The Nether World

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John turned and regarded him with astonishment.

'Why, I thought you was as much set against it as me? What's made
you come round like this? I s'pose you've got tired of her, an'
that's made you so you don't care.'

The young man's eyes flashed angrily, but before he could make a
rejoinder Mrs. Hewett interposed.

'For shame o' yourself, John If you can't talk better sense than
that, don't talk at all. He don't mean it, Sidney. He's half drove
off his head with trouble.'

'If he does think it,' said Kirkwood, speaking sternly but with
self-command, 'let him say what he likes. He can't say worse than I
should deserve.'

There was an instant of silence. Hewett's head hung with more than
the usual doggedness. Then he addressed Sidney, sullenly, but in a
tone which admitted his error.

'What have you got to say? Never mind me. I'm only the girl's
father, an' there's not much heed paid to fathers nowadays. What
have you got to say about Clara? If you've changed your mind about
her goin' there, just tell me why.'

Sidney could not bring himself to speak at once, but an appealing
look from Mrs. Hewett decided him.

'Look here, Mr. Hewett,' he began, with blunt earnestness. If any
harm came to Clara I should feel it every bit as much as you, and
that you ought to know by this time. All the same, what I've got to
say is this: Let her go to Mrs. Tubbs for a month's trial. If you
persist in refusing her, mark my words, you'll be sorry. I've
thought it all over, and I know what I'm talking about. The girl
can't put up with the work. room any longer. It's ruining her
health, for one thing, anybody can see that, and it's making her so
discontented, she'll soon get reckless. I understand your feeling
well enough, but I understand her as well; at all events, I believe
I do. She wants a change; she's getting tired of her very life.'

'Very well,' cried the father in shrill irritation, 'why doesn't she
take the change that's offered to her? She's no need to go neither
to workroom nor to bar. There's a good home waiting for her, isn't
there? What's come to the girl? She used to go on as if she liked
you well enough.'

'A girl alters a deal between fifteen and seventeen,' Sidney
replied, forcing himself to speak with an air of calmness, of
impartiality. 'She wasn't old enough to know her own mind. I'm tired
of plaguing her. I feel ashamed to say another word to her, and
that's the truth. She only gets more and more set against me. If
it's ever to come right, it'll have to be by waiting; we won't talk
about that any more. Think of her quite apart from me, and what I've
been hoping. She's seventeen years old. You can't deal with a girl
of that age like you can with Amy and Annie. You'll have to trust
her, Mr. Hewett. You'll have to, because there's no help for it.
We're working people, we are; we're the lower orders; our girls have
to go out and get their livings. We teach them the best we can, and
the devil knows they've got examples enough of misery and ruin
before their eyes to help them to keep straight. Rich people can
take care of their daughters as much as they like; they can treat
them like children till they're married; people of our kind can't do
that, and it has to be faced.'

John sat with dark brow, his eyes staring on vacancy.

'It's right what Sidney says, father,' put in Mrs. Hewett; 'we can't
help it.'

'You may perhaps have done harm when you meant only to do good,'
pursued Sidney. 'Always being so anxious, and showing what account
you make of her, perhaps you've led her to think a little too much
of herself. She knows other fathers don't go on in that way. And now
she wants more freedom, she feels it worse than other girls do when
you begin to deny her. Talk to her in a different way; talk as if
you trusted her. Depend upon it, it's the only hold you have upon
her. Don't be so much afraid. Clara has her faults--see them as
well as any one--but I'll never believe she'd darken your life of
her own free will.'

There was an unevenness, a jerky vehemence, in his voice, which told
how difficult it was for him to take this side in argument. He often
hesitated, obviously seeking phrases which should do least injury to
the father's feelings. The expression of pain on his forehead and
about his lips testified to the sincerity with which he urged his
views, at the same time to a lurking fear lest impulse should be
misleading him. Hewett kept silence, in aspect as far as ever from
yielding. Of a sudden he raised his hand, and said, 'Husht!' There
was a familiar step on the stairs. Then the door opened and admitted
Clara.

The girl could not but be aware that the conversation she
interrupted had reference to herself. Her father gazed fixedly at
her; Sidney glanced towards her with self-consciousness, and at once
averted his eyes; Mrs. Hewett examined her with apprehension. Having
carelessly closed the door with a push, she placed her umbrella in
the corner and began to unbutton her gloves. Her attitude was one of
affected unconcern; she held her head stiffly, and let her eyes
wander to the farther end of the room. The expression of her face
was cold, preoccupied; she bit her lower lip so that the under part
of it protruded.

