Chapter 10

The shopwoman raised her eyes, sighed, and inquired sympathetically if this was the young lady's first confinement.

Mrs. Saunders nodded and sighed, and then the shopwoman asked Mrs. Saunders if she required any baby clothes. Mrs. Saunders said she had all she required. The parcel was made up, and they were preparing to leave, when Esther said--

"I may as well buy the material and make another set--it will give me something to do in the afternoons. I think I should like to make them."

"We have some first-rate longcloth at sixpence-half-penny a yard."

"You might take three yards, Esther; if anything should happen to yer bairn it will always come in useful. And you had better take three yards of flannel. How much is yer flannel?"

"We have some excellent flannel," said the woman, lifting down a long, heavy package in dull yellow paper; "this is ten-pence a yard. You will want a finer longcloth for the little shirts."

And every afternoon Esther sat in the parlour by the window, seeing, when she raised her eyes from the sewing, the low brick street full of children, and hearing the working women calling from the open doors or windows; and as she worked at the baby clothes, never perhaps to be worn, her heart sank at the long prospect that awaited her, the end of which she could not see, for it seemed to reach to the very end of her life. In these hours she realised in some measure the duties that life held in store, and it seemed to her that they exceeded her strength. Never would she be able to bring him up--he would have no one to look to but her. She never imagined other than that her child would be a boy. The task was clearly more than she could perform, and in despair she thought it would be better for it to die. What would happen if she remained out of a situation? Her father would not have her at home, that she knew well enough. What should she do, and the life of another depending on her? She would never see William again--that was certain. He had married a lady, and, were they to meet, he would not look at her. Her temper grew hot, and the memory of the injustice of which she had been a victim pressed upon her. But when vain anger passed away she thought of her baby, anticipating the joy she would experience when he held out tiny hands to her, and that, too, which she would feel when he laid an innocent cheek to hers; and her dream persisting, she saw him learning a trade, going to work in the morning and coming back to her in the evening, proud in the accomplishment of something done, of good money honestly earned.

She thought a great deal, too, of her poor mother, who was looking strangely weak and poorly, and whose condition was rendered worse by her nervous fears that she would not get through this confinement. For the doctor had told Mrs. Saunders that the next time it might go hard with her; and in this house, her husband growing more reckless and drunken, it was altogether a bad look-out, and she might die for want of a little nourishment or a little care. Unfortunately they would both be down at the same time, and it was almost impossible that Esther should be well in time to look after her mother. That brute! It was wrong to think of her father so, but he seemed to be without mercy for any of them. He had come in yesterday half-boozed, having kept back part of his money--he had come in tramping and hiccuping.

"Now, then, old girl, out with it! I must have a few halfpence; my chaps is waiting for me, and I can't be looking down their mouths with nothing in my pockets."

"I only have a few halfpence to get the children a bit of dinner; if I give them to you they'll have nothing to eat."

"Oh, the children can eat anything; I want beer. If yer 'aven't money, make it."

Mrs. Saunders said that if he had any spare clothes she would take them round the corner. He only answered--

"Well, if I 'aven't a spare waistcoat left just take some of yer own things. I tell yer I want beer, and I mean to have some."

Then, with his fist raised, he came at his poor wife, ordering her to take one of the sheets from the bed and "make money," and would have struck her if Esther had not come between them and, with her hand in her pocket, said, "Be quiet, father; I'll give you the money you want."

She had done the same before, and, if needs be, she would do so again. She could not see her mother struck, perhaps killed by that brute; her first duty was to save her mother, but these constant demands on her little savings filled her with terror. She would want every penny; the ten shillings he had already had from her might be the very sum required to put her on her feet again, and send her in search of a situation where she would be able to earn money for the boy. But if this extortion continued she did not know what she would do, and that night she prayed that God might not delay the birth of her child.

XV

"I wish, mother, you was going to the hospital with me; it would save a lot of expense and you'd be better cared for."

"I'd like to be with you, dearie, but I can't leave my 'ome, all these young children about and no one to give an order. I must stop where I am. But I've been intending to tell you--it is time that you was thinking about yer letter."

"What letter, mother?"

"They don't take you without a letter from one of the subscribers. If I was you, now that the weather is fine and you have strength for the walk, I'd go up to Queen Charlotte's. It is up the Edgware Road way, I think. What do you think about to-morrow?"

"To-morrow's Sunday."

"That makes no matter, them horspitals is open."

"I'll go to-morrow when we have washed up."

