The Nether World

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Jane did speak at length. Miss Lant had called to see her in Hanover
Street; seated quietly in her own parlour, with Michael Snowdon to
approve--with him she had already discussed the matter--Jane
ventured softly to compare the present state of things and that of
former winters, as described to her by various people.

'Wasn't it rather a pity,' she suggested, 'that the old people were
sent away?'

'You think so?' returned Miss Lant, with the air of one to whom a
novel thought is presented. 'You really think so, Miss Snowdon?'

'They got on so well with everybody,' Jane continued. 'And don't you
think it's better, Miss Lant, for everybody to feel satisfied?'

'But really, Mr. Batterby used to speak so very harshly. He
destroyed their self-respect.'

'I don't think they minded it,' said Jane, with simple good faith.
'And I'm always hearing them wish he was back, instead of the new
managers.'

'I think we shall have to consider this,' remarked the lady,
thoughtfully.

Considered it was, and with the result that the Batterbys before
long found themselves in their old position, uproariously welcomed
by Shooter's Gardens. In a few weeks the soup was once more
concocted of familiar ingredients, and customers, as often as they
grumbled, had the pleasure of being rebuked in their native tongue.

It was with anything but a cheerful heart that Jane went through
this initiation into the philanthropic life. Her brief period of joy
and confidence was followed by a return of anxiety, which no resolve
could suppress. It was not only that the ideals to which she strove
to form herself made no genuine appeal to her nature; the imperative
hunger of her heart remained unsatisfied. At first, when the
assurance received from Michael began to lose a little of its
sustaining force, she could say to herself, 'Patience, patience; be
faithful, be trustful, and your reward will soon come.' Nor would
patience have failed her had but the current of life flowed on in
the old way. It was the introduction of new and disturbing things
that proved so great a test of fortitude. Those two successive
absences of Sidney on the appointed evening were strangely unlike
him, but perhaps could be explained by the unsettlement of his
removal; his manner when at length he did come proved that the
change in himself was still proceeding. Moreover, the change
affected Michael, who manifested increase of mental trouble at the
same time that he yielded more and more to physical infirmity.

The letter which Sidney wrote after receiving Joseph Snowdon's
confidential communications was despatched two days later. He
expressed himself in carefully chosen words, but the purport of the
letter was to make known that he no longer thought of Jane save as a
friend; that the change in her position had compelled him to take
another view of his relations to her than that he had confided to
Michael at Danbury. Most fortunately--he added--no utterance of
his feelings had ever escaped him to Jane herself, and henceforth he
should be still more careful to avoid any suggestion of more than
brotherly interest. In very deed nothing was altered; he was still
her steadfast friend, and would always aid her to his utmost in the
work of her life.

That Sidney could send this letter, after keeping it in reserve for
a couple of days, proved how profoundly his instincts were revolted
by the difficulties and the ambiguity of his position. It had been
bad enough when only his own conscience was in play; the dialogue
with Joseph, following upon Bessie Byass's indiscretion, threw him
wholly off his balance, and he could give no weight to any
consideration but the necessity of recovering self-respect. Even the
sophistry of that repeated statement that he had never approached
Jane as a lover did not trouble him in face of the injury to his
pride. Every word of Joseph Snowdon's transparently artful hints was
a sting to his sensitiveness; the sum excited him to loathing. It
was as though the corner of a curtain had been raised, giving him a
glimpse of all the vile greed, the base machination, hovering about
this fortune that Jane was to inherit. Of Scawthorne he knew
nothing, but his recollection of the Peckovers was vivid enough to
suggest what part Mrs. Joseph Snowdon was playing in the present
intrigues, and he felt convinced that in the background were other
beasts of prey, watching with keen, envious eyes. The sudden
revelation was a shock from which he would not soon recover; he
seemed to himself to be in a degree contaminated; he questioned his
most secret thoughts again and again, recognizing with torment the
fears which had already bidden him draw back; he desired to purify
himself by some unmistakable action.

