The Nether World

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'Your earnin's is your own, Clara.'

'Yes; but I hope very soon to be able to give you something. It's
hard for you, having no work.'

John brightened wonderfully.

'Don't you trouble, my dear. That's all right. Things'll come round
somehow. You're a good girl. Good-night, my darlin'!'

He kissed her, and went consoled to his rest.

Miss Peckover kept going up and down between the kitchen and the
front-door. Down below, Jane was cleaning a copper kettle. Clem, who
had her sweetest morsel of cruelty yet in store, had devised this
pleasant little job as a way of keeping the child employed till all
was quiet.

She had just come down to watch the progress of the work, and to
give a smart rap or two on the toiling fingers, when a heavy
footstep in the passage caused her to dart upstairs again. It was
Bob Hewett, returned from his evening recreations.

'Oh, that's you, is it?' cried Clem. 'Come down; I want to speak to
you.'

'Wait till to-morrow,' answered Bob, advancing towards the stairs.

'Wait! we'll see about that!'

She sprang forward, and with a prompt exertion of muscle, admirable
in its way, whirled Bob round and dragged him to the head of the
kitchen flight. The young fellow took it in good part, and went down
with her.

'You go up into the passage,' said Clem to her servant, and was
immediately obeyed.

'Now,' resumed Miss Peckover, when she had closed the door, 'who
have you been goin' about with to-night?'

'What are you talking about?' returned Bob, who had seated himself
on the table, and was regarding Clem jocosely. 'I've been with some
pals, that's all.'

'Pals! what sort o' pals? Do you call Pennyloaf Candy one o' your
pals?'

She stood before him in a superb attitude, her head poised fiercely,
her arms quivering at her sides, all the stature and vigour of her
young body emphasised by muscular strain.

'Pennyloaf Candy!' Bob repeated, as if in scorn of the person so
named. 'Get on with you! I'm sick of hearing you talk about her. Why
I haven't seen her not these three weeks.'

'It's a ---- lie!' Clem's epithet was too vigorous for reproduction.
'Sukey Jollop saw you with her down by the meat-market, an' Jeck
Bartley saw you too.'

'Jeck did?' He laughed with obstreperous scorn. 'Why, Jeck's gone to
Homerton to his mother till Saturday night. Don't be such a bloomin'
fool! Just because Suke Jollop's dead nuts on me, an' I won't have
nothin' to say to her, she goes tellin' these bloomin' lies. When I
see her next, I'll make her go down on her marrow-bones an' beg my
pardon. See if I don't just!'

There was an engaging frankness in Bob's way of defending himself
which evidently impressed Miss Peckover, though it did not
immediately soothe her irritation. She put her arms a-kimbo, and
examined him with a steady suspicion which would have disconcerted
most young men. Bob, however, only laughed more heartily. The scene
was prolonged. Bob had no recourse to tenderness to dismiss the
girl's jealousy. His self-conceit was supreme, and had always stood
him in such stead with the young ladies who, to use his own
expression, were 'dead nuts on him,' that his love-making, under
whatever circumstances, always took the form of genial banter _de
haut en bas_. 'Don't be a bloomin' fool!' was the phrase he deemed
of most efficacy in softening the female heart; and the result
seemed to justify him, for after some half-hour's wrangling, Clem
abandoned her hostile attitude, and eyed him with a savage kind of
admiration.

'When are you goin' to buy me that locket, Bob, to put a bit of your
'air in?' she inquired pertinently.

'You just wait, can't you? There's a event coming off next week. I
won't say nothing, but you just wait.'

'I'm tired o' waitin'. See here; you ain't goin' to best me out of
it?'

'Me best you? Don't be a bloomin' fool, Clem!'

He laughed heartily, and in a few minutes allowed himself to be
embraced and sent off to his chamber at the top of the house.

