The Nether World

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The truth, beyond a doubt. Pale face, showing now the thinness which
it had not wholly outgrown, the inheritance from miserable
childhood; no face of a stern heroine, counting as idle all the
natural longings of the heart, consecrated to a lifelong combat with
giant wrongs. Nothing better nor worse than the face of one who can
love and must be loved in turn.

She came to herself, and at the same moment Michael went from the
room.

'There now; there now,' crooned Bessie, with much patting of the
hands and stroking of the checks. 'Why, what's come to you, Jane?
Cry away; don't try to prevent yourself; it'll do you good to cry a
bit. Of course, here comes Sam with all sorts of things, when
there's no need of him, He's always either too soon or too late, is
Sam. Just look at him, Jane; now if _he_ don't make you laugh,
nothing will!'

Mr. Byass retired, shamefaced. Leaning against Bessie's shoulder,
Jane sobbed for a long time, sobbed in the misery of shame. She saw
that her grandfather had gone away. How should she ever face him
after this? It was precious comfort to feel Bessie's sturdy arms
about her, and to hear the foolish affectionate words, which asked
nothing but that she should take them kindly and have done with her
trouble.

'Did grandfather tell you how it was?' she asked, with a sudden fear
lest Bessie should have learnt her pitiful weakness.

'Why, no; how did it come?'

'I don't know. We were talking. I can stand up now, Mrs. Byass,
thank you. I'll go up to my room. I've forgotten the time; is it
late?'

It was only nine o'clock. Bessie would have gone upstairs with her,
but Jane insisted that she was quite herself. On the stairs she trod
as lightly as possible, and she closed her door without a sound.
Alone, she again gave way to tears. Michael's face was angry in her
memory; he had never looked at her in that way before, and now he
would never look with the old kindness. What a change had been
wrought in these few minutes!

And Sidney never anything but her friend--cold, meaning. less
word! If he knew how she had fallen, would that be likely to bring
him nearer to her? She had lost both things, that was all.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE DEBT REPAID

She rose early, in the murky cola of the winter morning. When, at
eight o'clock, she knocked as usual at her grandfather's door his
answer made her tremble.

'I shall be down in a few minutes, Jane; I'll have breakfast with
you.'

It was long since he had risen at this hour. His voice sounded less
like that of an old man, and, in spite of his calling her by her
name, she felt the tone to be severe. When he reached the parlour he
did not offer to take her hand, and she feared to approach him. She
saw that his features bore the mark of sleeplessness. Hers, poor
girl! were yet more woeful in their pallor.

Through the meal he affected to occupy himself with the book Miss
Lant had sent--the sight of which was intolerable to Jane. And not
for a full hour did he speak anything but casual words. Jane had
taken her sewing; unexpectedly he addressed her.

'Let's have a word or two together, Jane. I think we ought to,
oughtn't we?'

She forced herself to regard him.

'I think you meant what you said last night?'

'Grandfather, I will do whatever you bid me. I'll do it faithfully.
I was ungrateful. I feel ashamed to have spoken so.'

'That's nothing to do with it, Jane. You're not ungrateful; anything
but that. But I've had a night to think over your words. You
couldn't speak like that if you weren't driven to it by the
strongest feeling you ever knew or will know. I hadn't thought of it
in that way; I hadn't thought of you in that way.'

He began gently, but in the last words was a touch of reproof,
almost of scorn. He gazed at her from under his grey eyebrows,
perhaps hoping to elicit some resistance of her spirit, some sign of
strength that would help him to reconstruct his shattered ideal.

'Grandfather, I'll try with all my strength to be what you wish--I
will!'

'And suppose the strength isn't sufficient, child?'

Even in her humility she could not but feel that this was unjust.
Had she ever boasted? Had she ever done more than promise
tremblingly what he demanded? But the fear was legitimate. A weak
thing, all but heart-broken, could she hope to tread firmly in any
difficult path? She hung her head, making no answer.

He examined her, seeming to measure the slightness of her frame.
Sad, unutterably sad, was the deep breath he drew as he turned his
eyes away again.

'Do you feel well this morning, Jane?'

'Yes, grandfather.'

'Have you slept?'

'I couldn't, You were grieving about me. I hoped never to have
disappointed you.'