That which happened he had anticipated. On receipt of the letter
Michael came to see him; he found the old man waiting in front of
the house when he returned to Red Lion Street after his work. The
conversation that followed was a severe test of Sidney's resolve.
Had Michael disclosed the fact of his private understanding with
Jane, Sidney would probably have yielded; but the old man gave no
hint of what he had done--partly because he found it difficult to
make the admission, partly in consequence of an indecision in his
own mind with regard to the very point at issue. Though agitated by
the consciousness of suffering in store for Jane, his thoughts
disturbed by the derangement of a part of his plan, he did not feel
that Sidney's change of mind gravely affected the plan itself. Age
had cooled his blood; enthusiasm had made personal interests of
comparatively small account to him; he recognised his
granddaughter's feeling, but could not appreciate its intensity, its
surpreme significance. When Kirkwood made a show of explaining
himself, saying that he shrank from that form of responsibility,
that such a marriage suggested to him many and insuperable
embarrassments, Michael began to reflect that perchance this was the
just view. With household and family cares, could Jane devote
herself to the great work after the manner of his ideal? Had he not
been tempted by his friendship for Sidney to introduce into his
scheme what was really an incompatible element? Was it not
decidedly, infinitely better that Jane should be unmarried?

Michael had taken the last step in that process of dehumanisation
which threatens idealists of his type. He had reached at length the
pass of those frenzied votaries of a supernatural creed who exact
from their disciples the sacrifice of every human piety. Returning
home, he murmured to himself again and again, 'She must not marry.
She must overcome this desire of a happiness such as ordinary women
may enjoy. For my sake, and for the sake of her suffering
fellow-creatures, Jane must win this victory over herself.'

He purposed speaking to her, but put it off from day to day. Sidney
paid his visits as usual, and tried desperately to behave as though
he had no trouble. Could he have divined why it was that Michael had
ended by accepting his vague pretences with apparent calm,
indignation, wrath, would have possessed him; he believed, however,
that the old man out of kindness subdued what he really felt.
Sidney's state was pitiable. He knew not whether he more shrank from
the thought of being infected with Joseph Snowdon's baseness or
despised himself for his attitude to Jane. Despicable entirely had
been his explanations to Michael, but how could he make them more
sincere? To tell the whole truth, to reveal Joseph's tactics would
be equivalent to taking a part in the dirty contest; Michael would
probably do him justice, but who could say how far Joseph's
machinations were becoming effectual? The slightest tinct of
uncertainty in the old man's thought, and he, Kirkwood, became a
plotter, like the others, meeting mine with countermine.

'There will be no possibility of perfect faith between men until
there is no such thing as money! H'm, and when is that likely to
come to pass?'

Thus he epigrammatised to himself one evening, savagely enough, as
with head bent forward he plodded to Red Lion Street. Some one
addressed him; he looked up and saw Jane. Seemingly it was a chance
meeting, but she put a question at once almost as though she had
been waiting for him. 'Have you seen Pennyloaf lately, Mr.
Kirkwood?'

Pennyloaf? The name suggested Bob Hewett, who again suggested John
Hewett, and so Sidney fell upon thoughts of some one who two days
ago had found a refuge in John's home. To Michael he had said
nothing of what he knew concerning Clara; a fresh occasion of uneasy
thought. Bob Hewett--so John said--had no knowledge of his
sister's situation, otherwise Pennyloaf might have come to know
about it, and in that case, perchance, Jane herself. Why not? Into
what a wretched muddle of concealments and inconsistencies and
insincerities had he fallen!

'It's far too long since I saw her,' he replied, in that softened
tone which he found it impossible to avoid when his eyes met Jane's.

She was on her way home from the soup-kitchen, where certain
occupations had kept her much later than usual; this, however, was
far out of her way, and Sidney remarked on the fact, perversely,
when she had offered this explanation of her meeting him, Jane did
not reply. They walked on together, towards Islington.

'Are you going to help at that place all the winter?' he inquired.

'Yes; I think so.'

If he had spoken his thought, he would have railed against the
soup-kitchen and all that was connected with it. So far had he got
in his revolt against circumstances; Jane's 'mission' was hateful to
him; he could not bear to think of her handing soup over a counter
to ragged wretches.

'You're nothing like as cheerful as you used to be, he said,
suddenly, and all but roughly. 'Why is it?'

What a question! Jane reddened as she tried to look at him with a
smile; no words would come to her tongue.

'Do you go anywhere else, besides to--to that place?'

Not often. She had accompanied Miss Lant on a visit to some people
in Shooter's Gardens.

Sidney bent his brows. A nice spot, Shooter's Gardens.

