The Nether World

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'You really think, father, that he would have made the same will as
before?'

'Not a doubt about it, my love; not a doubt of it. In fact--now
let me set your poor little mind at rest--only two days before his
death--when was it I saw him last? Friday? Thursday?--he said to
me that he had a higher opinion of you than ever. There now, Jane!'

She would have deemed it impossible for anyone to utter less than
truth in such connection as this. Her eyes gleamed with joy.

'Now you understand just how it was, Jane. What we have to talk
about now is, how we can arrange things so as to carry out your
grandfather's wish. I am your guardian, my dear. Now I'm sure you
wouldn't desire to have command of large sums of money before you
are twenty-one? Just so; your grandfather didn't intend it. Well,
first let me ask you this question. Would you rather live with--
with your stepmother, or with your excellent friend Mrs. Byass? I
see what your answer is, and I approve it; I fully approve it. Now
suppose we arrange that you are to have an allowance of two pounds a
week? It is just possible--just possible--that I may have to go
abroad on business before long; in that case the payment would be
made to you through an agent. Do you feel it would be satisfactory?'

Jane was thinking how much of this sum could be saved to give away.

'It seems little? But you see--'

'No, no, father. It is quite enough.'

'Good. We understand each other. Of course this is a temporary
arrangement. I must have time to think over grandfather's ideas.
Why, you are a mere child yet, Janey. Seventeen! A mere child, my
dear!'

Forgetting the decorum imposed by his costume, Joseph became all but
gay, so delightfully were things arranging themselves. A hundred a
year he could very well afford just to keep his conscience at ease;
and for Jane it would be wealth. Excellent Mrs. Byass was as good a
guardian as could anywhere be found, and Jane's discretion forbade
any fear on her account when--business should take him away.

'Well now, we've talked quite long enough. Don't think for a moment
that you hadn't your grandfather's confidence, my dear; it would be
distressing yourself wholly without reason--wholly. Be a good girl--why,
there you see; I speak to you as if you were a child. And so you are,
poor little girl--far too young to have worldly troubles. No, no;
I must relieve you of all that, until--Well now, I'll leave you for
to-day. Good-bye, my dear.'

He kissed her cheek, but Jane, sobbing a little, put her pure lips
to his. Joseph looked about him for an instant as if he had
forgotten something, then departed with what seemed unnecessary
haste.

Jane and Mrs. Byass had a long talk before dinner-time. Mystery was
at an end between them now; they talked much of the past, more of
the future.

At two o'clock Jane received a visit from Miss Lant. This lady was
already apprised by her friend Mr. Percival of all that had come to
pass; she was prepared to exercise much discretion, but Jane soon
showed her that this was needless, The subject of pressing
importance to the latter was Pennyloaf's disastrous circumstances;
unable to do all she wished, Jane was much relieved when her
charitable friend proposed to set off to Merlin Place forthwith and
ascertain how help could most effectually be given. Yes; it was good
to be constrained to think of another's sorrows.

There passed a fortnight, during which Jane spent some hours each
day with Pennyloaf. By the kindness of fate only one of Bob's
children survived him, but it was just this luckless infant whose
existence made Pennyloaf's position so difficult. Alone, she could
have gone back to her slop-work, or some less miserable slavery
might have been discovered; but Pennyloaf dreaded leaving her child
each day in the care of strangers, being only too well aware what
that meant. Mrs. Candy was, of course, worse than useless; Stephen
the potman had more than his work set in looking after her. Whilst
Miss Lant and Jane were straining their wits on the hardest of all
problems--to find a means of livelihood for one whom society
pronounced utterly superfluous, Pennyloaf most unexpectedly solved
the question by her own effort. Somewhere near the Meat Market, one
night, she encountered an acquaintance, a woman of not much more
than her own age, who had recently become a widow, and was
supporting herself (as well as four little ones) by keeping a stall
at which she sold children's secondhand clothing; her difficulty was
to dispose of her children whilst she was doing business at night.
Pennyloaf explained her own position, and with the result that her
acquaintance, by name Mrs. Todd, proposed a partnership. Why
shouldn't they share a room, work together with the needle in
patching and making, and by Pennyloaf's staying at home each evening
keep the tribe of youngsters out of danger? This project was carried
out; the two brought their furniture together into a garret, and it
seemed probable that they would succeed in keeping themselves alive.

