I
In default of a screen, a gown and a red petticoat had been thrown over a
clothes-horse, and these shaded the glare of the lamp from the eyes of the
sick man. In the pale obscurity of the room, his bearded cheeks could be
seen buried in a heap of tossed pillows. By his bedside sat a young woman.
As she dozed, her face drooped until her features were hidden, and the
lamp-light made the curious curves of a beautiful ear look like a piece of
illuminated porcelain. Her hands lay upon her lap, her needlework slipped
from them; and as it fell to the ground she awoke.
She pressed her hands against her forehead and made an effort to rouse
herself. As she did so, her face contracted with an expression of disgust,
and she remembered the ether. The soft, vaporous odour drifted towards her
from a small table strewn with medicine bottles, and taking care to hold
the cork tightly in her fingers she squeezed it into the bottle.
At that moment the clock struck eleven and the clear tones of its bell
broke the silence sharply; the patient moaned as if in reply, and his thin
hairy arms stirred feverishly on the wide patchwork counterpane. She took
them in her hands and covered them over; she tried to arrange the pillows
more comfortably, but as she did so he turned and tossed impatiently, and,
fearing to disturb him, she put back the handkerchief she had taken from
the pillow to wipe the sweat from his brow, and regaining her chair, with a
weary movement she picked up the cloth that had fallen from her knees and
slowly continued her work.
It was a piece of patchwork like the counterpane on the bed; the squares of
a chessboard had been taken as a design, and, selecting a fragment of
stuff, she trimmed it into the required shape and sewed it into its
allotted corner.
Nothing was now heard but the methodical click of her needle as it struck
the head of her thimble, and then the long swish of the thread as she drew
it through the cloth. The lamp at her elbow burned steadily, and the glare
glanced along her arm as she raised it with the large movement of sewing.
Her hair was blue wherever the light touched it, and it encircled the white
prominent temple like a piece of rich black velvet; a dark shadow defined
the delicate nose, and hinted at thin indecision of lips, whilst a broad
touch of white marked the weak but not unbeautiful chin.
On the corner of the table lay a book, a well-worn volume in a faded red
paper cover. It was a novel she used to read with delight when she was a
girl, but it had somehow failed to interest her, and after a few pages she
had laid it aside, preferring for distraction her accustomed sewing. She
was now well awake, and, as she worked, her thoughts turned on things
concerning the daily routine of her life. She thought of the time when her
husband would be well: of the pillow she was making; of how nice it would
look in the green armchair; of the much greater likelihood of letting their
rooms if they were better furnished; of their new lodger; and of the
probability of a quarrel between him and her mother-in-law, Mrs. Ede.
For more than a week past the new lodger had formed the staple subject of
conversation in this household. Mrs. Ede, Kate's mother-in-law, was loud in
her protestations that the harbouring of an actor could not but be attended
by bad luck. Kate felt a little uneasy; her puritanism was of a less marked
kind; perhaps at first she had felt inclined to agree with her
mother-in-law, but her husband had shown himself so stubborn, and had so
persistently declared that he was not going to keep his rooms empty any
longer, that for peace' sake she was fain to side with him. The question
arose in a very unexpected way. During the whole winter they were
unfortunate with their rooms, though they made many attempts to get
lodgers; they even advertised. Some few people asked to see the rooms; but
they merely made an offer. One day a man who came into the shop to buy some
paper collars asked Kate if she had any apartments to let. She answered
yes, and they went upstairs. After a cursory inspection he told her that he
was the agent in advance to a travelling opera company, and that if she
liked he would recommend her rooms to the stage manager, a particular
friend of his. The proposition was somewhat startling, but, not liking to
say no, she proposed to refer the matter to her husband.
At that particular moment Ede happened to be engaged in a violent dispute
with his mother, and so angry was he that when Mrs. Ede raised her hands to
protest against the introduction of an actor into the household, he
straightway told her that 'if she didn't like it she might do the other
thing.' Nothing more was said at the time; the old lady retired in
indignation, and Mr. Lennox was written to. Kate sympathized alternately
with both sides. Mrs. Ede was sturdy in defence of her principles; Ede was
petulant and abusive; and between the two Kate was blown about like a
feather in a storm. Daily the argument waxed warmer, until one night, in
the middle of a scene characterized by much Biblical quotation, Ede
declared he could stand it no longer, and rushed out of the house. In vain
the women tried to stop him, knowing well what the consequences would be. A
draught, a slight exposure, sufficed to give him a cold, and with him a
cold always ended in an asthmatic attack. And these were often so violent
as to lay him up for weeks at a time. When he returned, his temper grown
cooler under the influence of the night air, he was coughing, and the next
night found him breathless. His anger had at first vented itself against
his mother, whom he refused to see, and thus the whole labour of nursing
him was thrown on Kate. She didn't grumble at this, but it was terrible to
have to listen to him.
