The Nether World

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'Nothing much. She's got her back up a bit, that's all.'

'About me?' Pennyloaf asked anxiously.

Bob nodded. As he was making some further remarks on the subject, a
man's figure appeared at a little distance, and almost immediately
withdrew again round a winding of the Passage. A moment after there
sounded from that direction a shrill whistle. Bob and the girl
regarded each other.

'Who was that?' said the former suspiciously. 'I half believe it was
Jeck Bartley. If Jeck is up to any of his larks, I'll make him
remember it. You wait here a minute!'

He walked at a sharp pace towards the suspected quarter. Scarcely
had he gone half a dozen yards, when there came running from the
other end of the Passage a girl whom Pennyloaf at once recognised.
It was Clem Peckover; with some friend's assistance she had
evidently tracked the couple and was now springing out of ambush.
She rushed upon Pennyloaf, who for very alarm could not flee, and
attacked her with clenched fists. A scream of terror and pain caused
Bob to turn and run back. Pennyloaf could not even ward off the
blows that descended upon her head; she was pinned against the wall,
her hat was torn away, her hair began to fly in disorder. But Bob
effected a speedy rescue. He gripped Clem's muscular arms, and
forced them behind her back as if he meant to dismember her. Even
then it was with no slight effort that he restrained the girl's
fury.

'You run off 'ome!' he shouted to Pennyloaf. 'If she tries this on
again, I'll murder her!'

Pennyloaf's hysterical cries and the frantic invectives of her
assailant made the Passage ring. Again Bob roared to the former to
be off, and was at length obeyed. When Pennyloaf was out of sight he
released Clem. Her twisted arms caused her such pain that she threw
herself against the wall, mingling maledictions with groans. Bob
burst into scornful laughter.

Clem went home vowing vengeance. In the nether world this trifling
dissension might have been expected to bear its crop of violent
language and straightway pass into oblivion; but Miss Peckover's
malevolence was of no common stamp, and the scene of to-night
originated a feud which in the end concerned many more people than
those immediately interested.

CHAPTER IX

PATHOLOGICAL

Through the day and through the evening Clara Hewett had her place
behind Mrs. Tubbs's bar. For daylight wear, the dress which had
formerly been her best was deemed sufficient; it was simple, but not
badly made, and became her figure. Her evening attire was provided
by Mrs. Tubbs, who recouped herself by withholding the promised
wages for a certain number of weeks. When Clara had surveyed this
garment in the bar mirror, she turned away contemptuously; the
material was cheap, the mode vulgar. It must be borne with for the
present, like other indignities which she found to be in. separable
from her position. As soon as her employer's claim was satisfied,
and the weekly five shillings began to be paid, Clara remembered the
promise she had volunteered to her father. But John was once more at
work; for the present there really seemed no need to give him any of
her money, and she herself, on the other hand, lacked so many
things. This dress plainly would not be suitable for the better kind
of engagement she had in view; it behoved her first of all to have
one made in accordance with her own taste. A mantle, too, a silk
umbrella, gloves--It would be unjust to herself to share her
scanty earnings with those at home.

Yes; but you must try to understand this girl of the people, with
her unfortunate endowment of brains and defect of tenderness. That
smile of hers, which touched and fascinated and made thoughtful, had
of course a significance discoverable by study of her life and
character. It was no mere affectation; she was not conscious, in
smiling, of the expression upon her face. Moreover, there was
justice in the sense of wrong discernible upon her features when the
very self looked forth from them. All through his life John Hewett
had suffered from the same impulse of revolt; less sensitively
constructed than his daughter, uncalculating, inarticulate, he fumed
and fretted away his energies in a conflict with forces ludicrously
personified. In the matter of his second marriage he was seen at his
best, generously defiant of social cruelties; but self-knowledge was
denied him, and circumstances condemned his life to futility. Clara
inherited his temperament; transferred to her more complex nature,
it gained in subtlety and in power of self-direction, but lost in
its nobler elements. Her mother was a capable and ambitious woman,
one in whom active characteristics were more prominent than the
emotional. With such parents, every probability told against her
patient acceptance of a lot which allowed her faculties no scope.
And the circumstances of her childhood were such as added a peculiar
bitterness to the trials waiting upon her maturity.

