The Nether World

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'There's lots of ways. It 'ud be easy to make it seem as somebody
did it just to rob him. He's always out late at night.'

His face was much the colour of the muddy water yellowed by that
shaft of sunlight. His lips quivered. 'I dursn't, Clem. I tell you
plain, I dursn't.'

'Coward!' she snarled at him, savagely. 'Coward! All right, Mr. Bob.
You go your way, and I'll go mine.'

'Listen here, Clem,' he gasped out, laying his hand on her arm.
'I'll think about it. I won't say no. Give me a day to think about
it.'

'Oh, we know what your thinkin' means.'

They talked for some time longer, and before they parted Bob had
given a promise to do more than think.

The long, slouching strides with which he went up from the
Embankment to the Strand gave him the appearance of a man partly
overcome with drink. For hours he walked about the City, in complete
oblivion of everything external. Only when the lights began to shine
from shop-windows did he consciously turn to his own district. It
was raining now. The splashes of cool moisture made him aware how
feverishly hot his face was.

When he got among the familiar streets he went slinkingly, hurrying
round corners, avoiding glances. Almost at a run he turned into
Merlin Place, and he burst into his room as though he were pursued.

Pennyloaf had now but one child to look after, a girl of two years,
a feeble thing. Her own state was wretched; professedly recovered
from illness, she felt so weak, so low-spirited, that the greater
part of her day was spent in crying. The least exertion was too much
for her; but for frequent visits from Jane Snowdon she must have
perished for very lack of wholesome food. She was crying when
startled by her husband's entrance, and though she did her best to
hide the signs of it, Bob saw.

'When are you going to stop that?' he shouted.

She shrank away, looking at him with fear in her red eyes.

'Stop your snivelling, and get me some tea!'

It was only of late that Pennyloaf had come to regard him with fear.
His old indifference and occasional brutality of language had made
her life a misery, but she had never looked for his return home with
anything but anxious longing. Now the anticipation was mingled with
dread. He not only had no care for her, not only showed that he felt
her a burden upon him; his disposition now was one of hatred, and
the kind of hatred which sooner or later breaks out in ferocity. Bob
would not have come to this pass--at all events not so soon--if
he had been left to the dictates of his own nature; he was infected
by the savagery of the woman who had taken possession of him. Her
lust of cruelty crept upon him like a disease, the progress of which
was hastened by all the circumstances of his disorderly life. The
man was conscious of his degradation; he knew how he had fallen ever
since he began criminal practices; he knew the increasing
hopelessness of his resolves to have done with dangers and recover
his peace of mind. The loss of his daily work, in consequence of
irregularity, was the last thing needed to complete his ruin. He did
not even try to get new employment, feeling that such a show of
honest purpose was useless. Corruption was eating to his heart; from
every interview with Clem he came away a feebler and a baser being.
And upon the unresisting creature who shared his home he had begun
to expend the fury of his self-condemnation.

He hated her because Clem bade him do so. He hated her because her
suffering rebuked him, because he must needs be at the cost of
keeping her alive, because he was bound to her.

As she moved painfully about the room he watched her with cruel,
dangerous eyes. There was a thought tormenting his brain, a
terrifying thought he had pledged himself not to dismiss, and it
seemed to exasperate him against Pennyloaf. He had horrible
impulses, twitches along his muscles; every second the restraint of
keeping in one position grew more unendurable, yet he feared to
move.

Pennyloaf had the ill-luck to drop a saucer, and it broke on the
floor. In the same instant he leapt up and sprang on her, seized her
brutally by the shoulders and flung her with all his force against
the nearest wall. At her scream the child set up a shrill cry, and
this increased his rage. With his clenched fist he dealt blow after
blow at the half-prostrate woman, speaking no word, but uttering a
strange sound, such as might come from some infuriate animal.
Pennyloaf still screamed, till at length the door was thrown open
and their neighbour, Mrs. Griffin, showed herself.

'Well, I never!' she cried, wrathfully, rushing upon Bob. 'Now you
just stop that, young man! I thought it 'ud be comin' to this before
long. I saw you was goin' that way.'

The mildness of her expressions was partly a personal
characteristic, partly due to Mrs. Griffin's very large experience
of such scenes as this. Indignant she might be, but the situation
could not move her to any unwonted force of utterance. Enough that
Bob drew back as soon as he was bidden, and seemed from his silence
to be half-ashamed of himself.

