The Nether World

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'I said nothing,' he replied, 'only because words seemed
meaningless.'

'Not only that. You feel for me, I know, because you are not
heartless; but at the same time you obey your reason, which tells
you that all I suffer comes of my own self-will.'

'I should like you to think better of me than that. I'm not one of
those people, I hope, who use every accident to point a moral, and
begin by inventing the moral to suit their own convictions. I know
all the details of your misfortune.'

'Oh, wasn't it cruel that she should take such revenge upon me!' Her
voice rose in unrestrained emotion. 'Just because she envied me that
poor bit of advantage over her! How could I be expected to refuse
the chance that was offered? It would have been no use; she couldn't
have kept the part. And I was so near success. I had never had a
chance of showing what I could do. It wasn't much of a part, really,
but it was the lead, at all events, and it would have made people
pay attention to me. You don't know how strongly I was always drawn
to the stage; there I found the work for which I was meant. And I
strove so hard to make my way. I had no friends, no money. I earned
only just enough to supply my needs. I know what people think about
actresses. Mr. Kirkwood, do you imagine I have been living at my
ease, congratulating myself that I had escaped from all hardships?'

He could not raise his eyes. As she still awaited his answer, he
said in rather a hard voice:

'As I have told you, I read all the details that were published.

'Then you know that I was working hard and honestly--working far,
far harder than when I lived in Clerkenwell Close. But I don't know
why I am talking to you about it. It's all over. I went my own way,
and I all but won what I fought for. You may very well say, what's
the use of mourning over one's fate?'

Sidney had risen.

'You were strong in your resolve to succeed,' he said gravely, 'and
you will find strength to meet even this trial.'

'A weaker woman would suffer far less. One with a little more
strength of character would kill herself.'

'No. In that you mistake. You have not yourself only to think of. It
would be an easy thing to put an end to your life. You have a duty
to your father.'

She bent her head.

'I think of him. He is goodness itself to me. There are fathers who
would have shut the door in my face. I know better now than I could
when I was only a child how hard his life has been; he and I are
like each other so many ways; he has always been fighting against
cruel circumstances. It's right that you, who have been his true and
helpful friend, should remind me of my duty to him.'

A pause; then Sidney asked:

'Do you wish me to speak to him very soon about your finding
occupation?'

'If you will. If you could think of anything.'

He moved, but still delayed his offer to take leave.

'You said just now,' Clara continued, falteringly, 'that you did not
try to express sympathy, because words seemed of no use. How am I to
find words of thanks to you for coming here and listening to what I
had to say?'

'But surely so simple an act of friendship--'

'Have I so many friends? And what right have I to look to you for an
act of kindness? Did I merit it by my words when I last--'

There came a marvellous change--a change such as it needed either
exquisite feeling or the genius of simulation to express by means so
simple. Unable to show him by a smile, by a light in her eyes, what
mood had come upon her, what subtle shifting in the direction of her
thought had checked her words--by her mere movement as she stepped
lightly towards him, by the carriage of her head, by her hands half
held out and half drawn back again, she prepared him for what she
was about to say. No piece of acting was ever more delicately
finished. He knew that she smiled, though nothing of her face was
visible; he knew that her look was one of diffident, half-blushing
pleasure. And then came the sweetness of her accents, timorous,
joyful, scarcely to be recognised as the voice which an instant ago
had trembled sadly in self-reproach.

'But that seems to you so long ago, doesn't it? You can forgive me
now. Father has told me what happiness you have found, and I--I am
so glad!'

Sidney drew back a step, involuntarily; the movement came of the
shock with which he heard her make such confident reference to the
supposed relations between himself and Jane Snowdon. He reddened--
stood mute. For a few seconds his mind was in the most painful whirl
and conflict; a hundred impressions, arguments, apprehensions,
crowded upon him, each with its puncturing torment. And Clara stood
there waiting for his reply, in the attitude of consummate grace.

'Of course I know what you speak of,' he said at length, with the
bluntness of confusion. 'But your father was mistaken. I don't know
who can have led him to believe that--It's a mistake,
altogether.'

Sidney would not have believed that anyone could so completely rob
him of self-possession, least of all Clara Hewett. His face grew
still more heated. He was angry with he knew not whom, he knew not
why--perhaps with himself in the first instance.