'The houses are going to be pulled down, I'm glad to say,' continued
Jane. 'Miss Lant thinks it'll be a good opportunity for helping a
few of the families into better lodgings. We're going to buy
furniture for them--so many have as good as none at all, you know.
It'll be a good start for them, won't it?'

Sidney nodded. He was thinking of another family who already owed
their furniture to Jane's beneficence, though they did not know it.

'Mind you don't throw away kindness on worthless people,' he said
presently.

'We can only do our best, and hope they'll keep comfortable for
their own sakes.'

'Yes, yes. Well, I'll say good-night to you here. Go home and rest;
you look tired.'

He no longer called her by her name. Tearing himself away, with a
last look, he raged inwardly that so sweet and gentle a creature
should be condemned to such a waste of her young life.

Jane had obtained what she came for. At times the longing to see him
grew insupportable, and this evening she had yielded to it, going
out of her way in the hope of encountering him as he came from work.
He spoke very strangely. What did it all mean, and when would this
winter of suspense give sign of vanishing before sunlight?

CHAPTER XXIX

PHANTOMS

Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Snowdon were now established in rooms in Burton
Crescent, which is not far from King's Cross. Joseph had urged that
Clerkenwell Close was scarcely a suitable quarter for a man of his
standing, and, though with difficulty, he had achieved thus much
deliverance. Of Clem he could not get rid--just yet; but it was
something to escape Mrs. Peckover's superintendence. Clem herself
favoured the removal, naturally for private reasons. Thus far
working in alliance with her shrewd mother, she was now forming
independent projects. Mrs. Peckover's zeal was assuredly not
disinterested, and why, Clem mused with herself, should the fruits
of strategy be shared? Her husband's father could not, she saw every
reason to believe, be much longer for this world. How his property
was to be divided she had no means of discovering; Joseph professed
to have no accurate information, but as a matter of course he was
deceiving her. Should he inherit a considerable sum, it was more
than probable he would think of again quitting his native land--
and without encumbrances. That movement must somehow be guarded
against; how, it was difficult as yet to determine. In the next
place, Jane was sure to take a large share of the fortune. To that
Clem strongly objected, both on abstract grounds and because she
regarded Jane with a savage hatred--a hatred which had its roots
in the time of Jane's childhood, and which had grown in proportion
as the girl reaped happiness from life. The necessity of cloaking
this sentiment had not, you may be sure, tended to mitigate it.
Joseph said that there was no longer any fear of a speedy marriage
between Jane and Kirkwood, but that such a marriage would come off
some day,--if not prevented--Clem held to be a matter of
certainty. Sidney Kirkwood was a wide-awake young man; of course he
had his satisfactory reasons for delay. Now Clem's hatred of Sidney
was, from of old, only less than that wherewith she regarded Jane.
To frustrate the hopes of that couple would be a gratification worth
a good deal of risk.

She heard nothing of what had befallen Clara Hewett until the
latter's return home, and then not from her husband. Joseph and
Scawthorne, foiled by that event in an ingenious scheme which you
have doubtless understood (they little knowing how easily the
severance between Jane and Kirkwood might be effected), agreed that
it was well to get Clara restored to her father's household--for,
though it seemed unlikely, it was not impossible that she might in
one way or another aid their schemes--and on that account the
anonymous letter was despatched which informed John Hewett of his
daughter's position. Between John and Snowdon, now that they stood
in the relations of master and servant, there was naturally no
longer familiar intercourse, and, in begging leave of absence for
his journey northwards, Hewett only said that a near relative had
met with a bad accident. But it would be easy, Joseph decided, to
win the man's confidence again, and thus be apprised of all that
went on. With Clem he kept silence on the subject; not improbably
she would learn sooner or later what had happened, and indeed, as
things now stood, it did not matter much; but on principle he
excluded her as much as possible from his confidence. He knew she
hated him, and he was not backward in returning the sentiment,
though constantly affecting a cheerful friendliness in his manner to
her; after all, their union was but temporary. In Hanover Street he
was also silent regarding the Hewetts, for there his role was
that of a good, simple-minded fellow, incapable of intrigue, living
for the domestic affections. If Kirkwood chose to speak to Michael
or Jane of the matter, well, one way or another, that would advance
things a stage, and there was nothing for it but to watch the
progress.

