The Nether World

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'As I was sayin',' she resumed, poking the fire, 'I've been a mother
to her these six years or more, an' I feel I done the right thing by
her. She was left on my 'ands by them as promised to pay for her
keep; an' a few months, I may say a few weeks, was all as ever I
got. Another woman would a sent the child to the 'Ouse; but that's
always the way with me; I'm always actin' against my own
interesses.'

'You say that her parents went away and left her?' asked the old
man, knitting his brows.

'Her father did. Her mother, she died in this very 'ouse, an' she
was buried from it. He gave her a respectable burial, I'll say that
much for him. An' I shouldn't have allowed anything but one as was
respectable to leave this 'ouse; I'd sooner a paid money out o' my
own pocket. That's always the way with me. Mr. Willis, he's my
undertaker; you'll find him at Number 17 Green Passage He buried my
'usband; though that wasn't from the Close; but I never knew a job
turned out more respectable. He was 'ere to-day; we've only just
buried my 'usband's mother. That's why I ain't quite myself--see?'

Mrs. Peckover was not wont to be gossippy. She became so at present,
partly in consequence of the stimulants she had taken to support her
through a trying ceremony, partly as a means of obtaining time to
reflect. Jane's unlucky illness made an especial difficulty in her
calculations. She felt that the longer she delayed mention of the
fact, the more likely was she to excite suspicion; on the other
hand, she could not devise the suitable terms in which to reveal it.
The steady gaze of the old man was disconcerting. Not that he
searched her face with a cunning scrutiny, such as her own eyes
expressed; she would have found that less troublesome, as being
familiar. The anxiety, the troubled anticipation, which her words
had aroused in him, were wholly free from shadow of ignoble motive;
he was pained, and the frequent turning away of his look betrayed
that part of the feeling was caused by observation of the woman
herself, but every movement visible on his features was subdued by
patience and mildness. Suffering was a life's habit with him, and
its fruit in this instance that which (spite of moral commonplace)
it least often bears--self-conquest.

'You haven't told me yet,' he said, with quiet disregard of her
irrelevancies, 'whether or not her father's name was Joseph
Snowdon.'

'There's no call to hide it. That was his name. I've got letters of
his writin'. "J. J. Snowdon" stands at the end, plain enough. And he
was your son, was he?'

'He was. But have you any reason to think he's dead?'

'Dead! I never heard as he was. But then I never heard as he was
livin', neither. When his wife went, poor thing--an' it was a
chill on the liver, they said; it took her very sudden--he says to
me, "Mrs. Peckover," he says, "I know you for a motherly woman"--
just like that--see?--"I know you for a motherly woman," he
says, "an' the idea I have in my 'ed is as I should like to leave
Janey in your care, 'cause," he says, "I've got work in Birmingham,
an' I don't see how I'm to take her with me. Understand me?" he
says. "Oh!" I says--not feelin' quite sure what I'd ought to do--
see? "Oh!" I says. "Yes," he says; "an' between you an' me," he
says, "there won't be no misunderstanding. If you'll keep Janey with
you"--an' she was goin' to school at the time, 'cause she went to
the same as my own Clem--that's Clemintiner--understand?--"if
you'll keep Janey with you," he says, "for a year, or maybe two
years, or maybe three years--'cause that depends on
cirkinstances"--understand?--"I'm ready," he says, "to pay you what
it's right that pay I should, an' I'm sure," he says, "as we shouldn't
misunderstand one another." Well, of course I had my own girl to
bring up, an' my own son to look after too. A nice sort o' son; just
when he was beginnin' to do well, an' ought to a paid me back for
all the expense I was at in puttin' him to a business, what must he
do but take his 'ook to Australia.'

Her scrutiny discerned something in the listener's face which led
her to ask:

'Perhaps you've been in Australia yourself, mister?'

'I have.'

The woman paused, speculation at work in her eyes.

'Do you know in what part of the country your son is?' inquired the
old man absently.

'He's wrote me two letters, an' the last, as come more than a year
ago, was from a place called Maryborough.'

The other still preserved an absent expression; his eyes travelled
about the room.

'I always said,' pursued Mrs. Peckover, 'as it was Snowdon as put
Australia into the boy's 'ed. He used to tell us he'd got a brother
there, doin' well. P'r'aps it wasn't true.'

'Yes, it was true,' replied the old man coldly. 'But you haven't
told me what came to pass about the child.'