It was Mr. Lennox, and nothing but Mr. Lennox. All the pauses in the
suffocation were utilized to speak on this important question, and even now
Kate, who had not yet perceived that the short respite which getting rid of
the phlegm had given him was coming to an end, expected him to say
something concerning the still unknown person. But Ede did not speak, and,
to put herself as it were out of suspense, she referred to some previous
conversation:
'I'm sure you're right; the only people in the town who let their rooms are
those who have a theatrical connection.'
'Oh, I don't care; I'm going to have a bad night,' said Mr. Ede, who now
thought only of how he should get his next breath.
'But you seemed to be getting better,' she replied hurriedly.
'No! I feel it coming on--I'm suffocating. Have you got the ether?'
Kate did not answer, but made a rapid movement towards the table, and
snatching the bottle she uncorked it. The sickly odour quietly spread like
oil over the close atmosphere of the room, but, mastering her repugnance,
she held it to him, and in the hope of obtaining relief he inhaled it
greedily. But the remedy proved of no avail, and he pushed the bottle away.
'Oh, these headaches! My head is splitting,' he said, after a deep
inspiration which seemed as if it would cost him his life. 'Nothing seems
to do me any good. Have you got any cigarettes?'
'I'm sorry, they haven't arrived yet. I wrote for them,' she replied,
hesitating; 'but don't you think--?'
He shook his head; and, resenting Kate's assiduities, with trembling
fingers he unfastened the shawl she had placed on his shoulders, and then,
planting his elbows on his knees, with a fixed head and elevated shoulders,
he gave himself up to the struggle of taking breath.... At that moment she
would have laid down her life to save him from the least of his pains, but
she could only sit by him watching the struggle, knowing that nothing could
be done to relieve him. She had seen the same scene repeated a hundred
times before, but it never seemed to lose any of its terror. In the first
month of their marriage she had been frightened by one of these asthmatic
attacks. It had come on in the middle of the night, and she remembered well
how she had prayed to God that it should not be her fate to see her husband
die before her eyes. She knew now that death was not to be apprehended--the
paroxysm would wear itself out--but she knew also of the horrors that would
have to be endured before the time of relief came. She could count them
upon her fingers--she could see it all as in a vision--a nightmare that
would drag out its long changes until the dawn began to break; she
anticipated the hours of the night.
'Air! Air! I'm suff-o-cating!' he sobbed out with a desperate effort.
Kate ran to the window and threw it open. The paroxysm had reached its
height, and, resting his elbows well on his knees, he gasped many times,
but before the inspiration was complete his strength failed him. No want
but that of breath could have forced him to try again; and the second
effort was even more terrible than the first. A great upheaval, a great
wrenching and rocking seemed to be going on within him; the veins on his
forehead were distended, the muscles of his chest laboured, and it seemed
as if every minute were going to be his last. But with a supreme effort he
managed to catch breath, and then there was a moment of respite, and Kate
could see that he was thinking of the next struggle, for he breathed
avariciously, letting the air that had cost him so much agony pass slowly
through his lips. To breathe again he would have to get on to his feet,
which he did, and so engrossed was he in the labour of breathing that he
pushed the paraffin lamp roughly; it would have fallen had Kate not been
there to catch it. She besought of him to say what he wanted, but he made
no reply, and continued to drag himself from one piece of furniture to
another, till at last, grasping the back of a chair, he breathed by jerks,
each inspiration being accompanied by a violent spasmodic wrench, violent
enough to break open his chest. She watched, expecting every moment to see
him roll over, a corpse, but knowing from past experiences that he would
recover somehow. His recoveries always seemed to her like miracles, and she
watched the long pallid face crushed under a shock of dark matted hair, a
dirty nightshirt, a pair of thin legs; but for the moment the grandeur of
human suffering covered him, lifting him beyond the pale of loving or
loathing, investing and clothing him in the pity of tragic things. The
room, too, seemed transfigured. The bare wide floor, the gaunt bed, the
poor walls plastered with religious prints cut from journals, even the
ordinary furniture of everyday use--the little washhandstand with the
common delf ewer, the chest of drawers that might have been bought for
thirty shillings--lost their coarseness; their triviality disappeared,
until nothing was seen or felt but this one suffering man.
