Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  At last William could stand it no longer, and he obtained his wife’s permission to once more begin book-making on the course. His health had begun to improve with the spring weather, and there was no use keeping him at home eating his heart out with vexation because they were doing no business. So did Esther reason, and it reminded her of old times when he came back with his race-glasses slung round his shoulder. “Favourites all beaten today; what have you got for me to eat, old girl?” Esther forgot her dislike of racing in the joy of seeing her husband happy, if he’d only pick up a bit of flesh; but he seemed to get thinner and thinner, and his food didn’t seem to do him any good.

  One day he came home complaining that the ring was six inches of soft mud; he was wet to the skin, and he sat shivering the whole evening, with the sensation of a long illness upon him. He was laid up for several weeks, and his voice seemed as if it would never return to him again. There was little or no occupation for him in the bar; and instead of laying he began to take the odds. He backed a few winners, it is true; but they could not rely on that. Most of their trade had slipped from them, so it did not much matter to them if they were found out. He might as well be hung for an old sheep as a lamb, and surreptitiously at first, and then more openly, he began to take money across the bar, and with every shilling he took for a bet another shilling was spent in drink. Custom came back in ripples, and then in stronger waves, until once again the bar of the “King’s Head” was full to overflowing. Another conviction meant ruin, but they must risk it, so said William; and Esther, like a good wife, acquiesced in her husband’s decision. But he took money only from those whom he was quite sure of. He required an introduction, and was careful to make inquiries concerning every new backer. “In this way,” he said to Ketley, “so long as one is content to bet on a small scale, I think it can be kept dark; but if you try to extend your connection you’re bound to come across a wrong ‘un sooner or later. It was that room upstairs that did for me.”

  “I never did think much of that room upstairs,” said Ketley. “There was a something about it that I didn’t like. Be sure you never bet in that jug and bottle bar, whatever you do. There’s just the same look there as in the room upstairs. Haven’t you noticed it?”

  “Can’t say I’ve, nor am I sure that I know exactly what you mean.”

  “If you don’t see it, you don’t see it; but it’s plain enough to me, and don’t you bet with nobody standing in that bar. I wouldn’t go in there for a sovereign.”

  William laughed. He thought at first that Ketley was joking, but he soon saw that Ketley regarded the jug and bottle entrance with real suspicion. When pressed to explain, he told Journeyman that it wasn’t that he was afraid of the place, he merely didn’t like it. “There’s some places that you likes better than others, ain’t they?” Journeyman was obliged to confess that there were.

  “Well, then, that’s one of the places I don’t like. Don’t you hear a voice talking there, a soft, low voice, with a bit of a jeer in it?”

  On another occasion he shaded his eyes and peered curiously into the left-hand corner.

  “What are you looking at?” asked Journeyman.

  “At nothing that you can see,” Ketley answered; and he drank his whisky as if lost in consideration of grave and difficult things. A few weeks later they noticed that he always got as far from the jug and bottle entrance as possible, and he was afflicted with a long story concerning a danger that awaited him. “He’s waiting; but nothing will happen if I don’t go in there. He can’t follow me; he is waiting for me to go to him.”

  “Then keep out of his way,” said Journeyman. “You might ask your bloody friend if he can tell us anything about the Leger.”

  “I’m trying to keep out of his way, but he’s always watching and a-beckoning of me.”

  “Can you see him now?” asked Stack.

  “Yes,” said Ketley; “he’s a-sitting there, and he seems to say that if I don’t come to him worse will happen.”

  “Don’t say nothing to him,” William whispered to Journeyman. “I don’t think he’s quite right in ’is ‘ead; he’s been losing a lot lately.”

  One day Journeyman was surprised to see Ketley sitting quite composedly in the jug and bottle bar.

  “He got me at last; I had to go, the whispering got so loud in my head as I was a-coming down the street. I tried to get out into the middle of the street, but a drunken chap pushed me across the pavement, and he was at the door waiting, and he said, ‘Now, you’d better come in; you know what will happen if you don’t.’”

  “Don’t talk rot, old pal; come round and have a drink with us.”

  “I can’t just at present — I may later on.”

  “What do he mean?” said Stack.

  “Lord, I don’t know,” said Journeyman. “It’s only his wandering talk.”

  They tried to discuss the chances of the various horses they were interested in, but they could not detach their thoughts from Ketley, and their eyes went back to the queer little sallow-faced man who sat on a high stool in the adjoining bar paring his nails.

  They felt something was going to happen, and before they could say the word he had plunged the knife deep into his neck, and had fallen heavily on the floor. William vaulted over the counter. As he did so he felt something break in his throat, and when Stack and Journeyman came to his assistance he was almost as white as the corpse at his feet. Blood flowed from his mouth and from Ketley’s neck in a deep stream that swelled into a great pool and thickened on the sawdust.

  “It was jumping over that bar,” William replied, faintly.

  “I’ll see to my husband,” said Esther.

  A rush of blood cut short his words, and, leaning on his wife, he walked feebly round into the back parlour. Esther rang the bell violently.

  “Go round at once to Doctor Green,” she said; “and if he isn’t in inquire which is the nearest. Don’t come back without a doctor.”

