The Nether World

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'Oh, shut up!' she exclaimed, in a voice such as one hears at the
street-corner. 'It was just because you thought we was goin' to be
fools enough to keep you in idleness. Who was the fool, after all?'

Joseph smiled, and returned to his newspaper. In satisfaction at
having reduced him to silence, Clem laughed aloud and clattered with
the knife on her plate. As she was doing so there came a knock at
the door.

'A gentleman wants to know if you're in, sir,' said the
house-thrall, showing a smeary face. 'Mr. Byass is the name.'

'Mr. Byass? I'll go down and see him.'

Clem's face became alive with suspicion. In spite of her careless
attire she intercepted Joseph, and bade the servant ask Mr. Byass to
come upstairs. 'How can you go down without a collar?' she said to
her husband.

He understood, and was somewhat uneasy, but made no resistance. Mr.
Byass presented himself. He had a very long face, and obviously
brought news of grave import. Joseph shook hands with him.

'You don't know my wife, I think. Mr. Byass, Clem. Nothing wrong, I
hope?'

Samuel, having made his best City bow, swung back from his toes to
his heels, and stood looking down into his hat. 'I'm sorry to say,'
he began, with extreme gravity, 'that Mr. Snowdon is rather ill--
in fact, very ill. Miss Jane asked me to come as sharp as I could,'

'Ill? In what way?'

'I'm afraid it's a stroke, or something in that line. He fell down
without a word of warning, just before ten o'clock. He's lying
insensible.'

'I'll come at once,' said Joseph. 'They've got a doctor, I hope?'

'Yes; the doctor had been summoned instantly.'

'I'll go with you,' said Clem, in a tone of decision.

'No, no; what's the good? You'll only be in the way.'

'No, I shan't. If he's as bad as all that, I shall come.'

Both withdrew to prepare themselves. Mr. Byass, who was very nervous
and perspiring freely, began to walk round and round the table,
inspecting closely, in complete absence of mind, the objects that
lay on it.

'We'll have a cab,' cried Joseph, as he came forth equipped. 'Poor
Jane's in a sad state, I'm afraid, oh?'

In a few minutes they were driving up Pentonville Road. Clem
scarcely ever removed her eye from Joseph's face; the latter held
his lips close together and kept his brows wrinkled. Few words
passed during the drive.

At the door of the house appeared Bessie, much agitated. All turned
into the parlour on the ground floor and spoke together for a few
minutes. Michael had been laid on his bed; at present Jane only was
with him, but the doctor would return shortly.

'Will you tell her I'm here?' said Joseph to Mrs. Byass. 'I'll see
her in the sitting-room.'

He went up and waited. Throughout the house prevailed that
unnatural, nerve-distressing quietude which tells the presence of
calamity. The church bells had ceased ringing, and Sunday's silence
in the street enhanced the effect of blankness and alarming
expectancy. Joseph could not keep still; he strained his ears in
attention to any slight sound that might come from the floor above,
and his heart beat painfully when at length the door opened.

Jane fixed her eyes on him and came silently forward.

'Does he show any signs of coming round?' her father inquired.

'No. He hasn't once moved.'

She spoke only just above a whisper. The shock kept her still
trembling and her face bloodless.

'Tell me how it happened, Jane.'

'He'd just got up. I'd taken him his breakfast, and we were talking.
All at once he began to turn round, and then he fell down--before
I could reach him.'

'I'll go upstairs, shall I?'

Jane could not overcome her fear; at the door of the bedroom she
drew back, involuntarily, that her father might enter before her.
When she forced herself to follow, the first glimpse of the
motionless form shook her from head to foot. The thought of death
was dreadful to her, and death seemed to lurk invisibly in this
quiet room. The pale sunlight affected her as a mockery of hope.

'You won't go away again, father?' she whispered.

He shook his head.

In the meantime Bessie and Clem were conversing. On the single
previous occasion of Clem's visit to the house they had not met.
They examined each other's looks with curiosity. Clem wished it were
possible to get at the secrets of which Mrs. Byass was doubtless in
possession; Bessie on her side was reserved, circumspect.

'Will he get over it?' the former inquired, with native brutality.

'I'm sure I don't know; I hope he may.'

The medical man arrived, and when he came downstairs again Joseph
accompanied him. Clem, when she found that nothing definite could be
learned, and that her husband had no intention of leaving, expressed
her wish to walk round to Clerkenwell Close and see her mother.
Joseph approved.

'You'd better have dinner there,' he said to her privately. 'We
can't both of us come down on the Byasses.'