Clem summoned her servant from the passage. At the same moment there
entered another lodger, the only one whose arrival Clem still
awaited. His mode of ascending the stairs was singular; one would
have imagined that he bore some heavy weight, for he proceeded very
slowly, with a great clumping noise, surmounting one step at a time
in the manner of a child. It was Mr. Marple, the cab-driver, and his
way of going up to bed was very simply explained by the fact that a
daily sixteen hours of sitting on the box left his legs in a numb
and practically useless condition.

The house was now quiet. Clem locked the front-door and returned to
the kitchen, eager with anticipation of the jest she was going to
carry out. First of all she had to pick a quarrel with Jane; this
was very easily managed. She pretended to look about the room for a
minute, then asked fiercely:

'What's gone with that sixpence I left on the dresser?'

Jane looked up in terror. She was worn almost to the last point of
endurance by her day and night of labour and agitation. Her face was
bloodless, her eyelids were swollen with the need of sleep.

'Sixpence!' she faltered, 'I'm sure I haven't seen no sixpence,
miss.'

'You haven't? Now, I've caught you at last. There's been nobody 'ere
but you. Little thief! We'll see about this in the mornin', an'
to-night _you shall sleep in the back-kitchen_!'

The child gasped for breath. The terror of sudden death could not
have exceeded that which rushed upon her heart when she was told
that she must pass her night in the room where lay the coffin.

'An' you shan't have no candle, neither,' proceeded Clem, delighted
with the effect she was producing. 'Come along! I'm off to bed, an'
I'll see you safe locked in first, so as no one can come an' hurt
you.'

'Miss! please!--I can't, I durstn't!'

Jane pleaded in inarticulate anguish. But Clem had caught her by the
arm, was dragging her on, on, till she was at the very door of that
ghastly death-cellar. Though thirteen years old, her slight frame
was as incapable of resisting Clem Peckover's muscles as an infant's
would have been. The door was open, but at that moment Jane uttered
a shriek which rang and echoed through the whole house. Startled,
Clem relaxed her grasp. Jane tore herself away, fled up the kitchen
stairs, fled upwards still, flung herself at the feet of someone who
had come out on to the landing and held a light.

'Oh, help me! Don't let her! Help me!'

'What's up with you, Jane?' asked Clara, for it was she who, not
being yet in bed, had come forth at once on hearing the scream.

Jane could only cling to her garment, pant hysterically, repeat the
same words of entreaty again and again. Another door opened, and
John Hewett appeared half-dressed.

'What's wrong?' he cried. 'The 'ouse o' fire? Who yelled out like
that?'

Clem was coming up; she spoke from the landing below.

'It's that Jane, just because I gave her a rap as she deserved. Send
her down again.'

'Oh, no!' cried the poor girl. 'Miss Hewett! be a friend to me!
She's goin' to shut me up all night with the coffin. Don't let her,
miss! I durstn't! Oh, be a friend to me!'

'Little liar!' shouted Clem. 'Oh, that bloomin' little liar! when I
never said a word o' such a thing!'

'I'll believe her a good deal sooner than you,' returned Clara
sharply. 'Why, anybody can see she's tellin' the truth--can't
they, father? She's half-scared out of her life. Come in here, Jane;
you shall stay here till morning.'

By this time all the grown-up people in the house were on the
staircase; the clang of tongues was terrific. Clem held her ground
stoutly, and in virulence was more than a match for all her
opponents. Even Bob did not venture to take her part; he grinned
down over the banisters, and enjoyed the entertainment immensely.
Dick Snape, whose room Bob shared, took the opportunity of paying
off certain old scores he had standing against Clem. Mr. Marple, the
cab-driver, was very loud and very hoarse in condemnation of such
barbarity. Mrs. Hewett, looking as if she had herself risen from a
coffin, cried shame on the general heartlessness with which Jane was
used.

Clara held to her resolve. She led Jane into the bedroom, then, with
a parting shot at Miss Peckover, herself entered and locked the
door.

