image004
An incident which occurred a few days later further destroyed its peace.
Business had taken Michael to the south side of the river, and he was returning late in the evening across one of the bridges on his way back to Bloomsbury, when his attention was arrested by the appearance of a man who stood leaning against one of the parapets and coughing violently. Michael started, and a thrill ran through him. He had so long thought of his brother as dead, that the sight of this man, who bore so striking a resemblance to him, affected him almost with terror, as though he conceived him to be a ghost.
To be sure, he had grey hair, and Frank's had been brown when Michael last saw him, and his form was pitifully bent and wasted; but still the resemblance was there, and so strong that Michael involuntarily stood still as he saw him, whilst his heart began to beat more painfully than was pleasant. The same instant the man ceased coughing; he lifted his head and saw by the light of the gas-lamp on the parapet above him the man who stood at his side. A low cry of wonder—and was it of pleasure?—escaped him. He moved a step nearer, exclaiming eagerly:
"Michael! Michael!"
"You don't mean to say it is you?" exclaimed the other, in tones which expressed no pleasure at the meeting. "You, Frank, after all these years! I thought you were dead."
"And perhaps hoped that I were," returned the other, retreating a step or two, whilst an air of hopelessness came over him again. "Well, it's no wonder. I'm not a brother you can be proud of."
Michael looked at him for a moment ere he made reply. The man appeared thin, and cold, and ill; but his was not one of the most abject-looking of the forms to be seen abroad in London. His clothes, though worn and threadbare, were decently tidy.
"You've only yourself to thank for being what you are," Michael said. "Drink and gambling and bad company bring a man to this."
"I've given up the drink, and gambling too, thank God!" said his brother. "I've been a teetotaler for more than a year, Michael."
"I'm glad to hear it," replied Michael, his tone implying that he doubted the statement. "But if that is so, how do you come to be in such low water? How do you live?"
"I can scarcely tell you how I live," returned the other. "I shouldn't live at all, if it were not for my little girl."
"Your little girl!" exclaimed Michael. "You don't mean to say that you've been so foolish as to marry?"
"I married many years ago, and I had one of the best of wives, though, God forgive me! I was often a brute to her. It was foolish of her to take me, no doubt, but I could never regret it. Whilst she lived, things were better with me; but when she died I went all wrong again. And now, when I fain would live a different life, I can't find any one willing to give me a chance."
"You could surely get work, if you exerted yourself."
"Could I? You don't know how hard it is to get work in London. And who would employ a man like me, when there are plenty of big, strong fellows to be hired? I haven't the strength to lift or carry. I'm good for very little now. I was in the Infirmary for three months. They patched me up a bit there, but I'm not much the better. If it were not for my little girl, I shouldn't be living now. She works at the match-making, and she keeps me more often than I keep her, bless her!"
A feeling of cold disgust was creeping over Michael Betts. There was no room for pity in his heart. He was conscious only of intense annoyance that such a being as this should be his brother.
"I'm sorry for you," he said loftily, "but it's your own fault. You made your bed, and you must lie upon it. I did what I could for you years ago, and ill you repaid me for what I did. Now I must wipe my hands of you. But here is a shilling for you."
He held out the coin as he spoke, but the chilled fingers of the other made no attempt to take it. The shilling fell from them to the pavement, and the ill-clad man did not pick it up.
"I don't want your money, Michael," he said hoarsely. "I could not help speaking to you when I saw you by my side; but don't think that I should ever have sought you out or asked you to do anything for me again. I know too well that I deserve nothing from you."
"That is well," said Michael coldly. "I must confess that had you come, you would not have found a welcome from me, since the last time you were at my place, you left me with good cause to regret your visit."
He turned on his heel without giving another glance at his unhappy brother.
"Michael, Michael," the weak voice called after him.
But Michael strode on and paid no heed. He did not slacken speed till he was the length of several streets from the river. Then he paused and drew a deep breath as he wiped the heat from his forehead.
"To think that he should turn up again!" he said to himself. "And I thought he was dead! But no, here he is again, and in the same deplorable plight. A pretty sort of a brother!"
And Michael knew that in his heart, he wished that his brother were dead.
"Of course, it's the same old story," he continued. "He's a sorry scamp, and always will be. It's all gammon about his becoming a teetotaler and trying to lead a better life. I don't believe a word of it. No, that won't go down with me. I only hope he'll keep away from me, as he says!"
Thinking thus, Michael arrived at his shop. It could hardly be called his home. He drew out his key, unlocked the door, and went in. He struck a match and kindled a lamp which he had placed just inside the door. Seen by its dim light the shop looked gloomy indeed. He passed through to the little room at the back. This, too, was littered with books. The fire had fallen out, and the place looked unhomelike and cheerless. Michael shivered. He became conscious of weariness and depression. He placed the lamp on the table and looked about for some means of rekindling the fire. The flame flickered feebly. Mrs. Wiggins had forgotten to replenish the oil.
As he looked about him in the dim light, Michael's eyes fell on the old leathern armchair which stood beside the fireplace. He had known that ancient piece of furniture as long as he had known anything. His mother, as her health grew feeble, had sat in it constantly, and now, as Michael glanced at it in the uncertain light, it suddenly appeared to him that he saw her form seated again in the old armchair. Most vividly, he seemed to see her sitting there with her white muslin cap resting on the dark hair which had been untouched by silver when she died, her little grey shawl upon her shoulders, and her hands busied with the socks she was perpetually knitting for her sons. Only an instant, it was ere the lamp flame leaped up, and he knew that he had been deceived by his fancy, but that instant left its impression. He sank on to a chair, shaken in body and mind.
