The Nether World

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'Copped? Any of it on him?'

'Only the half-crown as he was pitchin', thank God! They let him go
again after he'd been to the station. It was a conductor, I'd never
try them blokes myself; they're too downy.'

'Let's have a look at 'em,' said Bob, after musing. 'I thought
myself as they wasn't quite the reg'lar.'

As he spoke he softly turned the key in the door. Jack then put his
arm up the chimney and brought down a small tin box, soot-blackened;
he opened it, and showed about a dozen pieces of money--in
appearance half-crowns and florins. One of the commonest of offences
against the law in London, this to which our young friends were not
unsuccessfully directing their attention; one of the easiest to
commit, moreover, for a man with Bob's craft at his finger-ends. A
mere question of a mould and a pewter-pot, if one be content with
the simpler branches of the industry. 'The snyde' or 'the queer' is
the technical name by which such products are known. Distribution
is, of course, the main difficulty; it necessitates mutual trust
between various confederates. Bob Hewett still kept to his daily
work, but gradually he was being drawn into alliance with an
increasing number of men who scorned the yoke of a recognised
occupation. His face, his clothing, his speech, all told whither he
was tending, had one but the experience necessary for the noting of
such points. Bob did not find his life particularly pleasant; he was
in perpetual fear; many a time he said to himself that he would turn
back. Impossible to do so; for a thousand reasons impossible; yet he
still believed that the choice lay with him.

His colloquy with Jack only lasted a few minutes, then he walked
homewards, crossing the Metropolitan Meat-market, going up St.
John's Lane, beneath St. John's Arch, thence to Rosoman Street and
Merlin Place, where at present he lived. All the way he pondered
Clem's words. Already their import had become familiar enough to
lose that first terribleness. Of course he should never take up the
proposal seriously; no, no, that was going a bit too far; but
suppose Clem's husband were really contriving this plot on his own
account? Likely, very likely; but he'd be a clever fellow if he
managed such a thing in a way that did not immediately subject him
to suspicion. How could it be done? No harm in thinking over an
affair of that kind when you have no intention of being drawn into
it yourself. There was that man at Peckham who poisoned his sister
not long ago; he was a fool to get found out in the way he did; he
might have--

The room in which he found Pennyloaf sitting was so full of fog that
the lamp seemed very dim; the fire had all but died out. One of the
children lay asleep; the other Pennyloaf was nursing, for it had a
bad cough and looked much like a wax doll that has gone through a
great deal of ill-usage. A few more weeks and Pennyloaf would be
again a mother; she felt very miserable as often as she thought of
it, and Bob had several times spoken with harsh impatience on the
subject.

At present he was in no mood for conversation; to Pennyloaf's
remarks and questions he gave not the slightest heed, but in a few
minutes tumbled himself into bed.

'Get that light put out,' he exclaimed, after lying still for a
while.

Pennyloaf said she was uneasy about the child; its cough seemed to
be better, but it moved about restlessly and showed no sign of
getting to sleep.

'Give it some of the mixture, then. Be sharp and put the light out.'

Pennyloaf obeyed the second injunction, and she too lay down,
keeping the child in her arms; of the 'mixture' she was afraid, for
a few days since the child of a neighbour had died in consequence of
an overdose of this same anodyne. For a long time there was silence
in the room. Outside, voices kept sounding with that peculiar
muffled distinctness which they have on a night of dense fog, when
there is little or no wheel-traffic to make the wonted rumbling.

'Are y'asleep?' Bob asked suddenly.

'No.'

'There's something I wanted to tell you. You can have Jane Snowdon
here again, if you like.'

'I can? Really?'

'You may as well make use of her. That'll do; shut up and go to
sleep.'

