The Nether World

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'You find it easier to bear than I do.'

'Yes; I find it easier. I am stronger-bodied, and at all events I
have some variety, whilst you have none. I know it. If I could take
your share of the burden, how gladly I'd do so! If I could take your
suffering upon myself, you shouldn't be unhappy for another minute.
But that is another impossible thing. People who are fortunate in
life may ask each day what they _can_ do; we have always to remind
ourselves what we _can't_.'

'You take a pleasure in repeating such things; it shows how little
you feel them.'

'It shows how I have taken to heart the truth of them.'

She waved her hand impatiently, again sighed, and moved towards the
door.

'Don't go just yet,' said Sidney. 'We have more to say to each
other,'

'I have nothing more to say. I am miserable, and you can't help me.'

'I can, Clara.'

She looked at him with wondering, estranged eyes. 'How? What are you
going to do?'

'Only speak to you, that's all. I have nothing to give but words.
But--'

She would have left him. Sidney stepped forward and prevented her.

'No; you _must_ hear what I have got to say. They may be only words,
but if I have no power to move you with my words, then our life has
come to utter ruin, and I don't know what dreadful things lie before
us.'

'I can say the same,' she replied, in a despairing tone.

'But neither you nor I shall say it! As long as I have strength to
speak, I won't consent to say that Clara, you must put your hand in
mine, and think of your life and mine as one. If not for my sake,
then for your child's. Think; do you wish May to suffer for the
faults of her parents?'

'I wish she had never been born!'

'And yet you were the happier for her birth. It's only these last
six months that you have fallen again into misery. You indulge it,
and it grows worse, harder to resist. You may say that life seems to
grow worse. Perhaps so. This affair of Amy's has been a heavy blow,
and we shall miss the little money she brought; goodness knows when
another place will be found for her. But all the more reason why we
should help each other to struggle. Perhaps just this year or two
will be our hardest time. If Amy and Annie and Tom were once all
earning something, the worst would be over--wouldn't it? And can't
we find strength to hold out a little longer, just to give the
children a start in life, just to make your father's last years a
bit happier? If we manage it, shan't we feel glad in looking back?
Won't it be something worth having lived for?'

He paused, but Clara had no word for him.

'There's Amy. She's a hard girl to manage, partly because she has
very bad health. I always think of that--or try to--when she
irritates me. This afternoon I took her out with me, and spoke as
kindly as I could; if she isn't better for it, she surely can't be
worse, and in any case I don't know what else to do. Look, Clara,
you and I are going to do what we can for these children; we're not
going to give up the work now we've begun it. Mustn't all of us who
are poor stand together and help one another? We have to fight
against the rich world that's always crushing us down, down--
whether it means to or not. Those people enjoy their lives. Well, I
shall find _my_ enjoyment in defying them to make me despair? But I
can't do without your help. I didn't feel very cheerful as I sat
here a while ago, before you came down; I was almost afraid to go
upstairs, lest the sight of what you were suffering should be too
much for me. Am I to ask a kindness of you and be refused, Clara?'

It was not the first time that she had experienced the constraining
power of his words when he was moved with passionate earnestness.
Her desire to escape was due to a fear of yielding, of suffering her
egotism to fail before a stronger will.

'Let me go,' she said, whilst he held her arm. 'I feel too ill to
talk longer.'

'Only one word--only one promise--now whilst we are the only
ones awake in the house. We are husband and wife, Clara, and we must
be kind to each other. We are not going to be like the poor
creatures who let their misery degrade them. We are both too proud
for that--what? We can think and express our thoughts; we can
speak to each other's minds and hearts. Don't let us be beaten!'

'What's the good of my promising? I can't keep it. I suffer too
much.'

'Promise, and keep the promise for a few weeks, a few days; then
I'll find strength to help you once more. But now it's your turn to
help me. To-morrow begins a new week; the rich world allows us to
rest to-morrow, to be with each other. Shall we make it a quiet,
restful, hopeful day? When they go out in the morning, you shall
read to father and me--read as you know how to, so much better
than I can. What? Was that really a smile?'

'Let me go, Sidney. Oh, I'm tired, I'm tired!'

'And the promise?'

'I'll do my best. It won't last long, but I'll try.'

'Thank you, dear.'

'No,' she replied, despondently. 'It's I that ought to thank you.
But I never shall--never. I only understand you now and then--
just for an hour--and all the selfishness comes back again. It'll
be the same till I'm dead.'