'Drink some water, Jane,' she said, doing her best to reassure the
child. 'You're safe for to-night, and we'll see what Mrs. Peckover
says about this when she comes back to-morrow.'

Jane looked at her rescuer with eyes in which eternal gratitude
mingled with fear for the future. She could cry now, poor thing, and
so little by little recover herself. Words to utter her thanks she
had none; she could only look something of what she felt. Clara made
her undress and lie down with little Tom on the mattress. In a
quarter of an hour the candle was extinguished, and but for the
wind, which rattled sashes and doors, and made ghostly sounds in the
chimneys, there was silence throughout the house.

Something awoke Clara before dawn. She sat up, and became aware that
Jane was talking and crying wildly, evidently re-acting in her sleep
the scene of a few hours ago. With difficulty Clara broke her
slumber.

'Don't you feel well, Jane?' she asked, noticing a strangeness in
the child's way of replying to her.

'Not very, miss. My head's bad, an' I'm so thirsty. May I drink out
of the jug, miss?'

'Stay where you are. I'll bring it to you.'

Jane drank a great deal. Presently she fell again into slumber,
which was again broken in the same way. Clara did not go to sleep,
and as soon as it was daylight she summoned her father to come and
look at the child. Jane was ill, and, as everyone could see, rapidly
grew worse.

CHAPTER V

JANE IS VISITED

At ten o'clock next morning Mrs. Peckover reached home. She was a
tall, big-boned woman of fifty, with an arm like a coalheaver's. She
had dark hair, which shone and was odorous with unguents; a sallow,
uncomely face, and a handsome moustache. Her countenance was more
difficult to read than Clem's; a coarse, and most likely brutal,
nature was plain enough in its lines, but there was also a
suggestion of self-restraint, of sagacity, at all events of
cunning--qualities which were decidedly not inherited by her daughter.
With her came the relative whose presence had been desired at the
funeral to-day. This was Mrs. Gully, a stout person with a very red
nose and bleared eyes. The credit of the family demanded that as
many relatives as possible should follow the hearse, and Mrs.
Peckover's reason for conducting Mrs. Gully hither was a justifiable
fear lest, if she came alone, the latter would arrive in too
manifest a state of insobriety. A certain amount of stimulant had
been permitted on the way, just enough to assist a genteel
loquacity, for which Mrs. Gully had a reputation. She had given her
word to abstain from further imbibing until after the funeral.

The news which greeted her arrival was anything but welcome to Mrs.
Peckover. In the first place, there. would be far more work than
usual to be performed in the house to-day, and Jane could be ill
spared. Worse than that, however, Clara Hewett, who was losing half
a day's work on Jane's account, made a very emphatic statement as to
the origin of the illness, and said that if anything happened to
Jane, there would be disagreeable facts forthcoming at a coroner's
inquest. Having looked at the sick child, Mrs. Peckover went
downstairs and shut herself up with Clem. There was a stormy
interview.

'So you thought you'd have yer fling, did you, just because I wasn't
'ere? You must go makin' trouble, just to suit yer own fancies! I'll
pay you, my lady Gr-r-r!'

Whereupon followed the smack of a large hand on a fleshy cheek, so
vigorous and unexpected a blow that even the sturdy Clem staggered
back.

'You leave me alone, will you?' she roared out, her smitten cheek in
a flame. 'Do that again, an' I'll give you somethin' for yerself!
See if I don't! You just try it on!'