He fell into reverie. Was he thinking of that poor wife of his, dead
long, long ago, the well-meaning girl of whom he had expected
impossible things? A second time had he thus erred, no longer with
the excuse of inexperience and hot blood. That cry of Jane's had
made its way to his heart. An enthusiast, he was yet capable of
seeing by the common light of day, when his affections were deeply
stirred. And in the night he had pondered much over his son's
behaviour. Was he being deceived in that quarter also, and there
intentionally? Did Joseph know this child better than he had done,
and calculate upon her weakness? The shock, instead of disabling
him, had caused a revival of his strength. He could walk more firmly
this morning than at any time since his accident. His brain was
clear and active; he knew that it behoved him to reconsider all he
had been doing, and that quickly, ere it was too late. He must even
forget that aching of the heart until he had leisure to indulge it.

'You shan't disappoint me, my dear,' he said gravely. 'It's my own
fault if I don't take your kindness as you mean it. I have to go
out, Jane, but I shall be back to dinner. Perhaps we'll talk again
afterwards.'

Of late, on the rare occasions of his leaving the house, he had
always told her where he was going, and for what purpose; Jane
understood that this confidence was at an end. When he was gone she
found occupation for a short time, but presently could only sit over
the fire, nursing her many griefs. She was no longer deemed worthy
of confidence; worse than that, she had no more faith in herself. If
Sidney learnt what had happened he could not even retain his respect
for her. In this way she thought of it, judging Kirkwood by the
ideal standard, which fortunately is so unlike human nature; taking
it for granted--so oppressed was her mind by the habit of dwelling
on artificial motives--that he only liked her because he had
believed her strong in purpose, forgetting altogether that his love
had grown before he was aware that anything unusual was required of
her. She did remember, indeed, that it was only the depth of her
love for him which had caused her disgrace; but, even if he came to
understand that, it would not, she feared, weigh in her favour
against his judgment.

It was the natural result of the influences to which she had been
subjected. Her mind, overwrought by resolute contemplation of ideas
beyond its scope, her gentle nature bent beneath a burden of duty to
which it was unequal, and taught to consider with painful solemnity
those impulses of kindness which would otherwise have been merely
the simple joys of life, she had come to distrust every instinct
which did not subserve the supreme purpose. Even of Sidney's conduct
she could not reason in a natural way. Instinct would have bidden
her reproach him, though ever so gently; was it well done to draw
away when he must have known how she looked for his aid? Her
artificial self urged, on the other hand, that he had not acted thus
without some gravely considered motive. What it was she could not
pretend to divine; her faith in his nobleness overcame every
perplexity. Of the persons constituting this little group and
playing their several parts, she alone had fallen altogether below
what was expected of her. As humble now as in the days of her
serfdom, Jane was incapable of revolting against the tyranny of
circumstances. Life had grown very hard for her again, but she
believed that this was to a great extent her own fault, the outcome
of her own unworthy weakness.

At Michael's return she did her best to betray no idle despondency.
Their midday meal was almost as silent as breakfast had been; his
eyes avoided her, and frequently he lost himself in thought. As he
was rising from the table Jane observed an unsteadiness in his
movement; he shook his head mechanically and leaned forward on both
his hands, as if feeling giddy. She approached him, but did not
venture to speak.

'I'll go upstairs,' he said, having sighed slightly.

'May I come and read to you, grandfather?'

'Not just now, Jane. Go out whilst it's a bit fine.'

He went from the room, still with an unsteady walk. Reaching his own
room, where there was a cheerful fire, he sat down, and remained for
a long time unoccupied, save with his reflections. This chamber had
scarcely changed in a detail of its arrangement since he first came
to inhabit it. There was the chair which Sidney always used, and
that on which Jane had sat since she was the silent, frail child of
thirteen. Here had his vision taken form, growing more definite with
the growth of his granddaughter, seeming to become at length a
splendid reality. What talk had been held here between Kirkwood and
himself whilst Jane listened! All gone into silence; gone, too, the
hope it had encouraged.

He was weary after the morning's absence from home, and fell into a
light slumber. Dreams troubled him. First he found himself in
Australia; he heard again the sudden news of his son's death; the
shook awoke him. Another dozing fit, and he was a young man with a
wife and children to support; haunted with the fear of coming to
want; harsh, unreasonable in his exactions at home. Something like a
large black coffin came into his dream, and in dread of it he again
returned to consciousness.