An exact report of all that Mrs. Peckover had to say on this subject
would occupy more space than it merits. The gist of it was that for
less than a year she had received certain stipulated sums
irregularly; that at length no money at all was forthcoming; that in
the tenderness of her heart she had still entertained the child,
sent her to school, privately instructed her in the domestic
virtues, trusting that such humanity would not lack even its
material reward, and that either Joseph Snowdon or someone akin to
him would ultimately make good to her the expenses she had not
grudged.

'She's a child as pays you back for all the trouble you take, so
much I _will_ say for her,' observed the matron in conclusion. 'Not
as it hasn't been a little 'ard to teach her tidiness, but she's
only a young thing still. I shouldn't wonder but she's felt her
position a little now an' then; it's only natural in a growin' girl,
do what you can to prevent it. Still, she's willin'; that nobody can
deny, an' I'm sure I should never wish to. Her cirkinstances has
been peculiar; that you'll understand, I'm sure. But I done my best
to take the place of the mother as is gone to a better world. An'
now that she's layin' ill, I'm sure no mother could feel it more--'

'Ill? Why didn't you mention that before?'

'Didn't I say as she was ill? Why, I thought it was the first word I
spoke as soon as you got into the 'ouse. You can't a noticed it, or
else it was me as is so put about. What With havin' a burial--'

'Where is she?' asked the old man anxiously.

'Where? Why, you don't think as I'd a sent her to be looked after by
strangers? She's layin' in Mrs. Hewett's room--that's one o' the
lodgers--all for the sake o' comfort. A better an' kinder woman
than Mrs. Hewett you wouldn't find, not if you was to--'

With difficulty the stranger obtained a few details of the origin
and course of the illness--details wholly misleading, but devised
to reassure. When he desired to see Jane, Mrs. Peckover assumed an
air of perfect willingness, but reminded him that she had nothing
save his word to prove that he had indeed a legitimate interest in
the girl.

'I can do no more than tell you that Joseph James Snowdon was my
younger son,' replied the old man simply. 'I've come back to spend
my last years in England, and I hoped--I hope still--to find my
son. I wish to take his child into my own care; as he left her to
strangers--perhaps he didn't do it willingly; he may be dead--he
could have nothing to say against me giving her the care of a
parent. You've been at expense--'

Mrs. Peckover waited with eagerness, but the sentence remained
incomplete. Again the old man's eyes strayed about the room. The
current of his thoughts seemed to change, and he said:

'You could show me those letters you spoke of--of my son's
writing?'

'Of course I could,' was the reply, in the tone of coarse resentment
whereby the scheming vulgar are wont to testify to their dishonesty.

'Afterwards--afterwards. I should like to see Jane, if you'll be
so good.'

The mild voice, though often diffident, now and then fell upon a
note of quiet authority which suited well with the speaker's grave,
pure countenance. As he spoke thus, Mrs. Peckover rose, and said she
would first go upstairs just to see how things were. She was absent
ten minutes, then a little girl--Amy Hewett--came into the
kitchen and asked the stranger to follow her.

Jane had been rapidly transferred from the mattress to the bedstead,
and the room had been put into such order as was possible. A whisper
from Mrs. Peckover to Mrs. Hewett, promising remission of half a
week's rent, had sufficed to obtain for the former complete freedom
in her movements. The child, excited by this disturbance, had begun
to moan and talk inarticulately. Mrs. Peckover listened for a
moment, but heard nothing dangerous. She bade the old man enter
noiselessly, and herself went about on tip-toe, speaking only in a
hoarse whisper.

The visitor had just reached the bedside, and was gazing with deep,
compassionate interest at the unconscious face, when Jane, as if
startled, half rose and cried painfully, 'Mr. Kirkwood! oh, Mr.
Kirkwood!' and she stretched her hand out, appearing to believe that
the friend she called upon was near her.

'Who is that?' inquired the old man, turning to his companion.

'Only a friend of ours,' answered Mrs. Peckover, herself puzzled and
uneasy.

Again the sick girl called 'Mr. Kirkwood!' but without other words.
Mrs. Peckover urged the danger of this excitement, and speedily led
the way downstairs.

