The Nether World

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By eight o'clock she was at the police-station. With fear she
entered the ugly doorway and approached a policeman who stood in the
ante-room. When she had made her inquiry, the man referred her to
the inspector. She was asked many questions, but to her own received
no definite reply; she had better look in again the next morning.

'It's my belief they ain't got him,' said Mrs. Griffin. 'He's had a
warnin' from his pals.'

Pennyloaf would dearly have liked to communicate with Jane Snowdon,
but shame prevented her. All day she stood by the house door,
looking eagerly now this way, now that, with an unreasoning hope
that Bob might show himself. She tried to believe that he was only
keeping away because of his behaviour to her the night before; it
was the first time he had laid hand upon her, and he felt ashamed of
himself. He would come back, and this charge against him would be
proved false; Pennyloaf could not distinguish between her desire
that something might happen and the probability of its doing so.

But darkness fell upon the streets, and her watch was kept in rain.
She dreaded the thought of passing another night in uncertainty.
Long ago her tears had dried up; she had a parched throat and
trembling, feverish hands. Between seven and eight o'clock she went
to Mrs. Griffin and begged her to take care of the child for a
little while.

'I'm goin' to see if I can hear anything about him. Somebody may
know where he is.'

And first of all she directed her steps to Shooter's Gardens. It was
very unlikely that her mother could be of any use, but she would
seek there. Afterwards she must go to Farringdon Road Buildings,
though never yet had she presented herself to Bob's father.

You remember that the Gardens had an offshoot, which was known
simply as The Court. In this blind alley there stood throughout the
day a row of baked-potato ovens, ten or a dozen of them, chained
together, the property of a local capitalist who let them severally
to men engaged in this business. At seven o'clock of an evening
fires were wont to be lighted under each of these baking-machines,
preparatory to their being wheeled away, each to its customary
street-corner. Now the lighting of fires entails the creation of
smoke, and whilst these ten or twelve ovens were getting ready to
bake potatoes the Court was in a condition not easily described. A
single lamp existed for the purpose of giving light to the alley,
and at no time did this serve much more than to make darkness
visible; at present the blind man would have fared as well in that
retreat as he who had eyes, and the marvel was how those who lived
there escaped suffocation. In the Gardens themselves volumes of
dense smoke every now and then came driven along by the cold gusts;
the air had a stifling smell and a bitter taste.

Pennyloaf found nothing remarkable in this phenomenon; it is hard to
say what would have struck her as worthy of indignant comment in her
world of little ease. But near the entrance to the Court, dimly
discernible amid sagging fumes, was a cluster of people, and as
everything of that kind just now excited her apprehensions, she drew
near to see what was happening. The gathering was around Mad Jack;
he looked more than usually wild, and with one hand raised above his
head was on the point of relating a vision he had had the night
before.

'Don't laugh! Don't any of you laugh; for as sure as I live it was
an angel stood in the room and spoke to me. There was a light such
as none of you ever saw, and the angel stood in the midst of it. And
he said to me: "Listen, whilst I reveal to you the truth, that you
may know where you arc and what you are; and this is done for a
great purpose." And I fell down on my knees; but never a word could
I have spoken. Then the angel said: "You are passing through a state
of punishment. You, and all the poor among whom you live; all those
who are in suffering of body and darkness of mind, were once rich
people, with every blessing the world can bestow, with every
opportunity of happiness in yourselves and of making others happy.
Because you made an ill use of your wealth, because you were selfish
and hard-hearted and oppressive and sinful in every kind of
indulgence--therefore after death you received the reward of
wickedness. This life you are now leading is that of the damned;
this place to which you are confined is Hell! There is no escape for
you. From poor you shall become poorer; the older you grow the lower
shall you sink in want and misery; at the end there is waiting for
you, one and all, a death in abandonment and despair. This is
Hell--Hell--Hell!"'

His voice had risen in pitch, and the last cry was so terrifying
that Pennyloaf fled to be out of hearing. She reached the house to
which her visit was, and in the dark passage leaned for a moment
against the wall, trembling all over. Then she began to ascend the
stairs. At Mrs. Candy's door she knocked gently. There was at first
no answer, but when she had knocked again, a strange voice that she
did not recognise asked 'Who's that?' It seemed to come from low
down, as if the speaker were lying on the floor.

'It's me,' she replied, again trembling, she knew not with what
fear. 'Mrs. Hewett--Pennyloaf.'

'Are you alone?'

She bent down, listening eagerly.

'Who's that speakin'?'

