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He recommended the nuts, and awaited my verdict so anxiously while I ate one that I was about to speak graciously, when I again saw his eyes drag him to the window.
‘William,’ I said, my patience giving way at last, ‘I dislike being waited on by a melancholy waiter.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, trying to smile, and then broke out passionately, ‘For God’s sake, sir, tell me, have you seen a little girl looking in at the club windows?’
He had been a good waiter once, and his distracted visage was spoiling my dinner.
‘There,’ I said, pointing to the girl, and no doubt would have added that he must bring me coffee immediately, had he continued to listen. But already he was beckoning to the child. I have not the least interest in her (indeed, it had never struck me that waiters had private affairs, and I still think it a pity that they should have); but as I happened to be looking out at the window I could not avoid seeing what occurred. As soon as the girl saw William she ran into the street, regardless of vehicles, and nodded three times to him. Then she disappeared.
I have said that she was quite a common child, without attraction of any sort, and yet it was amazing the difference she made in William. He gasped relief, like one who had broken through the anxiety that checks breathing, and into his face there came a silly laugh of happiness. I had dined well, on the whole, so I said:
‘I am glad to see you cheerful again, William.’
I meant that I approved his cheerfulness because it helped my digestion, but he must needs think I was sympathising with him.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he answered. ‘Oh, sir! when she nodded and I saw it was all right I could have gone down on my knees to God.’
I was as much horrified as if he had dropped a plate on my toes. Even William, disgracefully emotional as he was at the moment, flung out his arms to recall the shameful words.
‘Coffee, William!’ I said, sharply.
I sipped my coffee indignantly, for it was plain to me that William had something on his mind.
‘You are not vexed with me, sir?’ he had the hardihood to whisper.
‘It was a liberty,’ I said.
‘I know, sir; but I was beside myself.’
‘That was a liberty also.’
He hesitated, and then blurted out:
‘It is my wife, sir. She—’
I stopped him with my hand. William, whom I had favoured in so many ways, was a married man! I might have guessed as much years before had I ever reflected about waiters, for I knew vaguely that his class did this sort of thing. His confession was distasteful to me, and I said warningly:
‘Remember where you are, William.’
‘Yes, sir; but you see, she is so delicate—’
‘Delicate! I forbid your speaking to me on unpleasant topics.’
‘Yes, sir; begging your pardon.’
It was characteristic of William to beg my pardon and withdraw his wife, like some unsuccessful dish, as if its taste would not remain in the mouth. I shall be chided for questioning him further about his wife, but, though doubtless an unusual step, it was only bad form superficially, for my motive was irreproachable. I inquired for his wife, not because I was interested in her welfare, but in the hope of allaying my irritation. So I am entitled to invite the wayfarer who has bespattered me with mud to scrape it off.
I desired to be told by William that the girl’s signals meant his wife’s recovery to health. He should have seen that such was my wish and answered accordingly. But, with the brutal inconsiderateness of his class, he said:
‘She has had a good day; but the doctor, he – the doctor is afeard she is dying.’
Already I repented my questions. William and his wife seemed in league against me, when they might so easily have chosen some other member.
‘Pooh! the doctor,’ I said.
‘Yes, sir,’ he answered.
‘Have you been married long, William?’
‘Eight years, sir. Eight years ago she was – I–I mind her when… and now the doctor says—’
The fellow gaped at me. ‘More coffee, sir?’ he asked.
‘What is her ailment?’
‘She was always one of the delicate kind, but full of spirit, and – and you see, she has had a baby lately—’
‘William!’
‘And she – I – the doctor is afeard she’s not picking up.’
‘I feel sure she will pick up.’
‘Yes, sir?’
It must have been the wine I had drunk that made me tell him:
‘I was once married, William. My wife – it was just such a case as yours.’
‘She did not get better sir?’
‘No.’
After a pause he said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ meaning for the sympathy that made me tell him that. But it must have been the wine.
‘That little girl comes here with a message from your wife?’
‘Yes; if she nods three times it means my wife is a little better.’
‘She nodded thrice to-day.’
‘But she is told to do that to relieve me, and maybe those nods don’t tell the truth.’
