and the other ladies. Her opinion
was not asked, however. In the homely grey dress, with her modest,
retiring manner, her gentle, diffident countenance, she was taken by
the customers for a paid servant, and if ever it happened that she
could not supply a can of soup quickly enough sharp words reached
her ear. 'Now then, you gyurl there! Are you goin' to keep me all
d'y? I've got somethink else to do but stand 'ere.' And Jane, by her
timid hastening, confirmed the original impression, with the result
that she was treated yet more unceremoniously next time. Of all
forms of insolence there is none more flagrant than that of the
degraded poor receiving charity which they have come to regard as a
right.

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