How his mother would have grieved if she could have foreseen what Frank's future would be! Her darling son, a poverty-stricken tramp wandering about in search of a job! And he, Michael, had promised her that he would always be good to Frank. Had he kept that promise? Was he keeping it when he turned away from his brother on the bridge, telling him that he had made his bed and he must lie on it?
Michael sat for some minutes absorbed in painful thought. Then, resolutely turning his back on the old armchair which had awakened such unwelcome reflections, he began to pace to and fro the floor, for his limbs had grown benumbed by the chill of that fireless room.
"No," he said, half aloud, "I have not failed in my duty towards my brother. I have done all that could be expected of me. No one would do more. I've helped him again and again, only to be repaid by the basest ingratitude. Now, I will do no more."
IN THE GRIP OF PAIN
MICHAEL went to bed that night feeling thoroughly chilled in body and miserable in mind. Sleep would not come to him, nor could he get warm, though he put all the wraps he could find upon his bed. As he turned and tossed upon the mattress throughout the night, unable to find ease, the form of his brother as he had seen him on the bridge was ever before his eyes. What a wretched thing Frank had made of his life! It was all his own fault, for he had had a good chance when he was young. And then to think of his marrying, when he had not enough to keep himself! What improvidence!
Michael wondered what the little girl was like of whom his brother had spoken. With the thought, the image of the professor's sunny-faced, winsome little daughter rose before his mind. But it was not likely that his niece was at all like her. A girl who worked at match-making! Well, it was hard on a respectable, hard-working man to have relatives of such a description. Michael wished that he had taken another way home than the way that had led him across that bridge. He had been so much more comfortable under the persuasion that his brother was dead.
When Michael woke from the brief sleep that visited him towards dawn, it was past the hour at which he usually rose. But when he would fain have bestirred himself in haste, he found it impossible to do so. His back and limbs seemed to have grown strangely stiff, and when he tried to move, an agonising pain shot through them. He struggled against the unwelcome sensations, and did his best to persuade himself that he was suffering only from a passing cramp. But the pain was terrible. He felt as if he were held in a vice. How to get up he did not know; but he must manage to do so somehow. It was necessary that he should get downstairs to open the door for Mrs. Wiggins. Setting his teeth together and often groaning aloud with the pain, he managed at last to drag himself out of bed and to get on his clothes. It was hard work getting downstairs. He felt faint and sick with pain, when at length he reached the lower regions. It was impossible to stoop to kindle a fire. He sank into the old armchair and sat there bolt upright, afraid to move an inch, for fear of exciting fresh pain, till he heard Mrs. Wiggins' knock. Then he compelled himself to rise, and painfully dragged himself forth to the shop door, where he presented to the eyes of the charwoman such a spectacle of pain and helplessness as moved her to the utmost compassion of which she was capable.
"Dear me! Mr. Betts, you do look bad. It's the rheumatics, that's what it is. I've 'ad 'em myself. Is it your back that's so very bad? Then it's lumbago, and you'd better let me iron it."
"I'll let you do nothing of the kind!" cried the old man angrily. "Do for pity's sake keep away from me; I can't bear a touch or a jar. Make haste and light me a fire, and get me a cup of tea. That's all I want."
"You ought to be in bed, that's where you ought to be," said Mrs. Wiggins. "Just let me help you upstairs, now do, and then I'll bring you a cup of tea, all hot and nice."
"How can I go to bed?" he asked impatiently. "Who is to look after the shop if I go to bed?"
"Oh dear! That's a bad look out. Have you no one to whom you could send to come and take your place? Have you no brother now who would come to you?"
"Of course I have not!" he cried, annoyance betraying him into a quick movement, which was followed by a groan of pain. "I do wish you would attend to your business, and not ask me stupid questions."
"Stupid or not, you're not fit to stand in that shop to-day. Why, you couldn't lift a book without wincing. Ah me! It's bad enough to be lonesome when you're well, but it's sad indeed when you're ill to have no one to do a thing for you."
"Do be quiet," he cried; but Mrs. Wiggins, excited by the sight of his suffering, was not disposed to hold her tongue till she had fully relieved her mind. She began to suggest one patent remedy after another, and showed a remarkable acquaintance with all the quack medicines of the day. But Michael refused to try any of them. He had hardly ever been ill in his life, and he did not in the least know what to do with himself, or how to bear his pain.
It grew worse as the day wore on, and though Mrs. Wiggins made him a good fire, and he sat over it, he could not get warm. It was hopeless to think of attending to business. He was obliged to give in at last, and allow the shop door to be closed, whilst he was ignominiously helped up to bed by Mrs. Wiggins.
"Now you'd better let me send for a doctor," she said.
"No, indeed," he replied with energy. "I want no doctor yet. You don't suppose I can afford to send for a doctor every time I have an ache or pain?"
"Maybe not," she said, "but it seems to me you're pretty bad now."
"Folks don't die of rheumatics," he said.
"Oh, don't they?" she returned. "I've known a many cases in which they 'ave. Rheumatics is no joke. They're apt to seize on the 'eart, don't you know?"
And with this comforting reflection she left him.
As Michael lay there in pain and misery, he was reminded of a childish voice, which had said:
"I should think you would cross soon, Mr. Betts, for you are so very old."
Could it be that he was drawing near to the hour when he would have to cross that river of death?
The pain grew worse. From shivering, he passed into burning fever. Mrs. Wiggins felt very uneasy when the time came for her to go home.