Clara, you remember, had reached her eleventh year when her father's
brother died and left the legacy of which came so little profit.
That was in 1878. State education had recently made a show of
establishing itself, and in the Hewetts' world much argument was
going on with reference to the new Board schools, and their
advantages or disadvantages when compared with those in which
working-folk's children had hitherto been taught. Clara went to a
Church school, and the expense was greater than the new system
rendered necessary. Her father's principles naturally favoured
education on an independent basis, but a prejudice then (and still)
common among workpeople of decent habits made him hesitate about
sending his girl to sit side by side with the children of the
street; and he was confirmed by Clara's own view of the matter. She
spoke with much contempt of Board schools, and gave it to be
understood that her religious convictions would not suffer her to be
taught by those who made light of orthodoxy This attitude was
intelligible enough in a child of sharp wit and abundant
self-esteem. Notwithstanding her father's indifferentism, little
Clara perceived that a regard for religion gave her a certain
distinction at home, and elsewhere placed her apart from 'common
girls.' She was subject also to special influences: on the one hand,
from her favourite teacher, Miss Harrop; on the other, from a
school-friend, Grace Rudd.

Miss Harrop was a good, warm-hearted woman of about thirty, one of
those unhappy persons who are made for domestic life, but condemned
by fate to school-celibacy. Lonely and impulsive, she drew to
herself the most interesting girl in her classes, and, with complete
indiscretion, made a familiar, a pet, a prodigy of one whose
especial need was discipline. By her confidences and her flatteries
she set Clara aflame with spiritual pride. Ceaselessly she excited
her to ambition, remarked on her gifts, made dazzling forecast of
her future. Clara was to be a teacher first of all, but only that
she might be introduced to the notice of people who would aid her to
better things. And the child came to regard this as the course
inevitably before her. Had she not already received school-prizes,
among them a much-gilded little volume 'for religious knowledge'?
Did she not win universal applause when she recited a piece of verse
on prize-day--Miss Harrop (disastrous kindness!) even saying that
the delivery reminded her of Mrs. ----, the celebrated actress!

Grace Rudd was busy in the same fatal work. Four years older than
Clara, weakly pretty, sentimental, conceited, she had a fancy for
patronising the clever child, to the end that she might receive
homage in return. Poor Grace! She left school, spent a year or two
at home with parents as foolish as herself, and--disappeared.
Prior to that, Miss Harrop had also passed out of Clara's ken,
driven by restlessness to try another school, away from London.

These losses appeared to affect Clara unfavourably. She began to
neglect her books, to be insubordinate, to exhibit arrogance, which
brought down upon her plenty of wholesome reproof. Her father was
not without a share in the responsibility for it all. Entering upon
his four hundred pounds, one of the first things John did was to
hire a piano, that his child might be taught to play. Pity that
Sidney Kirkwood could not then cry with effective emphasis, 'We are
the working classes! we are the lower orders!' It was exactly what
Hewett would not bring himself to understand. What! His Clara must
be robbed of chances just because her birth was not that of a young
lady? Nay, by all the unintelligible Powers, she should enjoy every
help that he could possibly afford her. Bless her bright face and
her clever tongue! Yes, it was now a settled thing that she should
be trained for a schoolteacher. An atmosphere of refinement must be
made for her; she must be better dressed, more delicately fed.

The bitter injustice of it! In the outcome you are already
instructed. Long before Clara was anything like ready to enter upon
a teacher's career, her father's ill-luck once more darkened over
the home. Clara had made no progress since Miss Harrop's day. The
authorities directing her school might have come forward with aid of
some kind, had it appeared to them that the girl would repay such
trouble; but they had their forebodings about her. Whenever she
chose, she could learn in five minutes what another girl could
scarcely commit to memory in twenty; but it was obviously for the
sake of display. The teachers disliked her; among the pupils she had
no friends. So at length there came the farewell to school and the
beginning of practical life, which took the shape of learning to
stamp crests and addresses on note-paper. There was hope that before
long Clara might earn thirteen shillings a week.