On Friday Esther had had to give her father more money for drink. She gave him two shillings, and that made a sovereign that he had had from her. On Saturday night he had been brought home helplessly drunk long after midnight, and next morning one of the girls had to fetch him a drop of something to pull him together. He had lain in bed until dinner-time, swearing he would brain anyone who made the least noise. Even the Sunday dinner, a nice beef-steak pudding, hardly tempted him, and he left the table saying that if he could find Tom Carter they would take a penny boat and go for a blow on the river. The whole family waited for his departure. But he lingered, talked inconsequently, and several times Mrs. Saunders and the children gave up hope. Esther sat without a word. He called her a sulky brute, and, snatching up his hat, left the house. The moment he was gone the children began to chatter like birds. Esther put on her hat and jacket.

"I'm going, mother."

"Well, take care of yourself. Good luck to you."

Esther smiled sadly. But the beautiful weather melted on her lips, her lungs swelled with the warm air, and she noticed the sparrow that flew across the cab rank, and saw the black dot pass down a mews and disappear under the eaves. It was a warm day in the middle of April, a mist of green had begun in the branches of the elms of the Green Park; and in Park Lane, in all the balconies and gardens, wherever nature could find roothold, a spray of gentle green met the eye. There was music, too, in the air, the sound of fifes and drums, and all along the roadway as far as she could see the rapid movement of assembling crowds. A procession with banners was turning the corner of the Edgware Road, and the policeman had stopped the traffic to allow it to pass. The principal banner blew out blue and gold in the wind, and the men that bore the poles walked with strained backs under the weight; the music changed, opinions about the objects of the demonstration were exchanged, and it was some time before Esther could gain the policeman's attention. At last the conductor rang his bell, the omnibus started, and gathering courage she asked the way. It seemed to her that every one was noticing her, and fearing to be overheard she spoke so low that the policeman understood her to say Charlotte Street. At that moment an omnibus drew up close beside them.

"Charlotte Street, Charlotte Street," said the policeman, "there's Charlotte Street, Bloomsbury." Before Esther could answer he had turned to the conductor. "You don't know any Charlotte Street about here, do you?"

"No, I don't. But can't yer see that it ain't no Charlotte Street she wants, but Queen Charlotte's Hospital? And ye'd better lose no time in directing her."

A roar of coarse laughter greeted this pleasantry, and burning with shame she hurried down the Edgware Road. But she had not gone far before she had to ask again, and she scanned the passers-by seeking some respectable woman, or in default an innocent child.

She came at last to an ugly desert place. There was the hospital, square, forbidding; and opposite a tall, lean building with long grey columns. Esther rang, and the great door, some fifteen feet high, was opened by a small boy.

"I want to see the secretary."

"Will you come this way?"

She was shown into a waiting-room, and while waiting she looked at the religious prints on the walls. A lad of fifteen or sixteen came in. He said--

"You want to see the secretary?"

"Yes."

"But I'm afraid you can't see him; he's out."

"I have come a long way; is there no one else I can see?"

"Yes, you can see me--I'm his clerk. Have you come to be confined?"

Esther answered that she had.

"But," said the boy, "you are not in labour; we never take anyone in before."

"I do not expect to be confined for another month. I came to make arrangements."

"You've got a letter?"

"No."

"Then you must get a letter from one of the subscribers."

"But I do not know any."

"You can have a book of their names and addresses."

"But I know no one."

"You needn't know them. You can go and call. Take those that live nearest--that's the way it is done."

"Then will you give me the book?"

"I'll go and get one."

The boy returned a moment after with a small book, for which he demanded a shilling. Since she had come to London her hand had never been out of her pocket. She had her money with her; she did not dare leave it at home on account of her father. The clerk looked out the addresses for her and she tried to remember them--two were in Cumberland Place, another was in Bryanstone Square. In Cumberland Place she was received by an elderly lady who said she did not wish to judge anyone, but it was her invariable practice to give letters only to married women. There was a delicate smell of perfume in the room; the lady stirred the fire and lay back in her armchair. Once or twice Esther tried to withdraw, but the lady, although unswervingly faithful to her principles, seemed not indifferent to Esther's story, and asked her many questions.

"I don't see what interest all that can be to you, as you ain't going to give me a letter," Esther answered.

The next house she called at the lady was not at home, but she was expected back presently, and the maid servant asked her to take a seat in the hall. But when Esther refused information about her troubles she was called a stuck-up thing who deserved all she got, and was told there was no use her waiting. At the next place she was received by a footman who insisted on her communicating her business to him. Then he said he would see if his master was in. He wasn't in; he must have just gone out. The best time to find him was before half-past ten in the morning.

"He'll be sure to do all he can for you--he always do for the good-looking ones. How did it all happen?"

"What business is that of yours? I don't ask your business."

"Well, you needn't turn that rusty."

