With fair weather he might hold on till Christmas, but if much fog was
about he would go off with the last leaves. One day Esther received a
letter asking her to defer her visit from Friday to Sunday. He hoped to be
better on Sunday, and then they would arrange when she should come to take
him away. He begged of her to have Jack home to meet him. He wanted to see
his boy before he died.
Mrs. Collins, a woman who lived in the next room, read the letter to
Esther.
"If you can, do as he wishes. Once they gets them fancies into their heads
there's no getting them out."
"If he leaves the hospital on a day like this it'll be the death of him."
Both women went to the window. The fog was so thick that only an outline
here and there was visible of the houses opposite. The lamps burnt low,
mournful, as in a city of the dead, and the sounds that rose out of the
street added to the terror of the strange darkness.
"What do he say about Jack? That I'm to send for him. It's natural he
should like to see the boy before he goes, but it would be cheerfuller to
take him to the hospital."
"You see, he wants to die at home; he wants you to be with him at the
last."
"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 passed 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 passed, 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 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."