He put out the lamp and followed her upstairs. His limbs ached; he
could scarcely drag one leg after the other. Never mind; the battle
was gained once more.

CHAPTER XL

SIDNEY

'The poisoning business startled me. I shouldn't at all wonder if I
had a precious narrow squeak of something of the kind myself before
I took my departure; in fact, a sort of fear of the animal made me
settle things as sharp as I could. Let me know the result of the
trial. Wonder whether there'll be any disagreeable remarks about a
certain acquaintance of yours, detained abroad on business? Better
send me newspapers--same name and address. . . . But I've
something considerably more important to think about. . . . A big
thing; I scarcely dare tell you how big. I stand to win $2,000,000!
. . . Not a soul outside suspects the ring. When I tell you that
R.S.N. is in it, you'll see that I've struck the right ticket this
time. . . . Let me hear about Jane. If all goes well here, and you
manage that little business, you shall have $100,000, just for
house-furnishing, you know. I suppose you'll have your partnership
in a few months?'

Extracts from a letter, with an American stamp, which Mr. Scawthorne
read as he waited for his breakfast. It was the end of October, and
cool enough to make the crackling fire grateful. Having mused over
the epistle, our friend took up his morning paper and glanced at the
report of criminal trials. Whilst he was so engaged his landlady
entered, carrying a tray of appetising appearance.

'Good-morning, Mrs. Byass,' he said, with much friendliness. Then,
in a lower voice, 'There's a fuller report here than there was in
the evening paper. Perhaps you looked at it?'

'Well, yes, sir; I thought you wouldn't mind,' replied Bessie,
arranging the table.

'She'll be taken care of or three years, at all events.'

'If you'd seen her that day she came here after Miss Snowdon, you'd
understand how glad I feel that she's out of the way. I'm sure I've
been uneasy ever since. If ever there comes a rather loud knock
at--there I begin to tremble; I do indeed. I don't think I shall ever
get over it.'

'I dare say Miss Snowdon will be easier in mind?'

'I shouldn't wonder. But she won't say anything about it. She feels
the disgrace so much, and I know it's almost more than she can do to
go to work, just because she thinks they talk about her.'

'Oh, that'll very soon pass over. There's always something new
happening, and people quickly forget a case like this.'

Bessie withdrew, and her lodger addressed himself to his breakfast.

He had occupied the rooms on the first floor for about a year and a
half. Joseph Snowdon's proposal to make him acquainted with Jane had
not been carried out, Scawthorne deeming it impracticable; but when
a year had gone by, and Scawthorne, as Joseph's confidential
correspondent, had still to report that Jane maintained herself in
independence, he one day presented himself in Hanover Street, as a
total stranger, and made inquiry about the rooms which a card told
him were to let. His improved position allowed him to live somewhat
more reputably than in the Chelsea lodging, and Hanover Street would
suit him well enough until he obtained the promised partnership.
Admitted as a friend to Mr. Percival's house in Highbury, he had by
this time made the acquaintance of Miss Lant, whom, by the exercise
of his agreeable qualities, he one day led to speak of Jane Snowdon.
Miss Lant continued to see Jane, at long intervals, and was fervent
in her praise as well as in compassionating the trials through which
she had gone. His position in Mr. Percival's office of course made
it natural that Scawthorne should have a knowledge of the girl's
story. When he had established himself in Mrs. Byass's rooms, he
mentioned the fact casually to his friends, making it appear that,
in seeking lodgings, he had come upon these by haphazard.

He could not but feel something of genuine interest in a girl who,
for whatever reason, declined a sufficient allowance and chose to
work for her living. The grounds upon which Jane took this decision
were altogether unknown to him until an explanation came from her
father. Joseph, when news of the matter reached him, was disposed to
entertain suspicions; with every care not to betray his own
whereabouts, he wrote to Jane, and in due time received a reply, in
which Jane told him truly her reasons for refusing the money. These
Joseph communicated to Scawthorne, and the latter's interest was
still more strongly awakened.