"I don't like to leave you, Mr. Betts, I don't indeed," she said. "I can't think it's right for you to be all alone in this house. If you was to be took worse—"
"I shall not be worse," he said hoarsely; "the pain can't be worse than it is now, and it would not make it any better to have some one else in the house."
"But I wish you'd let me stay with you," she suggested. "Just let me go and tell my 'usband, and come back directly."
"No, no, no," he said, for he was weary of her attentions. "Take the house key with you, and lock the door on the outside, and come as early as you can in the morning. But first bring a big jug of cold water, and set it here beside the bed. I'm so thirsty, I could drink the sea dry, I believe."
"Ah, you've got fever, that's what you've got," replied Mrs. Wiggins. "Well, I suppose you must have your way."
So she did what he told her, and then went home.
But she was so impressed with the fact of his being very ill that she bestirred herself unusually early the next morning, and was at Mr. Betts' shop quite an hour before the time at which she generally appeared. She unlocked the door and let herself into the shop. Already the place seemed to have a deserted look. The dust lay thick on the books. Mrs. Wiggins went quickly up the steep staircase and knocked at the door of the attic, which was Michael's bedroom. She knocked, but there was no response to her knock. She knocked again more loudly, but Mr. Betts did not bid her enter, only she could hear his voice talking in strange, far-off tones. After a little hesitation she turned the handle and entered the room. Michael Betts lay on the bed, his face flushed with fever, his brows contracted with pain, his eyes wild and dilated. He was talking rapidly and incoherently.
"Well, Mr. Betts," she said, as she approached the bed, "and 'ow do you find yourself this mornin'?"
But he paid no heed to her words. They fell on unconscious cars. He went on talking rapidly; but she could not understand what he was saying. As she bent nearer, she could catch a few words now and then; but there seemed no connection in them.
"The river—it's cold and deep—there's a little girl on the other side—Oh, the pain—the awful, burning pain!—Oh, water—give me water—there's water in the river—I don't care if he is my brother. Give me water—water, I say. What are you telling me about the money?—It's mine—I have a perfect right to it. Oh, this pain! The water—the river."
"Lor' bless me! He's right off 'is 'ead," said Mrs. Wiggins; "'e's in a raging fever. It's no good speakin' to 'im. I must just fetch a doctor, whether 'e likes it or not."
A little later, a doctor stood beside Michael's bed. He pronounced it a severe case of rheumatic fever, made some inquiries respecting the circumstances of his patient, prescribed for him and departed, saying that he would send a nurse to look after him, since he needed good nursing more than medicine. The doctor showed his wisdom in so acting, for had Michael been left to the tender mercies of Mrs. Wiggins, well-meaning though they were, he would probably never have risen from his bed. As it was, he had a hard struggle ere the force of life within him overcame the power of disease. He was very ill, and at one time, the medical man had but faint hope of his recovery.
He was confined to his bed for weeks, and the little book-shop remained closed the while, for Michael was far too ill to give any directions as to what should be done about the business. After the fever left him, he was as weak as a baby: too weak to care about anything, so weak that every effort was painful, and he felt as if he had not the heart to struggle back to life again. Yet he shrank from the thought of death, and one of the first questions he asked his nurse, when he was able to think and speak connectedly, was if she thought he would recover.
"Yes," she said cheerfully, "you've turned the corner now. All you need is feeding up. Every day will see a change for the better now, if you're good and do as I tell you."
"I'll try," said Michael, quite meekly. "You've been very good to me, nurse."
"I should be a poor kind of nurse, if I hadn't been good to you," she replied. "It's my business to look after people when they're ill, and I have to take the greatest possible care of them, or things would go seriously wrong."
"I never had any one do as much for me as you've done," said Betts; "not since I lost my mother, I mean."
"Then you never had a wife?"
"No. I've never had time to think about getting one."
The nurse laughed.
"You're a strange man," she said; "but now eat some of this jelly."
"It is good," said Michael; "really I don't know as I ever tasted anything better."
"It's real, strong calf's-foot jelly, and it was made by a lady on purpose for you."
"That can't be," said Michael, looking at her in surprise; "there's no lady would make jelly for me. You must be making a mistake."
"Indeed I am not. You have more friends than you think. She came here and gave it into my very hands, so I must know. She said she'd heard from the doctor that you were ill, and she felt sorry for your being all alone. She said she'd done business with you, and when she saw the shop shut up, she asked about you."
"Well, I never!" said Michael. "I can't imagine who it could be."
"She said her name was Lavers."
"What?" exclaimed Michael in amazement. "What name did you say?"
"Lavers—Mrs. Lavers."
Michael gave a groan.
"What is the matter?" asked the nurse, turning to look at him; "have you the pain again?"
"No," he muttered, "not that sort of pain; but I wish she had not done it."
"Why, you ungrateful man!" exclaimed the nurse.
Michael made no reply. A hot flush of shame was dyeing his cheeks, and mounting to his forehead. The nurse observed it with some anxiety. She took his hand to feel his pulse. Was the fever about to return?
THE BURDEN MAKES ITSELF FELT
"MR. BETTS," said the nurse, three days later, as she came into the room, "that lady is downstairs, and she wants to know if you would like to see her."
"What lady?" asked Michael, though he thought he knew.
"The lady who made you the jelly—Mrs. Lavers, of course."
"Oh no," said Michael, shrinking down and drawing the bedclothes closer about him, as if he would fain hide himself; "I don't want to see her. I can't have her coming here. Tell her so, please."
"Don't you think that seems rather ungrateful, when she has been so kind to you?" asked the nurse. "Shall I say that you do not feel strong enough to see her to-day, but you hope to do so in a day or two?"