'Are you alone?'

Strange; the voice was again different, very feeble, a thick
whisper.

'Yes, there's nobody else. Can I come in?'

There was a shuffling sound, then the key turned in the lock,
Pennyloaf entered, and found herself in darkness. She shrank back.

'Who's there? Is it you, mother? Is it you, Stephen?'

Some one touched her, at the same time shutting the door; and the
voice whispered:

'Penny--it's me--Bob.'

She uttered a cry, stretching out her hands. A head was leaning
against her, and she bent down to lay hers against it.

'O Bob! What are you doin' here? Why are you in the dark? What's the
matter, Bob?'

'I've had an accident, Penny. I feel awful bad. Your mother's gone
out to buy a candle. Have they been coming after me?'

'Yes, yes. But I didn't know you was here. I came to ask if they
knew where you was. O Bob! what's happened to you? Why are you lyin'
there, Bob?'

She had folded her arms about him, and held his face to hers,
sobbing, kissing him.

'It's all up,' he gasped. 'I've been getting worse all day. You'll
have to fetch the parish doctor. They'll have me, but I can't help
it. I feel as if I was going.'

'They shan't take you, Bob. Oh no, they shan't. The doctor needn't
know who you are.'

'It was a cab knocked me down, when I was running. I'm awful bad,
Penny. You'll do something for me, won't you?'

'Oh, why didn't you send mother for me?'

The door opened. It was Mrs. Candy who entered. She slammed the
door, turned the key, and exclaimed in a low voice of alarm:

'Bob, there's the p'lice downstairs! They come just this minute.
There's one gone to the back-door, and there's one talkin' to Mrs.
Hope at the front.'

'Then they've followed Pennyloaf,' he replied, in a tone of despair.
'They've followed Pennyloaf.'

It was the truth. She had been watched all day, and was now tracked
to Shooter's Gardens, to this house. Mrs. Candy struck a match, and
for an instant illuminated the wretched room; she looked at the two,
and they at length saw each other's faces. Then the little flame was
extinguished, and a red spot marked the place where the remnant of
the match lay.

'Shall I light the candle?' the woman asked in a whisper.

Neither replied, for there was a heavy foot on the stairs. It came
nearer. A hand tried the door, then knocked loudly.

'Mrs. Candy,' cried a stranger.

The three crouched together, terror-stricken, holding their breath.
Pennyloaf pressed her husband in an agonised embrace.

'Mrs. Candy, you're wanted on business. Open the door. If you don't
open, we shall force it.'

'No--no!' Pennyloaf whispered in her mother's ear. 'They shan't
come in! Don't stir.'

'Are you going to open the door?'

It was a different speaker--brief, stern. Ten seconds, and there
came a tremendous crash; the crazy door, the whole wall, quivered
and cracked and groaned. The crash was repeated, and effectually;
with a sound of ripping wood the door flew open and a light streamed
into the room.

Useless, Pennyloaf, useless. That fierce kick, making ruin of your
rotten barrier, is dealt with the whole force of Law, of Society;
you might as well think of resisting death when your hour shall
come.

'There he is,' observed one of the men, calmly. 'Hollo! what's up?'

'You can't take him away!' Pennyloaf cried, falling down again by
Bob and clinging to him. 'He's ill, You can't take him like this!'

'Ill, is he? Then the sooner our doctor sees him the better. Up you
get, my man!'

But there are some things that even Law and Society cannot command.
Bob lay insensible. Shamming? Well, no; it seemed not. Send for a
stretcher, quickly.

No great delay. Pennyloaf sat in mute anguish, Bob's head on her
lap. On the staircase was a crowd of people, talking, shouting,
whistling; presently they were cleared away by a new arrival of
officials. Room for Law and Society!

The stretcher arrived; the senseless body was carried down and laid
upon it--a policeman at each end, and, close clinging, Pennyloaf.

Above the noise of the crowd rose a shrill, wild voice, chanting:

'All ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify
Him for ever!'

CHAPTER XXXVIII

JOSEPH TRANSACTS MUCH BUSINESS

Amid the anguish of heart and nerve which she had to endure whilst
her grandfather lay dead in the house, Jane found and clung to one
thought of consolation. He had not closed his eyes in the bitterness
of disappointment. The end might have come on that miserable day
when her weakness threatened the defeat of all his hopes, and how
could she then have borne it? True or not, it would have seemed to
her that she had killed him; she could not have looked on his face,
and all the rest of her life would have been remorsefully shadowed.
Now the dead features were unreproachful; nay, when she overcame her
childish tremors and gazed calmly, it was easy to imagine that he
smiled. Death itself had come without pain. An old man, weary after
his long journeys, after his many griefs and the noble striving of
his thought, surely he rested well.

