The Nether World

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Bob had been put to the die-sinker's craft; Clara was still going to
school, and had no thought of earning a livelihood--ominous state
of things, When it shortly became clear even to John Hewett that he
would wrong the girl if he did not provide her with some means of
supporting herself, she was sent to learn 'stamping' with the same
employer for whom her brother worked. The work was light; it would
soon bring in a little money. John declared with fierceness that his
daughter should never be set to the usual needle-slavery, and indeed
it seemed very unlikely that Clara would ever be fit for that
employment, as she could not do the simplest kind of sewing. In the
meantime the family kept changing their abode, till at length they
settled in Mrs. Peckover's house. All the best of their furniture
was by this time sold; but for the two eldest children, there would
probably have been no home at all. Bob, aged nineteen, earned at
this present time a pound weekly; his sister, an average of thirteen
shillings. Mrs. Hewett's constant ill-health (the result, doubtless,
of semi-starvation through the years of her girlhood), would have
excused defects of housekeeping; but indeed the poor woman was under
any circumstances incapable of domestic management, and therein
represented her class. The money she received was wasted in
comparison with what might have been done with it. I suppose she
must not be blamed for bringing children into the world when those
already born to her were but half-clothed, half-fed; she increased
the sum total of the world's misery in obedience to the laws of the
Book of Genesis. And one virtue she had which compensated for all
that was lacking--a virtue merely negative among the refined, but
in that other world the rarest and most precious of moral
distinctions--she resisted the temptations of the public-house.

This was the story present in Sidney Kirkwood's mind as often as he
climbed the staircase in Clerkenwell Close. By contrast, his own
life seemed one of unbroken ease. Outwardly it was smooth enough. He
had no liking for his craft, and being always employed upon the
meaningless work which is demanded by the rich vulgar, he felt such
work to be paltry and ignoble; but there seemed no hope of obtaining
better. and he made no audible complaint. His wages were consider
ably more than he needed, and systematically he put money aside each
week.

But this orderly existence concealed conflicts of heart and mind
which Sidney himself could not have explained, could not lucidly
have described. The moral shock which he experienced at his father's
death put an end to the wanton play of his energies, but it could
not ripen him before due time; his nature was not of the sterile
order common in his world, and through passion, through conflict,
through endurance, it had to develop such maturity as fate should
permit. Saved from self-indulgence, he naturally turned into the way
of political enthusiasm; thither did his temper point him. With some
help--mostly negative--from Clerkenwell Green, he reached the
stage of confident and aspiring Radicalism, believing in the
perfectibility of man, in human brotherhood, in--anything you like
that is the outcome of a noble heart sheltered by ignorance. It had
its turn, and passed.

To give place to nothing very satisfactory. It was not a mere
coincidence that Sidney was going through a period of mental and
moral confusion just in those years which brought Clara Hewett from
childhood to the state of woman. Among the acquaintances of Sidney's
boyhood there was not one but had a chosen female companion from the
age of fifteen or earlier; he himself had been no exception to the
rule in his class, but at the time of meeting with Hewett he was
companionless, and remained so. The Hewetts became his closest
friends; in their brief prosperity he rejoiced with them, in their
hardships he gave them all the assistance to which John's pride
would consent; his name was never spoken among them but with warmth
and gratitude. And of course the day came to which Hewett had looked
forward--the day when Sidney could no longer take Clara upon his
knee and stroke her brown hair and joke with her about her fits of
good and ill humour. Sidney knew well enough what was in his
friend's mind, and, though with no sense of constraint, he felt that
this handsome, keen-eyed, capricious girl was destined to be his
wife. He liked Clara; she always attracted him and interested him;
but her faults were too obvious to escape any eye, and the older she
grew, the more was he impressed and troubled by them. The thought of
Clara became a preoccupation, and with the love which at length he
recognised there blended a sense of fate fulfilling itself. His
enthusiasms, his purposes, never defined as education would have
defined them, were dissipated into utter vagueness. He lost his
guiding interests, and found himself returning to those of boyhood.
The country once more attracted him; he took out his old
sketch-books, bought a new one, revived the regret that he could not
be a painter of landscape. A visit to one or two picture-galleries,
and then again profound discouragement, recognition of the fact that
he was a mechanic and never could be anything else.

