by George Moore
Esther remained with William till the time permitted to visitors had expired. He could not speak to her but she knew he liked her to be with him.
When she came on Thursday to take him away, he was a little better. The clerk’s wife was chattering; the great navvy lay in the corner, still as a block of stone. Esther often looked at him and wondered if he had no friend who could spare an hour to come and see him.
“I was beginning to think that you wasn’t coming,” said William.
“He’s that restless,” said the clerk’s wife; “asking the time every three or four minutes.”
“How could you think that?” said Esther.
“I dun know… you’re a bit late, aren’t you?”
“It often do make them that restless,” said the clerk’s wife. “But my poor old man is quiet enough — aren’t you, dear?” The dying clerk could not answer, and the woman turned again to Esther.
“And how do you find him to-day?”
“Much the same…. I think he’s a bit better; stronger, don’t yer know. But this weather is that trying. I don’t know how it was up your way, but down my way I never seed such a fog. I thought I’d have to turn back.” At that moment the baby began to cry, and the woman walked up and down the ward, rocking it violently, talking loud, and making a great deal of noise. But she could not quiet him…. “Hungry again,” she said. “I never seed such a child for the breast,” and she sat down and unbuttoned her dress. When the young doctor entered she hurriedly covered herself; he begged her to continue, and spoke about her little boy. She showed him a scar on his throat. He had been suffering, but it was all right now. The doctor glanced at the breathless father.
“A little better to-day, thank you, doctor.”
“That’s all right;” and the doctor went over to William.
“Are you still determined to leave the hospital?” he said.
“Yes, I want to go home. I want to—”
“You’ll find this weather very trying; you’d better—”
“No, thank you, sir. I should like to go home. You’ve been very kind; you’ve done everything that could be done for me. But it’s God’s will…. My wife is very grateful to you, too.”
“Yes, indeed, I am, sir. However am I to thank you for your kindness to my husband?’
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. But you’ll want the sister to help you to dress him. I’ll send her to you.”
When they got him out of bed, Esther was shocked at the spectacle of his poor body. There was nothing left of him. His poor chest, his wasted ribs, his legs gone to nothing, and the strange weakness, worst of all, which made it so hard for them to dress him. At last it was nearly done: Esther laced one boot, the nurse the other, and, leaning on Esther’s arm, he looked round the room for the last time. The navvy turned round on his bed and said —
“Good-bye, mate.”
“Good-bye…. Good-bye, all.”
The clerk’s little son clung to his mother’s skirt, frightened at the weakness of so big a man.
“Go and say good-bye to the gentleman.”
The little boy came forward timidly, offering his hand. William looked at the poor little white face; he nodded to the father and went out.
As he went downstairs he said he would like to go home in a hansom. The doctor and nurse expostulated, but he persisted until Esther begged of him to forego the wish for her sake.
“They do rattle so, these four-wheelers, especially when the windows are up. One can’t speak.”
The cab jogged up Piccadilly, and as it climbed out of the hollow the dying man’s eyes were fixed on the circle of lights that shone across the Green Park. They looked like a distant village, and Esther wondered if William was thinking of Shoreham — she had seen Shoreham look like that sometimes — or if he was thinking that he was looking on London for the last time. Was he saying to himself, “I shall never, never see Piccadilly again”? They passed St. James’s Street. The Circus, with its mob of prostitutes, came into view; the “Criterion” bar, with its loafers standing outside. William leaned a little forward, and Esther was sure he was thinking that he would never go into that bar again. The cab turned to the left, and Esther said that it would cross Soho, perhaps pass down Old Compton Street, opposite their old house. It happened that it did, and Esther and William wondered who were the new people who were selling beer and whisky in the bar? All the while boys were crying, “Win-ner, all the win-ner!”
“The —— was run to-day. Flat racing all over, all over for this year.”
Esther did not answer. The cab passed over a piece of asphalte, and he said —
“Is Jack waiting for us?”
“Yes, he came home yesterday.”
The fog was thick in Bloomsbury, and when he got out of the cab he was taken with a fit of coughing, and had to cling to the railings. She had to pay the cab, and it took some time to find the money. Would no one open the door? She was surprised to see him make his way up the steps to the bell, and having got her change, she followed him into the house.
“I can manage. Go on first; I’ll follow.”
And stopping every three or four steps for rest, he slowly dragged himself up to the first landing. A door opened and Jack stood on the threshold of the lighted room.
“Is that you, mother?”
“Yes, dear; your father is coming up.”
The boy came forward to help, but his mother whispered, “He’d rather come up by himself.”
William had just strength to walk into the room; they gave him a chair, and he fell back exhausted. He looked around, and seemed pleased to see his home again. Esther gave him some milk, into which she had put a little brandy, and he gradually revived.
“Come this way, Jack; I want to look at you; come into the light where I can see you.”
“Yes, father.”
“I haven’t long to see you, Jack. I wanted to be with you and your mother in our own home. I can talk a little now: I may not be able to to-morrow.”
“Yes, father.”
“I want you to promise me, Jack, that you’ll never have nothing to do with racing and betting. It hasn’t brought me or your mother any luck.”
“Very well, father.”