During the last days be had been more affectionate with her than was
his habit; she remembered it with gratitude. Words of endearment
seldom came to his lips, but since the reconciliation he had more
than once spoken tenderly. Doubtless he was anxious to assure her
that she had again all his confidence. Strengthening herself in that
reflection, she strove to put everything out of her mind save the
duty which must henceforth direct her. Happily, there could be no
more strife with the promptings of her weaker self; circumstances
left but one path open before her; and that, however difficult, the
one she desired to tread. Henceforth memory must dwell on one thing
only in the past, her rescue by Michael Snowdon, her nurture under
his care. Though he could no longer speak, the recollection of his
words must be her unfailing impulse. In her his spirit must survive,
his benevolence still be operative.

At her wish, her father acquainted Sidney Kirkwood with what had
happened. Sidney did not visit her, but he wrote a letter, which,
having read it many times, she put carefully away to be a resource
if ever her heart failed. Mr. Percival came to the house on Monday,
in the company of Joseph Snowdon; he was sympathetic, but made no
direct reference to her position either now or in the future. Whilst
he and her father transacted matters of business in the upper rooms,
Jane remained downstairs with Mrs. Byass. Before quitting the house
he asked her if she had had any communication with Miss Lant yet.

'I ought to write and tell her,' replied Jane.

'I will do so for you,' said the lawyer, kindly.

And on taking leave he held her hand for a moment, looking
compassionately into her pale face.

On Thursday morning there arrived a letter from Miss Lant, who
happened to be out of town and grieved that she could not return in
time for the funeral, which would be that day. There was nothing
about the future, excepting a promise that the writer would come
very shortly.

Michael was buried at Abney Park Cemetery; no ray of sunlight fell
upon his open grave, but the weather was mild, and among the budded
trees passed a breath which was the promise of spring. Joseph
Snowdon and the Byasses were Jane's only companions in the
mourning-carriage; but at the cemetery they were joined by Sidney
Kirkwood. Jane saw him and felt the pressure of his hand, but she
could neither speak nor understand anything that was said to her.

On Friday morning, before she had made a show of eating the
breakfast Bessie Byass prepared for her, a visitor arrived.

'She says her name's Mrs. Griffin,' said Bessie, 'and she has
something very important to tell you. Do you feel you can see her?'

'Mrs. Griffin? Oh, I remember; she lives in the same house as
Pennyloaf. Yes: let her come in.'

The woman was introduced to the Byasses' parlour, which Bessie
thought more cheerful for Jane just now then the room upstairs.

'Have you heard anything of what's been goin on with the Hewetts,
Miss?' she began.

'No, I haven't been able to go out this week. I've had trouble at
home.'

'I see at once as you was in in mournin', Miss, an' I'm sorry for
it. You're lookin' nothing like yourself. I don't know whether it's
right to upset you with other people's bothers, but there's that
poor Mrs. Hewett in such a state, and I said as I'd run round,
'cause she seems to think there's nobody else can come to her help
as you can. I always knew as something o' this kind 'ud be
'appenin'.'

'But what is it? What has happened?'

Jane felt her energies revive at this appeal for help. It was the
best thing that could have befallen, now that she was wearily
despondent after yesterday's suffering.

'Her 'usband's dead, Miss.'

'Dead?'

'But that ain't the worst of it. He was took by the perlice last
night, which they wanted him for makin' bad money. I always have
said as it's a cruel thing that: 'cause how can you tell who gets
the bad coin, an' it may be some pore person as can't afford to lose
not a 'apenny. But that's what he's been up to, an' this long time,
as it appears.'

In her dialect, which requires so many words for the narration of a
simple story, Mrs. Griffin told what she knew concerning Bob
Hewett's accident and capture; his death had taken place early this
morning, and Pennyloaf was all but crazy with grief. To Jane these
things sounded so extraordinary that for some time she could
scarcely put a question, but sat in dismay, listening to the woman's
prolix description of all that had come to pass since Wednesday
evening. At length she called for Mrs. Byass, for whose benefit the
story was repeated.

'I'm sure you oughtn't to go there to-day,' was Bessie's opinion.
'You've quite enough trouble of your own, my dear.'