It was the end of his illusions. For him not even passionate love
was to preserve the power of idealising its object. He loved Clara
with all the desire of his being, but could no longer deceive
himself in judging her character. The same sad clearness of vision
affected his judgment of the world about him, of the activities in
which he had once been zealous, of the conditions which enveloped
his life and the lives of those dear to him. The spirit of revolt
often enough stirred within him, but no longer found utterance in
the speech which brings relief; he did his best to dispel the mood,
mocking at it as folly. Consciously he set himself the task of
becoming a practical man, of learning to make the best of life as he
found it, of shunning as the fatal error that habit of mind which
kept John Hewett on the rack. Who was he that he should look for
pleasant things in his course through the world? 'We are the lower
orders; we are the working classes,' he said bitterly to his friend,
and that seemed the final answer to all his aspirations.

This was a dark day with him. The gold he handled stung him to
hatred and envy, and every feeling which he had resolved to combat
as worse than profitless. He could not speak to his fellow-workmen.
From morning to night it had rained. St. John's Arch looked more
broken-spirited than ever, drenched in sooty moisture.

During the dinner-hour he walked over to the public-house of which
Jane had spoken, and obtained from the barman as full a description
as possible of the person he hoped to encounter. Both then and on
his return home in the evening he shunned the house where his
friends dwelt.

It came round to Monday. For the first time for many months he had
allowed Sunday to pass without visiting the Hewetts. He felt that to
go there at present would only be to increase the parents'
depression by his own low spirits. Clara had left them now, however,
and if he still stayed away, his behaviour might be misinterpreted.
On returning from work, he washed, took a hurried meal, and was on
the point of going out when someone knocked at his door. He opened,
and saw an old man who was a stranger to him.

CHAPTER VII

MRS. BYASS'S LODGINGS

'You are Mr. Kirkwood?' said his visitor civilly. 'My name is
Snowdon. I should be glad to speak a few words with you, if you
could spare the time.'

Sidney's thoughts were instantly led into the right channel; he
identified the old man by his white hair and the cloak. The hat,
however, which had been described to him, was now exchanged for a
soft felt of a kind common enough; the guernsey, too, had been laid
aside. With ready goodwill he invited Mr. Snowdon to enter.

There was not much in the room to distinguish it from the dwelling
of any orderly mechanic. A small bed occupied one side; a small
table stood before the window; the toilet apparatus was, of course,
unconcealed; a half-open cupboard allowed a glimpse of crockery,
sundries, and a few books. The walls, it is true, were otherwise
ornamented than is usual; engravings, chromo-lithographs, and some
sketches of landscape in pencil, were suspended wherever light fell,
and the choice manifested in this collection was nowise akin to that
which ruled in Mrs. Peckover's parlour, and probably in all the
parlours of Tysoe Street. To select for one's chamber a woodcut
after Constable or Gainsborough is at all events to give proof of a
capacity for civilisation.

The visitor made a quick survey of these appearances; then he seated
himself on the chair Sidney offered. He was not entirely at his
ease, and looked up at the young man twice or thrice before he began
to speak again.

'Mr. Kirkwood, were you ever acquainted with my son, by name Joseph
Snowdon?'

'No; I never knew him,' was the reply. 'I have heard his name, and I
know where he once lived--not far from here.'

'You're wondering what has brought me to you. I have heard of you
from people a grandchild of mine is living with. I dare say it is
the house you mean--in Clerkenwell Close.'

'So you have found it!' exclaimed Sidney with pleasure. 'I've been
looking about for you as I walked along the streets these last two
or three days.'

'Looking for me?' said the other, astonished.

Sidney supplied the explanation, but without remarking on the
circumstances which made Jane so anxious to discover a possible
friend. Snowdon listened attentively, and at length, with a slight
smile; he seemed to find pleasure in the young man's way of
expressing himself. When silence ensued, he looked about absently
for a moment; then, meeting Sidney's eyes, said in a grave voice:

'That poor child is very ill.'

'Ill? I'm sorry to hear it.'

'The reason I've come to you, Mr. Kirkwood, is because she's called
out your name so often. They don't seem able to tell me how she came
into this state, but she's had a fright of some kind, or she's been
living very unhappily. She calls on your name, as if she wanted you
to protect her from harm. I didn't know what to think about it at
first. I'm a stranger to everybody--I may tell you I've been
abroad for several years--and they don't seem very ready to put
trust in me; but I decided at last that I'd come and speak to you.
It's my grandchild, and perhaps the only one of my family left;
nobody can give me news of her father since he went away four or
five years ago. She came to herself this morning for a little, but
I'm afraid she couldn't understand what I tried to tell her; then I
mentioned your name, and I could see it did her good at once. What I
wish to ask of you is, would you come to her bedside for a few
minutes? She might know you, and I feel sure it would be a kindness
to her.'