The room rang with uproarious abuse, with disgusting language, with
the terrific threats which are such common flowers of rhetoric in
that world, and generally mean nothing whatever. The end of it all
was that Clem went to fetch a doctor; one in whom Mrs. Peckover
could repose confidence. The man was, in fact, a druggist, with a
shop in an obscure street over towards St. Luke's; in his window was
exhibited a card which stated that a certain medical man could be
consulted here daily. The said medical man had, in fact, so much
more business than he could attend to--his name appearing in many
shops--that the druggist was deputed to act as his assistant, and
was considerately supplied with death-certificates, already signed,
and only needing to be filled in with details. Summoned by Mrs.
Peckover, whose old acquaintance he was, the druggist left the shop
in care of his son, aged fifteen, and sped to Clerkenwell Close. He
made light of Jane's ailment. 'A little fever, that was all--soon
pull her round. Any wounds, by-the-by? No? Oh, soon pull her round.
Send for medicines.'

'We'll have her down in the back-kitchen as soon as the corffin's
away,' said Mrs. Peckover to Mrs. Hewett. 'Don't you upset yerself
about it, my dear; you've got quite enough to think about. Yer
'usband got anythink yet? Dear, dear! Don't you put yerself out. I'm
sure it was a great kindness of you to let the troublesome thing lay
'ere all night.'

Funeral guests were beginning to assemble. On arriving, they were
conducted first of all into the front-room on the ground-floor, the
Peckovers' parlour. It was richly furnished. In the centre stood a
round table, which left small space for moving about, and was at
present covered with refreshments. A polished sideboard supported a
row of dessert-plates propped on their edges, and a number of glass
vessels, probably meant for ornament alone, as they could not
possibly have been put to any use. A low cupboard in a recess was
surmounted by a frosted cardboard model of St. Paul's under a glass
case, behind which was reared an oval tray painted with flowers..
Over the mantel-piece was the regulation mirror, its gilt frame
enveloped in coarse yellow gauze; the mantel-piece itself bore a
'wealth' of embellishments in glass and crockery. On each side of it
hung a framed silhouette, portraits of ancestors. Other pictures
there were many, the most impressive being an ancient oil-painting,
of which the canvas bulged forth from the frame; the subject
appeared to be a ship, but was just as likely a view of the Alps.
Several German prints conveyed instruction as well as delight; one
represented the trial of Strafford in Westminster Hall; another, the
trial of William Lord Russell, at the Old Bailey. There was also a
group of engraved portraits, the Royal Family of England early in
the reign of Queen Victoria; and finally, 'The Destruction of
Nineveh,' by John Martin. Along the window-sill were disposed
flower-pots containing artificial plants; one or other was always
being knocked down by the curtains or blinds.

Each guest having taken a quaff of ale or spirits or what was called
wine, with perhaps a mouthful of more solid sustenance, was then led
down into the back-kitchen to view the coffin and the corpse. I
mention the coffin first, because in everyone's view this was the
main point of interest. Could Mrs. Peckover have buried the old
woman in an orange-crate, she would gladly have done so for the
saving of expense; but with relatives and neighbours to consider,
she drew a great deal of virtue out of necessity, and dealt so very
handsomely with the undertaker, that this burial would be the talk
of the Close for some weeks. The coffin was inspected inside and
out, was admired and appraised, Mrs. Peckover being at hand to check
the estimates. At the same time every most revolting detail of the
dead woman's last illness was related and discussed and mused over
and exclaimed upon. 'A lovely corpse, considerin' her years,' was
the general opinion. Then all went upstairs again, and once more
refreshed themselves. The house smelt like a bar-room.

'Everythink most respectable, I'm sure!' remarked the female
mourners to each other, as they crowded together in the parlour.

'An' so it had ought to be!' exclaimed one, in an indignant tone,
such as is reserved for the expression of offence among educated
people, but among the poor--the London poor, least original and
least articulate beings within the confines of civilisation--has
also to do duty for friendly emphasis. 'If Mrs. Peckover can't
afford to do things respectable, who can?'