'A mistake?' Clara murmured, under her breath. 'Oh, you mean people
have been too hasty in speaking about it. Do pardon me. I ought
never to have taken such a liberty--but I felt--'

She hesitated.

'It was no liberty at all. I dare say the mistake is natural enough
to those who know nothing of Miss Snowdon's circumstances. I myself,
however, have no right to talk about her. But what you have been
told is absolute error.'

Clara walked a few paces aside.

'Again I ask you to forgive me.' Her tones had not the same
clearness as hitherto. 'In any case, I had no right to approach such
a subject in speaking with you.'

'Let us put it aside,' said Sidney, mastering himself. 'We were just
agreeing that I should see your father, and make known your wish to
him.'

'Thank you. I shall tell him, when I go upstairs, that you were the
friend whom I had asked to come here. I felt it to be so uncertain
whether you would come.'

'I hope you couldn't seriously doubt it.'

'You teach me to tell the truth. No. I knew too well your kindness.
I knew that even to me--'

Sidney could converse no longer. He felt the need of being alone, to
put his thoughts in order, to resume his experiences during this
strange hour. An extreme weariness was possessing him, as though he
had been straining his intellect in attention to some difficult
subject. And all at once the dank, cold atmosphere of the room
struck into his blood; he had a fit of trembling.

'Let us say good-bye for the present.'

Clara gave her hand silently. He touched it for the first time, and
could not but notice its delicacy; it was very warm, too, and moist.
Without speaking she went with him to the outer door. His footsteps
sounded along the stone staircase; Clara listened until the last
echo was silent.

She too had begun to feel the chilly air. Hastily putting on her
hat, she took up the lamp, glanced round the room to see that
nothing was left in disorder, and hastened up to the fifth storey.

In the middle room, through which she had to pass, her father and
Mr. Eagles were talking together. The latter gave her a
'good-evening,' respectful, almost as to a social superior. Within,
Amy and Annie were just going to bed. She sat with them in her usual
silence for a quarter of an hour, then, having ascertained that
Eagles was gone into his own chamber, went out to speak to her
father.

'My friend came,' she said. 'Do you suspect who it was?'

'Why, no, I can't guess, Clara.'

'Haven't you thought of Mr. Kirkwood?'

'You don't mean that?'

'Father, you are quite mistaken about Jane Snowdon--quite.'

John started up from his seat.

'Has he told you so, himself?'

'Yes. But listen; you are not to say a word on that subject to him.
You will be very careful, father?'

John gazed at her wonderingly. She kissed his forehead, and withdrew
to the other room.

CHAPTER XXXII

A HAVEN

John Hewett no longer had membership in club or society. The loss of
his insurance-money made him for the future regard all such
institutions with angry suspicion. 'Workin' men ain't satisfied with
bein' robbed by the upper classes; they must go and rob one
another.' He had said good-bye to Clerkenwell Green; the lounging
crowd no longer found amusement in listening to his frenzied voice
and in watching the contortions of his rugged features. He discussed
the old subjects with Eagles, but the latter's computative mind was
out of sympathy with zeal of the tumid description; though quite
capable of working himself into madness on the details of the
Budget, John was easily soothed by his friend's calmer habits of
debate. Kirkwood's influence, moreover, was again exerting itself
upon him--an influence less than ever likely to encourage violence
of thought or speech. In Sidney's company the worn rebel became
almost placid; his rude, fretted face fell into a singular humility
and mildness. Having ended by accepting what he would formerly have
called charity, and that from a man whom he had wronged with
obstinate perverseness, John neither committed the error of
obtruding his gratitude, nor yet suffered it to be imagined that
obligation sat upon him too lightly. He put no faith in Sidney's
assertion that some unknown benefactor was to be thanked for the new
furniture; one and the same pocket had supplied that and the money
for Mrs. Hewett's burial. Gratitude was all very well, but he could
not have rested without taking some measures towards a literal
repayment of his debt. The weekly coppers which had previously gone
for club subscriptions were now put away in a money-box; they would
be long enough in making an appreciable sum, but yet, if he himself
could never discharge the obligation, his children must take it up
after him, and this he frequently impressed upon Amy, Annie, and
Tom.

