The Nether World

by George Gissing

  ‘YOUR BROKEN-HEARTED HUSBAND.’

  Joseph’s absence through the night had all but prepared Clem for something of this kind, yet he had managed things so well that up to the time of his departure she had not been able to remark a single suspicious circumstance, unless, indeed, it were the joyous affectionateness with which he continued to behave. She herself had been passing through a time of excitement and even of suffering. When she learned from the newspaper what fate had befallen Bob Hewett, it was as though someone had dealt her a half-stunning blow; in her fierce animal way she was attached to Bob, and for the first time in her life she knew a genuine grief. The event seemed at first impossible; she sped hither and thither, making inquiries, and raged in her heart against everyone who confirmed the newspaper report. Combined with the pain of loss was her disappointment at the frustration of the scheme Bob had undertaken in concert with her. Brooding on her deadly purpose, she had come to regard it as a certain thing that before long her husband would be killed. The details were arranged; all her cunning had gone to the contrivance of a plot for disguising the facts of his murder. Savagely she had exulted in the prospect, not only of getting rid of him, but of being revenged for her old humiliation. A thousand times she imagined herself in Bob’s lurking-place, raising the weapon, striking the murderous blow, rifling the man’s pockets to mislead those who found his body, and had laughed to herself triumphantly. Joseph out of the way, the next thing was to remove Pennyloaf. Oh, that would easily have been contrived. Then she and Bob would have been married.

  Very long since Clem had shed tears, but she did so this day when there was no longer a possibility of doubting that Bob was dead. She shut herself in her room and moaned like a wild beast in pain. Joseph could not but observe, when he came home, that she was suffering in some extraordinary way. When he spoke jestingly about it, she all but rushed upon him with her fists. And in the same moment she determined that he should not escape, even if she had to murder him with her own hands. From that day her constant occupation was searching the newspapers to get hints about poisons. Doubtless it was as well for Joseph to be speedy in his preparations for departure.

  She was present in the police-court when Jack Bartley came forward to be dealt with. Against him she stored up hatred and the resolve of vengeance; if it were years before she had the opportunity, Jack should in the end pay for what he had done.

  And now Joseph had played her the trick she anticipated; he had saved himself out of her clutches, and had carried off all his money with him. She knew well enough what was meant by his saying that her mother would supply what she needed; very likely that he had made any such arrangement! You should have heard the sterling vernacular in which Clem gave utterance to her feelings as soon as she had deciphered the mocking letter?

  Without a minute’s delay she dressed and left the house. Having a few shillings in her pocket, she took a cab at King’s Cross and bade the driver drive his hardest to Clerkenwell Close. Up Pentonville Hill panted the bony horse, Clem swearing all the time because it could go no quicker. But the top was reached; she shouted to the man to whip, whip? By the time they pulled up at Mrs. Peckover’s house Clem herself perspired as profusely as the animal.

  Mrs. Peckover was at breakfast, alone.

  ‘Read that, will you? Read that?’ roared Clem, rushing upon her and dashing the letter in her face.

  ‘Why, you mad cat!’ cried her mother, starting up in anger. ‘What’s wrong with you now?’

  ‘Read that there letter! That’s your doin’, that is! Read it? Read it!’

  Half-frightened, Mrs. Peckover drew away from the table and managed to peruse Joseph’s writing. Having come to the end, she burst into jeering laughter.

  ‘He’s done it, has he? He’s took his ‘ook, has he? What did I tell you? Don’t swear at me, or I’ll give you something to swear about—such languidge in a respectable ‘ouse! Ha, ha? What did I tell you? You wouldn’t take my way. Oh no, you must go off and be independent. Serve you right! Ha, ha! Serve you right! You’ll get no pity from me.’

  ‘You ‘old your jaw, mother, or I’ll precious soon set my marks on your ugly old face! What does he say there about you? You’re to pay me money. He’s made arrangements with you. Don’t try to cheat me, or I’ll—soon have a summons out against you. The letter’s proof; it’s lawyer’s proof. You try to cheat me and see.’

