“Very well.”
She went to the tap and ran the water hard, filled a tumbler and, masking her emotion, drank it.
“I must go round the ward now.”
“Very well,” he said again.
He went away. He went down the stairs and out of the hospital. At the end of John Street he jumped on to a bus going towards Battersea Bridge and in the bus his thoughts ran deeply. No matter what Jenny had done to him or to herself he was glad that she had come through. He could never dissever himself completely from Jenny, she was like a light shadow which had always lain across his heart. Through all these years of her absence she had still lived with him dimly, he had never forgotten her, and now that he had found her and everything was dead between them his curious sense of being bound and obligated to her persisted. He saw, perfectly, that Jenny was cheap and common and vulgar. He knew that she had been on the streets. His attitude should normally have been one of horror and disgust. But, no, he could not. Strange. All that was best in Jenny presented itself to him, he remembered her moments of unselfishness, her sudden kind impulses, her generosity with money, especially he remembered the honeymoon at Cullercoats and how Jenny had insisted that he take the money to buy himself a suit.
He descended from the bus and walked along Blount Street and into his room. The house was very quiet. He sat down by the window and stared at the tree-tops of the park which showed above the opposite roofs, at the sky which showed beyond the tree-tops. The silence of the room sank into him, the tick of the clock took on a slow and measured rhythm, it was like the tramp of marching feet, of men marching slowly forward.
He straightened himself unconsciously and his eye kindled towards the distant sky. He did not feel himself defeated now. The old stubborn impulse to fight and fight again was resurrected in his soul. Defeat was only contemptible when it brought submission in its train. He would abandon nothing. He still had his faith and the faith of the men behind him. The future remained to him. Hope came back to him with a great rush.
Rising abruptly, he went over to the table and wrote three letters. He wrote to Nugent, to Heddon and to Wilson his agent in Sleescale. The letter to Wilson was important. He assured Wilson he would be in Sleescale on the next day but one to address the meeting of the local divisional executive. There was a vigorous optimism in the letter. He felt it himself as he read the letter and he was pleased. These last few days, while the approach of Jenny’s operation had banished all other thoughts from his head, the political situation had rapidly approached a head. In August, as he had predicted, forces in finance and politics had forced the vacillating Government out of office. The previous week, on October 6th, the temporary coalition had voluntarily dissolved. Nomination day for the new election was on the 16th October. David’s lips came together firmly. He would fight that election as never before. The proposed National policy he regarded as a determined attack upon the worker’s standard of living, instituted to meet a situation caused by the great banking interests. Drastic cuts in unemployment benefit were justified under the grotesque phrase “equality of sacrifice.” Sacrifices by the workers were intended to be certain, sacrifices by other sections of the community less so. Meanwhile four thousand millions of British capital were invested abroad. Labour was faced with the greatest crisis in its history. And it did not help Labour that certain of her leaders had thrown in their lot with the Coalition.
Half-past six. A glance at the clock showed David it was later than he had imagined. He made himself a cup of cocoa and drank it slowly, reading the evening paper which Mrs. Tucker had just brought in. The paper was full of garbled propaganda. Keep Industry safe from Nationalisation. Bolshevism gone mad. The Nightmare of Labour Control — these phrases struck his eye. There was a cartoon indicating a valiant John Bull in the act of stamping on a loathsome viper. The viper was plainly labelled: Socialism. Several of Bebbington’s choicer sayings were prominently reported. Bebbington was now a hero in the National Cause. The day before he had declared: “Peace in Industry is threatened by doctrines of class warfare. We are safeguarding the worker from himself!”
David smiled grimly and let the paper fall upon the table. When he got back to Sleescale he would have something to say upon that same point. Something a little different perhaps.
By now it was after seven o’clock and he rose, washed his face and hands, took his hat and went out. The strange lightness persisted within him and was heightened by the beauty of the evening. As he crossed Battersea Bridge the sky was red and gold and the river held the coloured brightness of the sky. He reached the hospital in a mood very different from his despondency of the afternoon. Everything was easy if one had courage.
At the top of the stairs he ran straight into Hilda. She had just made her evening visit and was standing with Sister Clegg in the vestibule talking for a moment before she went away. He stopped.
“Is it all right for me to go in?” he asked.
“Yes, it is quite all right,” Hilda said. She was more composed than she had been in the afternoon. Perhaps, like him, she had reasoned herself into this composure. Her manner was remote and formal, but it was above everything composed. “I think you will find her extremely comfortable,” she added. “The anæsthetic has not upset her; she has come through it all remarkably well.”
He could find nothing to say. He was conscious of them both studying him. Sister Clegg in particular seemed always to have a feminine unconquerable curiosity towards him.
“I told her you were coming,” Hilda said calmly. “She seemed very pleased.”
Sister Clegg looked at Hilda and smiled her cold smile. Aside, she said:
“She actually asked me if her hair was all right.”
David flushed slightly. There was something inhuman in Sister Clegg’s frigid exposure of Jenny’s vanity. A quick reply rose to his lips. But he did not make that reply. As he raised his eyes to Sister Clegg a young nurse rushed out of the ward. She was a junior nurse or she would not have rushed like that. Her face was flour white. She looked frightened. When she saw Sister Clegg she gave a little gasp of relief.
“Come, Sister,” she said. “Come!”
Sister Clegg did not ask any question. She knew what that look meant on a junior nurse’s face. It meant an emergency. She turned without a word and walked back into the ward. Hilda stood for a moment; then she too turned and walked into the ward.
David remained alone in the vestibule. The incident had happened so suddenly it left him at a loss. He did not know whether he ought to pass through the ward if there was some trouble in the ward. But before he decided Hilda was back again. Hilda was back with an almost unbelievable urgency.
“Go into the waiting-room,” Hilda said.
He stared at Hilda. Two nurses came out of the ward and walked rapidly towards the operating theatre; they walked abreast, vaguely unreal, like the advance of a forthcoming procession. Then the lights of the theatre clicked on and the frosted glass doors of the theatre showed bright and white like an illumined cinema screen.
“Go into the waiting-room,” Hilda repeated. The urgency was in her voice now, in her eyes, her harsh commanding face. There was nothing else to do. He obeyed; he went into the waiting-room. The door closed behind him and he heard the quick sound of Hilda’s steps.