Nothing, however, could have detached John's mind so completely from
its habits of tumult, nor have fixed it so firmly upon the interests
of home, as his recovery of his daughter. From the day of Clara's
establishment under his roof he thought of her, and of her only.
Whilst working at the filter-factory he remained in imagination by
her side, ceaselessly repeating her words of the night before,
eagerly looking for the hour that would allow him to return to her.
Joy and trouble mingled in an indescribable way to constitute his
ordinary mood; one moment he would laugh at a thought, and before a
companion could glance at him his gladness would be overshadowed as
if with the heaviest anxiety. Men who saw him day after day said at
this time that he seemed to be growing childish; he muttered to
himself a good deal, and looked blankly at you when you addressed
him. In the course of a fortnight his state became more settled, but
it was not the cheerful impulse that predominated. Out of the
multitude of thoughts concerning Clara, one had fixed itself as the
main controller of his reflection. Characteristically, John hit upon
what seemed an irremediable misfortune, and brooded over it with all
his might. If only Sidney Kirkwood were in the same mind as four
years ago!

And now was he to believe that what he had been told about Sidney
and Jane Snowdon was misleading? Was the impossible no longer so? He
almost leapt from his chair when he heard that Sidney was the
visitor with whom his daughter had been having her private
conversation. How came they to make this appointment? There was
something in Clara's voice that set his nerves a-tremble. That night
he could not sleep, and next morning he went to work with a senile
quiver in his body. For the first time for more than two months he
turned into a public-house on his way, just to give himself a little
'tone.' The natural result of such a tonic was to heighten the fever
of his imagination; goodness knows how far he had got in a drama of
happiness before he threw off his coat and settled to his day's
labour.

Clara, in the meanwhile, suffered a corresponding agitation, more
penetrative in proportion to the finer substance of her nature. She
did not know until the scene was over how much vital force it had
cost her; when she took off the veil a fire danced before her eyes,
and her limbs ached and trembled as she lay down in the darkness.
All night long she was acting her part over and over; when she woke
up, it was always at the point where Sidney replied to her, 'But you
are mistaken!'

Acting her part; yes, but a few hours had turned the make-believe
into something earnest enough. She could not now have met Kirkwood
with the self-possession of last evening. The fever that then
sustained her was much the same as she used to know before she had
thoroughly accustomed herself to appearing in front of an audience;
it exalted all her faculties, gifted her with a remarkable
self-consciousness. It was all very well as long as there was need
of it, but why did it afflict her in this torturing form now that
she desired to rest, to think of what she had gained, of what hope
she might reasonably nourish? The purely selfish project which, in
her desperation, had seemed the only resource remaining to her
against a life of intolerable desolateness, was taking hold upon her
in a way she could not understand. Had she not already made a
discovery that surpassed all expectation? Sidney Kirkwood was not
bound to another woman; why could she not accept that as so much
clear gain, and deliberate as to her next step? She had been fully
prepared for the opposite state of things, prepared to strive
against any odds, to defy all probabilities, all restraints; why not
thank her fortune and plot collectedly now that the chances were so
much improved?

But from the beginning of her interview with him, Clara knew that
something more entered into her designs on Sidney than a cold
self-interest. She had never loved him; she never loved anyone; yet
the inclinations of her early girlhood had been drawn by the force
of the love he offered her, and to this day she thought of him with
a respect and liking such as she had for no other man. When she
heard from her father that Sidney had forgotten her, had found some
one by whom his love was prized, her instant emotion was so like a
pang of jealousy that she marvelled at it. Suppose fate had
prospered her, and she had heard in the midst of triumphs that
Sidney Kirkwood, the working man in Clerkenwell, was going to marry
a girl he loved, would any feeling of this kind have come to her?
Her indifference would have been complete. It was calamity that made
her so sensitive. Self-pity longs for the compassion of others. That
Sidney, who was once her slave, should stand aloof in freedom now
that she wanted sympathy so sorely, this was a wound to her heart.
That other woman had robbed her of something she could not spare.

Jane Snowdon, too! She found it scarcely conceivable that the
wretched little starveling of Mrs. Peckover's kitchen should have
grown into anything that a man like Sidney could love. To be sure,
there was a mystery in her lot. Clara remembered perfectly how
Scawthorne pointed out of the cab at the old man Snowdon, and said
that he was very rich. A miser, or what? More she had never tried to
discover. Now Sidney himself had hinted at something in Jane's
circumstances which, he professed, put it out of the question that
he could contemplate marrying her. Had he told her the truth? Could
she in fact consider him free? Might there not be some reason for
his wishing to keep a secret?