And the speaker looked defiantly about her, as if daring
contradiction. But only approving murmurs replied. Mrs. Peckover
had, in fact, the reputation of being wealthy; she was always
inheriting, always accumulating what her friends called 'interess,'
never expending as other people needs must. The lodgings she let
enabled her to live rent-free and rate-free. Clem's earnings at an
artificial-flower factory more than paid for that young lady's board
and clothing, and all other outlay was not worth mentioning as a
deduction from the income created by her sundry investments. Her
husband--ten years deceased--had been a 'moulder'; he earned on
an average between three and four pounds a week, and was so
prudently disposed that, for the last decade of his life, he made it
a rule never to spend a farthing of his wages. Mrs. Peckover at that
time kept a small beer-shop in Rosoman Street--small and
unpretending in appearance, but through it there ran a beery
Pactolus. By selling the business shortly after her husband's death,
Mrs. Peckover realised a handsome capital. She retired into private
life, having a strong sense of personal dignity, and feeling it
necessary to devote herself to the moral training of her only child.

At half-past eleven Mrs. Peckover was arrayed in her mourning
robes--new, dark-glistening. During her absence Clem had kept guard
over Mrs. Gully, whom it was very difficult indeed to restrain from
the bottles and decanters; the elder lady coming to relieve, Clem
could rush away and don her own solemn garments. The undertaker with
his men arrived; the hearse and coaches drove up; the Close was in
a state of excitement. 'Now that's what I call a respectable
turn-out!' was the phrase passed from mouth to mouth in the crowd
gathering near the door. Children in great numbers had absented
themselves from school for the purpose of beholding this procession.
'I do like to see spirited 'orses at a funeral!' remarked one of the
mourners, who had squeezed his way to the parlour window. 'It puts
the finishin' touch, as you may say, don't it?' When the coffin was
borne forth, there was such a press in the street that the men with
difficulty reached the hearse. As the female mourners stepped across
the pavement with handkerchiefs held to their mouths, a sigh of
satisfaction was audible throughout the crowd; the males were less
sympathetically received, and some jocose comments from a
costermonger, whose business was temporarily interrupted, excited
indulgent smiles.

The procession moved slowly away, and the crowd, unwilling to
disperse immediately, looked about for some new source of
entertainment. They were fortunate, for at this moment came round
the corner an individual notorious throughout Clerkenwell as 'Mad
Jack.' Mad he presumably was--at all events, an idiot. A lanky,
raw-boned, red-beaded man, perhaps forty years old; not clad, but
hung over with the filthiest rags; hatless, shoeless. He supported
himself by singing in the streets, generally psalms, and with
eccentric modulations of the voice which always occasioned mirth in
hearers. Sometimes he stood at a corner and began the delivery of a
passage of Scripture in French; how, where, or when he could have
acquired this knowledge was a mystery, and Jack would throw no light
on his own past. At present, having watched the funeral coaches pass
away, he lifted up his voice in a terrific blare, singing, 'All ye
works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him for
ever.' Instantly he was assailed by the juvenile portion of the
throng, was pelted with anything that came to an, mocked
mercilessly, buffeted from behind. For a while he persisted in his
psalmody, but at length, without warning, he rushed upon his
tormentors, and with angry shrieks endeavoured to take revenge. The
uproar continued till a policeman came and cleared the way. Then
Jack went off again, singing, 'All ye works of the Lord.' With his
voice blended that of the costermonger, 'Penny a bundill!'

Up in the Hewetts' back-room lay Jane Snowdon, now seemingly asleep,
now delirious. When she talked, a name was constantly upon her lips;
she kept calling for 'Mr. Kirkwood.' Amy was at school; Annie and
Tom frequently went into the room and gazed curiously at the sick
girl. Mrs. Hewett felt so ill to-day that she could only lie on the
bed and try to silence her baby's crying.

The house-door was left wide open between the departure and return
of the mourners; a superstition of the people demands this. The
Peckovers brought back with them some half a dozen relatives and
friends, invited to a late dinner. The meal had been in preparation
at an eating-house close by, and was now speedily made ready in the
parlour. A liberal supply of various ales was furnished by the
agency of a pot-boy (Jane's absence being much felt), and in the
course of half an hour or so the company were sufficiently restored
to address themselves anew to the bottles and decanters. Mrs. Gully
was now permitted to obey her instincts; the natural result could be
attributed to overstrung feelings.