In the morning Pennyloaf was obliged to ask for money; she wished to
take the child to the hospital again, and as the weather was very
bad she would have to pay an omnibus fare. Bob growled at the
demand, as was nowadays his custom. Since he had found a way of
keeping his own pocket tolerably well supplied from time to time, he
was becoming so penurious at home that Pennyloaf had to beg for what
she needed copper by copper. Excepting breakfast, he seldom took a
meal with her. The easy good-nature which in the beginning made him
an indulgent husband had turned in other directions since his
marriage was grown a weariness to him. He did not, in truth, spend
much upon himself, but in his leisure time was always surrounded by
companions whom he had a pleasure in treating with the generosity of
the public-house. A word of flattery was always sure of payment if
Bob had a coin in his pocket. Ever hungry for admiration, for
prominence, he found new opportunities of gratifying his taste now
that he had a resource when his wages ran out. So far from becoming
freer-handed again with his wife and children, he grudged every coin
that he was obliged to expend on them. Pennyloaf's submissiveness
encouraged him in this habit; where other wives would have 'made a
row,' she yielded at once to his grumbling and made shift with the
paltriest allowance. You should have seen the kind of diet on which
she habitually lived. Like all the women of her class, utterly
ignorant and helpless in the matter of preparing food, she abandoned
the attempt to cook anything, and expended her few pence daily on
whatever happened to tempt her in a shop, when meal-time came round.
In the present state of her health she often suffered from a morbid
appetite and fed on things of incredible unwholesomeness. Thus,
there was a kind of cake exposed in a window in Rosoman Street, two
layers of pastry with half an inch of something like very coarse
mincemeat between; it cost a halfpenny a square, and not seldom she
ate four, or even six, of these squares, as heavy as lead, making
this her dinner. A cookshop within her range exhibited at midday
great dough-puddings, kept hot by jets of steam that came up through
the zinc on which they lay; this food was cheap and satisfying, and
Pennyloaf often regaled both herself and the children on thick slabs
of it. Pease-pudding also attracted her; she fetched it from the
pork-butcher's in a little basin, which enabled her to bring away at
the same time a spoonful or two of gravy from the joints of which
she was not rich enough to purchase a cut. Her drink was tea; she
had the pot on the table all day, and kept adding hot water. Treacle
she purchased now and then, but only as a treat when her dinner had
cost even less than usual; she did not venture to buy more than a
couple of ounces at a time, knowing by experience that she could not
resist this form of temptation, and must eat and eat till all was
finished.

Bob flung sixpence on the table. He was ashamed of himself--you
will not understand him if you fail to recognise that--but the
shame only served to make him fret under his bondage. Was he going
to be tied to Pennyloaf all his life, with a family constantly
increasing? Practically he had already made a resolve to be free
before very long; the way was not quite clear to him as yet. But he
went to work still brooding over Clem's words of the night before.

Pennyloaf let the fire go out, locked the elder child into the room
for safety against accidents, and set forth for the hospital. It
rained heavily, and the wind rendered her umbrella useless. She had
to stand for a long time at a street-corner before the omnibus came;
the water soaked into her leaky shoes, but that didn't matter; it
was the child on whose account she was anxious. Having reached her
destination, she sat for a long time waiting her turn among the
numerous out-patients. Just as the opportunity for passing into the
doctor's room arrived, a movement in the bundle she held made her
look closely at the child's face; at that instant it had ceased to
live.

The medical man behaved kindly to her, but she gave way to no
outburst of grief; with tearless eyes she stared at the unmoving
body in a sort of astonishment. The questions addressed to her she
could not answer with any intelligence; several times she asked
stupidly, 'Is she really dead?' There was nothing to wonder at,
however; the doctor glanced at the paper on which he had written
prescriptions twice or thrice during the past few weeks, and found
the event natural enough. . . .

Towards the close of the afternoon Pennyloaf was in Hanover Street.
She wished to see Jane Snowdon, but had a fear of going up to the
door and knocking. Jane might not be at home, and, if she were,
Pennyloaf did not know in what words to explain her coming and say
what had happened. She was in a dazed, heavy, tongue-tied state;
indeed she did not clearly remember how she had come thus far, or
what she had done since leaving the hospital at midday. However, her
steps drew nearer to the house, and at last she had raised the
knocker--just raised it and let it fall.

Mrs. Byass opened; she did not know Pennyloaf by sight. The latter
tried to say something, but only stammered a meaningless sound;
thereupon Bessie concluded she was a beggar, and with a shake of the
head shut the door upon her.

Pennylcaf turned away in confusion and dull misery. She walked to
the end of the street and stood there. On leaving home she had
forgotten her umbrella, and now it was raining heavily again. Of a
sudden her need became powerful enough to overcome all obstacles;
she knew that she _must_ see Jane Snowdon, that she could not go
home till she had done so. Jane was the only friend she had; the
only creature who would speak the kind of words to her for which she
longed.

Again the knocker fell, and again Mrs. Byass appeared.