'Where have you been, Clara?' her father asked.

She did not answer immediately, but finished drawing off her gloves
and rolled them up by turning one over the other. Then she said
indifferently:

'I've been to see Mrs. Tubbs.'

'And who gave you leave?' asked Hewett with irritation.

'I don't see that I needed any leave. I knew she was coming here to
speak to you or mother, so I went, after work, to ask what you'd
said.'

She was not above the middle stature of women, but her slimness and
erectness, and the kind of costume she wore made her seem tall as
she stood in this low-ceiled room. Her features were of very
uncommon type, at once sensually attractive and bearing the stamp of
intellectual vigour. The profile was cold, subtle, original; in full
face, her high cheekbones and the heavy, almost horizontal line of
her eyebrows were the points that first drew attention, conveying an
idea of force of character. The eyes themselves were hazel-coloured,
and, whatever her mood, preserved a singular pathos of expression, a
look as of self-pity, of unconscious appeal against some injustice.
In contrast with this her lips were defiant, insolent, unscrupulous;
a shadow of the naivete of childhood still lingered upon
them, but, though you divined the earlier pout of the spoilt girl,
you felt that it must have foretold this danger-signal in the mature
woman. Such cast of countenance could belong only to one who
intensified in her personality an inheritance of revolt; who,
combining the temper of an ambitious woman with the forces of a
man's brain, had early learnt that the world was not her friend nor
the world's law.

Her clothing made but poor protection against the rigours of a
London winter. Its peculiarity (bearing in mind her position) was
the lack of any pretended elegance. A close-fitting, short jacket of
plain cloth made evident the grace of her bust; beneath was a brown
dress with one row of kilting. She wore a hat of brown felt, the
crown rising from back to front, the narrow brim closely turned up
all round. The high collar of the jacket alone sheltered her neck.
Her gloves, though worn, were obviously of good kid; her boots--
strangest thing of all in a work-girl's daily attire--were both
strong and shapely. This simplicity seemed a declaration that she
could not afford genuine luxuries and scorned to deck herself with
shams.

The manner of her reply inflamed Hewett with impotent wrath. He
smote the table violently, then sprang up and flung his chair aside.

'Is that the way you've learnt to speak to your father?' he shouted.
'Haven't I told you you're not to go nowhere without my leave or
your mother's? Do you pay no heed to what I bid you? If so, say it!
Say it at once, and have done with it.'

Clara was quietly removing her hat. In doing so, she disclosed the
one thing which gave proof of regard for personal appearance. Her
hair was elaborately dressed. Drawn up from the neck, it was
disposed in thick plaits upon the top of her head; in front were a
few rows of crisping. She affected to be quite unaware that words
had been spoken to her, and stood smoothing each side of her
forehead.

John strode forward and laid his hands roughly upon her shoulders.

'Look at me, will you? Speak, will you?'

Clara jerked herself from his grasp and regarded him with insolent
surprise. Of fear there was no trace upon her countenance; she
seemed to experience only astonishment at such unwonted behaviour
from her father, and resentment on her own behalf. Sidney Kirkwood
had risen, and advanced a step or two, as if in apprehension of harm
to the girl, but his interference was unneeded. Hewett recovered his
self-control as soon as Clara repelled him. It was the first time he
had ever laid a hand upon one of his children other than gently; his
exasperation came of over-tried nerves, of the experiences he had
gone through in search of work that day, and the keen suffering
occasioned by his argument with Sidney. The practical confirmation
of Sidney's warning that he must no longer hope to control Clara
like a child stung him too poignantly; he obeyed an unreasoning
impulse to recover his authority by force.

The girl's look entered his heart like a stab; she had never faced
him like this before, saying more plainly than with words that she
defied him to control her. His child's face, the face he loved best
of all! yet at this moment he was searching it vainly for the
lineaments that were familiar to him. Something had changed her, had
hardened her against him, in a moment. It seemed impossible that
there should come such severance between them. John revolted against
it, as against all the other natural laws that visited him harshly.

'What's come to you, my girl?' he said in a thick voice. 'What's
wrong between us, Clara? Haven't I always done my best for you? If I
was the worst enemy you had, you couldn't look at me crueller.'