But before this settlement was effected Jane's own prospects had
undergone a change of some importance. For a fortnight nothing was
heard of Joseph Snowdon in Hanover Street; then there came a letter
from him; it bore a Liverpool postmark, but was headed with no
address. Joseph wrote that the business to which he had alluded was
already summoning him from England; he regretted that there had not
even been time for him to say farewell to his daughter. However, he
would write to her occasionally during his absence, and hoped to
hear from her. The allowance of two pounds a week would be duly paid
by an agent, and on receiving it each Saturday she was to forward an
acknowledgment to 'Mr. H. Jones,' at certain reading-rooms in the
City. Let her in the meantime be a good girl, remain with her
excellent friend Mrs. Byass, and repose absolute confidence in her
affectionate father--J. S.

That same morning there came also a letter from Liverpool to Mrs.
Joseph Snowdon, a letter which ran thus:

'Clem, old girl, I regret very much that affairs of pressing
importance call me away from my happy home. It is especially
distressing that this occurs just at the time when we were on the
point of taking our house, in which we hoped to spend the rest of
cur lives in bliss. Alas, that is not to be! Do not repine, and do
not break the furniture in the lodgings, as your means will
henceforth be limited, I fear. You will remember that I was in your
debt, with reference to a little affair which happened in
Clerkenwell Close, not such a long time ago; please accept this
intimation as payment in full. When I am established in the country
to which business summons me, I shall of course send for you
immediately, but it may happen that some little time will intervene
before I am able to take that delightful step. In the meanwhile your
mother will supply you with all the money you need; she has full
authority from me to do so. All blessings upon you, and may you be
happy.--With tears I sign myself,

'YOUR BROKEN-HEARTED HUSBAND.'

Joseph's absence through the night had all but prepared Clem for
something of this kind, yet he had managed things so well that up to
the time of his departure she had not been able to remark a single
suspicious circumstance, unless, indeed, it were the joyous
affectionateness with which he continued to behave, She herself had
been passing through a time of excitement and even of suffering.
When she learned from the newspaper what fate had befallen Bob
Hewett, it was as though someone had dealt her a half-stunning blow;
in her fierce animal way she was attached to Bob, and for the first
time in her life she knew a genuine grief. The event seemed at first
impossible; she sped hither and thither, making inquiries, and raged
in her heart against everyone who confirmed the newspaper report.
Combined with the pain of loss was her disappointment at the
frustration of the scheme Bob had undertaken in concert with her.
Brooding on her deadly purpose, she had come to regard it as a
certain thing that before long her husband would be killed. The
details were arranged; all her cunning had gone to the contrivance
of a plot for disguising the facts of his murder. Savagely she had
exulted in the prospect, not only of getting rid of him, but of
being revenged for her old humiliation. A thousand times she
imagined herself in Bob's lurking-place, raising the weapon,
striking the murderous blow, rifling the man's pockets to mislead
those who found his body, and had laughed to herself triumphantly.
Joseph out of the way, the next thing was to remove Pennyloaf. Oh,
that would easily have been contrived. Then she and Bob would have
been married.

Very long since Clem had shed tears, but she did so this day when
there was no longer a possibility of doubting that Bob was dead. She
shut herself in her room and moaned like a wild beast in pain.
Joseph could not but observe, when he came home, that she was
suffering in some extraordinary way. When he spoke jestingly about
it, she all but rushed upon him with her fists. And in the same
moment She determined that he should not escape, even if she had to
murder him with her own hands. From that day her constant occupation
was searching the newspapers to get hints about poisons. Doubtless
it was as well for Joseph to be speedy in his preparations for
departure.

She was present in the police-court when Jack Bartley came forward
to be dealt with. Against him she stored up hatred and the resolve
of vengeance; if it were years before she had the opportunity, Jack
should in the end pay for what he had done.

And now Joseph had played her the trick she anticipated; he had
saved himself out of her clutches, and had carried off all his money
with him. She knew well enough what was meant by his saying that her
mother would supply what she needed; very likely that he had made
any such arrangement! You should have heard the sterling vernacular
in which Clem gave utterance to her feelings as soon as she had
deciphered the mocking letter?

Without a minute's delay she dressed and left the house. Having a
few shillings in her pocket, she took a cab at King's Cross and bade
the driver drive his hardest to Clerkenwell Close. Up Pentonville
Hill panted the bony horse, Clem swearing all the time because it
could go no quicker. But the top was reached; she shouted to the man
to whip, whip? By the time they pulled up at Mrs. Peckover's house
Clem herself perspired as profusely as the animal.