'What do you want? I've got nothing for you,' she cried impatiently.

'I want to see Miss Snowdon, please, mum--Miss Snowdon, please--'

'Miss Snowdon? Then why didn't you say so? Step inside.'

A few moments and Jane came running downstairs.

'Pennyloaf!'

Ah! that was the voice that did good. How it comforted and blessed,
after the hospital, and the miserable room in which the dead child
was left lying, and the rainy street!

CHAPTER XXX

ON A BARREN SHORE

About this time Mr. Scawthorne received one morning a letter which,
though not unexpected, caused him some annoyance, and even anxiety.
It was signed 'C. V.,' and made brief request for an interview on
the evening of the next day at Waterloo Station.

The room in which our friend sat at breakfast was of such very
modest appearance that it seemed to argue but poor remuneration for
the services rendered by him in the office of Messrs. Percival &
Peel. It was a parlour on the second floor of a lodging-house in
Chelsea; Scawthorne's graceful person and professional bearing were
out of place amid the trivial appointments. He lived here for the
simple reason that in order to enjoy a few of the luxuries of
civilisation he had to spend as little as possible on bare
necessaries. His habits away from home were those of a man to whom a
few pounds are no serious consideration; his pleasant dinner at the
restaurant, his occasional stall at a theatre, his easy acquaintance
with easy livers of various kinds, had become indispensable to him,
and as a matter of course his expenditure increased although his
income kept at the same figure. That figure was not contemptible,
regard had to the path by which he had come thus far; Mr. Percival
esteemed his abilities highly, and behaved to him with generosity.
Ten years ago Scawthorne would have lost his senses with joy at the
prospect of such a salary; to-day he found it miserably insufficient
to the demands he made upon life. Paltry debts harassed him;
inabilities fretted his temperament and his pride; it irked him to
have no better abode than this musty corner to which he could never
invite an acquaintance. And then, notwithstanding his mental
endowments, his keen social sense, his native tact, in all London
not one refined home was open to him, not one domestic circle of
educated people could he approach and find a welcome.

Scawthorne was passing out of the stage when a man seeks only the
gratification of his propensities; he began to focus his outlook
upon the world, and to feel the significance of maturity. The double
existence he was compelled to lead--that of a laborious and
clear-brained man of business in office hours, that of a hungry
rascal in the time which was his own--not only impressed him with
a sense of danger, but made him profoundly dissatisfied with the
unreality of what he called his enjoyments. What, he asked himself,
had condemned him to this kind of career? Simply the weight under
which he started, his poor origin, his miserable youth. However
carefully regulated his private life had been, his position to-day
could not have been other than it was; no degree of purity would
have opened to him the door of a civilised house. Suppose he had
wished to marry; where, pray, was he to find his wife? A barmaid?
Why, yes, other men of his standing wedded barmaids and girls from
the houses of business, and so on; but they had neither his tastes
nor his brains. Never had it been his lot to exchange a word with an
educated woman--save in the office on rare occasions. There is
such a thing as self-martyrdom in the cause of personal integrity;
another man might have said to himself, 'Providence forbids me the
gratification of my higher instincts, and I must be content to live
a life of barrenness, that I may at least be above reproach.' True,
but Scawthorne happened not to be so made. He was of the rebels of
the earth. Formerly he revolted because he could not indulge his
senses to their full; at present his ideal was changed, and the past
burdened him.

Yesterday he had had an interview with old Mr. Percival which, for
the first time in his life, opened to him a prospect of the only
kind of advancement conformable with his higher needs. The firm of
Percival & Peel was, in truth, Percival & Son, Mr. Peel having been
dead for many years; and the son in question lacked a good deal of
being the capable lawyer whose exertions could supplement the
failing energy of the senior partner. Mr. Percival having pondered
the matter for some time, now proposed that Scawthorne should
qualify himself for admission as a solicitor (the circumstances
required his being under articles for three years only), and then,
if everything were still favourable, accept a junior partnership in
the firm. Such an offer was a testimony of the high regard in which
Scawthorne was held by his employer; it stirred him with hope he had
never dared to entertain since his eyes were opened to the realities
of the world, and in a single day did more for the ripening of his
prudence than years would have effected had his position remained
unaltered. Scawthorne realised more distinctly what a hazardous game
he had been playing.