The bitter injustice of it! Clara was seventeen now, and understood
the folly of which she had been guilty a few years ago, but at the
same time she felt in her inmost heart the tyranny of a world which
takes revenge for errors that are inevitable, which misleads a
helpless child and then condemns it for being found astray. She
could judge herself, yes, better than Sidney Kirkwood could judge
her. She knew her defects, knew her vices, and a feud with fate
caused her to accept them defiantly. Many a time had she sobbed out
to herself, 'I wish I could neither read nor write! I wish I had
never been told that there is anything better than to work with
one's hands and earn daily bread!' But she could not renounce the
claims that Nature had planted in her, that her guardians had
fostered. The better she understood how difficult was every way of
advancement, the more fiercely resolute was she to conquer
satisfactions which seemed beyond the sphere of her destiny.

Of late she had thought much of her childish successes in reciting
poetry. It was not often that she visited a theatre (her father had
always refused to let her go with any one save himself or Sidney),
but on the rare occasions when her wish was gratified, she had
watched each actress with devouring interest, with burning envy, and
had said to herself, 'Couldn't I soon learn to do as well as that?
Can't I see where it might be made more lifelike? Why should it be
impossible for me to go on the stage?' In passing a shop-window
where photographs were exposed, she looked for those of actresses,
and gazed at them with terrible intensity. 'I am as good-looking as
she is. Why shouldn't _my_ portrait be seen some day in the
windows?' And then her heart throbbed, smitten with passionate
desire. As she walked on there was a turbid gloom about her, and in
her ears the echoing of a dread temptation. Of all this she spoke to
nobody.

For she had no friends. A couple of years ago something like an
intimacy had sprung up between her and Bessie Jones (since married
and become Bessie Byass), seemingly on the principle of contrast in
association. Bessie, like most London workgirls, was fond of the
theatre, and her talk helped to nourish the ambition which was
secretly developing in Clara. But the two could not long harmonise.
Bessie, just after her marriage, ventured to speak with friendly
reproof of Clara's behaviour to Sidney Kirkwood. Clara was not
disposed to admit freedoms of that kind; she half gave it to be
understood that, though others might be easily satisfied, she had
views of her own on such subjects. Thereafter Mrs. Byass grew
decidedly cool. The other girls with whom Clara had formal
intercourse showed no desire to win her confidence; they were kept
aloof by her reticent civility.

As for Sidney himself, it was not without reason that he had seen
encouragement in the girl's first reply to his advances. At sixteen,
Clara found it agreeable to have her good graces sought by the one
man in whom she recognised superiority of mind and purpose. Of all
the unbetrothed girls she knew not one but would have felt flattered
had Kirkwood thus distinguished her. Nothing common adhered to his
demeanour, to his character; he had the look of one who will hold
his own in life; his word had the ring of truth. Of his generosity
she had innumerable proofs, and it contrasted nobly with the
selfishness of young men as she knew them; she appreciated it all
the more because her own frequent desire to be unselfish was so
fruitless. Of awakening tenderness towards him she knew nothing, but
she gave him smiles and words which might mean little or much, just
for the pleasure of completing a conquest. Nor did she, in truth,
then regard it as impossible that, sooner or later, she might become
his wife. If she _must_ marry a workman, assuredly it should be
Sidney. He thought so highly of her, he understood things in her to
which the ordinary artisan would have been dead; he had little
delicacies of homage which gave her keen pleasure. And yet--well,
time enough!

Time went very quickly, and changed both herself and Sidney in ways
she could not foresee. It was true, all he said to her in anger that
night by the prison wall--true and deserved every word of it. Even
in acknowledging that, she hardened herself against him implacably.
Since he chose to take this tone with her, to throw aside all his
graceful blindness to her faults, he had only himself to blame if
she considered everything at an end between them. She tried to
believe herself glad this had happened; it relieved her from an
embarrassment, and made her absolutely free to pursue the ambitions
which now gave her no rest. For all that, she could not dismiss
Sidney from her mind; indeed, throughout the week that followed
their parting, she thought of him more persistently than for many
months. That he would before long seek pardon for his rudeness she
felt certain, she felt also that such submission would gratify her
in a high degree. But the weeks were passing and no letter came; in
vain she glanced from the window of the bar at the faces which moved
by. Even on Sunday, when she went home for an hour or two, she
neither saw nor heard of Kirkwood. She could not bring herself to
ask a question.