  Clem had sufficient command of her faculties to devise this line of action. She half believed, too, that the letter would be of some legal efficacy, as against her mother.

  ‘You bloomin’ fool!’ screamed Mrs. Peckover. ‘Do you think I was born yesterday? Not one farden do you get out of me if you starve in the street—not one farden! It’s my turn now. I’ve had about enough o’ your cheek an’ your hinsults. You’ll go and work for your livin’, you great cart-horse!’

  ‘Work! No fear! I’ll set the perlice after him.’

  ‘The perlice! What can they do?’

  ‘Is it law as he can go off and leave me with nothing to live on?’

  ‘Course it is! Unless you go to the work’us an’ throw yourself on the parish. Do, do! Oh my! Shouldn’t I like to see you brought down to the work’us, like Mrs. Igginbottom, the wife of the cat’s-meat man, him as they stuck up wanted for desertion!’

  ‘You’re a liar!’ Clem shouted. ‘I can make you support me before it comes to that.’

  The wrangle continued for some time longer; then Clem bethought herself of another person with whom she must have the satisfaction of speaking her mind. On the impulse, she rushed away, out of Clerkenwell Close, up St. John Street Road, across City Road, down to Hanover Street, literally running for most of the time. Her knock at Mrs. Byass’s door was terrific.

  ‘I want to see Jane Snowdon,’ was her address to Bessie.

  ‘Do you? I think you might have knocked more like civilisation,’ replied Mrs. Byass, proud of expressing herself with superior refinement.

  But Clem pushed her way forward. Jane, alarmed at the noise, showed herself on the stairs.

  ‘You just come ‘ere!’ cried Clem to her. ‘I’ve got something to say to you, Miss!’

  Jane was of a sudden possessed with terror, the old terror with which Clem had inspired her years ago. She shrank back, but Bessie Byass was by no means disposed to allow this kind of thing to go on in her house.

  ‘Mrs. Snowdon,’ she exclaimed, ‘I don’t know what your business may be, but if you can’t behave yourself, you’ll please to go away a bit quicker than you came. The idea! Did anyone ever hear!’

  ‘I shan’t go till I choose,’ replied Clem, ‘and that won’t be till I’ve had my say with that little ——! Where’s your father, Jane Snowdon? You just tell me that.’

  ‘My father,’ faltered Jane, in the silence. ‘I haven’t seen him for a fortnight.’

  ‘You haven’t, eh? Little liar! It’s what I used to call you when you scrubbed our kitchen floor, and it’s what I call you now. D’you remember when you did the ‘ouse-work, an’ slept under the kitchen table? D’you remember, eh? Haven’t seen him for a fortnight, ain’t you? Oh, he’s a nice man, is your father! He ran away an’ deserted your mother. But he’s done it once too often, I’ll precious soon have the perlice after him! Has he left you to look after yourself? Has he, eh? You just tell me that!’

  Jane and Mrs. Byass stared at each other in dismay. The letter that had come this morning enabled them to guess the meaning of Clem’s fury. The latter interpreted their looks as an admission that Jane too was a victim. She laughed aloud.

  ‘How does it taste, little liar, oh? A second disappointment! You thought you was a-goin’ to have all the money; now you’ve got none, and you may go back to Whitehead’s. They’ll be glad to see you, will Whitehead’s. Oh, he’s a nice man, your father! Would you like to know what’s been goin’ on ever since he found out your old grandfather? Would you like to know how he put himself out to prevent you an’ that Kirkwood feller gettin’ married, just so that t
he money mightn’t get into other people’s ‘ands? Would you like to know how my beast of a mother and him put their ‘eds together to see how they could get hold of the bloomin’ money? An’ you thought you was sure of it, didn’t you? Will you come with me to the perlice-station, just to help to describe what he looks like? An affectionate father, ain’t he? Almost as good as he is a ‘usband. You just listen to me, Jane Snowdon. If I find out as you’re havin’ money from him, I’ll be revenged on you, mind that! I’ll be revenged on you! D’you remember what my hand feels like? You’ve had it on the side of your —— ‘ed often enough. You just look out for yourself!’