‘Is she your girl?’
‘No; we have none but the baby. She is a neighbour’s; she comes twice a day.’
‘It is heartless of her parents not to send her every hour.’
‘But she is six years old,’ he said, ‘and has a house and two sisters to look after in the daytime, and a dinner to cook. Gentlefolk don’t understand.’
‘I suppose you live in some low part, William.’
‘Off Drury Lane,’ he answered, flushing; ‘but – but it isn’t low. You see, we were never used to anything better, and I mind when I let her see the house before we were married, she – she a sort of cried because she was so proud of it. That was eight years ago, and now – she’s afeard she’ll die when I’m away at my work.’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘Never; she always says she is feeling a little stronger.’
‘Then how can you know she is afraid of that?’
‘I don’t know how I know, sir; but when I am leaving the house in the morning I look at her from the door, and she looks at me, and then I–I know.’
‘A green chartreuse, William!’
I tried to forget William’s vulgar story in billiards, but he had spoiled my game. My opponent, to whom I can give twenty, ran out when I was sixty-seven, and I put aside my cue pettishly. That in itself was bad form, but what would they have thought had they known that a waiter’s impertinence caused it! I grew angrier with William as the night wore on, and next day I punished him by giving my orders through another waiter.
As I had my window-seat, I could not but see that the girl was late again. Somehow I dawdled over my coffee. I had an evening paper before me, but there was so little in it that my eyes found more of interest in the street. It did not matter to me whether William’s wife died, but when that girl had promised to come, why did she not come? These lower classes only give their word to break it. The coffee was undrinkable.
At last I saw her. William was at another window, pretending to do something with the curtains. I stood up, pressing closer to the window. The coffee had been so bad that I felt shaky. She nodded three times, and smiled.
‘She is a little better,’ William whispered to me, almost gaily.
‘Whom are you speaking of?’ I asked, coldly, and immediately retired to the billiard-room, where I played a capital game. The coffee was much better there than in the dining-room.
Several days passed, and I took care to show William that I had forgotten his maunderings. I chanced to see the little girl (though I never looked for her) every evening, and she always nodded three times, save once, when she shook her head, and then William’s face grew white as a napkin. I remember this incident because that night I could not get into a pocket. So badly did I play that the thought of it kept me awake in bed, and that, again, made me wonder how William’s wife was. Next day I went to the club early (which was not my custom) to see the new books. Being in the club at any rate, I looked into the dining-room to ask William if I had left my gloves there, and the sight of him reminded me of his wife; so I asked for her. He shook his head mournfully, and I went off in a rage.
So accustomed am I to the club that when I dine elsewhere I feel uncomfortable next morning, as if I had missed a dinner. William knew this; yet here he was, hounding me out of the club! That evening I dined (as the saying is) at a restaurant, where no sauce was served with the asparagus. Furthermore, as if that were not triumph enough for William, his doleful face came between me and every dish, and I seemed to see his wife dying to annoy me.
I dined next day at the club for self-preservation, taking, however, a table in the middle of the room, and engaging a waiter who had once nearly poisoned me by not interfering when I put two lumps of sugar into my coffee instead of one, which is my allowance. But no William came to me to acknowledge his humiliation, and by-and-by I became aware that he was not in the room. Suddenly the thought struck me that his wife must be dead, and I – it was the worst cooked and the worst served dinner I ever had in the club.
I tried the smoking-room. Usually the talk there is entertaining, but on that occasion it was so frivolous that I did not remain five minutes. In the card-room a member told me excitedly that a policeman had spoken rudely to him; and my strange comment was:
‘After all, it is a small matter.’
In the library, where I had not been for years, I found two members asleep, and, to my surprise, William on a ladder dusting books.
‘You have not heard, sir?’ he said, in answer to my raised eyebrows. Descending the ladder, he whispered tragically: ‘It was last evening, sir. I–I lost my head, and I – swore at a member.’
I stepped back from William, and glanced apprehensively at the two members. They still slept.
‘I hardly knew,’ William went on, ‘what I was doing all day yesterday, for I had left my wife so weakly that—’
I stamped my foot.