She nodded, and with a parting glance of hostile suspicion set
forth. When she had crossed City Road, Clem's foot was on her native
soil; she bore herself with conscious importance, hoping to meet
some acquaintance who would be impressed by her attire and
demeanour. Nothing of the kind happened, however. It was the dead
hour of Sunday morning, midway in service-time, and long before the
opening of public-houses. In the neighbourhood of those places of
refreshment were occasionally found small groups of men and boys,
standing with their hands in their pockets, dispirited, seldom
caring even to smoke; they kicked their heels against the kerbstone
and sighed for one o'clock. Clem went by them with a haughty balance
of her head.

As she entered by the open front door and began to descend the
kitchen steps, familiar sounds were audible. Mrs. Peckover's voice
was raised in dispute with some one; it proved to be a quarrel with
a female lodger respecting the sum of threepence-farthing, alleged
by the landlady to be owing on some account or other. The two women
had already reached the point of calling each other liar and thief.
Clem, having no acquaintance with the lodger, walked into the
kitchen with an air of contemptuous indifference. The quarrel
continued for another ten minutes--if the head of either had been
suddenly cut off it would assuredly have gone on railing for an
appreciable time--and Clem waited, sitting before the fire. At
last the lodger had departed, and the last note of her virulence
died away.

'And what do _you_ want?' asked Mrs. Peckover, turning sharply upon
her daughter.

'I suppose I can come to see you, can't I?'

'Come to see me! Likely! When did you come last? You're a ungrateful
beast, that's what you are!'

'All right. Go a'ead! Anything else you'd like to call me?'

Mrs. Peckover was hurt by the completeness with which Clem had
established her independence. To do the woman justice, she had been
actuated, in her design of capturing Joseph Snowdon, at least as
much by a wish to establish her daughter satisfactorily as by the
ever-wakeful instinct which bade her seize whenever gain lay near
her clutches. Clem was proving disloyal, had grown secretive. Mrs.
Peckover did not look for any direct profit worth speaking of from
the marriage she had brought about, but she did desire the joy of
continuing to plot against Joseph with his wife. Moreover, she knew
that Clem was a bungler, altogether lacking in astuteness, and her
soul was pained by the thought of chances being missed. Her
encounter with the lodger had wrought her up to the point at which
she could discuss matters with Clem frankly. The two abused each
other for a while, but Clem really desired to communicate her news,
so that calmer dialogue presently ensued.

'Old Snowdon's had a stroke, if you'd like to know, and it's my
belief he won't get over it.'

'Your belief! And what's your belief worth? Had a stroke, has he?
Who told you?'

'I've just come from the 'ouse. Jo's stoppin' there.'

They discussed the situation in all its aspects, but Mrs. Peckover
gave it clearly to be understood that, from her point of view, 'the
game was spoilt.' As long as Joseph continued living under her roof
she could in a measure direct the course of events; Clem had chosen
to abet him in his desire for removal, and if ill came of it she had
only herself to blame.

'I can look out for myself,' said Clem.

'Can you? I'm glad to hear it.'

And Mrs. Peckover sniffed the air, scornfully. The affectionate pair
dined together, each imbibing a pint and a half of 'mild and
bitter,' and Clem returned to Hanover Street. From Joseph she could
derive no information as to the state of the patient.

'If you will stay here, where you can do no good,' he said, 'sit
down and keep quiet.'

'Certainly I shall stay,' said his wife, 'because I know you want to
get rid of me.'

Joseph left her in the sitting-room, and went upstairs again to keep
his daughter company. Jane would not leave the bedside. To enter the
room, after an interval elsewhere, wrung her feelings too painfully;
better to keep her eyes fixed on the unmoving form, to overcome the
dread by facing it.

She and her father seldom exchanged a word. The latter was
experiencing human emotion, but at the same time he had no little
anxiety regarding his material interests. It was ten days since he
had learnt that there was no longer the least fear of a marriage
between Jane and Sidney, seeing that Kirkwood was going to marry
some one else--a piece of news which greatly astonished him, and
confirmed him in his judgment that he had been on the wrong tack in
judging Kirkwood's character. At the same time he had been privily
informed by Scawthorne of an event which had ever since kept him
very uneasy--Michael's withdrawal of his will from the hands of
the solicitors. With what purpose this had been done Scawthorne
could not conjecture; Mr. Percival had made no comment in hi.
hearing. In all likelihood the will was now in this very room.
Joseph surveyed every object again and again. He wondered whether
Jane knew anything of the matter, but not all his cynicism could
persuade him that at the present time her thoughts were taking the
same direction as his own.