At that moment the master entered. He asked Esther to come into his study. He was a tall, youngish-looking man of three or four-and-thirty, with bright eyes and hair, and there was in his voice and manner a kindness that impressed Esther. She wished, however, that she had seen his mother instead of him, for she was more than ever ashamed of her condition. He seemed genuinely sorry for her, and regretted that he had given all his tickets away. Then a thought struck him, and he wrote a letter to one of his friends, a banker in Lincoln's Inn Fields. This gentleman, he said, was a large subscriber to the hospital, and would certainly give her the letter she required. He hoped that Esther would get through her trouble all right.

The visit brought a little comfort into the girl's heart; and thinking of his kind eyes she walked slowly, inquiring out her way until she got back to the Marble Arch, and stood looking down the long Bayswater Road. The lamps were beginning in the light, and the tall houses towered above the sunset. Esther watched the spectral city, and some sensation of the poetry of the hour must have stolen into her heart, for she turned into the Park, choosing to walk there. Upon its dim green grey the scattered crowds were like strips of black tape. Here and there by the railings the tape had been wound up in a black ball, and the peg was some democratic orator, promising poor human nature unconditional deliverance from evil. Further on were heard sounds from a harmonium, and hymns were being sung, and in each doubting face there was something of the perplexing, haunting look which the city wore.

A chill wind was blowing. Winter had returned with the night, but the instinct of spring continued in the branches. The deep, sweet scent of the hyacinth floated along the railings, and the lovers that sat with their arms about each other on every seat were of Esther's own class. She would have liked to have called them round her and told them her miserable story, so that they might profit by her experience.

XVI

No more than three weeks now remained between her and the dreaded day. She had hoped to spend them with her mother, who was timorous and desponding, and stood in need of consolation. But this was not to be; her father's drunkenness continued, and daily he became more extortionate in his demands for money. Esther had not six pounds left, and she felt that she must leave. It had come to this, that she doubted if she were to stay on that the clothes on her back might not be taken from her. Mrs. Saunders was of the same opinion, and she urged Esther to go. But scruples restrained her.

"I can't bring myself to leave you, mother; something tells me I should stay with you. It is dreadful to be parted from you. I wish you was coming to the hospital; you'd be far safer there than at home."

"I know that, dearie; but where's the good in talking about it? It only makes it harder to bear. You know I can't leave. It is terrible hard, as you says." Mrs. Saunders held her apron to her eyes and cried. "You have always been a good girl, never a better--my one consolation since your poor father died."

"Don't cry, mother," said Esther; "the Lord will watch over us, and we shall both pray for each other. In about a month, dear, we shall be both quite well, and you'll bless my baby, and I shall think of the time when I shall put him into your arms."

"I hope so, Esther; I hope so, but I am full of fears. I'm sore afraid that we shall never see one another again--leastways on this earth."

"Oh, mother, dear, yer mustn't talk like that; you'll break my heart, that you will."

The cab that took Esther to her lodging cost half-a-crown, and this waste of money frightened her thrifty nature, inherited through centuries of working folk. The waste, however, had ceased at last, and it was none too soon, she thought, as she sat in the room she had taken near the hospital, in a little eight-roomed house, kept by an old woman whose son was a bricklayer.

It was at the end of the week, one afternoon, as Esther was sitting alone in her room, that there came within her a great and sudden shock--life seemed to be slipping from her, and she sat for some minutes quite unable to move. She knew that her time had come, and when the pain ceased she went downstairs to consult Mrs. Jones.

"Hadn't I better go to the hospital now, Mrs. Jones?"

"Not just yet, my dear; them is but the first labour pains; plenty of time to think of the hospital; we shall see how you are in a couple of hours."

"Will it last so long as that?"

"You'll be lucky if you get it over before midnight. I have been down for longer than that."

"Do you mind my stopping in the kitchen with you? I feel frightened when I'm alone."

"No, I'll be glad of your company. I'll get you some tea presently."

"I could not touch anything. Oh, this is dreadful!" she exclaimed, and she walked to and fro holding her sides, balancing herself dolefully. Often Mrs. Jones stopped in her work about the range and said, looking at her, "I know what it is, I have been through it many a time--we all must--it is our earthly lot." About seven o'clock Esther was clinging to the table, and with pain so vivid on her face that Mrs. Jones laid aside the sausages she was cooking and approached the suffering girl.

"What! is it so bad as all that?"

"Oh," she said, "I think I'm dying, I cannot stand up; give me a chair, give me a chair!" and she sank down upon it, leaning across the table, her face and neck bathed in a cold sweat.

"John will have to get his supper himself; I'll leave these sausages on the hob, and run upstairs and put on my bonnet. The things you intend to bring with you, the baby clothes, are made up in a bundle, aren't they?"

"Yes, yes."

Little Mrs. Jones came running down; she threw a shawl over Esther, and it was astonishing what support she lent to the suffering girl, calling on her the whole time to lean on her and not to be afraid. "Now then, dear, you must keep your heart up, we have only a few yards further to go."