Mrs. Peckover was at breakfast, alone.

'Read that, will you? Read that?' roared Clem, rushing upon her and
dashing the letter in her face.

'Why, you mad cat!' cried her mother, starting up in anger. 'What's
wrong with you now?'

'Read that there letter! That's _your_ doin', that is! Read it? Read
it!'

Half-frightened, Mrs. Peckover drew away from the table and managed
to peruse Joseph's writing. Having come to the end, she burst into
jeering laughter.

'He's done it, has he? He's took his 'ook, has he? _What_ did I tell
you? Don't swear at me, or I'll give you something to swear about--
such languidge in a respectable 'ouse! Ha, ha? What did I tell you?
You wouldn't take _my_ way. Oh no, you must go off and be
independent. _Serve_ you right! Ha, ha! _Serve_ you right! You'll
get no pity from me.'

'You 'old your jaw, mother, or I'll precious soon set my marks on
your ugly old face! What does he say there about you? You're to pay
me money. He's made arrangements with you. Don't try to cheat me, or
I'll--soon have a summons out against you. The letter's proof;
it's lawyer's proof. You try to cheat me and see.'

Clem had sufficient command of her faculties to devise this line of
action. She half believed, too, that the letter would be of some
legal efficacy, as against her mother.

'You bloomin' fool!' screamed Mrs. Peckover. 'Do you think I was
born yesterday? Not one farden do you get out of me if you starve in
the street--not one farden! It's my turn now. I've had about
enough o' your cheek an' your hinsults. You'll go and work for your
livin', you great cart-horse!'

'Work! No fear! I'll set the perlice after him.'

'The perlice! What can they do?'

'Is it law as he can go off and leave me with nothing to live on?'

'Course it is! Unless you go to the work'us an' throw yourself on
the parish. Do, do! Oh my! Shouldn't I like to see you brought down
to the work'us, like Mrs. Igginbottom, the wife of the cat's-meat
man, him as they stuck up wanted for desertion!'

'You're a liar!' Clem shouted. 'I can make _you_ support me before
it comes to that.'

The wrangle continued for some time longer; then Clem bethought
herself of another person with whom she must have the satisfaction
of speaking her mind. On the impulse, she rushed away, out of
Clerkenwell Close, up St. John Street Road, across City Read, down
to Hanover Street, literally running for most of the time. Her knock
at Mrs. Byass's door was terrific.

'I want to see Jane Snowdon,' was her address to Bessie.

'Do you? I think you might have knocked more like civilisation,'
replied Mrs. Byass, proud of expressing herself with superior
refinement.

But Clem pushed her way forward. Jane, alarmed at the noise, showed
herself on the stairs.

'You just come 'ere!' cried Clem to her. 'I've got something to say
to _you_, Miss!'

Jane was of a sudden possessed with terror, the old terror with
which Clem had inspired her years ago. She shrank back, but Bessie
Byass was by no means disposed to allow this kind of thing to go on
in her house.

'Mrs. Snowdon,' she exclaimed, 'I don't know what your business may
be, but if you can't behave yourself, you'll please to go away a bit
quicker than you came. The idea! Did anyone ever hear!'

'I shan't go till I choose,' replied Clem, 'and that won't be till
I've had my say with that little ----! Where's your father, Jane
Snowdon? You just tell me that.'

'My father,' faltered Jane, in the silence. 'I haven't seen him for
a fortnight.'

'You haven't, eh? Little liar! It's what I used to call you when you
scrubbed our kitchen floor, and it's what I call you now. D'you
remember when you did the 'ouse-work, an' slept under the kitchen
table? D'you remember, eh? Haven't seen him for a fortnight, ain't
you? Oh, he's a nice man, is your father! He ran away an' deserted
your mother. But he's done it once too often, _I_'ll precious soon
have the perlice after him! Has he left you to look after yourself?
Has he, eh? You just tell me that!'

Jane and Mrs. Byass stared at each other in dismay. The letter that
had come this morning enabled them to guess the meaning of Clem's
fury. The latter interpreted their looks as an admission that Jane
too was a victim. She laughed aloud.