Alone all through the day, and very often in the evening Clem was
not at all disposed to occupy herself in domestic activity. The
lodgings were taken furnished, and a bondmaid of the house did such
work as was indispensable. Dirt and disorder were matters of
indifference to the pair, who represented therein the large class
occupying cheap London lodgings; an impure atmosphere, surroundings
more or less squalid, constant bickering with the landlady, coarse
usage of the servant--these things Clem understood as necessaries
of independent life, and it would have cost her much discomfort had
she been required to live in a more civilised manner. Her ambitions
were essentially gross. In the way of social advancement she
appreciated nothing but an increased power of spending money, and
consequently of asserting herself over others. She had no desire
whatever to enter a higher class than that in which she was born; to
be of importance in her familiar circle was the most she aimed at.
In visiting the theatre, she did not so much care to occupy a
superior place--indeed, such a position made her ill at ease--as
to astonish her neighbours in the pit by a lavish style of costume,
by loud remarks implying a free command of cash, by purchase between
the acts of something expensive to eat or drink. Needless to say
that she never read anything but police news; in the fiction of her
world she found no charm, so sluggishly unimaginative was her
nature. Till of late she had either abandoned herself all day long
to a brutal indolence, eating rather too much, and finding quite
sufficient occupation for her slow brain in the thought of how
pleasant it was not to be obliged to work, and occasionally in
reviewing the chances that she might eventually have plenty of money
and no Joseph Snowdon as a restraint upon her; or else, her physical
robustness demanding exercise, she walked considerable distances
about the localities she knew, calling now and then upon an
acquaintance.

Till of late; but a change had come upon her life. It was now seldom
that she kept the house all day; when within doors she was restless,
quarrelsome. Joseph became aware with surprise that she no longer
tried to conceal her enmity against him; on a slight provocation she
broke into a fierceness which reminded him of the day when he
undeceived her as to his position, and her look at such times was
murderous. It might come, he imagined, of her being released from
the prudent control of her mother. However, again a few weeks and
things were somewhat improved; she eyed him like a wild beast, but
was less frequent in her outbreaks. Here, too, it might be that Mrs.
Peckover's influence was at work, for Clara spent at least four
evenings of the seven away from home, and always said she had been
at the Close. As indifferent as it was possible to be, Joseph made
no attempt to restrain her independence; indeed he was glad to have
her out of his way.

We must follow her on one of these evenings ostensibly passed at
Mrs. Peckover's--no, not follow, but discover her at nine o'clock.

In Old Street, not far from Shoreditch Station, was a shabby little
place of refreshment, kept by an Italian; pastry and sweet-stuff
filled the window; at the back of the shop, through a doorway on
each side of which was looped a pink curtain, a room, furnished with
three marble-topped tables, invited those who wished to eat and
drink more at ease than was possible before the counter. Except on
Sunday evening this room was very little used, and there, on the
occasion of which I speak, Clem was sitting with Bob Hewett. They
had been having supper together--French pastry and a cup of cocoa.

She leaned forward on her elbows, and said imperatively, 'Tell
Pennyloaf to make it up with her again.'

'Why?'

'Because I want to know what goes on in Hanover Street. You was a
fool to send her away, and you'd ought to have told me about it
before now. If they was such friends, I suppose the girl told her
lots o' things. But I expect they see each other just the same. You
don't suppose she does all _you_ tell her?'

'I'll bet you what you like she does!' cried Bob.

Clem glared at him.

'Oh, you an' your Pennyloaf! Likely she tells you the truth. You're
so fond of each other, ain't you! Tells you everything, does she?--and
the way you treat her!'

'Who's always at me to make me treat her worse still?' Bob retorted
half angrily, half in expostulation.

'Well, and so I am, 'cause I hate the name of her! I'd like to hear
as you starve her and her brats half to death. How much money did
you give her last week? Now you just tell me the truth. How much was
it?'

'How can I remember? Three or four bob, I s'pose.'

'Three or four bob!' she repeated, snarling. 'Give her one, and make
her live all the week on it. Wear her down! Make her pawn all she
has, and go cold!'

Her cheeks were on fire; her eyes started in the fury of jealousy;
she set her teeth together.

'I'd better do for her altogether,' said Bob, with an evil grin.

Clam looked at him, without speaking; kept her gaze on him; then she
said in a thick voice:

'There's many a true word said in joke.'