With burning temples, with feverish lips, she moved about her little
room like an animal in a cage, finding the length of the day
intolerable. She was constrained to inaction, when it seemed to her
that every moment in which she did not do something to keep Sidney
in mind of her was worse than lost. Could she not see that girl,
Jane Snowdon? But was not Sidney's denial as emphatic as it could
be? She recalled his words, and tried numberless interpretations.
Would anything that he had said bear being interpreted as a sign
that something of the old tenderness still lived in him? And the
strange thing was, that she interrogated herself on these points not
at all like a coldly scheming woman, who aims at something that is
to be won, if at all, by the subtlest practising on another's
emotions, whilst she remains unaffected. Rather like a woman who
loves passionately, whose ardour and jealous dread wax moment by
moment.

For what was she scheming? For food, clothing, assured comfort
during her life? Twenty-four hours ago Clara would most likely have
believed that she had indeed fallen to this; but the meeting with
Sidney enlightened her. Least of all women could _she_ live by bread
alone; there was the hunger of her brain, the hunger of her heart. I
spoke once, you remember, of her 'defect of tenderness;' the fault
remained, but her heart was no longer so sterile of the tender
emotions as when revolt and ambition absorbed all her energies. She
had begun to feel gently towards her father; it was an intimation of
the need which would presently bring all the forces of her nature
into play. She dreaded a life of drudgery; she dreaded humiliation
among her inferiors; but that which she feared most of all was the
barrenness of a lot into which would enter none of the passionate
joys of existence. Speak to Clara of renunciation, of saintly
glories, of the stony way of perfectness, and you addressed her in
an unknown tongue; nothing in her responded to these ideas.
Hopelessly defeated in the one way of aspiration which promised a
large life, her being, rebellious against the martyrdom it had
suffered, went forth eagerly towards the only happiness which was
any longer attainable. Her beauty was a dead thing; never by that
means could she command homage. But there is love, ay, and
passionate love, which can be independent of mere charm of face. In
one man only could she hope to inspire it; successful in that, she
would taste victory, and even in this fallen estate could make for
herself a dominion.

In these few hours she so wrought upon her imagination as to believe
that the one love of her life had declared itself. She revived every
memory she possibly could of those years on the far side of the
gulf, and convinced herself that even then she had loved Sidney.
Other love of a certainty she had not known. In standing face to
face with him after so long an interval, she recognised the
qualities which used to impress her, and appraised them as formerly
she could not. His features had gained in attractiveness; the
refinement which made them an index to his character was more
noticeable at the first glance, or perhaps she was better able to
distinguish it. The slight bluntness in his manner reminded her of
the moral force which she had known only as something to be
resisted; it was now one of the influences that drew her to him. Had
she not always admitted that he stood far above the other men of his
class whom she used to know? Between his mind and hers there was
distinct kinship; the sense that he had both power and right to
judge her explained in a great measure her attitude of defiance
towards him when she was determined to break away from her humble
conditions. All along, had not one of her main incentives to work
and strive been the resolve to justify herself in _his_ view, to
prove to _him_ that she possessed talent, to show herself to _him_
as one whom the world admired? The repugnance with which she thought
of meeting him, when she came home with her father, meant in truth
that she dreaded to be assured that he could only shrink from her.
All her vital force.. setting in this wild current, her self.
deception complete, she experienced the humility of supreme egoism--that
state wherein self multiplies its claims to pity in passionate support
of its demand for the object of desire. She felt capable of throwing
herself at Sidney's feet, and imploring him not to withdraw from her
the love of which he had given her so many assurances. She gazed at
her scarred face until the image was blurred with tears; then, as
though there were luxury in weeping, sobbed for an hour, crouching
down in a corner of her room. Even though his love were as dead as
her beauty, must lib not be struck to the heart with compassion,
realising her woeful lot? She asked nothing more eagerly than to
humiliate herself before him, to confess that her pride was broken.
Not a charge he could bring against her but Bile would admit its
truth. Had she been humble enough last night? When he came again--and
he must soon--she would throw aside every vestige of dignity, lest
he should think that she was strong enough to bear her misery alone.
No matter how poor-spirited she seemed, if only she could move his
sympathies.