Sidney appeared to hesitate. It was not, of course, that he dreamt
of refusing, but he was busy revolving all he knew of Jane's life
with the Peckovers, and asking himself what it behoved him to tell,
what to withhold. Daily experience guarded him against the habit of
gossip, which is one of the innumerable curses of the uneducated
(whether poor or wealthy), and, notwithstanding the sympathy with
which his visitor inspired him, he quickly decided to maintain
reserve until he understood more of the situation.

'Yes, yes; I'll go with you at once,' he made haste to reply, when
he perceived that his hesitancy was occasioning doubt and trouble.
'In fact, I was just starting to go and see the Hewetts when you
knocked at the door. They're friends of mine--living in Mrs.
Peckover's house. That's how I came to know Jane. I haven't been
there for several days, and when I last saw her, as I was saying,
she seemed as well as usual.'

'I'm afraid that wasn't much to boast of,' said Snowdon. 'She's a
poor, thin-looking child.'

Sidney was conscious that the old man did not give expression to all
he thought. This mutual exercise of tact seemed, however, to
encourage a good understanding between them rather than the reverse.

'You remain in the house?' Kirkwood asked as they went downstairs.

'I stay with her through the night. I didn't feel much confidence in
the doctor that was seeing her, so I made inquiries and found a
better man.'

When they reached the Close, the door was opened to them by Clem
Peckover. She glared haughtily at Sidney, but uttered no word. To
Kirkwood's surprise, they went up to the Hewetts' back-room. The
mattress that formerly lay upon the floor had been removed; the bed
was occupied by the sick girl, with whom at present Mrs. Peckover
was sitting. That benevolent person rose on seeing Sidney, and
inclined her head with stateliness.

'She's just fell asleep,' was her whispered remark. 'I shouldn't say
myself as it was good to wake her up, but of course you know best.'

This was in keeping with the attitude Mrs. Peckover had adopted as
soon as she understood Snowdon's resolve to neglect no precaution on
the child's behalf. Her sour dignity was meant to express that she
felt hurt at the intervention of others where her affections were so
nearly concerned. Sidney could not help a certain fear when he saw
this woman installed as sick-nurse. It was of purpose that he caught
her eye and regarded her with a gravity she could scarcely fail to
comprehend.

Jane awoke from her fitful slumber. She looked with but
half-conscious fearfulness at the figures darkening her view. Sidney
moved so that his face was in the light, and, bending near to her,
asked if she recognised him. A smile--slow-forming, but
unmistakable at last--amply justified what her grandfather had
said. She made an effort to move her hand towards him. Sidney
responded to her wish, and again she smiled, self-forgetfully,
contentedly.

Snowdon turned to Mrs. Peckover, and, after a few words with regard
to the treatment that was being pursued, said that he would now
relieve her; she lingered, but shortly left the room. Sidney,
sitting by the bed, in a few minutes saw that Jane once more slept,
or appeared to do so. He whispered to Snowdon that he was going to
see his friends in the next room, and would look in again before
leaving.

His tap at the door was answered by Amy, who at once looked back and
said:

'Can Mr. Kirkwood come in, mother?'

'Yes; I want to see him,' was the answer.

Mrs. Hewett was lying in bed; she looked, if possible, more
wretchedly ill than four days ago. On the floor were two mattresses,
covered to make beds for the children. The baby, held in its
mother's arms, was crying feebly.

'Why, I hoped you were getting much better by now,' said Sidney.

Mrs. Hewett told him that she had been to the hospital on Saturday,
and seemed to have caught cold. A common enough occurrence; hours of
waiting in an out-patients' room frequently do more harm than the
doctor's advice can remedy. She explained that Mrs. Peckover had
requested the use of the other room.

'There's too many of us to be livin' an' sleepin' in this Little
place,' she said; 'but, after all, it's a savin' of rent. It's a
good thing Clara isn't here. An' you've heard as John's got work?'