The minutes slipped like the iron teeth of a saw over Kate's sensibilities.
A hundred times she had run over in her mind the list of remedies she had
seen him use. They were few in number, and none of any real service except
the cigarettes which she had not. She asked him to allow her to try iodine,
but he could not or would not make her any answer. It was cruel to see him
struggling, but he resisted assistance, and watching like one in a dream,
frightened at her own powerlessness to save or avert, Kate remained
crouching by the fireplace without strength to think or act, until she was
suddenly awakened by seeing him relax his hold and slip heavily on the
floor; and it was only by putting forth her whole strength she could get
him into a sitting position; when she attempted to place him in a chair he
slipped through her arms. There was, therefore, nothing to do but to shriek
for help, and hope to awaken her mother-in-law. The echoes rang through the
house, and as they died away, appalled, she listened to the silence.
At length it grew clear that Mrs. Ede could not be awakened, and Kate saw
that she would have to trust to herself alone, and after two or three
failures she applied herself to winning him back to consciousness. It was
necessary to do so before attempting to move him again, and, sprinkling his
face with water, she persuaded him to open his eyes, and after one little
stare he slipped back into the nothingness he had come out of; and this was
repeated several times, Kate redoubling her efforts until at last she
succeeded in placing him in a chair. He sat there, still striving and
struggling with his breath, unable to move, and soaked with sweat, but
getting better every minute. The worst of the attack was now over; she
buttoned his nightshirt across his panting chest and covered his shoulders
with his red shawl once more, and with a sentiment of real tenderness she
took his hand in hers. She looked at him, feeling her heart grow larger.
He was her husband; he had suffered terribly, and was now getting better;
and she was his wife, whose duty it was to attend him. She only wished he
would allow her to love him a little better; but against her will facts
pierced through this luminous mist of sentiment, and she could not help
remembering how petulant he was with her, how utterly all her wishes were
disregarded. 'What a pity he's not a little different!' she thought; but
when she looked at him and saw how he suffered, all other thoughts were
once more drowned and swept away. She forgot how he often rendered her life
miserable, wellnigh unbearable, by small vices, faults that defy
definition, unending selfishness and unceasing irritability. But now all
dissatisfaction and bitternesses were again merged into a sentiment that
was akin to love; and in this time of physical degradation he possessed her
perhaps more truly, more perfectly, than even in his best moments of
health.
But her life was one of work, not of musing, and there was plenty for her
to attend to. Ralph would certainly not be able to leave his chair for some
time yet; she had wrapped him up comfortably in a blanket, she could do no
more, and whilst he was recovering it would be as well to tidy up the room
a bit. He would never be able to sleep in a bed that he had been lying in
all day; she had better make the bed at once, for he generally got a little
ease towards morning, particularly after a bad attack. So, hoping that the
present occasion would not prove an exception, Kate set to work to make the
bed. She resolved to do this thoroughly, and turning the mattress over, she
shook it with all her force. She did the same with the pillows, and fearing
that there might be a few crumbs sticking to the sheets, she shook them out
several times; and when the last crease had been carefully smoothed away
she went back to her husband and insisted on being allowed to paint his
back with iodine, although he did not believe in the remedy. On his saying
he was thirsty, she went creeping down the narrow stairs to the kitchen,
hunted for matches in the dark, lighted a spirit lamp and made him a hot
drink, which he drank without thanking her. She fell to thinking of his
ingratitude, and then of the discomfort of the asthma. How could she expect
him to think of her when he was thinking of his breath? All the same, on
these words her waking thoughts must have passed into dream thoughts. She
was still watching by his bedside, waiting to succour him whenever he
should ask for help, yet she must have been asleep. She did not know how
long she slept, but it could not have been for long; and there was no
reason for his peevishness, for she had not left him.
'I'm sorry, Ralph, but I could not help it, I was so very tired. What can I
do for you, dear?'
'Do for me?' he said--'why, shut the window. I might have died for all you
would have known or cared.'
She walked across the room and shut the window, but as she came back to her
place she said, 'I don't know why you speak to me like that, Ralph.'
