He was in the last stage of consumption.  The disease was latent in his family, Elizabeth knew:  she had known it when she belonged to him, and fondly thought that, as his wife, her incessant care might save him from it; but nothing could save him now.

“Who’s that?” said he, in his own sharp, fretful voice.

“Me, Tom.  But don’t speak.  Sit down till your cough’s over.”

Tom grasped her hand as she stood by him, but he made no further demonstration, nor used any expression of gratitude.  He seemed far too ill.  Sick people are always absorbed in the sad present; they seldom trouble themselves much about the past.  Only there was something in the way Tom clung to her hand, helplessly, imploringly, that moved the inmost heart of Elizabeth.

“I’m very bad, you see.  This cough; oh, it shakes me dreadfully; especially of nights.”

“Have you any doctor?”

“The druggist close by, or rather, the druggist’s shopman.  He’s a very kind young fellow, from our county, I fancy, for he asked me once if I wasn’t a Stowbury man; and ever since he has doctored me for nothing, and given me a shilling too, now and then, when I’ve been a’most clemmed to death in the winter.”

“Oh, Tom, why didn’t you write to me before.  Have you actually wanted food?”

“Yes, many a time.  I’ve been out of work this twelvemonth.”

“But Esther?”

“Who?” screamed Tom.

“Your wife?”

“My wife?  I’ve got none?  She spent every thing till I fell ill, and then she met a fellow with lots of money.  Curse her!”

The fury with which he spoke shook him all over, and sent him into another violent fit of coughing, out of which he revived by degrees, but in a state of such complete exhaustion that Elizabeth hazarded no more questions.  He must evidently be dealt with exactly like a child.

She made up her mind in her own silent way, as indeed she had done ever since she came into the room.

“Lie down, Tom, and keep yourself quiet for a little.  I’ll be back as soon as I can—­back with something to do you good.  You won’t object.”

“No, no; you can do any thing you like with me.  You always could.”

Elizabeth groped her way down stairs strangely calm and self-possessed.  There was need.  Tom, dying, had come to her as his sole support and consolation—­throwing himself helplessly upon her, never doubting either her will or her power to help him.  Neither must fail.  The inexplicable woman’s strength, sometimes found in the very gentlest, quietest, and apparently the weakest character, nerved her now.

She went up and down, street after street, looking for lodgings, till the evening darkened, and the Abbey towers rose grimly against the summer sky.  Then she crossed over Westminster Bridge, and in a little street on the Surrey side she found what she wanted—­a decent room, half sitting, half bedroom, with what looked like a decent landlady.  There was no time to make many inquiries; any thing was better than to leave Tom an other night where he was.