He was now on terms of personal acquaintance, almost of friendship,
with Jane. Miss Lant, he was convinced, did not speak of her too
praisingly. Not exactly a pretty girl, though far from displeasing
in countenance; very quiet, very gentle, with much natural
refinement. Her air of sadness--by no means forced upon the vulgar
eye, but unmistakable when you studied her--was indicative of
faithful sensibilities. Scawthorne had altogether lost sight of
Sidney Kirkwood and of the Hewetts; he knew they were all gone to a
remote part of London, and more than this he had no longer any care
to discover. On excellent terms with his landlady, he skilfully
elicited from her now and then a confidential remark with regard to
Jane; of late, indeed, he had established something like a
sentimental understanding with the good Bessie, so that, whenever he
mentioned Jane, she fell into a pleasant little flutter, feeling
that she understood what was in progress. . . . Why not?--he kept
asking himself. Joseph Snowdon (who addressed his letters to Hanover
Street in a feigned hand) seemed to have an undeniable affection for
the girl, and was constant in his promises of providing a handsome
dowry. The latter was not a point of such importance as a few years
ago, but the dollars would be acceptable. And then, the truth was,
Scawthorne felt himself more and more inclined to put a certain
question to Jane, dowry or none.

Yes, she felt it as a disgrace, poor girl! When she saw the name
'Snowdon' in the newspaper, in such a shameful and horrible
connection, her impulse was to flee, to hide herself. It was
dreadful to go to her work and hear the girls talking of this
attempted murder. The new misery came upon her just as she was
regaining something of her natural spirits, after long sorrow and
depression which had affected her health. But circumstances, now as
ever, seemed to plot that at a critical moment of her own experience
she should be called out of herself and constrained to become the
consoler of others.

For some months the domestic peace of Mr. and Mrs. Byass had been
gravely disturbed. Unlike the household at Crouch End, it was to
prosperity that Sam and his wife owed their troubles. Year after
year Sam's position had improved; he was now in receipt of a salary
which made--or ought to have made--things at home very
comfortable. Though his children were now four in number, he could
supply their wants. He could buy Bessie a new gown without very
grave consideration, and could regard his own shiny top-hat, when he
donned it in the place of one that was really respectable enough,
without twinges of conscience.

But Sam was not remarkable for wisdom; indeed, had he been anything
more than a foolish calculating-machine, he would scarcely have
thriven as he did in the City. When he had grown accustomed to
rattling loose silver in his pocket, the next thing, as a matter of
course, was that he accustomed himself to pay far too frequent
visits to City bars. On certain days in the week he invariably came
home with a very red face and a titubating walk; when Bessie
received him angrily, he defended himself on the great plea of
business necessities. As a town traveller there was no possibility,
he alleged, of declining invitations to refresh himself; just as
incumbent upon him was it to extend casual hospitality to those with
whom he had business.

'Business! Fiddle!' cried Bessie. 'All you City fellows are the
same. You encourage each other in drink, drink, drinking whenever
you have a chance, and then you say it's all a matter of business. I
won't have you coming home in that state, so there! I won't have a
husband as drinks! Why, you can't stand straight.'

'Can't stand straight!' echoed Sam, with vast scorn. 'Look here!'

And he shouldered the poker, with the result that one of the globes
on the chandelier came in shivers about his head. This was too much.
Bessie fumed, and for a couple of hours the quarrel was
unappeasable.

Worse was to come. Sam occasionally stayed out very late at night,
and on his return alleged a 'business appointment.' Bessie at length
refused to accept these excuses; she couldn't and wouldn't believe
them.

'Then don't!' shouted Sam. 'And understand that I shall come home
just when I like. If you make a bother I won't come home at all, so
there you have it!'

'You're a bad husband and a beast!' was Bessie's retort.

Shortly after that Bessie received information of such grave
misconduct on her husband's part that she all but resolved to
forsake the house, and with the children seek refuge under her
parents' roof at Woolwich. Sam had been seen in indescribable
company; no permissible words would characterise the individuals
with whom he had roamed shamelessly on the pavement of Oxford
Street. When he next met her, quite sober and with exasperatingly
innocent expression, Bessie refused to open her lips. Neither that
evening nor the next would she utter a word to him--and the effort
it cost her was tremendous. The result was, that on the third
evening Sam did not appear.

It was a week after Clem's trial. Jane had been keeping to herself
as much as possible, but, having occasion to go down into the
kitchen late at night, she found Bessie in tears, utterly miserable.

'Don't bother about me!' was the reply to her sympathetic question.
'You've got your own upsets to think of. You might have come to
speak to me before this--but never mind. It's nothing to you.'

It needed much coaxing to persuade her to detail Sam's enormities,
but she found much relief when she had done so, and wept more
copiously than ever.

'It's nearly twelve o'clock, and there's no sign of him, Perhaps he
won't come at all. He's in bad company, and if he stays away all
night I'll never speak to him again as long as I live. Oh, he's a
beast of a husband, is Sam!'