The day waned. Its sombre close was unspeakably mournful in this
haunted chamber. Jane could not bear it; she hid her face and wept.

When the doctor came again, at six o'clock, he whispered to Joseph
that the end was nearer than he had anticipated. Near, indeed; less
than ten minutes after the warning had been given Michael ceased to
breathe.

Jane knelt by the bed, convulsed with grief, unable to hear the
words her father addressed to her. He sat for five minutes, then
again spoke. She rose and replied.

'Will you come with us, Jane, or would rather stay with Mrs. Byass?'

'I will stay, please, father.'

He hesitated, but the thought that rose was even for him too ignoble
to be entertained.

'As you please, my dear. Of course no one must enter your rooms but
Mrs. Byass. I must go now, but I shall look in again to-night.'

'Yes, father.'

She spoke mechanically. He had to lead her from the room, and, on
quitting the house, left her all but unconscious in Bessie's arms.

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE HEIR

'And you mean to say,' cried Clem, when she was in the cab with her
husband speeding back to Burton Crescent--'you mean to say as
you've left them people to do what they like?'

'I suppose I know my own business,' re plied Joseph, wishing to
convey the very impression which in fact he did--that he had the
will in his pocket.

On reaching home he sat down at once and penned a letter to Messrs.
Percival & Peel, formally apprising them of what had happened. Clem
sat by and watched him. Having sealed the envelope, he remarked:

'I'm going out for a couple of hours.'

'Then I shall go with you.'

'You'll do nothing of the kind. Why, what do you mean, you great
gaping fool?' The agitation of his nerves made him break into
unaccustomed violence. 'Do you suppose you're going to follow me
everywhere for the next week? Are you afraid I shall run away? If I
mean to do so, do you think you can stop me? You'll just wait here
till I come back, which will be before ten o'clock. Do you hear?'

She looked at him fiercely, but his energy was too much for her, and
perforce she let him go. As soon as he had left the house, she too
sat down and indited a letter. It ran thus:

'DEAR MOTHER,--The old feller has gawn of it apened at jest after
six e'clock if you want to now I shall come and sea you at ten
'clock to-morow moning and I beleve hes got the will but hes a beest
and theers a game up you may take your hothe so I remain C. S.'

This document she took to the nearest pillar-post, then returned and
sat brooding.

By the first hansom available Joseph was driven right across London
to a certain dull street in Chelsea. Before dismissing the vehicle
he knocked at the door of a lodging-house and made inquiry for Mr.
Scawthorne. To his surprise and satisfaction, Mr. Scawthorne
happened to be at home; so the cabman was paid, and Joseph went up
to the second floor.

In his shabby little room Scawthorne sat smoking and reading. It was
a season of impecuniosity with him, and his mood was anything but
cheerful. He did not rise when his visitor entered.

'Well now, what do you think brings me here?' exclaimed Joseph, when
he had carefully closed the door.

'Hanged if I know, but it doesn't seem to be particularly bad news.'

Indeed, Joseph had overcome his sensibilities by this time, and his
aspect was one of joyous excitement. Seeing on the table a bottle of
sherry, loosely corked, he pointed to it.

'If you don't mind, Scaw. I'm a bit upset, a bit flurried. Got
another wine-glass?'

From the cupboard Scawthorne produced one and bade the visitor help
himself. His face beg auto express curiosity. Joseph tilted the
draught down his throat and showed satisfaction.

'That does me good. I've had a troublesome day. It ain't often my
feelings are tried.'

'Well, what is it?'

'My boy, we are all mortal. I dare say you've heard that observation
before; can you apply it to any particular case?'

Scawthorne was startled; he delayed a moment before speaking.

'You don't mean to say--'

'Exactly. Died a couple of hours ago, after lying insensible all
day, poor old man! I've just written your people a formal
announcement. Now, what do you think of that? If you don't mind, old
fellow.'

He filled himself another glass, and tilted it off as before.
Scawthorne had dropped his eyes to the ground, and stood in
meditation.

'Now what about the will?' pursued Joseph.

'You haven't looked for it?' questioned his friend with an odd look.

'Thought it more decent to wait a few hours. The girl was about, you
see, and what's more, my wife was. But have you heard anything since
I saw you?'

'Why, yes. A trifle.'

'Out with it! What are you grinning about? Don't keep me on hot
coals.'

'Well, it's amusing, and that's the fact. Take another glass of
sherry; you'll need support.'