All night he had been thinking of the dark story of long ago--his
wife's form motionless on the bed--the bottle which told him what
had happened. Why must that memory revive to trouble his last days?
Part of his zeal for the great project had come of a feeling that he
might thus in some degree repair his former ill-doing; Jane would be
a providence to many hapless women whose burden was as heavy as his
own wife's had been, Must he abandon that solace? In any case he
could bestow his money for charitable purposes, but it would not be
the same, it would not effect what he had aimed at.

Late in the afternoon he drew from the inner pocket of his coat a
long envelope and took thence a folded paper. It was covered with
clerkly writing, which he perused several times. At length he tore
the paper slowly across the middle, again tore the fragments, and
threw them on to the fire. . . .

Jane obeyed her grandfather's word and went out for an hour. She
wished for news of Pennyloaf, who had been ill, and was now very
near the time of her confinement. At the door of the house in Merlin
Place she was surprised to encounter Bob Hewett, who stood in a
lounging attitude; he had never appeared to her so disreputable--
not that his clothes were worse than usual, but his face and hands
were dirty, and the former was set in a hang-dog look.

'Is your wife upstairs, Mr. Hewett?' Jane asked, when he had nodded
sullenly in reply to her greeting.

'Yes; and somebody else too as could have been dispensed with.
There's another mouth to feed.'

'No, there ain't,' cried a woman's voice just behind him.

Jane recognised the speaker, a Mrs. Griffin, who lived in the house
and was neighbourly to Pennyloaf.

'There ain't?' inquired Bob, gruffly.

'The child's dead.'

'Thank goodness for that, any way!'

Mrs. Griffin explained to Jane that the birth had taken place twelve
hours ago. Pennyloaf was 'very low,' but not in a state to cause
anxiety; perhaps it would be better for Jane to wait until to-morrow
before seeing her.

'She didn't say "thank goodness," added the woman, with a scornful
glance at Bob, 'but I don't think she's over sorry as it's gone, an'
small blame to her. There's some people as doesn't care much what
sort o' times she has--not meanin' _you_, Miss, but them as had
_ought_ to care.'

Bob looked more disreputable than ever. His eyes were fixed on Jane,
and with such a singular expression that the latter, meeting their
gaze, felt startled, she did not know why. At the same moment he
stepped down from the threshold and walked away without speaking.

'I shouldn't care to have _him_ for a 'usband,' pursued Mrs.
Griffin. 'Of course he must go an' lose his work, just when his
wife's wantin' a few little extries, as you may say.'

'Lost his work?'

'Day 'fore yes'day. I don't like him, an' I don't like his ways;
he'll be gettin' into trouble before long, you mind what I say. His
family's a queer lot, 'cordin' to what they tell. Do you know them,
Miss?'

'I used to, a long time ago.'

'You knew his sister--her as is come 'ome?'

'His sister?'

'Her as was a actress. Mrs. Bannister was tellin' me only last
night; she had it from Mrs. Horrocks, as heard from a friend of hers
as lives in the Farrin'don Buildin's, where the Hewetts lives too.
They tell me it was in the Sunday paper, though I don't remember
nothing about it at the time. It seems as how a woman threw vitrol
over her an' burnt her face so as there's no knowin' her, an' she
goes about with a veil, an' 'cause she can't get her own livin' no
more, of course she's come back 'ome, for all she ran away an'
disgraced herself shameful.'

Jane gazed fixedly at the speaker, scarcely able to gather the sense
of what was said.

'Miss Hewett, you mean? Mr. Hewett's eldest daughter?'

'So I understand.'

'She has come home? When?'

'I can't just say; but a few weeks ago, I believe. They say it's
nearly two months since it was in the paper.'

'Does Mrs. Hewett know about it?'

'I can't say. She's never spoke to me as if she did. And, as I tell
you, I only heard yes'day myself. If you're a friend of theirs,
p'r'aps I hadn't oughtn't to a' mentioned it. It just come to my
lips in the way o' tallin'. Of course I don't know nothin' about the
young woman myself; it's only what you comes to 'ear in the way o'
talkin', you know.'

This apology was doubtless produced by the listener's troubled
countenance. Jane asked no further question, but said she would come
to see Pennyloaf on the morrow, and so took her leave.

At ten o'clock next morning, just when Jane was preparing for her
visit to Merlin Place, so possessed with anxiety to ascertain if
Pennyloaf knew anything about Clara Hewett that all her troubles
were for the moment in the back ground, Bessie Byass came running
upstairs with a strange announcement. Sidney Kirkwood had called,
and wished to see Miss Snowdon in private for a few minutes.