Sam came not. All through that night did Jane keep her friend
company, for Sam came not. In the morning a letter, addressed in his
well-known commercial hand. Bessie read it and screamed. Sam wrote
to her that he had accepted a position as country traveller, and
_perhaps_ he might be able to look in at his home on that day month.

Jane could not go to work. The case had become very serious indeed;
Bessie was in hysterics; the four children made the roof ring with
their lamentations. At this juncture Jane put forth all her
beneficent energy. It happened that Bessie was just now servantless.
There was Mr. Scawthorne's breakfast only half prepared; Jane had to
see to it herself, and herself take it upstairs. Then Bessie must go
to bed, or assuredly she would be so ill that unheard-of calamities
would befall the infants. Jane would have an eye to everything; only
let Jane be trusted.

The miserable day passed; after trying in vain to sleep, Bessie
walked about her sitting-room with tear-swollen face and rumpled
gown, always thinking it possible that Sam had only played a trick,
and that he would come. But he came not, and again it was night.

At eight o'clock Mr. Scawthorne's bell rang. Impossible for Bessie
to present herself; Jane would go. She ascended to the room which
had once--ah! once!--been her own parlour, knocked and entered.

'I--I wished to speak to Mrs. Byass,' said Scawthorne, appearing
for some reason or other embarrassed by Jane's presenting herself.

'Mrs. Byass is not at all well, sir. But I'll let her know--'

'No, no; on no account.'

'Can't I get you anything, sir?'

'Miss Snowdon--might I speak with you for a few moments?'

Jane feared it might be a complaint. In a perfectly natural way she
walked forward. Scawthorne came in her direction, and--closed the
door.

The interview lasted ten minutes, then Jane came forth and with a
light, quick step ran up to the floor above. She did not enter the
room, however, but stood with her hand on the door, in the darkness.
A minute or two, and with the same light, hurried step, she
descended the stairs, sprang past the ledger's room, sped down to
the kitchen. Under other circumstances Bessie must surely have
noticed a strangeness in her look, in her manner; but to-night
Bessie had thought for nothing but her own calamities.

Another day, and no further news from Sam. The next morning, instead
of going to work (the loss of wages was most serious, but it
couldn't be helped), Jane privately betook herself to Sam's house of
business. Mrs. Byass was ill; would they let her know Mr. Byass's
address, that he might immediately be communicated with? The
information was readily supplied; Mr. Byass was no farther away, at
present, than St. Albans. Forth into the street again, and in search
of a policeman. 'Will you please to tell me what station I have to
go to for St. Albans?' Why, Moorgate Street would do; only a few
minutes' walk away. On she hastened. 'What is the cost of a return
ticket to St. Albans, please?' Three-and-sevenpence. Back into the
street again; she must now look for a certain sign, indicating a
certain place of business. With some little trouble it is found; she
enters a dark passage, and comes before a counter, upon which she
lays--a watch, her grandfather's old watch. 'How much?' 'Four
shillings, please.' She deposits a halfpenny, and receives four
shillings, together with a ticket. Now for St. Albans.

Sam! Sam! Ay, well might he turn red and stutter and look generally
foolish when that quiet little girl stood before him in his
'stock-room' at the hotel. Her words were as quiet as her look.
'I'll write her a letter,' he cries. 'Stop; you shall take it back.
I can't give up the job at once, but you may tell her I'm up to no
harm. Where's the pen? Where's the cursed ink?' And she takes the
letter.

'Why, you've lost a day's work, Jane! She gave you the money for the
journey, I suppose?'

'Yes, yes, of course.'

'Tell her she's not to make a fool of herself in future.'

'No, I shan't say that, Mr. Byass. But I'm half-tempted to say it to
someone else!'

It was the old, happy smile, come back for a moment; the voice that
had often made peace so merrily. The return journey seemed short,
and with glad heart-beating she hastened from the City to Hanover
Street.

Well, well; of course it would all begin over again; Jane herself
knew it. But is not all life a struggle onward from compromise to
compromise, until the day of final pacification?

Through that winter she lived with a strange secret in her mind, a
secret which was the source of singularly varied feelings--of
astonishment, of pain, of encouragement, of apprehension, of grief.
To no one could she speak of it; no one could divine its existence--no
one save the person to whom she owed this surprising novelty in her
experience. She would have given much to be rid of it; and yet, again,
might she not legitimately accept that pleasure which at times came
of the thought?--the thought that, as a woman, her qualities were of
some account in the world.