'How does it taste, little liar, oh? A second disappointment! You
thought you was a-goin' to have all the money; now you've got none,
and you may go back to Whitehead's. They'll be glad to see you, will
Whitehead's. Oh, he's a nice man, your father! Would you like to
know what's been goin' on ever since he found out your old
grandfather? Would you like to know how he put himself out to
prevent you an' that Kirkwood feller gettin' married, just so that
the money mightn't get into other people's 'ands? Would you like to
know how my beast of a mother and him put their 'eds together to see
how they could get hold of the bloomin' money? An' _you_ thought you
was sure of it, didn't you? Will you come with me to the
perlice-station, just to help to describe what he looks like? An
affectionate father, ain't he? Almost as good as he is a 'usband.
You just listen to me, Jane Snowdon. If I find out as you're havin'
money from him, I'll be revenged on you, mind that! I'll be revenged
on you! D'you remember what my hand feels like? You've had it on the
side of your ----'ed often enough. You just look out for yourself!'

'And you just turn out of my house,' cried Bessie, scarlet with
wrath. 'This minute! Sarah! Sarah! Run out by the arey-steps and
fetch a p'liceman, this minute! The idea!'

Clem had said her say, however, and with a few more volleys of
atrocious language was content to retire. Having slammed the door
upon her, Bessie cried in a trembling voice:

'Oh, if only Sam had been here! My, how I should have liked Sam to
have been here! _Wouldn't_ he have given her something for herself!
Why, such a creature oughtn't be left loose. Oh, if Sam had been
here!'

Jane had sat down on the stairs; her face was hidden in her hands.
That brutal voice had carried her back to her wretched childhood;
everything about her in the present was unreal in comparison with
the terrors, the hardships, the humiliations revived by memory. As
she sat at this moment, so had she sat many a time on the
cellar-steps at Mrs. Peckover's. So powerfully was her imagination
affected that she had a feeling as if her hands were grimy from
toil, as if her limbs ached. Oh, that dreadful voice! Was she never,
never to escape beyond hearing of it?

'Jane, my dear, come into the sitting-room,' said Bessie 'No wonder
it's upset you. What _can_ it all mean?'

The meaning was not far to seek; Jane understood everything--yes,
even her father's hypocrisies. She listened for a few minutes to her
friend's indignant exclamations, then looked up, her resolve taken.

'Mrs. Byass, I shall take no more money. I shall go to work again
and earn my living. How thankful I am that I can!'

'Why, what nonsense are you talking, child! Just because that--
that _creature_--Why, I've no patience with you, Jane! As if she
durst touch you! Touch you? I'd like to see her indeed.'

'It isn't that, Mrs. Byass. I can't take money from father. I
haven't felt easy in my mind ever since he told me about it, and now
I _can't_ take the money. Whether it's true or not, all she said, I
should never have a night's rest if I consented to live in this
way.'

'Oh, you _don't_ really mean it, Jane?'

Bessie all but sobbed with vexation.

'I mean it, and I shall never alter my mind. I shall send back the
money, and write to the man that he needn't send any more. However
often it comes, I shall always return it. I couldn't, I couldn't
live on that money! Never ask me to, Mrs. Byass.'

Practical Bessie had already begun to ask herself what arrangement
Jane proposed to make about lodgings. She was no Mrs. Peckover, but
neither did circumstances allow her to disregard the question of
rent. It cut her to the heart to think of refusing an income of two
pounds per week.

Jane too saw all the requirements of the case.

'Mrs. Byass, will you let me have one room--my old room upstairs?
I have been very happy there, and I should like to stay if I can.
You know what I can earn; can you afford to let me live there? I'd
do my utmost to help you in the house; I'll be as good as a servant,
if you can't keep Sarah. I should so like to stay with you!'

'You just let me hear you talk about leaving, that's all! Wait till
I've talked it over with Sam.'

Jane went upstairs, and for the rest of the day the house was very
quiet.

Not Whitehead's; there were other places where work might be found.
And before many days she had found it. Happily there were no
luxuries to be laid aside; her ordinary dress was not too good for
the workroom. She had no habits of idleness to overcome, and an hour
at the table made her as expert with her fingers as ever.

Returning from the first day's work, she sat in her room--the
little room which used to be hers--to rest and think for a moment
before going down to Bessie's supper-table. And her thought was:

'He, too, is just coming home from work. Why should my life be
easier than his?'

CHAPTER XXXIX

SIDNEY

Look at a map of greater London, a map on which the town proper
shows as a dark, irregularly rounded patch against the whiteness of
suburban districts, and just on the northern limit of the vast
network of streets you will distinguish the name of Crouch End.
Another decade, and the dark patch will have spread greatly further;
for the present, Crouch End is still able to remind one that it was
in the country a very short time ago. The streets have a smell of
newness, of dampness; the bricks retain their complexion, the stucco
has not rotted more than one expects in a year or two; poverty tries
to hide itself with venetian blinds, until the time when an advanced
guard of houses shall justify the existence of the slum.