"No, no, no!" cried Michael vehemently. "Say nothing of the kind. I can't see her, I tell you. I can't and I won't, so there!"
"You're a strange man," said the nurse; and she went away, perhaps to repeat the same remark below stairs.
When she came back into the room a little later, Michael's eyes were fixed on her anxiously.
"Has she gone?" he asked.
"Yes, she has gone."
"What did she say?"
"Oh, she was sorry you would not see her, and she asked me to give you this." And the nurse held out to him a little bunch of sweet violets.
But Michael recoiled as if she were offering him something disagreeable.
"I wish she hadn't," he said.
"Well, you are ungrateful," said the nurse. "Catch me ever giving you flowers! And why you couldn't have let her come up to see you, I can't think. She would have read a chapter of the Bible to you, perhaps, and that would have done you good."
"I can read one to myself," said Michael.
"You're hardly strong enough for that yet. Have you a Bible?"
"Of course I've got a Bible," replied Michael indignantly. "What do you take me for? There is one somewhere that belonged to my mother, and there are plenty of them in the shop. Pretty old some of them are, too. The older they are, the more precious they are, you know."
"The Bible is precious anyhow," said the nurse. "It is a grand comfort, especially when one is weak and low. But you're thinking only of the binding, and the paper, and the print, Mr. Betts."
"Of course I am," he said; "it's my business to think of them."
"And does it not concern you to think of what is written in the Bible?"
"Oh, I know all about that. I was taught the Bible when I was young. I used to go to Sunday School. You need not look at me, nurse, as if you thought me a great sinner. I've always lived honest and respectable. I've never—"
The words that Michael had been about to utter stuck in his throat. It was no longer possible for him to declare that he had never done wrong.
"Well, I know that I am a sinner," said the nurse, "and I'm glad I know it, since it was not the righteous, but sinners, whom Jesus came to save. And I can't help thinking that perhaps the worst sin of all is not to be conscious of sin."
"I don't know what you mean," said Michael; "I can't profess to be a worse man than I am. I've always tried to do my duty. And I've been good to other people, though they've only repaid me with ingratitude."
"Ah, it's hard to meet with ingratitude," said the nurse; "it does make you feel as if you would never do anything for people again. But then we forget how often we ourselves are ungrateful to God. Now don't you go and be ungrateful, Mr. Betts."
"Why should you say that?" he asked.
"Oh, I was only thinking how good God has been in restoring you to health."
"Was I so very bad?" asked Michael.
"Indeed you were ill. There was one day when I almost gave you up. But that seems long ago now, and you are making a good recovery. You'll soon be as well as ever."
Michael looked grave. He doubted the nurse's last statement. He felt that his illness had made an old man of him. Most people had thought him one before. Michael heaved a deep sigh, and was silent. He lay still for some time, his contracted brow showing that he was thinking deeply, and when at last he spoke, his words puzzled the nurse, since she had not been able to follow his train of thought.
"Was she smartly dressed?" he asked.
"She? Who? Of whom are you speaking, Mr. Betts?"
"The lady who brought those flowers," he said.
"Why, no; she's in widow's mourning, poor thing."
"Ah, to be sure, I forgot," he murmured.
"I don't fancy she would have been smart in any case," continued the nurse. "I don't think she has much to be smart with. I noticed that her gloves were shabby. And the little girl's frock was the worse for wear."
"Ah, then the little girl was there," said Michael, with some eagerness.
"Yes, indeed, and she's the sweetest little mite that ever I saw, and with such a quick tongue. She asked me ever so many questions about you, Mr. Betts. She wanted to know how old you were, and whether your hair had turned white in your illness, and if you were able to read in bed. I think she would have liked to come and see you. Oh, and I was to be sure to tell you that if you would like her 'Pilgrim's Progress' to read whilst you were ill she would lend it to you."
"Bless her!" murmured old Michael.
He felt it would be delightful to see her come into his room. How her fair face and sunny locks would light up the old gloomy attic! Her pretty tones would be like music in his ears. But then he remembered that he had wronged her too. He could not look on her without feeling that he had injured her. It would hurt him to receive kindness from her. The wrong that he had done had raised a barrier between them. How he wished that he had taken the notes to Mrs. Lavers at once! It would have been so much easier to explain then. The thought of that past action was beginning to weigh on his mind like a load.
As he felt it thus, there was suddenly recalled to his mind the picture in the "Pilgrim's Progress" to which little Margery had drawn his attention—the picture of the man with the heavy burden on his back. He could hear the childish voice saying:
"Oh, weren't you glad, Mr. Betts, when his burden fell off? Have you lost your burden, Mr. Betts?"
Well, if he had not known then, he knew now that he had a burden to carry. With the thought he gave such a groan, that the nurse came in haste to see what was the matter with him.
"Can't you rest comfortably?" she asked.
"No, I can't," he answered; "I'm very uneasy—very uneasy indeed."
The next day Michael was permitted to sit up for a little while. He scarcely appreciated the privilege, for when he moved from the bed, he realized how very, very weak he was, and felt so good-for-nothing that he was thankful when he was allowed to lie down again. But the following day he felt stronger, and was able to sit up a little longer, and he continued to make progress till the day came when he was able to go downstairs.
One day, Michael asked his nurse to go downstairs and fetch him a Bible. She would have no difficulty in finding one in the shop, he said, if she looked on a certain shelf to which he directed her. And then Michael sighed as he thought of the shop. What would become of his business with the shop shut up for so long? His rival in the Tottenham Court Road was probably flourishing at his expense, and drawing away some of his best customers. What a thing it was to be all alone, with no one to depend on in time of need!