  ‘And you just turn out of my house,’ cried Bessie, scarlet with wrath. ‘This minute! Sarah! Sarah! Run out by the arey-steps and fetch a p’liceman, this minute! The idea!’

  Clem had said her say, however, and with a few more volleys of atrocious language was content to retire. Having slammed the door upon her, Bessie cried in a trembling voice:

  ‘Oh, if only Sam had been here! My, how I should have liked Sam to have been here! Wouldn’t he have given her something for herself! Why, such a creature oughtn’t be left loose. Oh, if Sam had been here!’

  Jane had sat down on the stairs; her face was hidden in her hands. That brutal voice had carried her back to her wretched childhood; everything about her in the present was unreal in comparison with the terrors, the hardships, the humiliations revived by memory. As she sat at this moment, so had she sat many a time on the cellar-steps at Mrs. Peckover’s. So powerfully was her imagination affected that she had a feeling as if her hands were grimy from toil, as if her limbs ached. Oh, that dreadful voice! Was she never, never to escape beyond hearing of it?

  ‘Jane, my dear, come into the sitting-room,’ said Bessie ‘No wonder it’s upset you. What can it all mean?’

  The meaning was not far to seek; Jane understood everything—yes, even her father’s hypocrisies. She listened for a few minutes to her friend’s indignant exclamations, then looked up, her resolve taken.

  ‘Mrs. Byass, I shall take no more money. I shall go to work again and earn my living. How thankful I am that I can!’

  ‘Why, what nonsense are you talking, child! Just because that—that creature—Why, I’ve no patience with you, Jane! As if she durst touch you! Touch you? I’d like to see her indeed.’

  ‘It isn’t that, Mrs. Byass. I can’t take money from father. I haven’t felt easy in my mind ever since he told me about it, and now I can’t take the money. Whether it’s true or not, all she said, I should never have a night’s rest if I consented to live in this way.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t really mean it, Jane?’

  Bessie all but sobbed with vexation.

  ‘I mean it, and I shall never alter my mind. I shall send back the money, and write to the man that he needn’t send any more. However often it comes, I shall always return it. I couldn’t, I couldn’t live on that money! Never ask me to, Mrs. Byass.’

  Practical Bessie had already begun to ask herself what arrangement Jane proposed to make about lodgings. She was no Mrs. Peckover, but neither did circumstances allow her to disregard the question of rent. It cut her to the heart to think of refusing an income of two pounds per week.

  Jane too saw all the requirements of the case.

  ‘Mrs. Byass, will you let me have one room—my old room upstairs? I have been very happy there, and I should like to stay if I can. You know what I can earn; can you afford to let me live there? I’d do my utmost to help you in the house; I’ll be as good as a servant, if you can’t keep Sarah. I should so like to stay with you!’

  ‘You just let me hear you talk about leaving, that’s all! Wait till I’ve talked it over with Sam.’

  Jane went upstairs, and for the rest of the day the house was very quiet.

  Not Whitehead’s; there were other places where work might be found. And before many days she had found it. Happily there were no luxuries to be laid aside; her ordinary dress was not too good for the workroom. She had no habits of idleness to overcome, and an hour at the table made her as expert with her fingers as ever.

  Returning from the first day’s work, she sat in her room—the little room which used to be hers—to rest and think for a moment before going down to Bessie’s supper-table. And her thought was:

  ‘He, too, is just coming home from work. Why should my life be easier than his?’