He had found a job at length with a cabinet-maker; tonight he would
probably be working till ten or eleven o'clock. Good news so far.
Then Mrs. Hewett began to speak with curiosity of the old man who
claimed Jane as his grandchild. Sidney told her what had just
happened.

'An' what did you say about the girl?' she asked anxiously.

'I said as little as I could; I thought it wisest. Do you know what
made her ill?'

'It was that Clem as did it,' Mrs. Hewett replied, subduing her
voice, And she related what had befallen after Sidney's last visit.
'Mrs. Peckover, she's that afraid the truth should get out. Of
course I don't want to make no bother, but I do feel that glad the
poor thing's got somebody to look after her at last. I never told
you half the things as used to go on. That Clem's no better than a
wild-beast tiger; but then what can you do? There's never any good
comes out of makin' a bother with other people's business, is there?
Fancy him comin' to see you! Mrs. Peckover's afraid of him, I can
see that, though she pretends she isn't goin' to stand him
interferin'. What do you think about him, Sidney? He's sent for a
doctor out of Islington; wouldn't have nothin' to say to the other.
He must have plenty of money, don't you think? Mrs. Peckover says
he's goin' to pay the money owin' to her for Jane's keep. As if the
poor thing hadn't more than paid for her bits of meals an' her bed
in the kitchen! Do you think that woman 'ud ever have kept her if it
wasn't she could make her a servant with no wages? If Jane 'ud been
a boy, she'd a gone to the workhouse long ago. She's been that
handy, poor little mite! I've always done what I could for her; you
know that, Sidney. I do hope she'll get over it. If anything
happens, mind my word, there'll be a nice to-do! Clara says she'll
go to a magistrate an' let it all out, if nobody else will. She
hates the Peckovers, Clara does.'

'It won't come to that,' said Sidney. 'I can see the old man'll take
her away as soon as possible. He may have a little money; he's just
come back from Australia. I like the look of him myself.'

He began to talk of other subjects; waxed wrath at the misery of
this housing to which the family had shrunk; urged a removal from
the vile den as soon as ever it could be managed. Sidney always lost
control of himself when he talked with the Hewetts of their
difficulties; the people were, from his point of view, so lacking in
resource, so stubbornly rooted in profitless habit. Over and over
again he had implored them to take a rational view of the case, to
borrow a few pounds of him, to make a new beginning on clean soil.
It was like contending with some hostile force of nature; lie spent
himself in vain.

As Hewett did not return, he at length took his leave, and went into
the back-room for a moment.

'She's asleep,' said Snowdon, rising from the chair where he had
been sitting deep in thought. 'It's a good sign.'

Sidney just looked towards the bed, and nodded with satisfaction.
The old man gave him a warm pressure of the hand, and he departed.
All the way home, he thought with singular interest of the bare
sick-room, of the white-headed man watching through the night; the
picture impressed him in a way that could not be explained by its
natural pathos merely; it kept suggesting all sorts of fanciful
ideas, due in a measure, possibly, to Mrs. Hewett's speculations.
For an hour he was so lost in musing on the subject that he even
rested from the misery of his ceaseless thought of Clara.

He allowed three days to pass, then went to inquire about Jane's
progress. It had been satisfactory. Subsequent visits brought him to
terms of a certain intimacy with Snowdon. The latter mentioned at
length that he was looking for two rooms, suitable for himself and
Jane. He wished them to be in a decent house, somewhere in
Clerkenwell, and the rent was not to be more than a working man
could afford.

'You don't know of anything in your street?' he asked diffidently.

Something in the tone struck Sidney. It half expressed a wish to
live in his neighbourhood if possible. He looked at his companion
(they were walking together), and was met in return with a glance of
calm friendliness; it gratified him, strengthened the feeling of
respect and attachment which had already grown out of this
intercourse. In Tysoe Street, however, no accommodation could be
found. Sidney had another project in his thoughts; pursuing it, he
paid a visit the next evening to certain acquaintances of his named
Byass, who had a house in Hanover Street, Islington, and let
lodgings. Hanover Street lies to the north of City Road; it is a
quiet byway, of curving. form, and consists of dwellings only.
Squalor is here kept at arm's length; compared with regions close at
hand, this and the contiguous streets have something of a suburban
aspect.

Three or four steps led up to the house-door. Sidney's knock
summoned a young, healthy-faced, comely woman, who evinced hearty
pleasure on seeing who her visitor was. She brought him at once into
a parlour on the ground-floor.

