Esther Waters Part 65

"Yes, I want to see the last of him. But the boy, where's he to sleep?"

"We can lay a mattress down in my room--an old woman like me, it don't matter."

Sunday morning was harsh and cold, and when she came out of South Kensington Station a fog was rising in the squares, and a great whiff of yellow cloud drifted down upon the house-tops. In the Fulham road the tops of the houses disappeared, and the light of the third gas-lamp was not visible.

"This is the sort of weather that takes them off. I can hardly breathe it myself."

Everything was shadow-like; those walking in front of her pa.s.sed out of sight like shades, and once she thought she must have missed her way, though that was impossible, for her way was quite straight.... Suddenly the silhouette of the winged building rose up enormous on the sulphur sky.

The low-lying gardens were full of poisonous vapour, and the thin trees seemed like the ghosts of consumptive men. The porter coughed like a dead man as she pa.s.sed, and he said, "Bad weather for the poor sick ones upstairs."

She was prepared for a change for the worse, but she did not expect to see a living man looking so like a dead one.

He could no longer lie back in bed and breathe, so he was propped up with pillows, and he looked even as shadow-like as those she had half seen in the fog-cloud. There was fog even in the ward, and the lights burned red in the silence. There were five beds--low iron bedsteads--and each was covered with a dark red rug. In the furthest corner lay the wreck of a great working man. He wore his hob-nails and his corduroys, and his once brawny arm lay along his thigh, shrivelled and powerless as a child's. In the middle of the room a little clerk, wasted and weary, without any strength at all, lay striving for breath. The navvy was alone; the little clerk had his family round him, his wife and his two children, a baby in arms and a little boy three years old. The doctor had just come in, and the woman was prattling gaily about her confinement. She said--

"I was up the following week. Wonderful what we women can go through. No one would think it.... brought the childer to see their father; they is a little idol to him, poor fellow."

"How are you to-day, dearie?" Esther said, as she took a seat by her husband's bed.

"Better than I was on Friday, but this weather'll do for me if it continues much longer.... You see them two beds? They died yesterday, and I've 'eard that three or four that left the hospital are gone, too."

The doctor came to William's bed. "Well, are you still determined to go home?" he said.

"Yes; I'd like to die at home. You can't do nothing for me.... I'd like to die at home; I want to see my boy."

"You can see Jack here," said Esther.

"I'd sooner see him at 'ome.... I suppose you don't want the trouble of a death in the 'ouse."

"Oh, William, how can you speak so!" The patient coughed painfully, and leaned against the pillows, unable to speak.

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 unb.u.t.toned 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 G.o.d'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 Sh.o.r.eham--she had seen Sh.o.r.eham 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 pa.s.sed St. James's Street. The Circus, with its mob of prost.i.tutes, 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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?"