'I think it's me that should ask what's come to _you_, father,' she
returned with her former self-possession. 'You treat me as if I was
a baby. I want to know what you're going to say about Mrs. Tubbs. I
suppose mother's told you what she offers me?'

Sidney had not resumed his chair. Before Hewett could reply he said:

'I think I'll leave you to talk over this alone.'

'No; stay where you are,' said John gruffly. 'Look here, Clara.
Sidney's been talkin' to me; he's been sayin' that I ought to let
you have your own way in this. Yes, you may well look as if it
surprised you.' Clara had just glanced at the young man, slightly
raising her eyebrows, but at once looked away again with a careless
movement of the head. 'He says what it's hard an' cruel for me to
believe, though I half begin to see that he's right; he says you
won't pay no more heed to what _I_ wish, an' it's me now must give
way to you. I didn't use to think me an' Clara would come to that;
but it looks like it--it looks like it.'

The girl stood with downcast eyes. Once more her face had suffered a
change; the lips were no longer malignant, her forehead had relaxed
from its haughty frown. The past fortnight had been a period of
contest between her father's stubborn fears and her own
determination to change the mode of her life. Her self-will was only
intensified by opposition. John had often enough experienced this,
but hitherto the points at issue had been trifles, matters in which
the father could yield for the sake of pleasing his child. Serious
resistance brought out for the first time all the selfish forces of
her nature. She was prepared to go all lengths rather than submit,
now the question of her liberty had once been broached. Already
there was a plan in her mind for quitting home, regardless of all
the misery she would cause, reckless of what future might be in
store for herself. But the first sign of yielding on her father's
part touched the gentler elements of her nature. Thus was she
constituted; merciless in egotism when put to the use of all her
weapons, moved to warmest gratitude as soon as concession was made
to her. To be on ill terms with her father had caused her pain, the
only effect of which, however, was to heighten the sullen
impracticability of her temper. At the first glimpse of relief from
overstrained emotions, she desired that all angry feeling should be
at an end. Having gained her point, she could once more be the
affectionately wilful girl whose love was the first necessity of
John Hewett's existence.

'Well,' John pursued, reading her features eagerly, 'I'll say no
more about that, and I won't stand in the way of what you've set
your mind on. But understand, Clara, my girl! It's because Sidney
persuaded me. Sidney answers for it, mind you that!'

His voice trembled, and he looked at the young man with something
like anger in his eyes.

'I'm willing to do that, Mr. Hewett,' said Kirkwood in a low but
firm voice, his eyes turned away from Clara. 'No human being can
answer for another in the real meaning of the word; but I take upon
myself to say that Clara will bring you no sorrow. She hears me say
it. They're not the kind of words that a man speaks without thought
of what they mean.'

Clara had seated herself by the table, and was moving a finger along
the pattern of the dirty white cloth. She bit her under-lip in the
manner already described, seemingly her habit when she wished to
avoid any marked expression of countenance.

'I can't see what Mr. Kirkwood's got to do with it at all,' she
said, with indifference, which now, however, was rather
good-humoured than the reverse. 'I'm sure I don't want anybody to
answer for _me_.' A slight toss of the head. 'You'd have let me go
in any case, father; so I don't see you need bring Mr. Kirkwood's
name in.'

Hewett turned away to the fireplace and hung his head. Sidney,
gazing darkly at the girl, saw her look towards him, and she smiled.
The strange effect of that smile upon her features! It gave
gentleness to the mouth, and, by making more manifest the
intelligent light of her eyes, emphasised the singular pathos
inseparable from their regard. It was a smile to which a man would
concede anything, which would vanquish every prepossession, which
would inspire pity and tenderness and devotion in the heart of
sternest resentment.

Sidney knew its power only too well; he averted his face. Then Clara
rose again and said:

'I shall just walk round and tell Mrs. Tubbs. It isn't late, and
she'd like to know as soon as possible.'

'Oh, surely it'll do in the mornin'!' exclaimed Mrs. Hewett, who had
followed the conversation in silent anxiety.

Clara paid no attention, but at once put on her hat again. Then she
said, 'I won't be long, father,' and moved towards the door.

Hewett did not look round.

'Will you let me walk part of the way with you?' Sidney asked
abruptly.

'Certainly, if you like.'

He bade the two who remained' Good-night,' and followed Clara
downstairs.