Under any circumstances Clara would ill have borne a suspense that
irritated her pride, and at present she lived amid conditions so
repugnant, that her nerves were ceaselessly strung almost beyond
endurance. Before entering upon this engagement she had formed but
an imperfect notion of what would be demanded of her. To begin with,
Mrs. Tubbs belonged to the order of women who are by nature
slave-drivers; though it was her interest to secure Clara for a
permanency, she began by exacting from the girl as much labour as
could possibly be included in their agreement. The hours were
insufferably long; by nine o'clock each evening Clara was so outworn
that with difficulty she remained standing, yet not until midnight
was she released. The unchanging odours of the place sickened her,
made her head ache, and robbed her of all appetite. Many of the
duties were menial, and to perform them fevered her with
indignation. Then the mere waiting upon such men as formed the
majority of the customers, vulgarly familiar, when not insolent, in
their speech to her, was hateful beyond anything she had conceived.
Had there been no one to face but her father, she would have
returned home and resumed her old occupation at the end of the first
fortnight, so extreme was her suffering in mind and body; but rather
than give Sidney Kirkwood such a triumph, she would work on, and
breathe no word of what she underwent. Even in her anger against
him, the knowledge of his forgiving disposition, of the sincerity of
his love, was an unavowed support. She knew he could not utterly
desert her; when some day he sought a reconciliation, the renewal of
conflict between his pride and her own would, she felt, supply her
with new courage.

Early one Saturday afternoon she was standing by the windows, partly
from heavy idleness of thought, partly on the chance that Kirkwood
might go by, when a young, well-dressed man, who happened to be
passing at a slow walk, turned his head and looked at her. He went
on, but in a few moments Clara, who had moved back into the shop,
saw him enter and come forwards. He took a seat at the counter and
ordered a luncheon. Clara waited upon him with her customary cold
reserve, and he made no remark until she returned him change out of
the coin he offered.

Then he said with an apologetic smile:

'We are old acquaintances, Miss Hewett, but I'm afraid you've
forgotten me.'

Clara regarded him in astonishment. His age seemed to be something
short of thirty; he had a long, grave, intelligent face, smiled
enigmatically, spoke in a rather slow voice. His silk hat, sober
necktie drawn through a gold ring, and dark morning-coat, made it
probable that he was 'in the City.'

'We used to know each other very well about five years ago,' he
pursued, pocketing his change carelessly. 'Don't you remember a Mr.
Scawthorne, who used to be a lodger with some friends of yours
called Rudd?'

On the instant memory revived in Clara. In her schooldays she often
spent a Sunday afternoon with Grace Rudd, and this Mr. Scawthorne
was generally at the tea-table. Mr. and Mrs. Rudd made much of him,
said that he held a most important post in a lawyer's office,
doubtless had private designs concerning him and their daughter.
Thus aided, she even recognised his features.

'And you knew me again after all this time?'

'Yours isn't an easy face to forget,' replied Mr. Scawthorne, with
the subdued polite smile which naturally accompanied his tone of
unemotional intimacy. 'To tell you the whole truth, however, I
happened to hear news of you a few days ago. I met Grace Rudd; she
told me you were here. Some old friend had told _her_'

Grace's name awoke keen interest in Clara. She was startled to hear
it, and did not venture to make the inquiry her mind at once
suggested. Mr. Scawthorne observed her for an instant, then
proceeded to satisfy her curiosity. Grace Rudd was on the stage; she
had been acting in provincial theatres under the name of Miss
Danvers, and was now waiting for a promised engagement at a minor
London theatre.

'Do you often go to the theatre ?' he added carelessly. 'I have a
great many acquaintances connected with the stage in one way or
another. If you would like, I should be very glad to send you
tickets now and then. I always have more given me than I can well
use.'

Clara thanked him rather coldly, and said that she was very seldom
free in the evening. Thereupon Mr. Scawthorne again smiled, raised
his hat, and departed.

Possibly he had some consciousness of the effect of his words, but
it needed a subtler insight, a finer imagination than his, to
interpret the pale, beautiful, harassed face which studiously
avoided looking towards him as he paused before stepping out on to
the pavement. The rest of the evening, the hours of night that
followed, passed for Clara in bet tumult of heart and brain. The
news of Grace Rudd had flashed upon her as revelation of a clear
possibility where hitherto she had seen only mocking phantoms of
futile desire. Grace was an actress; no matter by what course, to
this she had attained. This man, Scawthorne, spoke of the theatrical
life as one to whom all its details were familiar; acquaintance with
him of a sudden bridged over the chasm which had seemed impassable.
Would he come again to see her? Had her involuntary reserve put an
end to any interest he might have felt in her? Of him personally she
thought not at all; she could not have recalled his features; he was
a mere abstraction, the representative of a wild hope which his
conversation had inspired.