“You promise me, Jack. Give me your hand. You promise me that, Jack.”
“Yes, father, I promise.”
“I see it all clearly enough now. Your mother, Jack, is the best woman in the world. She loved you better than I did. She worked for you — that is a sad story. I hope you’ll never hear it.”
Husband and wife looked at each other, and in that look the wife promised the husband that the son should never know the story of her desertion.
“She was always against the betting, Jack; she always knew it would bring us ill-luck. I was once well off, but I lost everything. No good comes of money that one doesn’t work for.”
“I’m sure you worked enough for what you won,” said Esther; “travelling day and night from race-course to race-course. Standing on them race-courses in all weathers; it was the colds you caught standing on them race-courses that began the mischief.”
“I worked hard enough, that’s true; but it was not the right kind of work…. I can’t argue, Esther…. But I know the truth now, what you always said was the truth. No good comes of money that hasn’t been properly earned.”
He sipped the brandy-and-milk and looked at Jack, who was crying bitterly.
“You mustn’t cry like that, Jack; I want you to listen to me. I’ve still something on my mind. Your mother, Jack, is the best woman that ever lived. You’re too young to understand how good. I didn’t know how good for a long time, but I found it all out in time, as you will later, Jack, when you are a man. I’d hoped to see you grow up to be a man, Jack, and your mother and I thought that you’d have a nice bit of money. But the money I hoped to leave you is all gone. What I feel most is that I’m leaving you and your mother as badly off as she was when I married her.” He heaved a deep sigh, and
Esther said —
“What is the good of talking of these things, weakening yourself for nothing?”
“I must speak, Esther. I should die happy if I knew how you and the boy was going to live. You’ll have to go out and work for him as you did before. It will be like beginning it all again.”
The tears rolled down his cheeks; he buried his face in his hands and sobbed, until the sobbing brought on a fit of coughing. Suddenly his mouth filled with blood. Jack went for the doctor, and all remedies were tried without avail. “There is one more remedy,” the doctor said, “and if that fails you must prepare for the worst.” But this last remedy proved successful, and the hæmorrhage was stopped, and William was undressed and put to bed. The doctor said, “He mustn’t get up to-morrow.”
“You lie in bed to-morrow, and try to get up your strength. You’ve overdone yourself to-day.”
She had drawn his bed into the warmest corner, close by the fire, and had made up for herself a sort of bed by the window, where she might doze a bit, for she did not expect to get much sleep. She would have to be up and down many times to settle his pillows and give him milk or a little weak brandy-and-water.
Night wore away, the morning grew into day, and about twelve o’clock he insisted on getting up. She tried to persuade him, but he said he could not stop in bed; and there was nothing for it but to ask Mrs. Collins to help her dress him. They placed him comfortably in a chair. The cough had entirely ceased and he seemed better. And on Saturday night he slept better than he had done for a long while and woke up on Sunday morning refreshed and apparently much stronger. He had a nice bit of boiled rabbit for his dinner. He didn’t speak much; Esther fancied that he was still thinking of them. When the afternoon waned, about four o’clock, he called Jack; he told him to sit in the light where he could see him, and he looked at his son with such wistful eyes. These farewells were very sad, and Esther had to turn aside to hide her tears.
“I should have liked to have seen you a man, Jack.”
“Don’t speak like that — I can’t bear it,” said the poor boy, bursting into tears. “Perhaps you won’t die yet.”
“Yes, Jack; I’m wore out. I can feel,” he said, pointing to his chest, “that there is nothing here to live upon…. It is the punishment come upon me.”
“Punishment for what, father?”
“I wasn’t always good to your mother, Jack.”
“If to please me, William, you’ll say no more.”
“The boy ought to know; it will be a lesson for him, and it weighs upon my heart.”
“I don’t want my boy to hear anything bad about his father, and I forbid him to listen.”
The conversation paused, and soon after William said that his strength was going from him, and that he would like to go back to bed. Esther helped him off with his clothes, and together she and Jack lifted him into bed. He sat up looking at them with wistful, dying eyes.
“It is hard to part from you,” he said. “If Chasuble had won we would have all gone to Egypt. I could have lived out there.”
“You must speak of them things no more. We all must obey God’s will.” Esther dropped on her knees; she drew Jack down beside her, and William asked Jack to read something from the Bible. Jack read where he first opened the book, and when he had finished William said that he liked to listen. Jack’s voice sounded to him like heaven.
About eight o’clock William bade his son good-night.
“Good-night, my boy; perhaps we shan’t see each other again. This may be my last night.”
“I won’t leave you, father.”
“No, my boy, go to your bed. I feel I’d like to be alone with mother.” The voice sank almost to a whisper.
“You’ll remember what you promised me about racing…. Be good to your mother — she’s the best mother a son ever had.”
“I’ll work for mother, father, I’ll work for her.”
“You’re too young, my son, but when you’re older I hope you’ll work for her. She worked for you…. Good-bye, my boy.”
The dying man sweated profusely, and Esther wiped his face from time to time. Mrs. Collins came in. She had a large tin candlestick in her hand in which there was a fragment of candle end. He motioned to her to put it aside. She put it on the table out of the way of his eyes.