Pennyloaf let herself lie at full length on the floor, her hands
clutched protectingly about her head; she sobbed in a quick,
terrified way, and appeared powerless to stop, even when Mrs.
Griffin tried to raise her.

'What's he been a-usin' you like this for?' the woman kept asking.
'There, there now! He shan't hit you no more, he shan't!'

Whilst she spoke Bob turned away and went from the room.

From Merlin Place he struck off into Pentonville and walked towards
King's Cross at his utmost speed. Not that he had any object in
hastening, but a frenzy goaded him along, faster, faster, till the
sweat poured from him. From King's Cross, northwards; out to
Holloway, to Hornsey. A light rain was ceaselessly falling; at one
time he took off his hat and walked some distance bareheaded,
because it was a pleasure to feel the rain trickle over him. From
Hornsey by a great circuit he made back for Islington. Here he went
into a public-house, to quench the thirst that had grown unbearable.
He had but a shilling in his pocket, and in bringing it out he was
reminded of the necessity of getting more money. He was to have met
Jack Bartley to-night, long before this hour.

He took the direction for Smithfield, and soon reached the alley
near Bartholomew's Hospital where Bartley dwelt. As he entered the
street he saw a small crowd gathered about a public-house door; he
hurried nearer, and found that the object of interest was a man in
the clutch of two others. The latter, he perceived at a glance, were
police-officers in plain clothes; the man arrested was--Jack
Bartley himself.

Jack was beside himself with terror; he had only that moment been
brought out of the bar, and was pleading shrilly in an agony of
cowardice.

'It ain't me as made 'em! I never made one in my life! I'll tell you
who it is--I'll tell you where to find him--it's Bob Hewett as
lives in Merlin Place! You've took the wrong man. It ain't me as
made 'em! I'll tell you the whole truth, or may I never speak
another word! It's Bob Hewett made 'em all--he lives in Merlin
Place, Clerkenwell. I'll tell you--'

Thus far had Bob heard before he recovered sufficiently from the
shock to move a limb. The officers were urging their prisoner
forward, grinning and nodding to each other, whilst several voices
from the crowd shouted abusively at the poltroon whose first
instinct was to betray his associate. Bob turned his face away and
walked on. He did not dare to run, yet the noises behind him kept
his heart leaping with dread. A few paces and he was out of the
alley. Even yet he durst not run. He had turned in the unlucky
direction; the crowd was still following. For five minutes he had to
keep advancing, then at last he was able to move off at right
angles. The crowd passed the end of the street.

Only then did complete panic get possession of him. With a bound
forward like that of a stricken animal he started in blind flight.
He came to a crossing, and rushed upon it regardless of the traffic,
Before he could gain the farther pavement the shaft of a cart struck
him on the breast and threw him down. The vehicle was going at a
slow pace, and could be stopped almost immediately; he was not
touched by the wheel. A man helped him to his feet and inquired if
he were hurt.

'Hurt? No, no; it's all right.'

To the surprise of those who had witnessed the accident, he walked
quickly on, scarcely feeling any pain. But in a few minutes there
came a sense of nausea and a warm rush in his throat; he staggered
against the wall and vomited a quantity of blood. Again he was
surrounded by sympathising people; again he made himself free of
them and hastened on. But by now he suffered acutely; he could not
run, so great was the pain it cost him when he began to breathe
quickly. His mouth was full of blood again.

Where could he find a hiding-place? The hunters were after him, and,
however great his suffering, he must go through it in secrecy. But
in what house could he take refuge? He had not money enough to pay
for a lodging.

He looked about him; tried to collect his thoughts. By this time the
police would have visited Merlin Place; they would be waiting there
to trap him. He was tempted towards Farringdon Road Buildings;
surely his father would not betray him, and he was in such dire need
of kindly help. But it would not be safe; the police would search
there.

Shooter's Gardens? There was the room where lived Pennyloaf's
drunken mother and her brother. They would not give him up. He could
think of no other refuge, at all events, and must go there if he
would not drop in the street.