'And that's just what I was a-sayin', mum,' assented Mrs. Griffin,
who had won Bessie's highest opinion by her free use of respectful
forms of address. 'I never saw no one look iller, as you may say,
than the young lady.'

'Yes, yes, I will go,' said Jane, rising. 'My trouble's nothing to
hers. Oh, I shall go at once.'

'But remember your father's coming at half-past nine,' urged Bessie,
'and he said he wanted to speak to you particular.'

'What is the time now? A quarter to nine. I can be back by
half-past, I think, and then I can go again. Father wouldn't mind
waiting a few minutes. I must go at once, Mrs. Byass.'

She would hear no objection, and speedily left the house in Mrs.
Griffin's company.

At half-past nine, punctually, Mr. Snowdon's double knock sounded at
the door. Joseph looked more respectable than ever in his black
frock-coat and silk hat with the deep band. His bow to Mrs. Byass
was solemn, but gallant; he pressed her fingers like a clergyman
paying a visit of consolation, and in a subdued voice made
affectionate inquiry after his daughter.

'She has slept, I hope, poor child?'

Bessie took him into the sitting-room, and explained Jane's absence.

'A good girl; a good girl,' he remarked, after listening with
elevated brows, 'But she must be careful of her health. My visit
this morning is on matters of business; no doubt she will tell you
the principal points of our conversation afterwards. An excellent
friend you have been to her, Mrs. Byass--excellent.'

'I'm sure I don't see how anyone could help liking her,' said
Bessie, inwardly delighted with the expectation of hearing at length
what Jane's circumstances really were.

'Indeed, so good a friend,' pursued Joseph, 'that I'm afraid it
would distress her if she could no longer live with you. And the
fact is'--he bent forward and smiled sadly--'I'm sure I may
speak freely to you, Mrs. Byass--but the fact is, that I'm very
doubtful indeed whether she could be happy if she lived with Mrs.
Snowdon. I suppose there's always more or less difficulty where
step-children are concerned, and in this case--well, I fear the
incompatibility would be too great. To be sure, it places me in a
difficult position. Jane's very young--very young; only just
turned seventeen, poor child! Out of the question for her to live
with strangers. I had some hopes--I wonder whether I ought to
speak of it? You know Mr. Kirkwood?'

'Yes, indeed. I can't tell you how surprised I was, Mr. Snowdon. And
there seems to be such a mystery about it, too.'

Bessie positively glowed with delight in such confidential talk. It
was her dread that Jane's arrival might put an end to it before
everything was revealed.

'A mystery, you may well say, Mrs. Byass. I think highly of Mr.
Kirkwood, very highly; but really in this affair! It's almost too
painful to talk about--to _you_.'

Bessie blushed, as becomes the Englishwoman of mature years when she
is gracefully supposed to be ignorant of all it most behoves her to
know.

'Well, well; he is on the point of marrying a young person with whom
I should certainly not like my daughter to associate--fortunately
there is little chance of that. You were never acquainted with Miss
Hewett?'

'Ye--yes. A long time ago.'

'Well, well; we must be charitable. You know that she is dreadfully
disfigured?'

'Disfigured? Jane didn't say a word about that. She only told me
that Mr. Kirkwood was going to marry her, and I didn't like to ask
too many questions. I hadn't even heard as she was at home.'

Joseph related to her the whole story, whilst Bessie fidgeted with
satisfaction.

'I thought,' he added, 'that you could perhaps throw some light on
the mystery. We can only suppose that Kirkwood has acted from the
highest motives, but I really think--well, well, we won't talk of
it any more. I was led to this subject from speaking of this poor
girl's position. I wonder whether it will be possible for her to
continue to live in your friendly care Mrs. Byass?'

'Oh, I shall be only too glad, Mr. Snowdon!'

'Now how kind that is of you! Of course she wouldn't want more than
two rooms.'

'Of course not.'

Joseph was going further into details, when a latch-key was heard
opening the front door. Jane entered hurriedly. The rapid walk had
brought colour to her check; in her simple mourning attire she
looked very interesting, very sweet and girlish. She had been
shedding tears, and it was with unsteady voice that she excused
herself for keeping her father waiting.

'Never mind that, my dear,' replied Joseph, as he kissed her cheek.
'You have been doing good--unselfish as always. Sit down and rest;
you must be careful not to over-exert yourself.'