'Oh, I'm prepared for the worst. He's cut me out altogether, eh?
That comes of me meddling with the girl's affairs--damnation! When
there wasn't the least need, either.'

'A bad job. The fact is, Percival had a letter from him at midday
yesterday. The senior had left the office; young Percival opened the
letter, and spoke to me about it. Now, prepare yourself. The letter
said that he had destroyed his former will, and would come to the
office on Monday--that's _to-marrow_--to give instructions for a
new one.'

Joseph stood and stared.

'To-morrow? Why, then, there's _no will at all_?'

'An admirable deduction. I congratulate you on your logic.'

Snowdon flung up his arms wildly, then began to leap about the room.

'Try another glass,' said Scawthorne. 'There's still a bottle in the
cupboard; don't be afraid.'

'And you mean to tell me it's all mine?'

'The wine? You're very welcome.'

'Wine be damned! The money, my boy, the money! Scawthorne, I'm not a
mean chap. As sure as you and me stand here, you shall have--you
shall have a hundred pounds! I mean it; dash me, I mean it! You've
been devilish useful to me; and what's more I haven't done with you
yet. Do you twig, old boy?'

'You mean that a confidential agent in England, unsuspected, may be
needed?'

'Shouldn't wonder if I do.'

'Can't be managed under double the money, my good sir,' observed
Scawthorne, with unmistakable seriousness. 'Worth your while, I
promise you. Have another glass. Fair commission. Think it over.'

'Look here! I shall have to make the girl an allowance.'

'There's the filter-works. Don't be stingy.'

Joseph was growing very red in the face. He drank glass after glass;
he flung his arms about; he capered.

'Damn me if you shall call me that, Scaw! Two hundred it shall be.
But what was the old cove up to? Why did he destroy the other will?
What would the new one have been?'

'Can't answer either question, but it's probably as well for you
that _to-morrow_ never comes.'

'Now just see how things turn out!' went on the other, in the joy of
his heart. 'All the thought and the trouble that I've gone through
this last year, when I might have taken it easy and waited for
chance to make me rich! Look at Kirkwood's business. There was you
and me knocking our heads together and raising lumps on them, as you
may say, to find out a plan of keeping him and Jane apart, when all
the while we'd nothing to do but to look on and wait, if only we'd
known. Now this is what I call the working of Providence,
Scawthorne. Who's going to say after this, that things ain't as they
should be? Everything's for the best, my boy; I see that clearly
enough.'

'Decidedly,' assented Scawthorne, with a smile. 'The honest man is
always rewarded in the long run. And that reminds me; I too have had
a stroke of luck.'

He went on to relate that his position in the office of Percival &
Peel was now nominally that of an articled clerk, and that in three
years' time, if all went well, he would be received in the firm as
junior partner.

'There's only one little project I am sorry to give up, in
connection with your affairs, Snowdon. If it had happened that your
daughter had inherited the money, why shouldn't I have had the
honour of becoming your son-in-law?'

Joseph stared, then burst into hearty laughter.

'I tell you what,' he said, recovering himself, 'why should you give
up that idea? She's as good a girl as you'll ever come across, I can
tell you that, my boy. There's better-looking, but you won't find
many as modest and good-hearted. Just make her acquaintance, and
tell me if I've deceived you. And look here, Scawthorne; by George,
I'll make a bargain with you! You say you'll be a partner m three
years. Marry Jane when that day comes, and I'll give you a thousand
for a wedding present. I mean it! What's more, I'll make my will on
your marriage-day and leave everything I've got to you and her.
There now!'

'What makes you so benevolent all at once?' inquired Scawthorne,
blandly.

'Do you think I've got no fatherly feeling, man? Why, if it wasn't
for my wife I'd ask nothing better than to settle down with Jane to
keep house for me. She's a good girl, I tell you, and I wish her
happiness.'

'And do you think I'm exactly the man to make her a model husband?'

'I don't see why not--now you're going to be a partner in a good
business. Don't you think I'm ten times as honest a man to-day as I
was yesterday? Poor devils can't afford to be what they'd wish, in
the way of honesty and decent living.'

True enough for once,' remarked the other, without irony.

'You think it over, Scaw. I'm a man of my word. You shall have your
money as soon as things are straight; and if you can bring about
that affair, I'll do all I said--so there's my hand on it. Say the
word, and I'll make you acquainted with her before--before I take
that little trip you know of, just for my health.'

'We'll speak of it again.'

