



Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.









The Nether World


by

George Gissing




CONTENTS


 CHAPTER

       I  A THRALL OF THRALLS
      II  A FRIEND IN REQUEST
     III  A SUPERFLUOUS FAMILY
      IV  CLARA AND JANE
       V  JANE IS VISITED
      VI  GLIMPSES OF THE PAST
     VII  MRS. BYASS'S LODGINGS
    VIII  PENNYLOAF CANDY
      IX  PATHOLOGICAL
       X  THE LAST COMBAT
      XI  A DISAPPOINTMENT
     XII  'IO SATURNALIA!'
    XIII  THE BRINGER OF ILL NEWS
     XIV  A WELCOME GUEST
      XV  SUNLIGHT IN DREARY PLACES
     XVI  DIALOGUE AND COMMENT
    XVII  CLEM MAKES A DISCLOSURE
   XVIII  THE JOKE IS COMPLETED
     XIX  A RETREAT
      XX  A VISION OF NOBLE THINGS
     XXI  DEATH THE RECONCILER
    XXII  WATCHING FROM AMBUSH
   XXIII  ON THE EVE OF TRIUMPH
    XXIV  THE FAMILY HISTORY PROGRESSES
     XXV  A DOUBLE CONSECRATION
    XXVI  SIDNEY'S STRUGGLE
   XXVII  CLARA'S RETURN
  XXVIII  THE SOUP-KITCHEN
    XXIX  PHANTOMS
     XXX  ON A BARREN SHORE
    XXXI  WOMAN AND ACTRESS
   XXXII  A HAVEN
  XXXIII  A FALL FROM THE IDEAL
   XXXIV  THE DEBT REPAID
    XXXV  THE TREASURY UNLOCKED
   XXXVI  THE HEIR
  XXXVII  MAD JACK'S DREAM
 XXXVIII  JOSEPH TRANSACTS MUCH BUSINESS
   XXXIX  SIDNEY
      XL  JANE




CHAPTER I

A THRALL OF THRALLS

In the troubled twilight of a March evening ten years ago, an old man,
whose equipment and bearing suggested that he was fresh from travel,
walked slowly across Clerkenwell Green, and by the graveyard of St.
James's Church stood for a moment looking about him. His age could not
be far from seventy, but, despite the stoop of his shoulders, he gave
little sign of failing under the burden of years; his sober step
indicated gravity of character rather than bodily feebleness, and his
grasp of a stout stick was not such as bespeaks need of support. His
attire was neither that of a man of leisure, nor of the kind usually
worn by English mechanics. Instead of coat and waistcoat, he wore a
garment something like a fisherman's guernsey, and over this a coarse
short cloak, picturesque in appearance as it was buffeted by the wind.
His trousers were of moleskin; his boots reached almost to his knees;
for head-covering he had the cheapest kind of undyed felt, its form
exactly that of the old petasus. To say that his aspect was Venerable
would serve to present him in a measure, yet would not be wholly
accurate, for there was too much of past struggle and present anxiety
in his countenance to permit full expression of the natural dignity of
the features. It was a fine face and might have been distinctly noble,
but circumstances had marred the purpose of Nature; you perceived that
his cares had too often been of the kind which are created by ignoble
necessities, such as leave to most men of his standing a bare humanity
of visage. He had long thin white hair; his beard was short and merely
grizzled. In his left hand he carried a bundle, which probably
contained clothing.

The burial-ground by which he had paused was as little restful to the
eye as are most of those discoverable in the byways of London. The
small trees that grew about it shivered in their leaflessness; the rank
grass was wan under the failing day; most of the stones leaned this way
or that, emblems of neglect (they were very white at the top, and
darkened downwards till the damp soil made them black), and certain
cats and dogs were prowling or sporting among the graves. At this
corner the east wind blew with malice such as it never puts forth save
where there are poorly clad people to be pierced; it swept before it
thin clouds of unsavoury dust, mingled with the light refuse of the
streets. Above the shapeless houses night was signalling a murky
approach; the sky--if sky it could be called--gave threatening of
sleet, perchance of snow. And on every side was the rumble of traffic,
the voiceful evidence of toil and of poverty; hawkers were crying their
goods; the inevitable organ was clanging before a public-house hard by;
the crumpet-man was hastening along, with monotonous ringing of his
bell and hoarse rhythmic wail.