CHAPTER VI

GLIMPSES OF THE PAST

Sidney Kirkwood had a lodging in Tysoe Street, Clerkenwell. It is a
short street, which, like so many in London, begins reputably and
degenerates in its latter half. The cleaner end leads into
Wilmington Square, which consists of decently depressing houses,
occupied in the main, as the lower windows and front-doors indicate,
by watchmakers, working jewellers, and craftsmen of allied pursuits.
The open space, grateful in this neighbourhood, is laid out as a
garden, with trees, beds, and walks. Near the iron gate, which, for
certain hours in the day, gives admission, is a painted notice
informing the public that, by the grace of the Marquis of
Northampton, they may here take their ease on condition of good
behaviour; to children is addressed a distinct warning that 'This is
not a playing ground.' From his window Sidney had a good view of the
Square. The house in which he lived was of two storeys; a brass
plate on the door showed the inscription, 'Hodgson, Dial Painter.'
The window on the ground-floor was arched, as in the other dwellings
at this end of the street, and within stood an artistic arrangement
of wax fruit under a glass shade, supported by a heavy volume of
Biblical appearance. The upper storey was graced with a small iron
balcony, on which straggled a few flower-pots. However, the exterior
of this abode was, by comparison, promising; the curtains and blinds
were clean, the step was washed and whitened, the brass plate shone,
the panes of glass had at all events acquaintance with a duster. A
few yards in the direction away from the Square, and Tysoe Street
falls under the dominion of dry-rot.

It was not until he set forth to go to work next morning that Sidney
called to mind his conversation with Jane. That the child should
have missed by five minutes a meeting with someone who perchance had
the will and the power to befriend her, seemed to him, in his
present mood, merely an illustration of a vice inherent in the
nature of things. He determined to look in at the public-house of
which she had spoken, and hear for himself what manner of man had
made inquiries for people named Snowdon. The name was not a common
one; it was worth while to spend a hope or two on the chance of
doing Jane a kindness. Her look and voice when he bade her be of
good courage had touched him. In his rejected state, he felt that it
was pleasant to earn gratitude even from so humble a being as the
Peckovers' drudge.

His workshop, it has been mentioned, was in St. John's Square. Of
all areas in London thus defined, this Square of St. John is
probably the most irregular in outline. It is cut in two by
Clerkenwell Road, and the buildings which compose it form such a
number of recesses, of abortive streets, of shadowed alleys, that
from no point of the Square can anything like a general view of its
totality be obtained. The exit from it on the south side is by St.
John's Lane, at the entrance to which stands a survival from a
buried world--the embattled and windowed archway which is all that
remains above ground of the great Priory of St. John of Jerusalem.
Here dwelt the Knights Hospitallers, in days when Clerkenwell was a
rural parish, distant by a long stretch of green country from the
walls of London. But other and nearer memories are revived by St.
John's Arch. In the rooms above the gateway dwelt, a hundred and
fifty years ago, one Edward Cave, publisher of the _Gentleman's
Magazine_, and there many a time has sat a journeyman author of his,
by name Samuel Johnson, too often _impransus_. There it was that the
said Samuel once had his dinner handed to him behind a screen,
because of his unpresentable costume, when Cave was entertaining an
aristocratic guest. In the course of the meal, the guest happened to
speak with interest of something he had recently read by an obscure
Mr. Johnson; whereat there was joy behind the screen, and probably
increased appreciation of the unwonted dinner. After a walk amid the
squalid and toil-infested ways of Clerkenwell, it impresses one
strangely to come upon this monument of old time. The archway has a
sad, worn, grimy aspect. So closely is it packed in among buildings
which suggest nothing but the sordid struggle for existence, that it
looks depressed, ashamed, tainted by the ignobleness of its
surroundings. The wonder is that it has not been swept away, in
obedience to the great. law of traffic and the spirit of the time.