And here was this brief note, signed 'C. V.' An ugly affair to look
back upon, all that connected itself with those initials. The worst
of it was, that it could not be regarded as done with. Had he
anything to fear from 'C. V.' directly? The meeting must decide
that. He felt now what a fortunate thing it was that his elaborate
plot to put an end to the engagement between Kirkwood and Jane
Snowdon had been accidentally frustrated--a plot which _might_
have availed himself nothing, even had it succeeded. But was he, in
his abandonment of rascality in general, to think no more of the
fortune which had so long kept his imagination uneasy? Had he not,
rather, a vastly better chance of getting some of that money into
his own pocket? It really seemed as if Kirkwood--though he might
be only artful--had relinquished his claim on the girl, at all
events for the present; possibly he was an honest man, which would
explain his behaviour. Michael Snowdon could not live much longer;
Jane would be the ward of the Percivals, and certainly would be
aided to a position more correspondent with her wealth. Why should
it then be impossible for _him_ to become Jane's husband? Joseph,
beyond a doubt, could be brought to favour that arrangement, by
means of a private understanding more advantageous to him than
anything he could reasonably hope from the girl's merely remaining
unmarried. This change in his relations to the Percivals would so
far improve his social claims that many of the difficulties hitherto
besieging such a scheme as this might easily be set aside. Come,
come; the atmosphere was clearing. Joseph himself, now established
in a decent business, would become less a fellow-intriguer than an
ordinary friend bound to him, in the way of the world, by mutual
interests. Things must be put in order; by some device the need of
secrecy in his intercourse with Joseph must come to an end. In fact,
there remained but two hazardous points. Could the connection
between Jane and Kirkwood be brought definitely to an end. And was
anything to be feared from poor 'C. V.'?

Waterloo Station is a convenient rendezvous; its irregular form
provides many corners of retirement, out-of-the-way recesses where
talk can be carried on in something like privacy. To one of these
secluded spots Scawthorne drew aside with the veiled woman who met
him at the entrance from Waterloo Road. So closely was her face
shrouded, that he had at first a difficulty in catching the words
she addressed to him. The noise of an engine getting up steam, the
rattle of cabs and porters' barrows, the tread and voices of a
multitude of people made fitting accompaniment to a dialogue which
in every word presupposed the corruptions and miseries of a centre
of modern life.

'Why did you send that letter to my father?' was Clara's first
question.

'Letter? What letter?'

'Wasn't it you who let him know about me?'

'Certainly not, How should I have known his address? When I saw the
newspapers, I went down to Bolton and made inquiries. When I heard
your father had been, I concluded you had yourself sent for him.
Otherwise, I should, of course, have tried to be useful to you in
some way. As it was, I supposed you would scarcely thank me for
coming forward.'

It might or might not be the truth, as far as Clara was able to
decide. Possibly the information had come from some one else. She
knew him well enough to be assured by his tone that nothing more
could be elicited from him on that point.

'You are quite recovered, I hope?' Scawthorne added, surveying her
as she stood in the obscurity. 'In your general health?'

He was courteous, somewhat distant.

'I suppose I'm as well as I shall ever be,' she answered coldly. 'I
asked you to meet me because I wanted to know what it was you spoke
of in your last letters. You got my answer, I suppose.'

'Yes, I received your answer. But--in fact, it's too late. The
time has gone by; and perhaps I was a little hasty in the hopes I
held out. I had partly deceived myself.'

'Never mind. I wish to know what it was,' she said im-patiently.

'It can't matter now. Well, there's no harm in mentioning it.
Naturally you went out of your way to suppose it was something
dishonourable. Nothing of the kind; I had an idea that you might
come to terms with an Australian who was looking out for actresses
for a theatre in Melbourne--that was all. But he wasn't quite the
man I took him for. I doubt whether it could have been made as
profitable as I thought at first.'

'You expect me to believe that story?'

'Not unless you like. It's some time since you put any faith in my
goodwill. The only reason I didn't speak plainly was because I felt
sure that the mention of a foreign country would excite your
suspicions. You have always attributed evil motives to me rather
than good. However, this is not the time to speak of such things. I
sympathise with you--deeply. Will you tell me if I can--can help
you at all?'

'No, you can't. I wanted to make quite sure that you were what I
thought you, that's all.'

'I don't think, on the whole, you have any reason to complain of
ill-faith on my part. I secured you the opportunities that are so
hard to find.'