'Something must have happened,' said Jane, her heart standing still.

Bessie had a significant smile, but suppressed it when she noticed
the agitation into which her friend was fallen.

'Shall I ask him up into the front room?'

Michael was in his own chamber, which he had not left this morning.
On going to the parlour Jane found her visitor standing in
expectancy. Yes, something had happened; it needed but to look at
him to be convinced of that. And before a word was spoken Jane knew
that his coming had reference to Clara Hewett, knew it with the
strangest certainty.

'I didn't go to work this morning,' Sidney began, 'because I was
very anxious to see you--alone. I have something to speak about--
to tell you.'

'Let us sit down.'

Sidney waited till he met her look; she regarded him without
self-consciousness, without any effort to conceal her agitated
interest.

'You see young Hewett and his wife sometimes. Have you heard from
either of them that Clara Hewett is living with her father again?'

'Not from them. A person in their house spoke about it yesterday. It
was the first I had heard.'

'Spoke of Miss Hewett? In a gossiping way, do you mean?'

'Yes.'

'Then you know what has happened to her?'

'If the woman told the truth.'

There was silence.

'Miss Snowdon--'

'Oh, I don't like you to speak so. You used to call me Jane.'

He looked at her in distress. She had spoken impulsively, but not
with the kind of emotion the words seem to imply. It was for his
sake, not for hers, that she broke that formal speech.

'You called me so when I was a child, Mr. Kirkwood,' she continued,
smiling for all she was so pale. 'It sounds as if something had
altered. You're my oldest friend, and won't you always be so?
Whatever you're going to tell me, surely it doesn't prevent us from
being friends, just the same as always?'

He had not seen her in her weakness, the night before last. As
little as he could imagine that, was he able to estimate the
strength with which she now redeemed her womanly dignity. His face
told her what he had to disclose. No question now of proving herself
superior to common feelings; it was Sidney who made appeal to her,
and her heart went forth to grant him all he desired.

'Jane--dear, good Jane--you remember what I said to you in the
garden at Danbury--that I had forgotten her. I thought it was
true. But you know what a terrible thing has befallen her. I should
be less than a man if I could say that she is nothing to me.'

'Have you spoken to her?'

'I have asked her to be my wife. Jane, if I had come to you
yesterday, before going to her, and had told you what I meant to do,
and explained all I felt, how the love of years ago had grown in me
again, wouldn't you have given me a friendly hand?'

'Just like I do now. Do you think I have forgotten one night when
she stood by me and saved me from cruel treatment, and then nursed
me when I fell ill?'

Neither of them had the habit of making long speeches. They
understood each other--very nearly; sufficiently, at all events,
to make the bond of sympathy between them stronger than ever. Jane
was misled a little, for she thought that here was the explanation
of Sidney's withdrawing his word to her grandfather; doubtless he
heard of the calamity when it happened. But on a more essential
point she fell into no misconception. Did Sidney desire that she
should?

He held her hand until she gently drew it away.

'You will go up and tell grandfather,' she said, gravely; then
added, before he could speak, 'But I'll just see him first for a
minute. He hasn't been out of his room this morning yet. Please wait
here.'

She left him, and Sidney fell back on his chair, woebegone,
distracted.

Michael, brooding sorrowfully, at first paid no heed to Jane when
she entered his room. It was not long since he had risen, and his
simple breakfast, scarcely touched, was still on the table.

'Grandfather, Mr. Kirkwood is here, and wishes to speak to you.'

He collected himself, and, regarding her, became aware that she was
strongly moved.

'Wishes to see me, Jane? Then I suppose he came to see you first?'

Prepared now for anything unexpected, feeling that the links between
himself and these young people were artificial, and that he could
but watch, as if from a distance, the course of their lives, his
first supposition was, that Sidney had again altered his mind. He
spoke coldly, and had little inclination for the interview.

'Yes,' Jane replied, 'he came to see me, but only to tell me that he
is going to be married.'

His wrinkled face slowly gathered an expression of surprise.

'He will tell you who it is; he will explain. But I wanted to speak
to you first. Grandfather, I was afraid yea might say something
about me. Will you--will you forget my foolishness? Will you think
of me as you did before? When he has spoken to you, you will
understand why I am content to put everything out of my mind,
everything you and I talked of. But I couldn't bear for him to know
how I have disappointed you. Will you let me be all I was to you
before? Will you trust me again, grandfather? You haven't spoken to
him yet about me, have you?'