She did her best to keep it out of her consciousness, and in truth
had so many other things to think about that it was seldom she
really had trouble with it. Life was not altogether easy; regular
work was not always to be kept; there was much need of planning and
pinching, that her independence might suffer no wound, Bessie Byass
was always in arms against that same independent spirit; she scoffed
at it, assailed it with treacherous blandishment, made direct
attacks upon it.

'I must live in my own way, Mrs. Byass. I don't want to have to
leave you.'

And if ever life seemed a little too hard, if the image of the past
grew too mournfully persistent, she knew where to go for
consolation. Let us follow her, one Saturday afternoon early in the
year.

In a poor street in Clerkenwell was a certain poor little shop--
built out as an afterthought from an irregular lump of houses; a
shop with a room behind it and a cellar below; no more. Here was
sold second-hand clothing, women's and children's. No name over the
front, but neighbours would have told you that it was kept by one
Mrs. Todd, a young widow with several children. Mrs. Todd, not long
ago, used to have only a stall in the street; but a lady named Miss
Lant helped her to start in a more regular way of business.

'And does she carry it on quite by herself?'

No; with her lived another young woman, also a widow, who had one
child. Mrs. Hewett, her name. She did sewing in the room behind, or
attended to the shop when Mrs. Todd was away making purchases.

There Jane Snowdon entered. The clothing that hung in the window
made it very dark inside; she had to peer a little before she could
distinguish the person who sat behind the counter. 'Is Pennyloaf in,
Mrs. Todd?'

'Yes, Miss. Will you walk through?'

The room behind is lighted from the ceiling. It is heaped with the
most miscellaneous clothing. It contains two beds, some shelves with
crockery, a table, some chairs--but it would have taken you a long
time to note all these details, so huddled together was everything.
Part of the general huddling were five children, of various ages;
and among them, very busy, sat Pennyloaf.

'Everything going on well?' was Jane's first question.

'Yes, Miss.'

'Then I know it isn't. Whenever you call me "Miss," there's
something wrong; I've learnt that.'

Pennyloaf smiled, sadly but with affection in her eyes. 'Well, I
have been a bit low, an' that's the truth. It takes me sometimes,
you know. I've been thinkin', when I'd oughtn't.'

'Same with me, Pennyloaf. We can't help thinking, can we? What a
good thing if we'd nothing more to think about than these children!
Where's little Bob? Why, Bob, I thought you were old clothes; I did,
really! You may well laugh!'

The laughter was merry, and Jane encouraged it, inventing all sorts
of foolish jokes. 'Pennyloaf, I wish you'd ask me to stay to tea.'

'Then that I will, Miss Jane, an' gladly. Would you like it soon?'

'No; in an hour will do, won't it? Give me something that wants
sewing, a really hard bit, something that'll break needles. Yes,
that'll do. Where's Mrs. Todd's thimble? Now we're all going to be
comfortable, and we'll have a good talk.'

Pennyloaf found the dark thoughts slip away insensibly. And she
talked, she talked--where was there such a talker as Pennyloaf
nowadays, when she once began?

Mr. Byass was not very willing, after all, to give up his country
travelling. That his departure on that business befell at a moment
of domestic quarrel was merely chance; secretly he had made the
arrangement with his firm some weeks before. The penitence which
affected him upon Jane's appeal could not be of abiding result; for,
like all married men at a certain point of their lives, he felt
heartily tired of home and wished to see the world a little. Hanover
Street heard endless discussions of the point between Sam and
Bessie, between Bessie and Jane, between Jane and Sam, between all
three together. And the upshot was that Mr. Byass gained his point.
For a time he would go on country journeys. Bessie assented
sullenly, but, strange to say, she had never been in better spirits
than on the day after this decision had been arrived at.

On that day, however--it was early in March--an annoying
incident happened. Mr. Scawthorne, who always dined in town and
seldom returned to his lodgings till late in the evening, rang his
bell about eight o'clock and sent a message by the servant that he
wished to see Mrs. Byass. Bessie having come up, he announced to her
with gravity that his tenancy of the rooms would be at an end in a
fortnight. Various considerations necessitated his livin in a
different part of London. Bessie frankly lamented; she would never
again find such an estimable lodger. But, to be sure, Mr. Scawthorne
had prepared her for this, three months ago. Well, what must be,
must be.

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