'Yes, you did. We don't owe each other anything--that's one
comfort. I'll just say that you needn't have any fear I shall
trouble you in future; I know that's what you're chiefly thinking
about.'

'You misjudge me; but that can't be helped. I wish very much it were
in my power to be of use to you.'

'Thank you.'

On that last note of irony they parted. True enough, in one sense,
that there remained debt on neither side. But Clara, for all the
fierce ambition which had brought her life to this point, could not
divest herself of a woman's instincts. That simple fact explained
various inconsistencies in her behaviour to Scawthorne since she had
made herself independent of him; it explained also why this final
interview became the bitterest charge her memory preserved against
him.

Her existence for some three weeks kept so gloomy a monotony that it
was impossible she should endure it much longer. The little room
which she shared at night with Annie and Amy was her cell throughout
the day. Of necessity she had made the acquaintance of Mrs. Eagles,
but they scarcely saw more of each other than if they had lived in
different tenements on the same staircase; she had offered to
undertake a share of the housework, but her father knew that
everything of the kind was distasteful to her, and Mrs. Eagles
continued to assist Amy as hitherto. To save trouble, she came into
the middle room for her meals, at these times always keeping as much
of her face as possible hidden. The children could not overcome a
repulsion, a fear, excited by her veil and the muteness she
preserved in their presence; several nights passed before little
Annie got to sleep with any comfort. Only with her father did Clara
hold converse; in the evening he always sat alone with her for an
hour. She went out perhaps every third day, after dark, stealing
silently down the long staircase, and walking rapidly until she had
escaped the neighbourhood--like John Hewett when formerly he
wandered forth in search of her. Her strength was slight; after
half-an-hour's absence she came back so wearied that the ascent of
stairs cost her much suffering.

The economy prevailing in to-day's architecture takes good care that
no depressing circumstance shall be absent from the dwellings in
which the poor find shelter. What terrible barracks, those
Farringdon Road Buildings! Vast, sheer walls, unbroken by even an
attempt at ornament; row above row of windows in the mud-coloured
surface, upwards, upwards, lifeless eyes, murky openings that tell
of bareness, disorder, comfortlessness within. One is tempted to say
that Shooter's Gardens are a preferable abode. An inner courtyard,
asphalted, swept clean--looking up to the sky as from a prison.
Acres of these edifices, the tinge of grime declaring the relative
dates of their erection; millions of tons of brute brick and mortar,
crushing the spirit as you gaze. Barracks, in truth; housing for the
army of industrialism, an army fighting with itself, rank against
rank, man against man, that the survivors may have whereon to feed.
Pass by in the night, and strain imagination to picture the
weltering mass of human weariness, of bestiality, of unmerited
dolour, of hopeless hope, of crushed surrender, tumbled together
within those forbidding walls.

Clara hated the place from her first hour in it. It seemed to her
that the air was poisoned with the odour of an unclean crowd. The
yells of children at play in the courtyard tortured her nerves; the
regular sounds on the staircase, day after day repeated at the same
hours, incidents of the life of poverty, irritated her sick brain
and filled her with despair to think that as long as she lived she
could never hope to rise again above this world to which she was
born. Gone for ever, for ever, the promise that always gleamed
before her whilst she had youth and beauty and talent. With the one,
she felt as though she had been robbed of all three blessings; her
twenty years were now a meaningless figure; the energies of her mind
could avail no more than an idiot's mummery. For the author of her
calamity she nourished no memory of hatred: her resentment was
against the fate which had cursed her existence from its beginning.

For this she had dared everything, had made the supreme sacrifice.
Conscience had nothing to say to her, but she felt herself an
outcast even among these wretched toilers whose swarming aroused her
disgust. Given the success which had been all but in her grasp, and
triumphant pride would have scored out every misgiving as to the
cost at which the victory had been won. Her pride was unbroken;
under the stress of anguish it became a scorn for goodness and
humility; but in the desolation of her future she read a punishment
equal to the daring wherewith she had aspired. Excepting her poor
old father, not a living soul that held account of her. She might
live for years and years. Her father would die, and then no smallest
tribute of love or admiration would be hers for ever. More than
that; perforce she must gain her own living, and in doing so she
must expose herself to all manner of insulting wonder and pity. Was
it a life that could be lived?

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