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."