  William had broken a small blood-vessel, and the doctor said he would have to be very careful for a long time. It was likely to prove a long case. But Ketley had severed the jugular at one swift, keen stroke, and had died almost instantly. Of course there was an inquest, and the coroner asked many questions regarding the habits of the deceased. Mrs. Ketley was one of the witnesses called, and she deposed that he had lost a great deal of money lately in betting, and that he went to the “King’s Head” for the purpose of betting. The police deposed that the landlord of the “King’s Head” had been fined a hundred pounds for keeping a betting-house, and the foreman of the jury remarked that betting-houses were the ruin of the poorer classes, and that they ought to be put a stop to. The coroner added that such places as the “King’s Head” should not be licensed. That was the simplest and most effectual way of dealing with the nuisance.

  “There never was no luck about this house,” said William, “and what there was has left us; in three months’ time we shall be turned out of it neck and crop. Another conviction would mean a fine of a couple of hundred, or most like three months, and that would just about be the end of me.”

  “They’ll never license us again,” said Esther, “and the boy at school and doing so well.”

  “I’m sorry, Esther, to have brought this trouble on you. We must do the best we can, get the best price we can for the ‘ouse. I may be lucky enough to back a few winners. That’s all there is to be said — the ‘ouse was always an unlucky one. I hate the place, and shall be glad to get out of it.”

  Esther sighed. She didn’t like to hear the house spoken ill of, and after so many years it did seem a shame.

  XLII

  ESTHER KEPT WILLIAM within doors during the winter months. If his health did not improve it got no worse, and she had begun to hope that the breakage of the blood-vessel did not mean lung disease. But the harsh winds of spring did not suit him, and there was business with his lawyer to which he was obliged to attend. A determined set was going to be made against the renewal of his licenc
e, and he was determined to defeat his opponents. Counsel was instructed, and a great deal of money was spent on the case. But the licence was nevertheless refused, and the north-east wind did not cease to rattle; it seemed resolved on William’s death, and with a sick husband on her hands, and all the money they had invested in the house irreparably lost, Esther began to make preparations for moving.

  William had proved a kind husband, and in the seven years she had spent in the “King’s Head” there had been some enjoyment of life. She couldn’t say that she had been unhappy. She had always disapproved of the betting. They had tried to do without it. There was a great deal in life which one couldn’t approve of. But Ketley had never been very right in his head, and Sarah’s misfortune had had very little to do with the “King’s Head.” They had all tried to keep her from that man; it was her own fault. There were worse places than the “King’s Head.” It wasn’t for her to abuse it. She had lived there seven years; she had seen her boy growing up — he was almost a young man now, and had had the best education. That much good the “King’s Head” had done. But perhaps it was no longer suited to William’s health. The betting, she was tired thinking about that; and that constant nipping, it was impossible for him to keep from it with every one asking him to drink with them. A look of fear and distress passed across her face, and she stopped for a moment….

  She was rolling up a pair of curtains. She did not know how they were to live, that was the worst of it. If they only had back the money they had sunk in the house she would not so much mind. That was what was so hard to bear; all that money lost, just as if they had thrown it into the river. Seven years of hard work — for she had worked hard — and nothing to show for it. If she had been doing the grand lady all the time it would have been no worse. Horses had won and horses had lost — a great deal of trouble and fuss and nothing to show for it. That was what stuck in her throat. Nothing to show for it. She looked round the dismantled walls, and descended the vacant staircase. She would never serve another pint of beer in that bar. What a strong, big fellow he was when she first went to live with him! He was sadly changed. Would she ever see him strong and well again? She remembered he had told her that he was worth nearly £3000. She hadn’t brought him luck. He wasn’t worth anything like that to-day.

  “How much have we in the bank, dear?”

  “A bit over six hundred pounds. I was reckoning of it up yesterday. But what do you want to know for? To remind me that I’ve been losing. Well, I have been losing. I hope you’re satisfied.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of such a thing.”

  “Yes, you was, there’s no use saying you wasn’t. It ain’t my fault if the ‘orses don’t win; I do the best I can.”

  She did not answer him. Then he said, “It’s my ‘ealth that makes me irritable, dear; you aren’t angry, are you?”

  “No, dear, I know you don’t mean it, and I don’t pay no attention to it.” She spoke so gently that he looked at her surprised, for he remembered her quick temper, and he said, “You’re the best wife a man ever had.”

  “No, I’m not, Bill, but I tries to do my best.”

  The spring was the harshest ever known, and his cough grew worse and the blood-spitting returned. Esther grew seriously alarmed. Their doctor spoke of Brompton Hospital, and she insisted on his going there to be examined. William would not have her come with him; and she did not press the point, fearing to irritate him, but sat at home waiting anxiously for him to return, hoping against hope, for their doctor had told her that he feared very long trouble. And she could tell from his face and manner that he had bad news for her. All her strength left her, but she conquered her weakness and said —

  “Now tell me what they said. I’ve a right to know; I want to know.”

  “They said it was consumption.”

  “Oh, did they say that?”