When his nurse brought him the Bible, Michael opened it and sat for some time studying its pages. It was years since he had read the Bible, and though he professed to "know all about it," the old, almost forgotten words impressed him now with strange freshness and vividness. But though he read passage after passage, what he read gave him little comfort. The Book seemed to speak only to condemn him. "He that loveth not his brother whom he has seen: how can he love God whom he hath not seen?" Here were words that set him thinking.
Michael knew that he did not love his poor outcast brother. No, he had wished him dead. Nor did he love God. No, his heart was so cold and dead he hardly knew what love meant.
Michael never forgot the evening when he first came downstairs, and had his tea served to him in the little back sitting-room. It was a dreary return to his old surroundings. There was no one to give him a welcome except Mrs. Wiggins, and her greeting was of a lugubrious character. According to her code of propriety, it was the correct thing to express sympathy by assuring him that he looked "awful bad yet," and that it would be long ere he lost the effects of his illness, and indeed he could never hope to be the man he was, with other such cheering truths.
His nurse had done her best to give to the dingy old room a cheerful appearance. There was a bright fire in the grate, the table was set quite daintily, and hot buttered toast, a poached egg and fresh watercress were there to tempt his appetite. But Michael had never felt so depressed in his life as when he looked round on his old familiar haunt. On the morrow his nurse was to leave, and he would be thrown entirely on himself again. The prospect filled him with despair. The old, lonely, loveless life looked hateful to him now.
Michael had finished his tea, and was resting in the big armchair, when the shop bell rang sharply, and Mrs. Wiggins came a few minutes later to say that a messenger had come, who wished to speak with the nurse. She went out to attend the summons, and Michael waited, wondering what it might mean. In a few minutes she returned, her demeanour betraying some excitement.
"I am sorry to say, Mr. Betts, that I must leave you this evening," she began; "at once, indeed. The doctor knows that you can do without me now, and he has sent to beg that I will go at once to Mrs. Lavers' house. Her little girl is very ill."
"Ill! The little girl!" exclaimed Michael, starting forward in his chair. "You don't mean that?"
"Indeed I do, unhappily. It's diphtheria she has, poor little dear, and that's a terrible thing with children. You won't mind my leaving you a few hours earlier?"
"Mind! Of course not. Go at once, nurse; go and do all you can for her. Oh, do try your utmost to save her life, for I—I love that little girl, nurse. I could not bear to hear that she was dead."
"You may be sure I shall do my best for her," she responded, looking at him in amazement. So he had the remnant of a heart after all, this poor old man.
RESTITUTION
THE night that followed was a wretched one for Michael Betts. He could not sleep for thinking of poor little Margery stricken with the dire disease of childhood, which so often proves fatal.
He had spoken truly when he said that he loved the little winsome maiden; though it had but come to him as he spoke, with the flash of a sudden inspiration, that it was love, the feeling that drew him to little Margery and made him long to see her fair, wee face and to hear her sweet, childish voice. It was terrible to think of her dying, choked, poisoned by that terrible malady.
Ere he went upstairs to bed, Michael had hunted amongst the encyclopædias in his shop till he found what he believed to be an able and trustworthy article on diphtheria. Of this, he had read every word more than once, with the result that his fears for the little one's life were intensified, and he was tortured by a sense of what her sufferings must be.
If only he could do anything to help her in the sore struggle! But, alas! Of what use could a poor old man, weakened by recent illness, be? And then, with a bitter pang, he remembered that though he loved her, he had done her wrong. He had defrauded this little fatherless child. He could no longer hide from himself the truth. He could no longer justify his conduct respecting the notes he had found in the professor's books. He saw that transaction now in its true light. He, Michael Betts, had robbed the widow and the fatherless, and God would surely visit upon him his sin.
He groaned aloud as he turned to and fro on his sleepless bed. His action looked darker in every fresh aspect that he viewed it. How could he have done such a thing, he, Michael Betts, who had always prided himself on his uprightness? Well, he could never boast himself now. He knew now that he was a sinner indeed. Again he recalled the day when he had first seen little Margery standing within his shop. He heard her sweet tones saying:
"Have you lost your burden, Mr. Betts?"
Ah, he had resented her speaking of him as a sinner then! He knew better now. He saw now that he had always been a sinner, slighting and neglecting the love of God, and living the hard, narrow, loveless life into which God cannot enter.
But one thing was borne in upon Michael's mind with the force of an irresistible conviction during those weary, restless hours. He must, as far as possible, undo the wrong he had done. He must restore the money he had stolen. Much as he shrank from all that restitution involved, he knew he could have no peace of mind, or even rest of body, till it was done.
Michael felt too ill to rise early the next morning; but as soon as he could, he got up and went feebly downstairs, sadly conscious that little Margery's words were coming true, and that he was getting to be a very old man.
"My! you do look bad!" was Mrs. Wiggins' encouraging greeting. "I declare you look worse than you did yesterday. You'll have to be very careful of yourself, Mr. Betts, if you don't want to slip away altogether."
"Do mind your own business and leave my looks alone," responded old Betts fretfully. "I shall be all right when I've had some lunch."
"I'll get you some beef-tea at once," said Mrs. Wiggins, bustling away.
But when she returned with the steaming cup, Michael seemed in no haste to drink it.
"Mrs. Wiggins," he said slowly, as he held his spoon suspended, "do you know where that lady lives?"
"What lady?" she asked.
"Why, the lady whose little girl is ill, Mrs. Lavers of course."
