"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."