St. John's Arch had a place in Sidney Kirkwood's earliest memories.
From the window of his present workshop he could see its grey
battlements, and they reminded him of the days when, as a lad just
beginning to put questions about the surprising world in which he
found himself, he used to listen to such stories as his father could
tell him of the history of Clerkenwell. Mr. Kirkwood occupied part
of a house in St. John's Lane, not thirty yards from the Arch; he
was a printers' roller maker, and did but an indifferent business. A
year after the birth of Sidney, his only child, he became a widower.
An intelligent, warm-hearted man, the one purpose of his latter
years was to realise such moderate competency as should place his
son above the anxieties which degrade. The boy had a noticeable turn
for drawing and colouring; at ten years old, when (as often
happened) his father took him for a Sunday in the country, he
carried a sketch-book and found his delight in using it. Sidney was
to be a draughtsman of some kind; perhaps an artist, if all went
well. Unhappily things went the reverse of well. In his anxiety to
improve his business, Mr. Kirkwood invented a new kind of
'composition' for printers' use; he patented it, risked capital upon
it, made in a short time some serious losses. To add to his
troubles, young Sidney was giving signs of an unstable character; at
fifteen he had grown tired of his drawing, wanted to be this, that,
and the other thing, was self-willed, and showed no consideration
for his father's difficulties. It was necessary to take a decided
step, and, though against his will, Sidney was apprenticed to an
uncle, a Mr. Roach, who also lived in Clerkenwell, and was a working
jeweller. Two years later the father died, all but bankrupt. The few
pounds realised from his effects passed into the hands of Mr. Roach,
and were soon expended in payment for Sidney's board and lodging.

His bereavement possibly saved Sidney from a young-manhood of
foolishness and worse. In the upper world a youth may 'sow his wild
oats' and have done with it; in the nether, 'to have your fling' is
almost necessarily to fall among criminals. The death was sudden; it
affected the lad profoundly, and filled him with a remorse which was
to influence the whole of his life. Mr. Roach, a thick-skinned and
rather thick-headed person, did not spare to remind his apprentice
of the most painful things wherewith the latter had to reproach
himself. Sidney bore it, from this day beginning a course of
self-discipline of which not many are capable at any age, and very
few indeed at seventeen. Still, there had never been any sympathy
between him and his uncle, and before very long the young man saw
his way to live under another roof and find work with a new
employer.

It was just after leaving his uncle's house that Sidney came to know
John Hewett; the circumstances which fostered their friendship were
such as threw strong light on the characters of both. Sidney had
taken a room in Islington, and two rooms on the floor beneath him
were tenanted by a man who was a widower and had two children. In
those days, our young friend found much satisfaction in spending his
Sunday evenings on Clerkenwell Green, where fervent, if
ungrammatical, oratory was to be heard, and participation in debate
was open to all whom the spirit moved. One whom the spirit did very
frequently move was Sidney's fellow-lodger; he had no gift of
expression whatever, but his brief, stammering protests against this
or that social wrong had such an honest, indeed such a pathetic
sound, that Sidney took an opportunity of walking home with him and
converting neighbourship into friendly acquaintance. John Hewett
gave the young man an account of his life. He had begun as a
lath-render; later he had got into cabinet-making, started a
business on his own account, and failed. A brother of his, who was a
builder's foreman, then found employment for him in general
carpentry on some new houses; but John quarrelled with his brother,
and after many difficulties fell to the making of packing-cases;
that was his work at present, and with much discontent he pursued
it. John was curiously frank in owning all the faults in himself
which had helped to make his career so unsatisfactory. He confessed
that he had an uncertain temper, that he soon became impatient with
work 'which led to nothing,' that he was tempted out of his prudence
by anything which seemed to offer 'a better start.' With all these
admissions, he maintained that he did well to be angry. It was wrong
that life should be so hard; so much should not be required of a
man. In body he was not strong; the weariness of interminable days
over-tried him and excited his mind to vain discontent. His wife was
the only one who could ever keep him cheerful under his lot, and his
wedded life had lasted but six years; now there was his lad Bob and
his little girl Clara to think of, and it only made him more
miserable to look forward and see them going through hardships like
his own. Things were wrong somehow, and it seemed to him that 'if
only we could have universal suffrage--'

Sidney was only eighteen, and strong in juvenile Radicalism, but he
had a fund of common sense, and such a conclusion as this of poor
John's half-astonished, half-amused him. However, the man's
personality attracted him; it was honest, warm-hearted, interesting;
the logic of his pleadings might be at fault, but Sidney sympathised
with him, for all that. He too felt that 'things were wrong
somehow,' and had a pleasure in joining the side of revolt for
revolt's sake.

Now in the same house with them dwelt a young woman of about
nineteen years old; she occupied a garret, was seldom seen about,
and had every appearance of being a simple, laborious girl, of the
kind familiar enough as the silent victims of industrialism. One day
the house was thrown into consternation by the news that Miss
Barnes--so she was named--had been arrested on a charge of stealing
her employer's goods. It was true, and perhaps the best way of
explaining it will be to reproduce a newspaper report which Sidney
Kirkwood thereafter preserved.