Bessie busied herself affectionately in removing Jane's hat and
jacket, then withdrew that father and child might converse in
private. Joseph looked at his daughter. His praise of her was not
all mere affectation of sentiment. He had spoken truly when he said
to Scawthorne that, but for Clem, he would ask nothing better than
to settle down with this gentle girl for his companion. Selfishness,
for the most part, but implying appreciation of her qualities. She
did not love him, but he was sincere enough with himself to admit
that this was perfectly natural. Had circumstances permitted, he
would have tried hard to win some affection from her. Poor little
girl! How would it affect her when she heard what he was going to
say? He felt angry with Kirkwood; yes, truly indignant--men are
capable of greater inconsistencies than this. She would not have
cared much about the money had Kirkwood married her; of that he felt
sure. She had lost her lover; now he was going to deprive her of her
inheritance. Cruel! Yes; but he really felt so well-disposed to her,
so determined to make her a comfortable provision for the future;
and had the money been hers, impossible to have regarded her thus.
Joseph was thankful to the chance which, in making him wealthy, had
also enabled him to nourish such virtuous feeling.

How should he begin? He had a bright idea, an idea worthy of him.
Thrusting his hand into his pocket he brought out half-a-crown.
Then:

'Your humble friend's in a sad condition, I'm afraid, Jane?'

'She is, father.'

'Suppose you give her this! Every little helps, you know.'

Jane received the coin and murmured thanks for his kindness, but
could not help betraying some surprise. Joseph was on the watch for
this. It gave him his exquisite opportunity.

'You're surprised at me offering you money, Jane? I believe your
poor grandfather led you to suppose that--that his will was made
almost entirely in your favour?'

Jane could not reply; she searched his face.

'Would it disappoint you very much, my child,' he continued,
sympathetically, 'if it turned out that he had either' altered his
mind or by some accident had neglected to make his will? I speak as
your father, Janey, and I think I have some knowledge of your
character. I think I know that you are as free from avarice as
anyone could be.'

Was it true? he began to ask himself. Why, then, had her countenance
fallen? Why did such a look of deep distress pass over it?

'The fact is, Janey,' he continued, hardening himself a little as he
noted her expression, 'your grandfather left no will. The result--
the legal result--of that is, that all his property becomes--ah--mine.
He--in fact he destroyed his will a very short time, comparatively
speaking, before he died, and he neglected to make another.
Unfortunately, you see, under these circumstances we can't be sure
what his wish was.'

She was deadly pale; there was anguish in the look with which she
regarded her father.

'I'm very sorry it pains you so, my dear,' Joseph remarked, still
more coldly. 'I didn't think you were so taken up with the thought
of money. Really, Jane, a young girl at your time of life--'

'Father, father, how can you think that? It wasn't to be for myself;
I thought you knew; indeed you did know!'

'But you looked so very strange, my dear. Evidently you felt--'

'Yes--I feel it--I do feel it! But because it means that
grandfather couldn't get back his trust in me. Oh, it is too hard!
When did he destroy his will? When, father?'

'Ten days before his death.'

'Yes; that was when it happened. You never heard; he promised to
tell nobody. I disappointed him. I showed myself very foolish and
weak in--in something that happened then. I made grandfather think
that I was too selfish to live as he hoped--that I couldn't do
what I'd undertaken. That was why he destroyed his will. And I
thought he had forgiven me! I thought he trusted me again! O
grandfather!'

Snowdon was astonished at the explanation of his own good luck, and
yet more at Jane's display of feeling. So quiet, so reserved as he
had always known her, she seemed to have become another person. For
some moments he could only gaze at her in wonder. Never yet had he
heard, never again would he hear, the utterance of an emotion so
profound and so noble.

'Jane--try and control yourself, my dear. Let's talk it over,
Jane.'

'I feel as if it would break my heart. I thought I had that one
thing to comfort me. It's like losing him again--losing his
confidence. To think I should have disappointed him in just what he
hoped more than anything!'

'But you're mistaken,' Joseph exclaimed, a generous feeling for once
getting the better of prudence. 'Listen, my dear, and I'll explain
to you. I hadn't finished when you interrupted me.'

She clasped her hands upon her lap and gazed at him in eager appeal.

'Did he say anything to you, father?'

'No--and you may be quite sure that if he _hasn't_ trusted you, he
_would_have said something. What's more, on the very day before his
death be wrote a letter to Mr. Percival, to say that he wanted to
make his will again. He was going to do it on the Monday--there
now It was only an accident; he hadn't time to do what he wished.'

This was making a concession which he had expressly resolved to
guard against; but Joseph's designs ripened, lost their crudity, as
he saw more and more of his daughter's disposition. He was again
grateful to her; she had made things smoother than he could have
hoped.

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