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 licence, 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.

William, who was already familiar with the custom of the place, nodded to

the porter and was let pass without question. He did not turn to the

principal entrance in the middle of the building, but went towards a side

entrance. The house physician was standing near it talking with a young

man whom Esther recognised as Mr. Alden. The thought that he, too, might

be dying of consumption crossed her mind, but his appearance and his

healthy, hearty laugh reassured her. A stout, common girl, healthy too,

came out of the building with a child, a little thing of twelve or

thirteen, with death in her face. Mr. Alden stopped her, and in his

cheerful, kind manner hoped the little one was better. She answered that

she was. The doctor bade him good-bye and beckoned William and Esther to

follow him. Esther would have liked to have spoken to Mr. Alden. But he

did not see her, and she followed her husband, who was talking with the

doctor, through the doorway into a long passage. At the end of the passage

there were a number of girls in print dresses. The gaiety of the dresses

led Esther to think that they must be visitors. But the little cough

warned her that death was amongst them. As she went past she caught sight

of a wasted form in a bath-chair. The thin hands were laid on the knees,

on a little handkerchief, and there were spots on the whiteness deeper

than the colour of the dress. They passed down another passage, meeting a

sister on their way; pretty and discreet she was in her black dress and

veil, and she raised her eyes, glancing affectionately at the young

doctor. No doubt they loved each other. The eternal love-story among so

much death!

Esther wished to be present at the examination, but a sudden whim made

William say that he would prefer to be alone with the doctor, and she

returned to the gardens. Mr. Alden had not yet gone. He stood with his

back turned to her. The little girl she had seen him speaking to was

sitting on a bench under the trees; she held in her hands a skein of

yellow worsted which her companion was winding into a ball. Two other

young women were with them and all four were smiling and whispering and

looking towards Mr. Alden. They evidently sought to attract his attention,

and wished him to come and speak to them. Just the natural desire of women

to please, and moved by the pathos of this poor coquetting, he went to

them, and Esther could see that they all wanted to talk to him. She too

would have liked to have spoken to him; he was an old friend. And she

walked up the grounds, intending to pass by him as she walked back. His

back was still turned to her, and they were all so interested that they

gave no heed to anything else. One of the young women had an exceedingly

pretty face. A small oval, perfectly snow-white, and large blue eyes

shaded with long dark lashes; a little aquiline nose; and Esther heard her

say, "I should be well enough if it wasn't for the cough. It isn't no

better since--" The cough interrupted the end of the sentence, and

affecting to misunderstand her, Mr. Alden said--

"No better than it was a week ago."

"A week ago!" said the poor girl. "It is no better since Christmas."

There was surprise in her voice, and the pity of it took Mr. Alden in the

throat, and it was with difficulty that he answered that "he hoped that

the present fine weather would enable her to get well. Such weather as

this," he said, "is as good as going abroad."

This assertion was disputed. One of the women had been to Australia for

her health, and the story of travel was interspersed by the little coughs,

terrible in their apparent insignificance. But it was Mr. Alden that the

others wished to hear speak; they knew all about their companion's trip to

Australia, and in their impatience their eyes went towards Esther. So Mr.

Alden became aware of a new presence, and he turned.

"What! is it you, Esther?"

"Yes, sir."

"But there doesn't seem much the matter with you. You're all right."

"Yes, I'm all right, sir; it's my husband."

They walked a few yards up the path.

"Your husband! I'm very sorry."

"He's been an out-door patient for some time; he's being examined by the

doctors now."

"Whom did you marry, Esther?"

"William Latch, a betting man, sir."

"You married a betting man, Esther? How curiously things do work out! I

remember you were engaged to a pious young man, the stationer's foreman.

That was when you were with Miss Rice; you know, I suppose, that she's

dead."

"No, sir, I didn't know it. I've had so much trouble lately that I've not

been to see her for nearly two years. When did she die, sir?"

"About two months ago. So you married a betting man! Miss Rice did say

something about it, but I don't think I understood that he was a betting

man; I thought he was a publican."

"So he was, sir. We lost our licence through the betting."

"You say he's being examined by the doctor. Is it a bad case?"

"I'm afraid it is, sir."

They walked on in silence until they reached the gate.

"To me this place is infinitely pathetic. That little cough never silent

for long. Did you hear that poor girl say with surprise that her cough is

no better than it was last Christmas?"

"Yes, sir. Poor girl, I don't think she's long for this world."

"But tell me about your husband, Esther," he said, and his face filled

with an expression of true sympathy. "I'm a subscriber, and if your

husband would like to become an in-door patient, I hope you'll let me

know."

"Thank you, sir; you was always the kindest, but there's no reason why I

should trouble you. Some friends of ours have already recommended him, and

it only rests with himself to remain out or go in."

He pulled out his watch and said, "I am sorry to have met you in such sad

circumstances, but I'm glad to have seen you. It must be seven years or

more since you left Miss Rice. You haven't changed much; you keep your

good looks."

"Oh, sir."

He laughed at her embarrassment and walked across the road hailing a

hansom, just as he used to in old times when he came to see Miss Rice. The

memory of those days came back upon her. It was strange to meet him again

after so many years. She felt she had seen him now for the last time. But

it was foolish and wicked, too, to think of such things; her husband

dying.... But she couldn't help it; he reminded her of so much of what was

past and gone. A moment after she dashed these personal tears aside and

walked open-hearted to meet William. What had the doctor said? She must

know the truth. If she was to lose him she would lose everything. No, not

everything; her boy would still remain to her, and she felt that, after

all, her boy was what was most real to her in life. These thoughts had

passed through her mind before William had had time to answer her

question.

"He said the left lung was gone, that I'd never be able to stand another

winter in England. He said I must go to Egypt."

"Egypt," she repeated. "Is that very far from here?"

"What matter how far it is! If I can't live in England I must go where I

can live."

"Don't be cross, dear. I know it's your health that makes you that

irritable, but it's hard to bear at times."

"You won't care to go to Egypt with me."

"How can you think that, Bill? Have I ever refused you anything?"

"Quite right, old girl, I'm sorry. I know you'd do anything for me. I've

always said so, haven't I? It's this cough that makes me sharp tempered

and fretful. I shall be different when I get to Egypt."

"When do we start?"

"If we get away by the end of October it will be all right. It will cost a

lot of money; the journey is expensive, and we shall have to stop there

six months. I couldn't think of coming home before the end of April."