"Certainly I knows where she lives. It's in Clarendon Gardens, No. 48. My cousin works for 'er landlady, and she's told me about 'er many times."
"Never mind that," said Michael. "I don't want to hear about your cousin. I just want you to go round to the house and ask how the little girl is. Never mind your work. Go at once; do you hear?"
Mrs. Wiggins did hear, and, startled by the peremptory manner in which Michael spoke, she prepared to go at once.
The house was but a little way off, but she was gone more than half an hour, having lingered to talk with her cousin. Michael awaited her return in painful suspense.
"Well?" he said, when at last she appeared.
"She's no better," said Mrs. Wiggins; "the doctor gives little 'ope, and 'er poor mar's in a terrible state about 'er."
Michael's face grew white.
"What doctor is attending her?" he asked hoarsely.
"Dr. Newman," she replied.
"There are other doctors in London cleverer than he is," said Michael eagerly.
"P'raps so; but is it likely a poor widow like Mrs. Lavers can afford to 'ave them? Not that they'd be any good," continued Mrs. Wiggins, her tones expressive of supreme contempt for the medical profession. "If she's goin' to die, she'll die, whatever they may do or say, and my cousin says that if ever she saw death on a child's face she saw it on 'ers this mornin'! But, good gracious! Mr. Betts, you're never thinkin' of goin' out?"
"I am not thinking about it, I am going out," said Michael grimly, as he reached down his great-coat from the peg behind the door.
"Oh, but you must not, Mr. Betts. You're not fit, indeed. Why, you only came downstairs yesterday, and you're looking as white as a sheet now."
She might as well not have spoken, for any heed Michael paid to her words. He buttoned his coat across his chest, armed himself with a stout walking-stick, and set out. He felt very weak and tremulous as he walked along. He was glad to lean heavily on his stick for support. Somehow the familiar streets seemed to have grown longer and wider since he last trod them. His bank was at no great distance, yet he felt as though he should never reach it. When he did arrive there, he sank on to a bench just within the door, and was fain to rest and take breath for a while ere he could attend to his business.
A little later, with fifty pounds carefully lodged in his pocket-book within his breast-pocket, he quitted the bank, and, walking as quickly as his strength permitted, turned in the direction of Clarendon Gardens.
He found the house with little difficulty. A brougham stood at the door. Michael waited a few minutes, pacing to and fro, till he saw the doctor come out of the house and drive away. As he waited, he noticed a girl standing close by, leaning against the palings, a girl with a big white apron over her dark gown and a large much-be-feathered hat upon her head; but he paid little heed to her, nor she to him. As soon as the carriage drove off, he went up to the door and gently knocked.
"Can I speak to Mrs. Lavers for a minute?" he asked of the maid who opened the door.
The girl looked at him, and hesitated. Then she asked him to step inside, and closed the door behind him, whilst she went to speak to some one in the little back parlour. In a moment she reappeared and beckoned to him to advance. He did so, and entering the room, found himself in the presence of Mrs. Lavers.
She stood leaning against the mantel-piece. In her hand was the prescription the doctor had just written. Her face was utterly colourless, save for the pinkened eyelids which testified to recent tears, and had the wan, strained look which tells of protracted sleeplessness. She looked surprised to see Michael, but greeted him kindly.
image005
"Are you better, Mr. Betts? You do not look good for much yet. Are you wise to come out to-day?"
"How is the little lady, ma'am?" Michael asked, ignoring her inquiries respecting himself.
"No better, I fear," answered the lady, with a quiver in her voice. "It is terrible to see her suffer so. And the doctor holds out only the faintest hope."
"There are other doctors in London, ma'am," said Michael. "If he cannot find a remedy, another may."
"Ah, yes; but—"
Michael was trembling from excessive weakness and emotion. He could not speak; it seemed impossible to explain. He could only go up to her and put the bank-notes in her hand.
"Mr. Betts! What is the meaning of this?" she asked, and her manner was not without a touch of pride.
"It is yours, ma'am, yours, all of it," he faltered.
"I do not understand," she said.
"It was yours, ma'am, and I—God forgive me!—I stole it from you."
"Mr. Betts!"
Then brokenly, incoherently, and with much shame and confusion, Michael made his confession.
Mrs. Lavers listened in bewilderment at first; but gradually light dawned on her mind.
"Oh, Mr. Betts!" she exclaimed, "If only I had known this before, it would have saved me so much trouble. We have wondered so what could have become of that fifty pounds. Some weeks after my husband's death, a gentleman called on me and stated that some time previously he had given Professor Lavers fifty pounds as a subscription to a scientific society in which my husband was interested. He had made inquiries of the treasurer of the society, and had learned that the money had never been paid in. You may fancy how worried I was when I heard that. I searched amongst my husband's papers, and could find no entry of the money. Yet, of course, I could not doubt the gentleman's word. Since it was impossible to trace the money, and I could not imagine what my husband had done with it, I had to make the amount good at considerable sacrifice. But now I see perfectly what he did. That book must have been lying on his table at the time, and he just slipped the notes inside its leaves, meaning to remove them afterwards, and then forgot all about them. It was just like him. He was so absent-minded, my poor husband."
"And I, in keeping them, acted like a common thief," said Michael gloomily. "You had better send for a policeman, ma'am, and give me in charge."
"No, no," said the lady, with a melancholy smile, "I will not do that. You did not think what you were doing; you did not know the trouble you were causing me. But oh! It made such a difference to me having to find those fifty pounds in my poverty and widowhood. But for that, I might have afforded to settle in a nicer neighbourhood, and then, perhaps, my child would never have taken this terrible disease."