Characteristic of the locality is a certain row of one-storey
cottages--villas, the advertiser calls them--built of white
brick, each with one bay window on the ground floor, a window
pretentiously fashioned and desiring to be taken for stone, though
obviously made of bad plaster. Before each house is a garden,
measuring six feet by three, entered by a little iron gate, which
grinds as you push it, and at no time would latch. The front-door
also grinds on the sill; it can only be opened by force, and quivers
in a way that shows how unsubstantially it is made. As you set foot
in the pinched passage, the sound of your tread proves the whole
fabric a thing of lath and sand. The ceilings, the walls, confess
themselves neither water-tight nor air-tight. Whatever you touch is
at once found to be sham.

In the kitchen of one of these houses, at two o'clock on a Saturday
afternoon in September, three young people were sitting down to the
dinner-table: a girl of nearly fourteen, her sister, a year younger,
and their brother not yet eleven. All were decently dressed, but
very poorly; a glance at them, and you knew that in this house there
was little money to spend on superfluities. The same impression was
produced by the appointments of the kitchen, which was disorderly,
too, and spoke neglect of the scrubbing-brush. As for the table, it
was ill laid and worse supplied. The meal was to consist of the
fag-end of a shoulder of mutton, some villainously cooked potatoes
(_a l'Anglaise_) and bread.

'Oh, I can't eat this rot again!' cried the boy, making a dig with
his fork at the scarcely clad piece of bone. 'I shall have bread and
cheese. Lug the cheese out, Annie!'

'No, you won't,' replied the elder girl, in a disagreeable voice.
'You'll eat this or go without.'

She had an unpleasing appearance. Her face was very thin, her lips
pinched sourly together, her eyes furtive, hungry, malevolent. Her
movements were awkward and impatient, and a morbid nervousness kept
her constantly starting, with a stealthy look here or there.

'I shall have the cheese if I like!' shouted the boy, a very
ill-conditioned youngster, whose face seemed to have been damaged in
recent conflict. His clothes were dusty, and his hair stood up like
stubble.

'Hold your row, Tom,' said the younger girl, who was quiet and had
the look of an invalid. 'It's always you begins. Besides, you can't
have cheese; there's only a little bit, and Sidney said he was going
to make his dinner of it to-day.'

'Of course--selfish beast!'

'Selfish! Now just listen to that, Amy! when he said it just that we
mightn't be afraid to finish the meat.'

Amy said nothing, but began to hack fragments off the bone.

'Put some aside for father first,' continued Annie, holding a plate.

'Father be blowed!' cried Tom. 'You just give me that first cut.
Give it here, Annie, or I'll crack you on the head!'

As he struggled for the plate, Amy bent forward and hit his arm
violently with the handle of the knife. This was the signal for a
general scrimmage, in the midst of which Tom caught up a
hearth-brush and flung it at Amy's head. The missile went wide of
its mark and shivered one of the windowpanes.

'There now!' exclaimed Annie, who had begun to cry in consequence of
a blow from Tom's fist. 'See what father says to that!'

'If I was him,' said Amy, in a low voice of passion, 'I'd tie you to
something and beat you till you lost your senses. Ugly brute!'

The warfare would not have ended here but that the door opened and
he of whom they spoke made his appearance.

In the past two years and a half John Hewett had become a shaky old
man. Of his grizzled hair very little remained, and little of his
beard; his features were shrunken, his neck scraggy; he stooped
much, and there was a senile indecision in his movements. He wore
rough, patched clothing, had no collar, and seemed, from the state
of his hands, to have been engaged in very dirty work. As he entered
and came upon the riotous group his eyes lit up with anger. In a
strained voice he shouted a command of silence.

'It's all that Tom, father,' piped Annie. 'There's no living with
him.'

John's eye fell on the broken window.

'Which of you's done that?' he asked sternly, pointing to it.

No one spoke.

'Who's goin' to pay for it, I'd like to know? Doesn't it cost enough
to keep you, but you must go makin' extra expense? Where's the money
to come from, I want to know, if you go on like this?'

He turned suddenly upon the elder girl.

'I've got something to say to you, Miss. Why wasn't you at work this
morning?'

Amy avoided his look. Her pale face became mottled with alarm, but
only for an instant; then she hardened herself and moved her head
insolently.

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