Just when the mourners had grown noisily hilarious, testifying
thereby to the respectability with which things were being conducted
to the very end, Mrs. Peckover became aware of a knocking at the
front-door. She bade her daughter go and see who it was. Clem,
speedily returning, beckoned her mother from among the guests.

'It's somebody wants to know if there ain't somebody called Snowdon
livin' 'ere,' she whispered in a tone of alarm. 'An old man.'

Mrs. Peckover never drank more than was consistent with the perfect
clearness of her brain. At present she had very red cheeks, and her
cat-like eyes gleamed noticeably, but any kind of business would
have found her as shrewdly competent as ever.

'What did you say?' she whispered savagely

'Said I'd come an' ask.'

'You stay 'ere. Don't say nothink.'

Mrs. Peckover left the room, closed the door behind her, and went
along the passage. On the doorstep stood a man with white hair,
wearing an unusual kind of cloak and a strange hat. He looked at the
landlady without speaking.

'What was you wantin', mister?'

'I have been told,' replied the man in a clear, grave voice, 'that a
child of the name of Snowdon lives in your house, ma'am.'

'Eh? Who told you that?'

'The people next door but one. I've been asking at many houses in
the neighbourhood. There used to be relations of mine lived
somewhere here; I don't know the house, nor the street exactly. The
name isn't so very common. If you don't mind, I should like to ask
you who the child's parents was.'

Mrs. Peckover's eyes were searching the speaker with the utmost
closeness

'I don't mind tellin' you,' she said, 'that there _is_ a child of
that name in the 'ouse, a young girl, at least. Though I don't
rightly know her age, I take her for fourteen or fifteen.'

The old man seemed to consult his recollections.

'If it's anyone I'm thinking of,' he said slowly, 'she can't be
quite as old as that.'

The woman's face changed; she looked away for a moment.

'Well, as I was sayin', I don't rightly know her age. Any way, I'm
responsible for her. I've been a mother to her, an' a good mother--
though I say it myself--these six years or more. I look on her now
as a child o' my own. I don't know who you may be, mister. P'r'aps
you've come from abroad?'

'Yes, I have. There's no reason why I shouldn't tell you that I'm
trying to find any of my kin that are still alive, There was a
married son of mine that once lived somewhere about here. His name
was Joseph James Snowdon. When I last heard of him, he was working
at a 'lectroplater's in Clerkenwell. That was thirteen years ago. I
deal openly with you; I shall thank you if you'll do the like with
me.'

'See, will you just come in? I've got a few friends in the
front-room; there's been a death in the 'ouse, an' there's sickness,
an' we're out of order a bit, I'll ask you to come downstairs.'

It was late in the afternoon, and though lights were not yet
required in the upper rooms, the kitchen would have been all but
dark save for the fire. Mrs. Peckover lit a lamp and bade her
visitor be seated. Then she re-examined his face, his attire, his
hands. Everything about him told of a life spent in mechanical
labour. His speech was that of an untaught man, yet differed greatly
from the tongue prevailing in Clerkenwell; he was probably not a
Londoner by birth, and--a point of more moment--he expressed
himself in the tone of one who is habitually thoughtful, who, if the
aid of books has been denied to him, still has won from life the
kind of knowledge which develops character. Mrs. Peckover had small
experience of faces which bear the stamp of simple sincerity. This
man's countenance put her out. As a matter of course, he wished to
overreach her in some way, but he was obviously very deep indeed.
And then she found it so difficult to guess his purposes. How would
he proceed if she gave him details of Jane's history, admitting that
she was the child of Joseph James Snowdon? What, again, had he been
told by the people of whom he had made inquiries? She needed time to
review her position.

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