Michael gave a groan. "If she dies, I shall have caused her death!" he said.
"God forbid!" cried the mother, turning paler, and shivering.
"Oh, ma'am, won't you have another doctor?" said Michael.
"Yes, I will—I can, now I have this money," she said eagerly. "There is a physician who is said to have great skill in treating diphtheria. My doctor mentioned him just now."
"Where does he live?" asked Michael. "I'll go and fetch him. I'll go and bring him at once, if you'll let me."
She looked at the old man, so eager, yet so weak and tremulous, and hesitated.
"You don't look fit to go," she said. "No, I'll send some one else."
"Oh, let me go," he cried. "I'll take a cab. No one could go quicker than I'll go. And it will be doing something for her, don't you see? I can never make amends; but it will be doing something if I go."
So she yielded, and gave him the physician's address. He went hurriedly from the house.
MICHAEL FINDS A FRIEND
WHEN Michael came out of the house, the girl he had before observed was still leaning against the palings. She was bending forward, her face resting on her hands, which were wrapped in her shawl; but she raised her head as she heard the door close behind Michael, and glancing at her, he saw to his surprise that her eyes were wet with tears. The next moment she sprang to his side, saying imploringly, "Do tell me how she is, sir. You have been in, and you must know the latest."
"She is no better, poor little dear," said Michael, a lump rising in his throat as he spoke. "They fear the worst; but I'm going to fetch a doctor that I hope will cure her. Can you tell me where I can find a cab?"
"Yes, yes," she answered eagerly; "there's a stand just round the corner. I'll show you. Why, I declare if you ain't Michael Betts."
Michael looked at her in wonder. He had a dim idea that he had seen the girl before, but where or how he could not determine.
"That is my name, certainly," he said. "Who are you, I wonder, that you know me so well?"
"P'raps my name is Betts too," she said, giving him a quick glance of her bright, dark eyes.
"Don't be impertinent," he said sternly, "and don't tell me lies, please."
"You needn't fear," she said in a subdued tone. "I haven't the spirit to be impertinent. My heart is like to break thinking of that little angel lying there in such pain."
"Is she in great pain?" asked Michael sadly.
"To be sure. You never had diphtheria, I suppose? Well, I've had it, and I can tell you it's awful. I had it years ago in the hospital, and I'll never forget it, never."
"But the doctors saved your life," said Michael. "Why shouldn't they save hers?"
"Ah! Why not? See, there are the cabs. Oh, Mr. Betts, I wish you would let me come with you!"
"So you shall if you like," said Michael, touched by the grief the girl displayed, and feeling drawn to her by a bond of sympathy.
The girl signalled to a cabman, and when the vehicle drew up by the kerb, she helped Michael to get into it. She was struck by the feebleness of his movements.
"Have you been ill, Mr. Betts?" she asked. "I really hardly knew you when first I looked at you. You've altered sadly since I last saw you."
"When was that?" he asked. "I can't remember where I've seen you before, yet I seem to know your face."
"Oh, I'm about sometimes in the neighbourhood of your shop," she answered vaguely.
"And how did you come to know Mrs. Lavers and her little girl?"
"Oh, I belongs to a girls' club, and Mrs. Lavers is one of the ladies who comes there. But there ain't another like her; no, we all says that. She's an angel of a woman, that's what she is. Sometimes she would bring her little girl with her to the club. She's the prettiest, daintiest little creature you ever could see."
"I know," said Michael, the choking sensation rising again in his throat.
"She'd talk away to us girls, that wee mite,—my! You never heard anything like it. The veriest little chatterbox, yet with such wisdom in her words too. Oh, it would be terrible if she should die! It would just break her mother's heart."
"Ay, it would," said Michael, thinking sorrowfully how heavy a burden of guilt and remorse would rest on his conscience if the little one were taken. "She's a gentle-hearted lady, is Mrs. Lavers."
"She's the dearest lady in the world!" cried the girl fervently. "Ah, I can never tell you what she has been to me. Do you know what it is to have a friend that helps you to be good, a friend who you know would do anything for you, and for whom you'd do anything, even die, if need be? Well, she's such a friend to me."
Michael could only listen in wonder. He had never had such a friend; he had never felt such warm, passionate love as the girl's words expressed.
"Have you no one belonging to you?" he asked. "No mother or father?"
"Ay, I've a father," she said; "but he's a poor creature, my father, always weak and ailing. It's me has to take care of him, and not he, of me. I've took care of him ever since my mother died, eight years ago. It seems sometimes almost as if I were the parent, and he the child. Men are helpless creatures, you know. But here we are in the square. Now, which is the doctor's house?"
Happily the doctor was at home when Michael arrived at the house. After waiting some minutes, Michael was able to see him, but, to his despair, the busy physician was not to be persuaded to come with him at once. He had engagements which prevented his doing so, he said; but he listened patiently to all Michael could tell him about the little child, and promised that he would see her during the afternoon. Michael went away with his hopes somewhat dashed.
The girl drove back with him to his house. She sprang out there and helped him to alight, stood by his side as he settled with the driver, and then saw him safely down the stone steps to the door of the shop. She did it with a careful, almost motherly air, which seemed strange for so young a girl. Evidently she was used to taking care of others. Michael invited her to enter his house, but she declined resolutely.
"No, thank you," she said; "it's high time I went home to look after father. He'll be wondering what has become of me. If you like, I'll come round and tell you how she is this evening, after that doctor has seen her, you know. You ought not to go out again to-day, Mr. Betts; it's a bitter cold wind."