CHAPTER XXXVII

MAD JACK'S DREAM

It was not much more than a quarter of an hour's walk, but pain and
fear made the distance seem long; he went out of his way, too, for
the sake of avoiding places that were too well lighted. The chief
occupation of his thoughts was in conjecturing what could have led
to Bartley's arrest. Had the fellow been such a fool as to attempt
passing a bad coin when he carried others of the same kind in his
pocket? Or had the arrest of some other 'pal' in some way thrown
suspicion on Jack? Be it as it might, the game was up. With the
usual wisdom which comes too late, Bob asked himself how he could
ever have put trust in Bartley, whom he knew to be as mean-spirited
a cur as breathed. On the chance of making things easier for
himself, Jack would betray every secret in his possession. What hope
was there of escaping capture, even if a hiding-place could be found
for a day or two? If he had his hand on Jack Bartley's gizzard

Afraid to appear afraid, in dread lest his muddy clothing should
attract observation, he kept, as often as possible, the middle of
the road, and with relief saw at length the narrow archway, with its
descending steps, which was one entrance to Shooter's Gardens. As
usual, two or three loafers were hanging about here, exchanging
blasphemies and filthy vocables, but, even if they recognised him,
there was not much fear of their giving assistance to the police.
With head bent he slouched past them, unchallenged. At the bottom of
the steps, where he was in all but utter darkness, his foot slipped
on garbage of some kind, and with a groan he fell on his aide.

'Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall,' cried a
high-pitched voice from close by.

Bob knew that the speaker was the man notorious in this locality as
Mad Jack. Raising himself with difficulty, he looked round and saw a
shape crouching in the corner.

'What is the principal thing?' continued the crazy voice. 'Wisdom is
the principal thing.'

And upon that followed a long speech which to Bob sounded as
gibberish, but which was in truth tolerably good French, a language
Mad Jack was fond of using, though he never made known how he had
acquired it.

Bob stumbled on, and quickly came to the house where be hoped to
find a refuge. The door was, of course, open; he went in and groped
his way up the staircase. A knock at the door of the room which he
believed to be still tenanted by Mrs. Candy and her son brought no
reply. He turned the handle, but found that the door was locked.

It was not late, only about ten o'clock. Stephen Candy could not, of
course, be back yet from his work, and the woman was probably
drinking somewhere. But he must make sure that they still lived
here. Going down to the floor below, he knocked at the room occupied
by the Hope family, and Mrs. Hope, opening the door a few inches,
asked his business.

'Does Mrs. Candy still live upstairs?' he inquired in a feigned
voice, and standing back in the darkness.

'For all I know.'

And the door closed sharply. He had no choice but to wait and see if
either of his acquaintances returned. For a few minutes he sat on
the staircase, but as at any moment some one might stumble over him,
he went down to the backdoor, which was open, like that in front,
and passed out into the stone-paved yard. Here he seated himself on
the ground, leaning against a corner of the wall, He was suffering
much from his injury, but could at all events feel secure from the
hunters.

The stones were wet, and rain fell upon him. As he looked up at the
lighted windows in the back of the house, he thought of Pennyloaf,
who by this time most likely knew his danger. Would she be glad of
it, feeling herself revenged? His experience of her did not
encourage him to believe that. To all his ill-treatment she had
never answered with anything but tears and submission. He found
himself wishing she were near, to be helpful to him in his
suffering.

Clem could not learn immediately what had come to pass. Finding he
did not keep his appointment for the day after to-morrow, she would
conclude that he had drawn back. But perhaps Jack Bartley's case
would be in the newspapers on that day, and his own name might
appear in the evidence before the magistrates; if Clem learnt the
truth in that way, she would be not a little surprised. He had never
hinted to her the means by which he had been obtaining money.

Voices began to sound from the passage within the house; several
young fellows, one or other of whom probably lived here, had entered
to be out of the rain. One voice, very loud and brutal, Bob quickly
recognised; it was that of Ned Higgs, the ruffian with whom
Bartley's wife had taken up. The conversation was very easy to
overhear; it contained no reference to the 'copping' of Jack.

'Fag ends!' this and that voice kept crying.

Bob understood. One of the noble company had been fortunate enough
to pig up the end of a cigar somewhere, and it was the rule among
them that he who called out 'Fag ends!' established a claim for a
few whiffs. In this way the delicacy was passing from mouth to
mouth. That the game should end in quarrel was quite in order, and
sure enough, before very long, Ned Higgs was roaring his defiances
to a companion who had seized the bit of tobacco unjustly.

'I 'ollered fag-end after Snuffy Bill!'

'You're a ---- liar! I did!'

'You! You're a ----! I'll--your--in arf a ---- second!'

Then came the sound of a scuffle, the thud of blows, the wild-beast
bellowing of infuriate voices. Above all could be heard the roar of
Ned Higgs. A rush, and it was plain that the combatants had gone out
into the alley to have more room. For a quarter of an hour the yells
from their drink-sodden throats echoed among the buildings.
Quietness was probably caused by the interference of police; knowing
that, Bob shrank together in his lurking-place.