CHAPTER IV

CLARA AND JANE

Rain no longer fell, but the gusty and bitter wind still swept about
the black streets. Walking side by side without speech, Clara and
her companion left the neighbourhood of the prison, and kept a
northward direction till they reached the junction of highways where
stands the 'Angel.' Here was the wonted crowd of loiterers and the
press of people waiting for tramcar or omnibus--east, west, south,
or north; newsboys, eager to get rid of their last batch, were
crying as usual, 'Ech-ow! Exteree speciul! Ech-ow! Steendard!' and a
brass band was blaring out its saddest strain of merry dance-music.
The lights gleamed dismally in rain-puddles and on the wet pavement.
With the wind came whiffs of tobacco and odours of the drinking-bar.

They crossed, and walked the length of Islington High Street, then a
short way along its continuation, Upper Street. Once or twice Clara
had barely glanced at Kirkwood, but his eyes made no reply, and his
lips were resolutely closed. She did not seem offended by this
silence; on the contrary, her face was cheerful, and she smiled to
herself now and then. One would have imagined that she found
pleasure in the sombreness of which she was the cause.

She stopped at length, and said:

'I suppose you don't want to go in with me?'

'No.'

'Then I'll say good-night. Thank you for coming so far out of your
way.'

'I'll wait. I may as well walk back with you, if you don't mind.'

'Oh, very well. I shan't be many minutes.'

She passed on and entered the place of refreshment that was kept by
Mrs. Tubbs. Till recently it had been an ordinary eating-house or
coffee-shop; but having succeeded in obtain a license to sell strong
liquors, Mrs. Tubbs had converted the establishment into one of a
more pretentious kind. She called it 'Imperial Restaurant and
Luncheon Bar.' The front shone with vermilion paint; the interior
was aflare with many gas-jets; in the window was disposed a tempting
exhibition of 'snacks' of fish, cold roast fowls, ham-sandwiches,
and the like; whilst farther back stood a cooking-stove, whereon
frizzled and vapoured a savoury mess of sausages and onions.

Sidney turned away a few paces. The inclemency of the night made
Upper Street--the promenade of a great district on account of its
spacious pavement--less frequented than usual; but there were
still numbers of people about, some hastening homewards, some
sauntering hither and thither in the familiar way, some gathered
into gossiping groups. Kirkwood was irritated by the conversation
and laughter that fell on his ears, irritated by the distant strains
of the band, irritated above all by the fume of frying that pervaded
the air for many yards about Mrs. Tubbs's precincts. He observed
that the customers tending that way were numerous. They consisted
mainly of lads and young men who had come forth from neighbouring
places of entertainment. The locality and its characteristics had
been familiar to him from youth upwards; but his nature was not
subdued to what it worked in, and the present fit of disgust was
only an accentuation of a mood by which he was often possessed. To
the Hewetts he had spoken impartially of Mrs. Tubbs and her bar;
probably that was the right view; but now there came back upon him
the repugnance with which he had regarded Clara's proposal when it
was first made.

It seemed to him that he had waited nearly half an hour when Clara
came forth again. In silence she walked on beside him. Again they
crossed by the 'Angel' and entered St. John Street Road.

'You've made your arrangements?' Sidney said, now that there were
few people passing.

'Yes; I shall go on Monday.'

'You're going to live there altogether?'

'Yes; it'll be more convenient, and then it'll give them more room
at home. Bob can sleep with the children, and save money.'

'To be sure!' observed the young man with bitter irony.

Clara flashed a glance at him. It was a new thing for Sidney to take
this tone with her; not seldom he had expressed unfavourable
judgments by silence, but he had never spoken to her otherwise than
with deference and gentleness.

'You don't seem in a very good temper to-night, Mr. Kirkwood.' she
remarked in a suave tone.

He disregarded her words, but in a few moments turned upon her and
said scornfully:

'I hope you'll enjoy the pleasant, ladylike work you've found! I
should think it'll improve your self-respect to wait on the
gentlemen of Upper Street !'

Irony is not a weapon much in use among working people; their wits
in general are too slow. With Sidney, however, it had always been a
habit of speech in indignant criticism, and sympathy made him aware
that nothing would sting Clara more acutely. He saw that he was
successful when she turned her head away and moved it nervously.

'And do you suppose I go there because the place pleases me?' she
asked in a cold, hostile voice. 'You make a great mistake, as you
always do when you pretend to know anything about me. Wait till I've
learned a little about the business; you won't find me in Upper
Street then.'