From that day the character of her suffering was altered; it became
less womanly, it defied weakness and grew to a fever of fierce,
unscrupulous rebellion. Whenever she thought of Sidney Kirkwood, the
injury he was inflicting upon her pride rankled into bitter
resentment, unsoftened by the despairing thought of self-subdual
which had at times visited her sick weariness. She bore her
degradations with the sullen indifference of one who is supported by
the hope of a future revenge. The disease inherent in her being,
that deadly outcome of social tyranny which perverts the generous
elements of youth into mere seeds of destruction, developed day by
day, blighting her heart, corrupting her moral sense, even setting
marks of evil upon the beauty of her countenance. A passionate
desire of self-assertion familiarised her with projects, with ideas,
which formerly she had glanced at only to dismiss as ignoble. In
proportion as her bodily health failed, the worst possibilities of
her character came into prominence. Like a creature that is beset by
unrelenting forces, she summoned and surveyed all the craft
faculties lurking in the dark places of her nature; theoretic y she
had now accepted every debasing compact by which a woman can spite
herself on the world's injustice. Self-assertion; to be no longer an
unregarded atom in the mass of those who are born only to labour for
others; to find play for the strength and the passion which, by no
choice of her own, distinguished her from the tame slave. Sometimes
in the silence of night she suffered from a dreadful need of crying
aloud, of uttering her anguish in a scream like that of insanity.
She stifled it only by crushing her face into the pillow until the
hysterical fit had passed, and she lay like one dead.

A fortnight after his first visit Mr. Scawthorne again presented
himself, polite, smiling, perhaps rather more familiar. He stayed
talking for nearly an hour, chiefly of the theatre. Casually he
mentioned that Grace Rudd had got her engagement--only a little
part in a farce. Suppose Clara came to see her play some evening?
Might he take her? He could at any time have places in the
dress-circle.

Clara accepted the invitation. She did so without consulting Mrs.
Tubbs, and when it became necessary to ask for the evening's
freedom, difficulties were made. 'Very well,' said Clara, in a tone
she had never yet used to her employer, 'then I shall leave you.'
She spoke without a moment's reflection; something independent of
her will seemed to direct her in speech and act. Mrs. Tubbs yielded.

Clara had not yet been able to obtain the dress she wished for. Her
savings, however, were sufficient for the purchase of a few
accessories, which made her, she considered, not unpresentable.
Scawthorne was to have a cab waiting for her at a little distance
from the luncheon-bar. It was now June, and at the hour of their
meeting still broad daylight, but Clara cared nothing for the chance
that acquaintances might see her; nay, she had a reckless desire
that Sidney Kirkwood might pass just at this moment. She noticed no
one whom she knew, however; but just as the cab was turning into
Pentonville Road, Scawthorne drew her attention to a person on the
pavement.

'You see that old fellow,' he said. 'Would you believe that he is
very wealthy?'

Clara had just time to perceive an old man with white hair, dressed
as a mechanic.

'But I know him,' she replied. 'His name's Snowdon.'

'So it is. How do you come to know him?' Scawthorne inquired with
interest.

She explained.

'Better not say anything about it,' remarked her companion. 'He's an
eccentric chap. I happen to know his affairs in the way of business.
I oughtn't to have told secrets, but I can trust you.'

A gentle emphasis on the last word, and a smile of more than usual
intimacy. But his manner was, and remained through the evening,
respectful almost to exaggeration. Clara seemed scarcely conscious
of his presence, save in the act of listening to what he said. She
never met his look, never smiled. From entering the theatre to
leaving it, she had a high flush on her face. Impossible to
recognise her friend in the actress whom Scawthorne indicated;
features and voice were wholly strange to her. In the intervals,
Scawthorne spoke of the difficulties that beset an actress's career
at its beginning.

'I suppose you never thought of trying it?' he asked. 'Yet I fancy
you might do well, if only you could have a few months' training,
just to start you. Of course it all depends on knowing how to go
about it. A little money would be necessary--not much.'

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