When all had been still for some time he resolved to go upstairs
again and try the door, for his breathing grew more and more
painful, and there was a whirling in his head which made him fear
that he might become insensible. To rise was more difficult than he
had imagined; his head overweighted him, all but caused him to
plunge forward; he groped this way and that with his hands, seeking
vainly for something to cling to on the whitewashed wall. In his
depth of utter misery he gave way and sobbed several times. Then
once more he had the warm taste of blood in his mouth.
Terror-stricken, he staggered into the house.

This time a voice answered to his knock. He opened the door.

The room contained no article of furniture. In one corner lay some
rags, and on the mantel-piece stood a tin teapot, two cups, and a
plate. There was no fire, but a few pieces of wood lay near the
hearth, and at the bottom of the open cupboard remained a very small
supply of coals. A candle made fast in the neck of a bottle was the
source of light.

On the floor was sitting, or lying, an animated object,
indescribable; Bob knew it for Mrs. Candy. Her eyes looked up at him
apprehensively.

'I want to stay the night over, if you'll let me.' he said, when he
had closed the door. 'I've got to hide away; nobody mustn't know as
I'm here.'

'You're welcome,' the woman replied, in a voice which was horrible
to hear.

Then she paid no more attention to him, but leaned her head upon her
hand and began a regular moaning, as if she suffered some dull,
persistent pain.

Bob crept up to the wall and let himself sink there. He could not
reflect for more than a minute or two continuously; his brain then
became a mere confused whirl. In one of the intervals of his perfect
consciousness he asked Mrs. Candy if Stephen would come here
to-night. She did not heed him till he had twice repeated the
question, and then she started and looked at him in wild fear.

'Will Stephen be coming?'

'Stephen? Yes, yes. I shouldn't wonder.'

She seemed to fall asleep as soon as she had spoken; her bead
dropped heavily on the boards.

Not long after midnight the potman made his appearance. As always,
on returning from his sixteen-hour day of work, he was all but
insensible with fatigue. Entering the room, he turned his white face
with an expression of stupid wonderment to the corner in which Bob
lay. The latter raised himself to a sitting posture.

'That you, Bob Hewett?'

'I want to stop here over the night,' replied the other, speaking
with difficulty. 'I can't go home. There's something up.'

'With Pennyloaf?'

'No. I've got to hide away. And I'm feeling bad--awful bad. Have
you got anything to drink?'

Stephen, having listened with a face of a somnambulist, went to the
mantel-piece and looked into the teapot. It was empty.

'You can go to the tap in the yard,' he said.

'I couldn't get so far. Oh, I feel bad!'

'I'll fetch you some water.'

A good-hearted animal, this poor Stephen; a very tolerable human
being, had he had fair-play. He would not abandon his wretched
mother, though to continue living with her meant hunger and cold and
yet worse evils. For himself, his life was supported chiefly on the
three pints of liquor which he was allowed every day. His arms and
legs were those of a living skeleton; his poor idiotic face was made
yet more repulsive by disease. Yet you could have seen that he was
the brother of Pennyloaf; there was Pennyloaf's submissive
beast-of-burden look in his eyes, and his voice had something that
reminded one of hers.

'The coppers after you?' he whispered, stooping down to Bob with the
teacup he had filled with water.

Bob nodded, then drained the cup eagerly.

'I get knocked down by a cab or something,' he added. 'It hit me
just here. I may feel better when I've rested a bit. 'Haven't you
got no furniture left?'

'They took it last Saturday was a week. Took it for rent. I thought
we didn't owe nothing, but mother told me she'd paid when she
hadn't. I got leave to stop, when I showed 'em as I could pay in
future; but they wouldn't trust me to make up them three weeks. They
took the furniture. It's 'ard, I call it. I asked my guvnor if it
was law for them to take mother's bed-things, an' he said yes it
was. When it's for rent they can take everything, even to your
beddin' an' tools.'

Yes; they can take everything. How foolish of Stephen Candy and his
tribe not to be born of the class of landlords! The inconvenience of
having no foothold on the earth's surface is so manifest.

'I couldn't say nothing to her,' he continued, nodding towards the
prostrate woman. 'She was sorry for it, an' you can't ask no more.
It was my fault for trustin' her with the money to pay, but I get a
bit careless now an' then, an' forgot. You do look bad, Bob, an'
there's no mistake. Would you feel better if I lighted a bit o'
fire?'

'Yes; I feel cold. I was hot just now.'