'I understand.'

Again they walked on in silence. They were nearing Clerkenwell
Close, and had to pass a corner of the prison in a dark lane, where
the wind moaned drearily. The line of the high blank wall was
relieved in colourless gloom against a sky of sheer night. Opposite,
the shapes of poverty-eaten houses and grimy workshops stood
huddling in the obscurity. From near at hand came shrill voices of
children chasing each other about--children playing at midnight
between slum and gaol!

'We're not likely to see much of each other after to-night,' said
Sidney, stopping.

'The less the better, I should say, if this is how you're going to
talk to me.'

'The less the better, perhaps--at all events for a time. But
there's one or two things on my mind, and I'll say them now. I don't
know whether you think anything about it, but you must have seen
that things are getting worse and worse at home. Your mother--'

'She's no mother of mine!' broke in Clara angrily.

'She's been a mother to you in kindness, that's certain, and you've
repaid her almost as ill as you could have done. Another girl would
have made her hard life a bit easier. No; you've only thought of
yourself. Your father walks about day after day trying to get work,
and how do you meet him when he comes home? You fret him and anger
him; you throw him back ill-tempered words when he happens to think
different from you; you almost break his heart, because you won't
give way in things that he only means for your good--he that would
give his life for you! It's as well you should hear the truth for
once, and hear it from me, too. Anyone else might speak from all
sorts of motives; as for me, it makes me suffer more to say such
things than it ever could you to hear them. Laugh if you like! I
don't ask you to pay any heed to what _I_'ve wished and hoped; but
just give a thought to your father, and the rest of them at home. I
told him to-night he'd only to trust you, that you never could do
anything to make him ashamed of you. I said so, and I believe it.
Look, Clara! with all my heart I believe it. But now you've got your
way, think of them a little.'

'It isn't your fault if I don't know how bad I am,' said the girl
with a half-smile. That she did not resent his lecture more
decidedly was no doubt due to its having afforded new proof of the
power she had over him. Sidney was shaken with emotion; his voice
all but failed him at the last.

'Good-bye,' he said, turning away.

Clara hesitated, looked at him, but finally also said 'Good-bye,'
and went on alone.

She walked with bent head, and almost passed the house-door in
absence of thought. On the threshold was standing Miss Peckover; she
drew aside to let Clara pass. Between these two was a singular
rivalry. Though by date a year younger than Clara, Clem gave no
evidence of being physically less mature. In the matter of personal
charms she regarded herself as by far Miss Hewett's superior, and
resented vigorously the tone of the latter's behaviour to her.
Clara, on the other hand, looked down upon Miss Peckover as a mere
vulgar girl; she despised her brother Bob because he' had allowed
himself to be inveigled by Clem; in intellect, in social standing,
she considered herself out of all comparison with the landlady's
daughter. Clem had the obvious advantage of being able to ridicule
the Hewetts' poverty, and did so without sparing. Now, for instance,
when Clara was about to pass with a distant 'Good-night,' Clem
remarked:

'It's cold, ain't it? I wonder you don't put on a ulster, a night
like this.'

'Thank you,' was the reply. 'I shan't consult you about how I'm to
dress.'

Clem laughed, knowing she had the best of the joke.

The other went upstairs, and entered the back-room, where it was
quite dark.

'That you, Clara?' asked Amy's voice. 'The candle's on the
mantel-shelf.'

'Why aren't you asleep?' Clara returned sharply. But the irritation
induced by Clem's triumph quickly passed in reflection on Sidney's
mode of leave-taking. That had not at all annoyed her, but it had
made her thoughtful. She lit the candle. Its light disclosed a room
much barer than the other one. There was one bed, in which Amy and
Annie lay (Clara had to share it with them), and a mattress placed
on the floor, where reposed little Tom; a low chest of drawers with
a very small looking-glass upon it, a washstand, a few boxes.
Handsome girls, unfortunate enough to have brains to boot, do not
cultivate the patient virtues in chambers of this description.

There was a knock at the door. Clara found her father standing
there.

'Have you anything to tell me, my girl?' he asked in a subdued
voice, furtively regarding her.

'I shall go on Monday.'

He drew back a step, and seemed about to return to the other room.

'Father, I shall have to give Mrs. Tubbs the five shillings for a
few weeks. She's going to let me have a new dress.'

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