‘I beg your pardon for speaking of her,’ he had the grace to say, ‘but I couldn’t help slipping up to the window often yesterday to look for Jenny, and when she did come, and I saw she was crying, it – it sort of confused me, and I didn’t know right, sir, what I was doing. I hit against a member, Mr. Myddleton Finch, and he – he jumped and swore at me. Well, sir, I had just touched him after all, and I was so miserable, it a kind of stung me to be treated like – like that, and me a man as well as him; and I lost my senses, and – and I swore back.’
William’s shamed head sank on his chest, but I even let pass his insolence in likening himself to a member of the club, so afraid was I of the sleepers waking and detecting me in talk with a waiter.
‘For the love of God,’ William cried, with coarse emotion, ‘don’t let them dismiss me!’
‘Speak lower!’ I said. ‘Who sent you here?’
‘I was turned out of the dining-room at once, and told to attend to the library until they had decided what to do with me. Oh, sir, I’ll lose my place!’
He was blubbering, as if a change of waiters was a matter of importance.
‘This is very bad, William,’ I said. ‘I fear I can do nothing for you.’
‘Have mercy on a distracted man!’ he entreated. ‘I’ll go on my knees to Mr. Myddleton Finch.’
How could I but despise a fellow who would be thus abject for a pound a week?
‘I dare not tell her,’ he continued, ‘that I have lost my place. She would just fall back and die.’
‘I forbade your speaking of your wife,’ I said, sharply, ‘unless you can speak pleasantly of her.’
‘But she may be worse now, sir, and I cannot even see Jenny from here. The library windows look to the back.’
‘If she dies,’ I said, ‘it will be a warning to you to marry a stronger woman next time.’
Now everyone knows that there is little real affection among the lower orders. As soon as they have lost one mate they take another. Yet William, forgetting our relative positions, drew himself up and raised his fist, and if I had not stepped back I swear he would have struck me.
The highly improper words William used I will omit, out of consideration for him. Even while he was apologising for them I retired to the smoking-room, where I found the cigarettes so badly rolled that they would not keep alight. After a little I remembered that I wanted to see Myddleton Finch about an improved saddle of which a friend of his has the patent. He was in the newsroom, and, having questioned him about the saddle, I said:
‘By the way, what is this story about your swearing at one of the waiters?’
‘You mean about his swearing at me,’ Myddleton Finch replied, reddening.
‘I am glad that was it,’ I said; ‘for I could not believe you guilty of such bad form.’
‘If I did swear—’ he was beginning, but I went on:
‘The version which has reached me was that you swore at him, and he repeated the word. I heard he was to be dismissed and you reprimanded.’
‘Who told you that?’ asked Myddleton Finch, who is a timid man.
‘I forget; it is club talk,’ I replied, lightly. ‘But of course the committee will take your word. The waiter, whichever one he is, richly deserves his dismissal for insulting you without provocation.’
Then our talk returned to the saddle, but Myddleton Finch was abstracted, and presently he said:
‘Do you know, I fancy I was wrong in thinking that the waiter swore at me, and I’ll withdraw my charge to-morrow.’
Myddleton Finch then left me, and, sitting alone, I realised that I had been doing William a service. To some slight extent I may have intentionally helped him to retain his place in the club, and I now see the reason, which was that he alone knows precisely to what extent I like my claret[49 - claret – famous Bordeaux wine made since Roman times in the region around the city of Bordeaux in France; the word claret is not used in modern French.] heated.
For a mere second I remembered William’s remark that he should not be able to see the girl Jenny from the library windows. Then this recollection drove from my head that I had only dined in the sense that my dinner-bill was paid. Returning to the dining-room, I happened to take my chair at the window, and while I was eating a deviled kidney I saw in the street the girl whose nods had such an absurd effect on William.
The children of the poor are as thoughtless as their parents, and this Jenny did not sign to the windows in the hope that William might see her, though she could not see him. Her face, which was disgracefully dirty, bore doubt and dismay on it, but whether she brought good news it would not tell. Somehow I had expected her to signal when she saw me, and, though her message could not interest me, I was in the mood in which one is irritated at that not taking place which he is awaiting. Ultimately she seemed to be making up her mind to go away.