Thereupon they parted. In the course of the following day
Scawthorne's report received official confirmation. Joseph pondered
deeply with himself whether he should tell his wife the truth or
not; there were arguments for both courses. By Tuesday morning he
had decided for the truth; that would give more piquancy to a
pleasant little jest he had in mind. At breakfast he informed her,
as if casually, and it amused him to see that she did not believe
him.

'You'll be anxious to tell your mother. Go and spend the day with
her, but be back by five o'clock; then we'll talk things over. I
have business with the lawyers again.'

Clem repaired to the Close. Late in the afternoon she and her
husband again met at home, and by this time Joseph's elation had
convinced her that he was telling the truth. Never had he been in
such a suave humour; he seemed to wish to make up for his late
severities. Seating himself near her, he began pleasantly:

'Well, things might have been worse, eh?'

'I s'pose they might.'

'I haven't spoken to Jane yet. Time enough after the funeral. What
shall we do for the poor girl, eh?'

'How do I know?'

'You won't grudge her a couple of pounds a week, or so, just to
enable her to live with the Byasses, as she has been doing?'

'I s'pose the money's your own to do what you like with.'

'Very kind of you to say so, my dear. But we're well-to-do people
now, and we must be polite to each other. Where shall we take a
house, Clem? Would you like to be a bit out of town? There's very
nice places within easy reach of King's Cross, you know, on the
Great Northern. A man I know lives at Potter's Bar, and finds it
very pleasant; good air. Of course I must be within easy reach of
business.'

She kept drawing her nails over a fold in her dress, making a
scratchy sound.

'It happened just at the right time,' he continued. 'The business
wants a little more capital put into it. I tell you what it is,
Clem; in a year or two we shall be coining money, old girl.'

'Shall you?'

'Right enough. There's just one thing I'm a little anxious about;
you won't mind me mentioning it? Do you think your mother'll expect
us to do anything for her?'

Clem regarded him with cautious scrutiny. He was acting well, and
her profound distrust began to be mingled with irritating
uncertainty.

'What can she expect? If she does, she'll have to be disappointed,
that's all.'

'I don't want to seem mean, you know. But then she isn't so badly
herself, is she?'

'I know nothing about it. You'd better ask her.'

And Clem grinned. Thereupon Joseph struck a facetious note, and for
half an hour made himself very agreeable. Now for the first time, he
said, could he feel really settled; life was smooth before him. They
would have a comfortable home, the kind of place to which he could
invite his friends; one or two excellent fellows he knew would bring
their wives, and so Clem would have more society.

'Suppose you learn the piano, old girl? It wouldn't be amiss.
By-the-by, I hope they'll turn you out some creditable mourning.
You'll have to find a West End dressmaker.'

She listened, and from time to time smiled ambiguously. . . .

At noon of the next day Clem was walking on that part of the Thames
Embankment which is between Waterloo Bridge and the Temple Pier. It
was a mild morning, misty, but illuminated now and then with rays of
sunlight, which gleamed dully upon the river and gave a yellowness
to remote objects. At the distance of a dozen paces walked Bob
Hewett; the two had had a difference in their conversation, and for
some minutes kept thus apart, looking sullenly at the ground. Clem
turned aside, and leaned her arms on the parapet. Presently her
companion drew near and leaned in the same manner.

'What is it you want me to do?' he asked huskily. 'Just speak plain,
can't you?'

'If you can't understand--if you _won't_, that is--it's no good
speakin' plainer.'

'You said the other night as you didn't care about his money. If you
think he means hookin' it, let him go, and good riddance.'

'That's a fool's way of talkin'. I'm not goin' to lose it all, if I
can help it. There's a way of stoppin' him, and of gettin' the money
too.'

They both stared down at the water; it was full tide, and the muddy
surface looked almost solid.

'You wouldn't get it all,' were Bob's next words. 'I've been asking
about that.'

'You have? Who did you ask?'

'Oh, a feller you don't know. You'd only have a third part of it,
and the girl 'ud get the rest.'

'What do you call a third part?'

So complete was her stupidity, that Bob had to make a laborious
explanation of this mathematical term, She could have understood
what was meant by a half or a quarter, but the unfamiliar 'third'
conveyed no distinct meaning.

'I don't care,' she said at length. 'That 'ud be enough.'

'Clem--you'd better leave this job alone. You'd better, I warn
you.'

'I shan't,'

Another long silence. A steamboat drew up to the Temple Pier, and a
yellow shaft of sunlight fell softly upon its track in the water.

'What do you want me to do?' Bob recommenced. '_How_?'

Their eyes met, and in the woman's gaze he found a horrible
fascination, a devilish allurement to that which his soul shrank
from. She lowered her voice.

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