Bob moved uncomfortably. There was a brief silence, then the other,
putting her face nearer his:

'Not just yet. I want to use her to get all I can about that girl
and her old beast of a grandfather. Mind you do as I tell you.
Pennyloaf's to have her back again, and she's to make her talk, and
you're to get all you can from Pennyloaf--understand?'

There came noises from the shop. Three work-girls had just entered
and were buying cakes, which they began to eat at the counter. They
were loud in gossip and laughter, and their voices rang like brass
against brass. Clem amused herself in listening to them for a few
minutes; then she became absent, moving a finger round and round on
her plate. A disagreeable flush still lingered under her eyes.

'Have you told her about Clara?'

'Told who?'

'Who? Pennyloaf, of course.'

'No, I haven't. Why should I?'

'Oh, you're such a affectionate couple! See, you're only to give her
two shillin's next week. Let her go hungry this nice weather.'

'She won't do that if Jane Snowdon comes back, so there you're out
of it!'

Clem bit her lip.

'What's the odds? Make it up with a hit in the mouth now and then.'

'What do you expect to know from that girl?' inquired Bob.

'Lots o' things. I want to know what the old bloke's goin' to do
with his money, don't I? And I want to know what my beast of a
'usband's got out of him. And I want to know what that feller
Kirkwood's goin' to do. He'd ought to marry your sister by rights.'

'Not much fear of that now.'

'Trust him! He'll stick where there's money. See, Bob; if that Jane
was to kick the bucket, do you think the old bloke 'ud leave it all
to Jo?'

'How can I tell?'

'Well, look here. Supposin' he died an' left most to her; an' then
supposin' _she_ was to go off; would Jo have all her tin ?'

'Course he would.'

Clem mused, eating her lower lip.

'But supposin' Jo was to go off first, after the old bloke? Should I
have all he left?'

'I think so, but I'm not sure.'

'You think so? And then should I have all _hers_? If she had a
accident, you know.'

'I suppose you would. But then that's only if they didn't make
wills, and leave it away from you.'

Clem started. Intent as she had been for a long time on the
possibilities hinted at, the thought of unfavourable disposition by
will had never occurred to her. She shook it away.

'Why should they make wills? They ain't old enough for that, neither
of them.'

'And you might as well say they ain't old enough to be likely to
take their hook, either,' suggested Bob, with a certain uneasiness
in his tone.

Clem looked about her, as if her fierce eyes sought something. Her
brows twitched a little. She glanced at Bob, but he did not meet her
look. 'I don't care so much about the money,' she said, in a lower
and altered voice. 'I'd be content with a bit of it, if only I could
get rid of him at the same time.'

Bob looked gloomy.

'Well, it's no use talking,' he muttered.

'It's all your fault.'

'How do you make that out? It was you quarrelled first.'

'You're a liar!'

'Oh, there's no talking to you!'

He shuffled with his feet, then rose.

'Where can I see you on Wednesday morning?' asked Clem. 'I want to
hear about that girl.'

'It can't be Wednesday morning. I tell you I shall be getting the
sack next thing; they've promised it. Two days last week I wasn't at
the shop, and one day this. It can't go on.'

His companion retorted angrily, and for five minutes they stood in
embittered colloquy. It ended in Bob's turning away and going out
into the street. Clem followed, and they walked westwards in
silence. Beaching City Road, and crossing to the corner where lowers
St. Luke's Hospital--grim abode of the insane, here in the midst
of London's squalor and uproar--they halted to take leave. The
last words they exchanged, after making an appointment, were of
brutal violence.

This was two days after Clara Hewett's arrival in London, and the
same fog still hung about the streets, allowing little to be seen
save the blurred glimmer of gas. Bob sauntered through it, his hands
in his pockets, observant of nothing; now and then a word escaped
his lips, generally an oath. Out of Old Street he turned into
Whitecross Street, whence by black and all but deserted ways--
Barbican and Long Lane--he emerged into West Smithfield. An alley
in the shadow of Bartholomew's Hospital brought him to a certain
house: just as he was about to knock at the door it opened, and Jack
Bartley appeared on the threshold. They exchanged a 'Hello!' of
surprise, and after a whispered word or two en the pavement, went
in. They mounted the stairs to a bedroom which Jack occupied. When
the door was closed:

'Bill's got copped! 'whispered Bartley.

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