  “Yes, but they don’t mean that I’m going to die. They said they hoped they could patch me up; people often live for years with only half a lung, and it is only the left one that’s gone.”

  He coughed slightly and wiped the blood from his lips. Esther was quite overcome.

  “Now, don’t look like that,” he said, “or I shall fancy I’m going to die to-morrow.”

  “They said they thought that they could patch you up?”

  “Yes; they said I might go on a long while yet, but that I would never be the man I was.”

  This was so obvious she could not check a look of pity.

  “If you’re going to look at me like that I’d sooner go into the hospital at once. It ain’t the cheerfulest of places, but it will be better than here.”

  “I’m sorry it was consumption. But if they said they could patch you up, it will be all right. It was a great deal for them to say.”

  Her duty was to overcome her grief and speak as if the doctors had told him that there was nothing the matter that a little careful nursing would fail to put right. William had faith in the warm weather, and she resolved to put her trust in it. It was hard to see him wasting away before her eyes and keep cheerful looks in her face and an accent of cheerfulness in heir voice. The sunshine which had come at last seemed to suck up all the life that was in him; he grew paler, and withered like a plant. Then ill-luck seemed to have joined in the hunt; he could not “touch” a winner, and their fortune drained away with his life. Favourites and outsiders, it mattered not; whatever he backed lost; and Esther dreaded the cry “Win-ner, all the win-ner!” He sat on the little balcony in the sunny evenings looking down the back street for the boy to appear with the “special.” Then she had to go and fetch the paper. On the rare occasions when he won, the spectacle was even more painful. He brightened up, his thin arm and hand moved nervously, and he began to make projects and indulge in hopes which she knew were vain.

  She insisted, however, on his taking regularly the medicine they gave him at the hospital, and this was difficult to do. For his irritability increased in measure as he perceived the medicine was doing him no good; he found fault with the doctors, railed against them unjustly, and all the while the little; cough continued, and the blood-spitting returned at the end of cruel intervals, when he had begun to hope that at least that trouble was done with. One morning he told his wife that he was going to ask the doctors to examine him again. They had spoken of patching up; but he wanted to know whether he was going to live or die. There was a certain relief in hearing him speak so plainly; she had had enough of the torture of hope, and would like to know the worst. He liked better to go to the hospital alone, but she felt that she could not sit at home counting the minutes for him to return, and begged to be allowed to go with him. To her surprise, he offered no opposition. She had expected that her request would bring about quite a little scene, but he had taken it so much as a matter of course that she should accompany him that she was doubly glad that she had proposed to go with him; if she hadn’t he might have accused her of neglecting him. She put on her hat; the day was too hot for a jacket; it was the beginning of August; the town was deserted, and the streets looked as if they were about to evaporate or lie down exhausted, and the poor, dry, dusty air that remained after the season was too poor even for Esther’s healthy lungs; it made William cough, and she hoped the doctors would order him to the seaside.

  From the top of their omnibus they could see right across the plateau of the Green Park, dry and colourless like a desert; as they descended the hill they noticed that autumn was already busy in the foliage; lower down the dells were full of fallen leaves. At Hyde Park Corner the blown dust whirled about the hill-top; all along St. George’s Place glimpses of the empty Park appeared through the railings. The wide pavements, the Brompton Road, and a semi-detached public-house at the cross-roads, announced suburban London to the Londoner.

  “You see,” said William, “where them trees are, where the road turns off to the left. That ‘ouse is the ‘Bell and Horns.’ That’s the sort of house I should like to see you in.”

  “It’s a pity
we didn’t buy it when we had the money.”

  “Buy it! That ‘ouse is worth ten thousand pounds if it’s worth a penny.”

  “I was once in a situation not far from here. I like the Fulham Road; it’s like a long village street, ain’t it?”

  Her first service was with Mrs. Dunbar, in Sydney Street, and she remembered the square church tower at the Chelsea end; a little further on there was the Vestry Hall in the King’s Road, and then Oakley Street on the left, leading down to Battersea. Mrs. Dunbar used to go to some gardens at the end of the King’s Road. Cremorne Gardens, that was the name; there used to be fire-works there, and she often spent the evening at the back window watching the rockets go up. That was just before Lady Elwin had got her the situation as kitchen-maid at Woodview. She remembered the very shops — there was Palmer’s the butterman, and there was Hyde’s the grocer’s. Everything was just as she had left it. How many years ago? Fifteen or sixteen. So enwrapped was she in memories that William had to touch her. “Here we are,” he said; “don’t you remember the place?”

  She remembered very well that great red brick building, a centrepiece with two wings, surrounded by high iron railings lined with gloomy shrubs. The long straight walks, the dismal trees arow, where pale-faced men walked or rested feebly, had impressed themselves on her young mind — thin, patient men, pacing their sepulchre. She had wondered who they were, if they would get well; and then, quick with sensation of lingering death, she had hurried away on her errands. The low wooden yellow-painted gates were unchanged. She had never before seen them open, and it was new to her to see the gardens filled with bright sunshine and numerous visitors. There were flowers in the beds, and the trees were beautiful in their leafage. A little yellow was creeping through, and from time to time a leaf fell exhausted from the branches.