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  SIDNEY

  Look at a map of greater London, a map on which the town proper shows as a dark, irregularly rounded patch against the whiteness of suburban districts, and just on the northern limit of the vast network of streets you will distinguish the name of Crouch End. Another decade, and the dark patch will have spread greatly further; for the present, Crouch End is still able to remind one that it was in the country a very short time ago. The streets have a smell of newness, of dampness; the bricks retain their complexion, the stucco has not rotted more than one expects in a year or two; poverty tries to hide itself with venetian blinds, until the time when an advanced guard of houses shall justify the existence of the slum.

  Characteristic of the locality is a certain row of one-storey cottages—villas, the advertiser calls them—built of white brick, each with one bay window on the ground floor, a window pretentiously fashioned and desiring to be taken for stone, though obviously made of bad plaster. Before each house is a garden, measuring six feet by three, entered by a little iron gate, which grinds as you push it, and at no time would latch. The front-door also grinds on the sill; it can only be opened by force, and quivers in a way that shows how unsubstantially it is made. As you set foot in the pinched passage, the sound of your tread proves the whole fabric a thing of lath and sand. The ceilings, the walls, confess themselves neither water-tight nor air-tight. Whatever you touch is at once found to be sham.

  In the kitchen of one of these houses, at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon in September, three young people were sitting down to the dinner-table: a girl of nearly fourteen, her sister, a year younger, and their brother not yet eleven. All were decently dressed, but very poorly; a glance at them, and you knew that in this house there was little money to spend on superfluities. The same impression was produced by the appointments of the kitchen, which was disorderly, too, and spoke neglect of the scrubbing-brush. As for the table, it was ill laid and worse supplied. The meal was to consist of the fag-end of a shoulder of mutton, some villainously cooked potatoes (a l’Anglaise) and bread.

  ‘Oh, I can’t eat this rot again!’ cried the boy, making a dig with his fork at the scarcely clad piece of bone. ‘I shall have bread and cheese. Lug the cheese out, Annie!’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ replied the elder girl, in a disagreeable voice. ‘You’ll eat this or go without.’

  She had an unpleasing appearance. Her face was very thin, her lips pinched sourly together, her eyes furtive, hungry, malevolent. Her movements were awkward and impatient, and a morbid nervousness kept her constantly starting, with a stealthy look here or there.

  ‘I shall have the cheese if I like!’ shouted the boy, a very ill-conditioned youngster, whose face seemed to have been damaged in recent conflict. His clothes were dusty, and his hair stood up like stubble.

  ‘Hold your row, Tom,’ said the younger girl, who was quiet and had the look of an invalid. ‘It’s always you begins. Besides, you can’t have cheese; there’s only a little bit, and Sidney said he was going to make his dinner of it to-day.’

  ‘Of course—selfish beast!’

  ‘Selfish! Now just listen to that, Amy! when he said it just that we mightn’t be afraid to finish the meat.’

  Amy said nothing, but began to hack fragments off the bone.

  ‘Put some aside for father first,’ continued Annie, holding a plate.

  ‘Father be blowed!’ cried Tom. ‘You just give me that first cut. Give it here, Annie, or I’ll crack you on the head!’

  As he struggled for the plate, Amy bent forward and hit his arm violen
tly with the handle of the knife. This was the signal for a general scrimmage, in the midst of which Tom caught up a hearth-brush and flung it at Amy’s head. The missile went wide of its mark and shivered one of the windowpanes.

  ‘There now!’ exclaimed Annie, who had begun to cry in consequence of a blow from Tom’s fist. ‘See what father says to that!’

  ‘If I was him,’ said Amy, in a low voice of passion, ‘I’d tie you to something and beat you till you lost your senses. Ugly brute!’

  The warfare would not have ended here but that the door opened and he of whom they spoke made his appearance.

  In the past two years and a half John Hewett had become a shaky old man. Of his grizzled hair very little remained, and little of his beard; his features were shrunken, his neck scraggy; he stooped much, and there was a senile indecision in his movements. He wore rough, patched clothing, had no collar, and seemed, from the state of his hands, to have been engaged in very dirty work. As he entered and came upon the riotous group his eyes lit up with anger. In a strained voice he shouted a command of silence.