'Prop me up: if I lie so low I shall get bad again. If you had a touch of
this asthma you'd know what it is to lie alone for hours.'
'For hours, Ralph?' Kate repeated, and she looked at the clock and saw that
she had not been asleep for more than half an hour. Without contradicting
him--for of what use would that be, only to make matters worse?--she
arranged the pillows and settled the blankets about him, and thinking it
would be advisable to say something, she congratulated him on seeming so
much better.
'Better! If I'm better, it's no thanks to you,' he said. 'You must have
been mad to leave the window open so long.'
'You wanted it open; you know very well that when you're very bad like that
you must have change of air. The room was so close.'
'Yes, but that is no reason for leaving it open half an hour.'
'I offered to shut it, and you wouldn't let me.'
'I dare say you're sick of nursing me, and would like to get rid of me. The
window wasn't a bad dodge.'
Kate remained silent, being too indignant for the moment to think of
replying; but it was evident from her manner that she would not be able to
contain herself much longer. He had hurt her to the quick, and her brown
eyes swam with tears. His head lay back upon the built-up pillows, he fumed
slowly, trying to find new matter for reproach, and breath wherewith to
explain it. At last he thought of the cigarettes.
'Even supposing that you did not remember how long you left the window
open, I cannot understand how you forgot to send for the cigarettes. You
know well enough that smoking is the only thing that relieves me when I'm
in this state. I think it was most unfeeling--yes, most unfeeling!' Having
said so much, he leaned forward to get breath, and coughed.
'You'd better lie still, Ralph; you'll only make yourself bad again. Now
that you feel a little easier you should try to go to sleep.'
So far she got without betraying any emotion, but as she continued to
advise him her voice began to tremble, her presence of mind to forsake her,
and she burst into a flood of tears.
'I don't know how you can treat me as you do,' she said, sobbing
hysterically. 'I do everything--I give up my night's rest to you, I work
hard all day for you, and in return I only receive hard words. Oh, it's no
use,' she said; 'I can bear it no longer; you'll have to get someone else
to mind you.'
This outburst of passion came suddenly upon Mr. Ede, and for some time he
was at a loss how to proceed. At last, feeling a little sorry, he resolved
to make it up, and putting out his hand to her, he said:
'Now, don't cry, Kate; perhaps I was wrong in speaking so crossly. I didn't
mean all I said--it's this horrid asthma.'
'Oh, I can bear anything but to be told I neglect you--and when I stop up
watching you three nights running----'
These little quarrels were of constant occurrence. Irritable by nature, and
rendered doubly so by the character of his complaint, the invalid at times
found it impossible to restrain his ill-humour; but he was not entirely
bad; he inherited a touch of kind-heartedness from his mother, and being
now moved by Kate's tears, he said:
'That's quite true, and I'm sorry for what I said; you are a good little
nurse. I won't scold you again. Make it up.'
Kate found it hard to forget merely because Ralph desired it, and for some
time she refused to listen to his expostulations, and walked about the room
crying, but her anger could not long resist the dead weight of sleep that
was oppressing her, and eventually she came and sat down in her own place
by him. The next step to reconciliation was more easy. Kate was not
vindictive, although quicktempered, and at last, amid some hysterical
sobbing, peace was restored. Ralph began to speak of his asthma again,
telling how he had fancied he was going to die, and when she expressed her
fear and regret he hastened to assure her that no one ever died of asthma,
that a man might live fifty, sixty, or seventy years, suffering all the
while from the complaint; and he rambled on until words and ideas together
failed him, and he fell asleep. With a sigh of relief Kate rose to her
feet, and seeing that he was settled for the night, she turned to leave
him, and passed into her room with a slow and dragging movement; but the
place had a look so cold and unrestful that it pierced through even her
sense of weariness, and she stood urging her tired brains to think of what
she should do. At last, remembering that she could get a pillow from the
room they reserved for letting, she turned to go.
Facing their room, and only divided by the very narrowest of passages, was
the stranger's apartment.
Both doors were approached by a couple of steps, which so reduced the space
that were two people to meet on the landing, one would have to give way to
the other. Mr. and Mrs. Ede found this proximity to their lodger, when they
had one, somewhat inconvenient, but, as he said, 'One doesn't get ten
shillings a week for nothing.'
Kate lingered a moment on the threshold, and then, with the hand in which
she held the novel she had been reading, she picked up her skirt and
stepped across the way.