“You’ll help Esther to lay me out…. I don’t want any one else. I don’t like the other woman.”
“Esther and me will lay you out, make your mind easy; none but we two shall touch you.”
Once more Esther wiped his forehead, and he signed to her how he wished the bed-clothes to be arranged, for he could no longer speak. Mrs. Collins whispered to Esther that she did not think that the end could be far off, and compelled by a morbid sort of curiosity she took a chair and sat down. Esther wiped away the little drops of sweat as they came upon his forehead; his chest and throat had to be wiped also, for they too were full of sweat. His eyes were fixed on the darkness and he moved his hand restlessly, and Esther always understood what he wanted. She gave him a little brandy-and-water, and when he could not take it from the glass she gave it to him with a spoon.
The silence grew more solemn, and the clock on the mantelpiece striking ten sharp strokes did not interrupt it; and then, as Esther turned from the bedside for the brandy, Mrs. Collins’s candle spluttered and went out; a little thread of smoke evaporated, leaving only a morsel of blackened wick; the flame had disappeared for ever, gone as if it had never been, and Esther saw darkness where there had been a light. Then she heard Mrs. Collins say —
“I think it is all over, dear.”
The profile on the pillow seemed very little.
“Hold up his head, so that if there is any breath it may come on the glass.”
“He’s dead, right enough. You see, dear, there’s not a trace of breath on the glass.”
“I’d like to say a prayer. Will you say a prayer with me?”
“Yes, I feel as if I should like to myself; it eases the heart wonderful.”
XLV
SHE STOOD ON the platform watching the receding train. A few bushes hid the curve of the line; the white vapour rose above them, evaporating in the grey evening. A moment more and the last carriage would pass out of sight. The white gates swung slowly forward and closed over the line.
An oblong box painted reddish brown lay on the seat beside her. A woman of seven or eight and thirty, stout and strongly built, short arms and hard-worked hands, dressed in dingy black skirt and a threadbare jacket too thin for the dampness of a November day. Her face was a blunt outline, and the grey eyes reflected all the natural prose of the Saxon.
The porter told her that he would try to send her box up to Woodview to-morrow…. That was the way to Woodview, right up the lane. She could not miss it. She would find the lodge gate behind that clump of trees. And thinking how she could get her box to Woodview that evening, she looked at the barren strip of country lying between the downs and the shingle beach. The little town clamped about its deserted harbour seemed more than ever like falling to pieces like a derelict vessel, and when Esther passed over the level crossing she noticed that the line of little villas had not increased; they were as she had left them eighteen years ago, laurels, iron railing, antimacassars. It was about eighteen years ago, on a beautiful June day, that she had passed up this lane for the first time. At the very spot she was now passing she had stopped to wonder if she would be able to keep the place of kitchen-maid. She remembered regretting that she had not a new dress; she had hoped to be able to brighten up the best of her cotton prints with a bit of red ribbon. The sun was shining, and she had met William leaning over the paling in the avenue smoking his pipe. Eighteen years had gone by, eighteen years of labour, suffering, disappointment. A great deal had happened, so much that she could not remember it all. The situations she had been in; her life with that dear good soul, Miss Rice, then Fred Parsons, then William again; her marriage, the life in the public-house, money lost and money won, heart
-breakings, death, everything that could happen had happened to her. Now it all seemed like a dream. But her boy remained to her. She had brought up her boy, thank God, she had been able to do that. But how had she done it? How often had she found herself within sight of the workhouse? The last time was no later than last week. Last week it had seemed to her that she would have to accept the workhouse. But she had escaped, and now here she was back at the very point from which she started, going back to Woodview, going back to Mrs. Barfield’s service.
William’s illness and his funeral had taken Esther’s last few pounds away from her, and when she and Jack came back from the cemetery she found that she had broken into her last sovereign. She clasped him to her bosom — he was a tall boy of fifteen — and burst into tears. But she did not tell him what she was crying for. She did not say, “God only knows how we shall find bread to eat next week;” she merely said, wiping away her tears, “We can’t afford to live here any longer. It’s too expensive for us now that father’s gone.” And they went to live in a slum for three-and-sixpence a week. If she had been alone in the world she would have gone into a situation, but she could not leave the boy, and so she had to look out for charing. It was hard to have to come down to this, particularly when she remembered that she had had a house and a servant of her own; but there was nothing for it but to look out for some charing, and get along as best she could until Jack was able to look after himself. But the various scrubbings and general cleaning that had come her way had been so badly paid that she soon found that she could not make both ends meet. She would have to leave her boy and go out as a general servant. And as her necessities were pressing, she accepted a situation in a coffee-shop in the London Road. She would give all her wages to Jack, seven shillings a week, and he would have to live on that. So long as she had her health she did not mind.
It was a squat brick building with four windows that looked down on the pavement with a short-sighted stare. On each window was written in letters of white enamel, “Well-aired beds.” A board nailed to a post by the side-door announced that tea and coffee were always ready. On the other side of the sign was an upholsterer’s, and the vulgar brightness of the Brussels carpets seemed in keeping with the slop-like appearance of the coffeehouse.