'Well, an' I was only this mornin' tellin' Sam to go an' look after
you, or write a note, or somethin'! Why can't you come round
oftener? I've no patience with you! You just sit at 'ome an' get
humped, an' what's the good o' that, I should like to know? I
thought you'd took offence with me, an' so I told Sam. Do you want
to know how baby is? Why don't you ask, then, as you ought to do the
first thing? He's a good deal better than he deserves to be, young
rascal--all the trouble he gives me! He's fast asleep, I'm glad to
say, so you can't see him. Sam'll be back in a few minutes; at least
I expect him, but there's no knowin' nowadays when lie can leave the
warehouse. What's brought you to-night, I wonder? You needn't tell
me anything about the Upper Street business; _I_ know all about
_that_!'

'Oh, do you? From Clara herself?'

'Yes. Don't talk to me about her! There! I'm sick an tired of her--
an' so are you, I should think, if you've any sense left. Her an' me
can't get along, an' that's the truth. Why, when I met her on Sunday
afternoon, she was that patronisin' you'd have thought she'd got a
place in Windsor Castle. Would she come an' have a cup of tea? Oh
dear, no! Hadn't time! The Princess of Wales, I suppose, was waitin'
round the corner!'

Having so relieved her mind, Mrs. Byass laughed with a genuine
gaiety which proved how little malice there was in her satire.
Sidney could not refuse a smile, but it was a gloomy one.

'I'm not sure you've done all you might have to keep her friends
with you,' he said seriously, but with a good-natured look.

'There you go!' exclaimed Mrs. Byass, throwing back her head. 'Of
course everybody must be in fault sooner than _her_! She's an angel
is Miss Hewett! Poor dear! to think how shameful she's been used!
Now I do wonder how you've the face to say such things, Mr.
Kirkwood! Why, there's nobody else livin' would have been as patient
with her as I always was. I'm not bad-tempered, I will say that for
myself, an' I've put up with all sorts of things (me, a married
woman), when anyone else would have boxed her ears an, told her she
was a conceited minx. I used to be fond of Clara; you know I did.
But she's got beyond all bearin'; and if you wasn't just as foolish
as men always are, you'd see her in her true colours. Do shake
yourself a bit, do! Oh, you silly, silly man!'

Again she burst into ringing laughter, throwing herself backwards
and forwards, and at last covering her face with her hands. Sidney
looked annoyed, but the contagion of such spontaneous merriment in
the end brought another smile to his face. He moved his head in sign
of giving up the argument, and, as soon as there was silence, turned
to the object of his visit.

'I see you've still got the card in the window. I shouldn't wonder
if I could find you a lodger for those top-rooms.'

'And who's that? No children, mind.'

Sidney told her what he could of the old man. Of Jane he only said
that she had hitherto lived with the Hewetts' landlady, and was now
going to be removed by her grandfather, having just got through an
illness. Dire visions of infection at once assailed Mrs. Byass;
impossible to admit under the same roof with her baby a person who
had just been ill. This scruple was, however, overcome; the two
rooms at the top of the house--unfurnished--had been long
vacant, owing to fastidiousness in Mr. and Mrs. Byass, since their
last lodger, after a fortnight of continuous drunkenness, broke the
windows, ripped the paper off the walls, and ended by trying to set
fire to the house. Sidney was intrusted with an outline treaty, to
be communicated to Mr. Snowdon.

This discussion was just concluded when Mr. Samuel Byass presented
himself--a slender, large-headed young man, with very light hair
cropped close upon the scalp, and a foolish face screwed into an
expression of facetiousness. He was employed in some clerkly
capacity at a wholesale stationer's in City Road. Having stepped
into the room, he removed a very brown silk hat and laid it on a
chair, winking the while at Sidney with his right eye; then he
removed his overcoat, winking with the left eye. Thus
disembarrassed, he strode gravely to the fireplace, took up the
poker, held it in the manner of a weapon upright against his
shoulder, and exclaimed in a severe voice, 'Eyes right!' Then,
converting the poker into a sword, he drew near to Sidney and
affected to practise upon him the military cuts, his features
distorted into grotesque ferocity. Finally, assuming the attitude of
a juggler, he made an attempt to balance the poker perpendicularly
upon his nose, until it fell with a crash, just missing the
ornaments on the mantel-piece. All this time Mrs. Byass shrieked
with laughter, with difficulty keeping her chair.

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