Barbara ordered oysters, a fish that familiarity with its empty shell had made me curious concerning. Truly no spot on the globe is so rich in oyster shells as the East End of London. A stranger might be led to the impression (erroneous) that the customary lunch of the East End labourer consists of oysters. How they collect there in such quantities is a mystery, though Washburn, to whom I once presented the problem, found no difficulty in solving it to his own satisfaction:
"To the rich man the oyster; to the poor man the shell; thus are the Creator's gifts divided among all His creatures; none being sent empty away." For drink the others had stout and I had ginger beer. The waiter, who called me "Sir," advised against this mixture; but among us all the dominating sentiment by this time was that nothing really mattered very much. Afterwards my father called for a cigar and boldly lighted it, though my mother looked anxious; and fortunately perhaps it would not draw. And then it came out that he himself had once written a play.
"You never told me of that," complained my mother.
"It was a long while ago," replied my father; "nothing came of it."
"It might have been a success," said my mother; "you always had a gift for writing."
"I must look it over again," said my father; "I had quite forgotten it. I have an impression it wasn't at all bad."
"It can be of much help," said my mother, "a good play. It makes one think."
We put Barbara into a cab and rode home ourselves inside a 'bus. My mother was tired, so my father slipped his arm round her, telling her to lean against him, and soon she fell asleep with her head upon his shoulder. A coarse-looking wench sat opposite, her man's arm round her likewise, and she also fell asleep, her powdered face against his coat.
"They can do with a bit of nursing, can't they?" said the man with a grin to the conductor.
"Ah, they're just kids," agreed the conductor, sympathetically, "that's what they are, all of 'em, just kids."
So the day ended. But oh, the emptiness of the morrow! Life without a crime, without a single noble sentiment to brighten it!--no comic uncles, no creamy angels! Oh, the barrenness and dreariness of life!
Even my mother at moments was quite irritable.
We were much together again, my father and I, about this time. Often, making my way from school into the City, I would walk home with him, he leaning on each occasion a little heavier upon my arm. To this day I can always meet and walk with him down the Commercial Road. And on Saturday afternoons, crossing the river to Greenwich, we would climb the hill and sit there talking, or sometimes merely thinking together, watching the dim vast city so strangely still and silent at our feet.
At first I did not grasp the fact that he was dying. The "year to two" of life that Washburn had allowed to him had somehow become converted in my mind to vague years, a fate with no immediate meaning; the meanwhile he himself appeared to grow from day to day in buoyancy.
How could I know it was his great heart rising to his need.
The comprehension came to me suddenly. It was one afternoon in early spring. I was on my way to the City to meet him. The Holborn Viaduct was then in building, and the traffic round about was in consequence always much disorganised. The 'bus on which I was riding became entangled in a block at the corner of Snow Hill, and for ten minutes we had been merely crawling, one joint of a long, sinuous serpent moving by short, painful jerks. It came to me while I was sitting there with a sharp spasm of physical pain. I jumped from the 'bus and began to run, and the terror and the hurt of it grew with every step.
I ran as if I feared he might be dead before I could reach the office.