"You are too good, you are too kind," Esther said, and she leaned against the wall, and Mrs. Jones rang the bell.

"Keep up your spirits; to-morrow it will be all over. I will come round and see how you are."

The door opened. The porter rang the bell, and a sister came running down.

"Come, come, take my arm," she said, "and breathe hard as you are ascending the stairs. Come along, you mustn't loiter."

On the second landing a door was thrown open, and she found herself in a room full of people, eight or nine young men and women.

"What! in there? and all those people?" said Esther.

"Of course; those are the midwives and the students."

She saw that the screams she had heard in the passage came from a bed on the left-hand side. A woman lay there huddled up. In the midst of her terror Esther was taken behind a screen by the sister who had brought her upstairs and quickly undressed. She was clothed in a chemise a great deal too big for her, and a jacket which was also many sizes too large. She remembered hearing the sister say so at the time. Both windows were wide open, and as she walked across the room she noticed the basins on the floor, the lamp on the round table, and the glint of steel instruments.

The students and the nurses were behind her; she knew they were eating sweets, for she heard a young man ask the young women if they would have any more fondants. Their chatter and laughter jarred on her nerves; but at that moment her pains began again and she saw the young man whom she had seen handing the sweets approaching her bedside.

"Oh, no, not him, not him!" she cried to the nurse. "Not him, not him! he is too young! Do not let him come near me!"

They laughed loudly, and she buried her head in the pillow, overcome with pain and shame; and when she felt him by her she tried to rise from the bed.

"Let me go! take me away! Oh, you are all beasts!"

"Come, come, no nonsense!" said the nurse; "you can't have what you like; they are here to learn;" and when he had tried the pains she heard the midwife say that it wasn't necessary to send for the doctor. Another said that it would be all over in about three hours' time. "An easy confinement, I should say. The other will be more interesting...." Then they talked of the plays they had seen, and those they wished to see. A discussion arose regarding the merits of a shilling novel which every one was reading, and then Esther heard a stampede of nurses, midwives, and students in the direction of the window. A German band had come into the street.

"Is that the way to leave your patient, sister?" said the student who sat by Esther's bed, a good-looking boy with a fair, plump face. Esther looked into his clear blue, girl-like eyes, wondered, and turned away for shame.

The sister stopped her imitation of a popular comedian, and said, "Oh, she's all right; if they were all like her there'd be very little use our coming here."

"Unfortunately that's just what they are," said another student, a stout fellow with a pointed red beard, the ends of which caught the light. Esther's eyes often went to those stubble ends, and she hated him for his loud voice and jocularity. One of the midwives, a woman with a long nose and small grey eyes, seemed to mock her, and Esther hoped that this woman would not come near her. She felt that she could not bear her touch. There was something sinister in her face, and Esther was glad when her favourite, a little blond woman with wavy flaxen hair, came and asked her if she felt better. She looked a little like the young student who still sat by her bedside, and Esther wondered if they were brother and sister, and then she thought that they were sweethearts.

Soon after a bell rang, and the students went down to supper, the nurse in charge promising to warn them if any change should take place. The last pains had so thoroughly exhausted her that she had fallen into a doze. But she could hear the chatter of the nurses so clearly that she did not believe herself asleep. And in this film of sleep reality was distorted, and the unsuccessful operation which the nurses were discussing Esther understood to be a conspiracy against her life. She awoke, listened, and gradually sense of the truth returned to her. She was in the hospital.... The nurses were talking of some one who had died last week.... That poor woman in the other bed seemed to suffer dreadfully. Would she live through it? Would she herself live to see the morning? How long the time, how fearful the place! If the nurses would only stop talking.... The pains would soon begin again.... It was awful to lie listening, waiting. The windows were open, and the mocking gaiety of the street was borne in on the night wind. Then there came a trampling of feet and sound of voices in the passage--the students and nurses were coming up from supper; and at the same moment the pains began to creep up from her knees. One of the young men said that her time had not come. The woman with the sinister look that Esther dreaded, held a contrary opinion. The point was argued, and, interested in the question, the crowd came from the window and collected round the disputants. The young man expounded much medical and anatomical knowledge; the nurses listened with the usual deference of women.

Suddenly the discussion was interrupted by a scream from Esther; it seemed to her that she was being torn asunder, that life was going from her. The nurse ran to her side, a look of triumph came upon her face, and she said, "Now we shall see who's right," and forthwith ran for the doctor. He came running up the stairs; immediately silence and scientific collectedness gathered round Esther, and after a brief examination he said, in a low whisper--

"I'm afraid this will not be as easy a case as one might have imagined. I shall administer chloroform."

He placed a small wire case over her mouth and nose, and the sickly odour which she breathed from the cotton wool filled her brain with nausea; it seemed to choke her, and then life faded, and at every inhalation she expected to lose sight of the circle of faces.

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