'You needn't be afraid o' the coals. Mother goes round the streets
after the coal-carts, an' you wouldn't believe what a lot she picks
up some days. You see, we're neither of us in the 'ouse very often;
we don't burn much.'

He lit a fire, and Bob dragged himself near to it. In the meantime
the quietness of the house was suffering a disturbance familiar to
its denizens. Mr. Hope--you remember Mr. Hope?--had just
returned from an evening at the public-house, and was bent on
sustaining his reputation for unmatched vigour of language. He was
quarrelling with his wife and daughters; their high notes of
vituperation mingled in the most effective way with his manly
thunder. To hear Mr. Hope's expressions, a stranger would have
imagined him on the very point of savagely murdering all his family.

Another voice became audible. It was that of Ned Higgs, who had
opened his door to bellow curses at the disturbers of his rest.

'They'll be wakin' mother,' said Stephen. 'There, I knew they
would.'

Mrs. Candy stirred, and, after a few vain efforts to raise herself,
started up suddenly. She fixed her eyes on the fire, which was just
beginning to blaze, and uttered a dreadful cry, a shriek of mad
terror.

'O God!' groaned her son. 'I hope it ain't goin' to be one of her
bad nights. Mother, mother! what's wrong with you? See, come to the
fire an' warm yourself, mother.'

She repeated the cry two or three times, but with less violence;
then, as though exhausted, she fell face downwards, her arms folded
about her head. The moaning which Bob had beard earlier in the
evening recommenced.

Happily, it was not to be one of her bad nights. Fits of the horrors
only came upon her twice before morning. Towards one o'clock Stephen
had sunk into a sleep which scarcely any conceivable uproar could
have broken; he lay with his head on his right arm, his legs
stretched out at full length; his breathing was light. Bob was much
later in getting rest. As often as he slumbered for an instant, the
terrible image of his fear rose manifest before him; he saw himself
in the clutch of his hunters, just like Jack Bartley, and woke to
lie quivering. Must not that be the end of it, sooner or later?
Might he not as well give himself up to-morrow? But the thought of
punishment such as his crime receives was unendurable. It haunted
him in nightmare when sheer exhaustion had at length weighed down
his eyelids.

Long before daybreak he was conscious again, tormented with thirst
and his head aching woefully. Someone had risen in the room above,
and was tramping about in heavy boots. The noise seemed to disturb
Mrs. Candy; she cried out in her sleep. In a few minutes the early
riser came forth and began to descend the stairs; he was going to
his work.

A little while, and in the court below a voice shouted, 'Bill Bill!'
Another worker being called, doubtless.

At seven o'clock Stephen roused himself. He took a piece of soap
from a shelf of the cupboard, threw a dirty rag over his arm, and
went down to wash at the tap in the yard. Only on returning did he
address Bob.

'Feelin' any better?'

'I think so. But I'm very bad.'

'Are you goin' to stay here?'

'I don't know.'

'Got any money?'

'Yes. Ninepence. Could you get me something to drink?'

Stephen took twopence, went out, and speedily returned with a large
mug of coffee; from his pocket he brought forth a lump of cake,
which had cost a halfpenny. This, he thought. might tempt a sick
appetite. His own breakfast he would take at the coffee-shop.

'Mother'll get you anything else you want,' he said. 'She knows
herself generally first thing in the morning. Let her take back the
mug; I had to leave threepence on it.'

So Stephen also went forth to his labour--in this case, it may
surely be said, the curse of curses. . . .

At this hour Pennyloaf bestirred herself after a night of weeping.
Last evening the police had visited her room, and had searched it
thoroughly. The revelation amazed her; she would not believe the
charge that was made against her husband. She became angry with Mrs.
Griffin when that practical woman said she was not at all surprised.
Utterly gone was her resentment of Bob's latest cruelty. His failure
to return home seemed to prove that he had been arrested, and she
could think of nothing but the punishment that awaited him.

'It's penal servitude,' remarked Mrs. Griffin, frankly. 'Five, or
p'r'aps ten years. I've heard of 'em gettin' sent for life.'

Pennyloaf would not believe in the possibility of this befalling her
husband. It was too cruel. There would be some pity, some mercy. She
had a confused notion of witnesses being called to give a man a good
character, and strengthened herself in the thought of what she would
say, under such circumstances on Bob's behalf. 'He's been a good
'usband,' she kept repeating to Mrs. Griffin, and to the other
neighbours who crowded to indulge their curiosity. 'There's nobody
can say as he ain't been a good 'usband; it's a lie if they do.'

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