Michael shook his head.

'Then you will let it be as if nothing had happened? Grandfather--'

She bent beside him and took his hand. Michael looked at her with a
light once more in his eyes.

'Tell him to come. He shall hear nothing from me, Jane.'

'And you will try to forget it?'

'I wish nothing better. Tell him to come here, my child. When he's
gone we'll talk together again.'

The interview did not last long, and Sidney left the house without
seeing Jane a second time.

She would have promised anything now. Seeing that life had but one
path of happiness for her, the path hopelessly closed, what did it
matter by which of the innumerable other ways she accomplished her
sad journey? For an instant, whilst Sidney was still speaking, she
caught a gleam of hope in renunciation itself, the kind of strength
which idealism is fond of attributing to noble natures. A gleam
only, and deceptive; she knew it too well after the day spent by her
grandfather's side, encouraging, at the expense of her heart's
blood, all his revived faith in her. But she would not again give
way. The old man should reap fruit of her gratitude and Sidney
should never suspect how nearly she had proved herself unworthy of
his high opinion.

She had dreamed her dream, and on awaking must be content to take up
the day's duties. Just in the same way, when she was a child at Mrs.
Peckover's, did not sleep often bring a vision of happiness, of
freedom from bitter tasks, and had she not to wake in the miserable
mornings, trembling lest she had lain too long? Her condition was
greatly better than then, so much better that it seemed wicked folly
to lament because one joy was not granted her.--Why, in the
meantime she had forgotten all about Pennyloaf. That visit must be
paid the first thing this morning.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE TREASURY UNLOCKED

A Sunday morning. In their parlour in Burton Crescent, Mr. and Mrs.
Joseph Snowdon were breakfasting. The sound of church bells--most
depressing of all sounds that mingle in the voice of London--
intimated that it was nearly eleven o'clock, but neither of our
friends had in view the attendance of public worship. Blended odours
of bacon and kippered herrings filled the room--indeed, the house,
for several breakfasts were in progress under the same roof. For a
wonder, the morning was fine, even sunny; a yellow patch glimmered
on the worn carpet, and the grime of the window-panes was visible
against an unfamiliar sky. Joseph, incompletely dressed, had a
Sunday paper propped before him, and read whilst he ate. Clem, also
in anything but _grande toilette_ was using a knife for the purpose
of conveying to her mouth the juice which had exuded from crisp
rashers. As usual, they had very little to say to each other. Clem
looked at her husband now and then, from under her eyebrows,
surreptitiously.

After one of these glances she said, in a tone which was not exactly
hostile, but had a note of suspicion:

'I'd give something to know why he's going to marry Clara Hewett.'

'Not the first time you've made that remark,' returned Joseph,
without looking up from his paper.

'I suppose I can speak?'

'Oh, yes. But I'd try to do so in a more lady-like way.'

Clem flashed at him a gleam of hatred. He had become fond lately of
drawing attention to her defects of breeding. Clem certainly did not
keep up with his own progress in the matter of external refinement;
his comments had given her a sense of inferiority, which irritated
her solely as meaning that she was not his equal in craft. She let a
minute or two pass, then returned to the subject.

'There's something at the bottom of it; I know that. Of course you
know more about it than you pretend.'

Joseph leaned back in his chair and regarded her with a smile of the
loftiest scorn.

'It never occurs to you to explain it in the simplest way, of
course, If ever you hear of a marriage, the first thing you ask
yourself is: What has he or she to gain by it? Natural enough--in
you. Now do you really suppose that all marriages come about in the
way that _yours_ did--on your side, I mean?'

Clem was far too dull-witted to be capable of quick retort. She
merely replied:

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Of course not. But let me assure you that people sometimes think of
other things besides making profit when they get married. It's a
pity that you always show yourself so coarse-minded.'

Joseph was quite serious in administering this rebuke. He really
felt himself justified in holding the tone of moral superiority. The
same phenomenon has often been remarked in persons conscious that
their affairs are prospering, and whose temptations to paltry
meanness are on that account less frequent.

'And what about yourself?' asked his wife, having found her retort
at length. 'Why did you want to marry _me_, I'd like to know?'

'Why? You are getting too modest. How could I live in the same house
with such a good-looking and sweet-tempered and well-behaved--'

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