Poor rebel heart! Beat for beat, in these moments it matched itself
with that of the purest woman who surrenders to a despairing love.
Had one charged her with insincerity, how vehemently would her
conscience have declared against the outrage! Natures such as hers
are as little to be judged by that which is conventionally the
highest standard as by that which is the lowest. The tendencies
which we agree to call good and bad became in her merely directions
of a native force which was at all times in revolt against
circumstance. Characters thus moulded may go far in achievement, but
can never pass beyond the bounds of suffering. Never is the world
their friend, nor the world's law. As often as our conventions give
us the opportunity, we crush them out of being; they are noxious;
they threaten the frame of society. Oftenest the crushing is done in
such a way that the hapless creatures seem to have brought about
their own destruction. Let us congratulate ourselves; in one way or
other it is assured that they shall not trouble us long.

Her father was somewhat later than usual in returning from work.
When he entered her room she looked at him anxiously, and as he
seemed to have nothing particular to say, she asked if he had seen
Mr. Kirkwood.

'No, my dear, I ain't seen him.'

Their eyes met for an instant. Clara was in anguish at the thought
that another night and day must pass and nothing be altered.

'When did you see him last? A week or more ago, wasn't it?'

'About that.'

'Couldn't you go round to his lodgings to-night? I know he's got
something he wants to speak to you about.'

He assented. But on his going into the other room Eagles met him
with a message from Sidney, anticipating his design, and requesting
him to step over to Bed Lion Street in the course of the evening.
John instantly announced this to his daughter. She nodded, but said
nothing.

In a few minutes John went on his way. The day's work had tired him
exceptionally, doubtless owing to his nervousness, and again on the
way to Sidney's he had recourse to a dose of the familiar stimulant.
With our eyes on a man of Hewett's station we note these little
things; we set them down as a point scored against him; yet if our
business were with a man of leisure, who, owing to worry, found his
glass of wine at luncheon and again at dinner an acceptable support,
we certainly should not think of paying attention to the matter.
Poverty makes a crime of every indulgence. John himself came out of
the public-house in a slinking way, and hoped Kirkwood might not
scent the twopenny-worth of gin.

Sidney was in anything but a mood to detect this little lapse in his
visitor. He gave John a chair, but could not sit still himself. The
garret was a spacious one, and whilst talking he moved from wall to
wall.

'You know that I saw Clara last night? She told me she should
mention it to you.'

'Yes, yes. I was afraid she'd never have made up her mind to it. It
was the best way for you to see her alone first, poor girl! You
won't mind comin' to us now, like you used?'

'Did she tell you what she wished to speak to me about?'

'Why, no, she hasn't. Was there--anything particular?'

'She feels the time very heavy on her hands. It seems you don't like
the thought of her looking for employment?'

John rose from his chair and grasped the back of it.

'You ain't a-goin' to encourage her to leave us? It ain't that you
was talkin' about, Sidney?'

'Leave you? Why, where should she go?'

'No, no; it's all right; so long as you wasn't thinkin' of her goin'
away again. See, Sidney, I ain't got nothing to say against it, if
she can find some kind of job for home. I know as the time must hang
heavy. There she sit, poor thing! from mornin' to night, an' can't
get her thoughts away from herself. It's easy enough to understand,
ain't it? I took a book home for her the other day, but she didn't
seem to care about it. There she sit, with her poor face on her
hands, thinkin' and thinkin'. It breaks my heart to see her. I'd
rather she had some work, but she mustn't go away from home for it.'

Sidney took a few steps in silence.

'You don't misunderstand me,' resumed the other, with suddenncss.
'You don't think as I won't trust her away from me. If she went, it
'ud be because she thinks herself a burden--as if I wouldn't
gladly live on a crust for my day's food an' spare her goin' among
strangers! You can think yourself what it 'ud be to her, Sidney. No,
no, it mustn't be nothing o' that kind. But I can't ear to see her
livin' as she does; it's no life at all. I sit with her when I get
back home at night, an' I'm glad to say she seems to find it a
pleasure to have me by her; but it's the only bit o' pleasure she
gets, an' there's all the hours whilst I'm away. You see she don't
take much to Mrs. Eagles; that ain't her sort of friend. Not as
she's got any pride left about her, poor girl don't think that. I
tell you, Sidney, she's a dear good girl to her old father. If I
could only see her a bit happier, I'd never grumble again as long as
I lived, I wouldn't!'

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