'On Friday, Margaret Barnes, nineteen, a single woman, was indicted
for stealing six jackets, value 5_l_., the property of Mary Oaks,
her mistress. The prisoner, who cried bitterly during the
proceedings, pleaded guilty. The prosecutrix is a single woman, and
gets her living by mantle-making, She engaged the prisoner to do
what is termed "finishing off," that is, making the button-holes and
sewing on the buttons. The prisoner was also employed to fetch the
work from the warehouse, and deliver it when finished. On September
7th her mistress sent her with the six jackets, and she never
returned. Sergeant Smith, a detective, who apprehended the prisoner,
said he had made inquiries in the case, and found that up to this
time the prisoner had borne a good character as an honest,
hard-working girl. She had quitted her former lodgings, which had no
furniture but a small table and a few rags in a corner, and he
discovered her in a room which was perfectly bare. Miss Oaks was
examined, and said the prisoner was employed from nine in the
morning to eight at night. The Judge: How much did you pay her per
week? Miss Oaks: Four shillings. The Judge: Did you give her her
food? Miss Oaks: No; I only get one shilling each for the jackets
myself when completed. I have to use two sewing-machines, find my
own cotton and needles, and I can, by working hard, make two in a
day. The Judge said it was a sad state of things. The prisoner, when
called upon, said she had had nothing to eat for three days, and so
gave way to temptation, hoping to get better employment. The Judge,
while commiserating with the prisoner, said it could not be allowed
that distress should justify dishonesty, and sentenced the prisoner
to six weeks' imprisonment.'

The six weeks passed, and about a fortnight after that, John Hewett
came into Sidney's room one evening with a strange look on his face.
His eyes were very bright, the hand which he held out trembled.

'I've something to tell you,' he said. 'I'm going to get married
again.'

'Really? Why, I'm glad to hear it!'

'And who do you think? Miss Barnes.'

Sidney was startled for a moment. John had had no acquaintance with
the girl prior to her imprisonment. He had said that he should meet
her when she came out and give her some money, and Sidney had added
a contribution. For a man in Hewett's circumstances this latest step
was somewhat astonishing, but his character explained it.

'I'm goin' to marry her,' he exclaimed excitedly, 'and I'm doing the
right thing! I respect her more than all the women as never went
wrong because they never had occasion to. I'm goin' to put her as a
mother over my children, and I'm goin' to make a happier life for
her. She's a good girl, I tell you. I've seen her nearly every day
this fortnight; I know all about her. She wouldn't have me when I
first asked her--that was a week ago. She said no; she'd disgrace
me. If you can't respect her as you would any other woman, never
come into my lodging!'

Sidney was warm with generous glow. He wrung Hewett's hand and
stammered incoherent words.

John took new lodgings in an obscure part of Clerkenwell, and seemed
to have become a young man once more. His complaints ceased; the
energy with which he went about his work was remarkable. He said his
wife was the salvation of him. And then befell one of those happy
chances which supply mankind with instances for its pathetic faith
that a good deed will not fail of reward. John's brother died, and
bequeathed to him some four hundred pounds. Hereupon, what must the
poor fellow do but open workshops on his own account, engage men, go
about crying that his opportunity had come at last. Here was the bit
of rock by means of which he could save himself from the sea of
competition that had so nearly whelmed him! Little Clara, now eleven
years old, could go on steadily at school; no need to think of how
the poor child should earn a wretched living. Bob, now thirteen,
should shortly be apprenticed to some better kind of trade. New
rooms were taken and well furnished. Maggie, the wife, could have
good food, such as she needed in her constant ailing, alas! The baby
just born was no longer a cause of anxious thought, but a joy in the
home. And Sidney Kirkwood came to supper as soon as the new rooms
were in order, and his bright, manly face did everyone good to look
at. He still took little Clara upon his knee. Ha! there would come a
day before long when he would not venture to do that, and then
perhaps--perhaps! What a supper that was, and how smoothly went
the great wheels of the world that evening!

One baby, two babies, three babies; before the birth of the third,
John's brow was again clouded, again he had begun to rail and fume
at the unfitness of things. His business was a failure, partly
because he dealt with a too rigid honesty, partly because of his
unstable nature, which left him at the mercy of whims and
obstinacies and airy projects. He did not risk the ordinary kind of
bankruptcy, but came down and down, until at length he was the only
workman in his own shop; then the shop itself had to be abandoned;
then he was searching for someone who would employ him,

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