The old man had fixed his eyes half absently on the inscription of a
gravestone near him; a lean cat springing out between the iron railings
seemed to recall his attention, and with a slight sigh he went forward
along the narrow street which is called St. James's Walk. In a few
minutes he had reached the end of it, and found himself facing a high
grey-brick wall, wherein, at this point, was an arched gateway closed
with black doors. He looked at the gateway, then fixed his gaze on
something that stood just above--something which the dusk half
concealed, and by so doing made more impressive. It was the sculptured
counterfeit of a human face, that of a man distraught with agony. The
eyes stared wildly from their sockets, the hair struggled in maniac
disorder, the forehead was wrung with torture, the cheeks sunken, the
throat fearsomely wasted, and from the wide lips there seemed to be
issuing a horrible cry. Above this hideous effigy was carved the
legend: 'MIDDLESEX HOUSE OF DETENTION.'

Something more than pain came to the old man's face as he looked and
pondered; his lips trembled like those of one in anger, and his eyes
had a stern resentful gleaming. He walked on a few paces, then suddenly
stopped where a woman was standing at an open door.

'I ask your pardon,' he said, addressing her with the courtesy which
owes nothing to refined intercourse, 'but do you by chance know anyone
of the name of Snowdon hereabouts?'

The woman replied with a brief negative; she smiled at the appearance
of the questioner, and, with the vulgar instinct, looked about for
someone to share her amusement.

'Better inquire at the 'ouse at the corner,' she added, as the man was
moving away. 'They've been here a long time, I b'lieve.'

He accepted her advice. But the people at the public-house could not
aid his search. He thanked them, paused for a moment with his eyes
down, then again sighed slightly and went forth into the gathering
gloom.

Less than five minutes later there ran into the same house of
refreshment a little slight girl, perhaps thirteen years old; she
carried a jug, and at the bar asked for 'a pint of old six.' The
barman, whilst drawing the ale, called out to a man who had entered
immediately after the child:

'Don't know nobody called Snowdon about 'ere, do you, Mr. Squibbs?'

The individual addressed was very dirty, very sleepy, and seemingly at
odds with mankind. He replied contemptuously with a word which, in
phonetic rendering may perhaps be spelt 'Nay-oo.'

But the little girl was looking eagerly from one man to the other; what
had been said appeared to excite keen interest in her. She forgot all
about the beer-jug that was waiting, and, after a brief but obvious
struggle with timidity, said in an uncertain voice:

'Has somebody been asking for that name, sir?'

'Yes, they have,' the barman answered, in surprise. 'Why?'

My name's Snowdon, sir--Jane Snowdon.'

She reddened over all her face as soon as she had given utterance to
the impulsive words. The barman was regarding her with a sort of
semi-interest, and Mr. Squibbs also had fixed his bleary (or beery)
eyes upon her. Neither would have admitted an active interest in so
pale and thin and wretchedly-clad a little mortal. Her hair hung loose,
and had no covering; it was hair of no particular colour, and seemed to
have been for a long time utterly untended; the wind, on her run
hither, had tossed it into much disorder. Signs there were of some kind
of clothing beneath the short, dirty, worn dress, but it was evidently
of the scantiest description. The freely exposed neck was very thin,
but, like the outline of her face, spoke less of a feeble habit of body
than of the present pinch of sheer hunger. She did not, indeed, look
like one of those children who are born in disease and starvation, and
put to nurse upon the pavement; her limbs were shapely enough, her back
was straight, she had features that were not merely human, but
girl-like, and her look had in it the light of an intelligence
generally sought for in vain among the children of the street. The
blush and the way in which she hung her head were likewise tokens of a
nature endowed with ample sensitiveness.

'Oh, your name's Jane Snowdon, is it?' said the barman. 'Well, you're
just three minutes an' three-quarters too late. P'r'aps it's a fortune
a-runnin' after you. He was a rum old party as inquired. Never mind;
it's all in a life. There's fortunes lost every week by a good deal
less than three minutes when it's 'orses--eh, Mr. Squibbs?'

Mr. Squibbs swore with emphasis.

The little girl took her jug of beer and was turning away.

'Hollo!' cried the barman. 'Where's the money, Jane?--if _you_ don't
mind.'

She turned again in increased confusion, and laid coppers on the
counter. Thereupon the man asked her where she lived; she named a house
in Clerkenwell Close, near at hand.

'Father live there?'

She shook her head.

'Mother?'

'I haven't got one, sir.'

'Who is it as you live with, then?'

'Mrs. Peckover, sir.'

'Well, as I was sayin', he was a queer old joker as arsted for the name
of Snowdon. Shouldn't wonder if you see him goin' round.'

And he added a pretty full description of this old man, to which the
girl listened closely. Then she went thoughtfully--a little sadly--on
her way.

In the street, all but dark by this time, she cast anxious glances
onwards and behind, but