Michael thanked her and went inside. "She's a good girl," he said to himself, as he walked through the shop, "a much nicer girl than any one looking at her would take her to be. A rough kind of girl, of course, but with good feelings."
Mrs. Wiggins had gone home, and Michael was sitting alone by his fire, feeling very weary and depressed, when a loud, impetuous knock on the street door resounded through the quiet house.
"There she is," said Michael, and he went out as quickly as he could to open the door.
"Come in," he said, as he opened it; "come in quickly and tell me."
"No, thank you," said the girl decidedly, "I won't come inside. I haven't much to tell. She's neither better nor worse; that's all they can say."
"No better! Oh dear!" said Michael. Then, as the cold air blew in upon him, he began to cough.
"Now do go in out of the cold," said the girl. "You'll be worse, if you don't take more care of yourself, Mr. Betts."
"But I want to hear what the doctor said. I want to know all about it," Michael protested. "If you won't come inside, I must stand here and catch cold."
"Oh, well, then," said the girl, yielding, "I don't want you to catch your death." And she stepped inside.
Michael led her into the inner room, and tried feebly to stir the dull fire into a blaze.
"Let me do that," said the girl eagerly. "I'm a rare hand at making a fire. But you did ought to keep a better fire than this, Mr. Betts. You don't know how to take care of yourself."
"Don't I?" said Michael. "Ah, and I've no daughter to take care of me, as your father has."
"Ah, poor father!" said the girl, her face clouding over.
"Is he worse?" asked Michael.
She nodded. "This cold wind is so bad for him," she said.
Observing the girl more closely, Michael saw that her face was wan and thin, with dark circles beneath the eyes.
"Set the kettle on the fire," he said, "and make yourself a cup of cocoa."
"No, thank you," she said. "I'll make a cup for you with pleasure; but none for me—thank you all the same."
"Well, put the kettle on," he said, thinking she might change her mind, "and then tell me all the doctor said."
"That's more than I can tell you," said the girl, with a smile; "but they say he is not without hope of pulling her through. He says the next twenty-four hours will decide it."
"Ah," said Michael, with a shiver.
"We must just hope for the best," said the girl, striving after cheerfulness; "hope and pray, that's what we've got to do. Did I tell you that Mrs. Lavers sent a message to us girls at the club, asking us all to pray for her?"
"No," said Michael, "you did not tell me that."
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Presently the water began to boil, and his new friend busied herself in making him a cup of cocoa. She did it deftly, and waited upon him in a kind and gentle way; but she was not to be persuaded to take any herself. Michael was hurt by the determined manner in which she refused his hospitality. He could not understand why she did so, for she really looked as if she needed nourishment.
"What work do you do?" he asked presently.
"I make matches when I can get taken on," she replied; "but just now is a slack time in the trade."
"Then you're badly off, I fear," he said.
"I haven't complained, have I?" she asked, turning upon him with an air of defiance. Then, with an evident desire to turn the conversation, she remarked, as she looked about her, "What a sight of books you have, Mr. Betts!"
"Do you like books?" he asked.
She nodded her head. "I'm awful fond of reading."
"Well," he said, with the kindest intention, "if there are any of my books that you would like to read, I'm willing to lend them to you."
"Oh no, thank you," she said hastily, colouring as she spoke, and giving a quick little movement of the head, as if the suggestion annoyed her. "I don't want to borrow your books, Mr. Betts."
He looked at her curiously. She was certainly a very strange girl. But he liked her. He was beginning to feel considerable confidence in her.
"I must go now," she said. "I don't like to leave father for long."
"Stay a moment," said Michael in a timid, hesitating way. "I wish you'd do something for me before you go."
"What is it?" she asked.
"Just kneel down and say a prayer for that poor little child. I want to pray, but I can't. My heart is so hard—and—and—it's years since I tried—but I'd like to hear you."
She looked startled and alarmed.
"Oh, I can't," she said; "I can't pray out loud like that."
"Say it in a whisper," he suggested.
She hesitated, her colour coming and going under the strain of excited emotion.
"I'll try," she said at last. "She says it don't matter what words we use, as long as they come from the heart. God can read our heart, and He will understand."
So she knelt down, and Michael bent beside her, whilst in broken, childish utterance, the very quaintness of which seemed to prove its sincerity, she asked the loving Father to spare the life of little Margery. And Michael prayed too, breathing forth what was perhaps the first true prayer of his life. The prayer seemed to bring the assurance of its answer. There were tears in the eyes of each as they rose; but God's comfort was in their hearts. The girl said not a word as Michael shook hands with her; but when she quitted the house and walked quickly homeward her heart was filled with a strange wonder not unmixed with joy.
MUTUAL CONFESSION
WHEN Michael rose the next day, he found to his satisfaction that the wind had changed. It no longer blew from the north-east. There was a soft, spring-like feeling in the air. It was time for Spring to herald her approach. The winter had been long and hard. No one felt more pleasure at the thought of its departure than did Michael Betts.
He opened his shop betimes on this fair morning, and then set to work to put things in order there. He felt very weak as he did so. More than once he dropped the heavy volumes he tried to lift. It was clear he was not the man he had been. No, he was beginning to fail. And then he thought with a smile and a sigh of the little fair-haired maiden who had thought him "so very old." He was very anxious to know how this morning found her. He kept hoping that the girl whose acquaintance he had made in so strange a manner would come in to tell him how the little sufferer was; but she did not come, and at last, unable to wait longer, he sent Mrs. Wiggins round to the house to make inquiries.
The news she brought cheered him greatly. She had been told that the little girl had taken a turn for the better, and there now seemed hope of her recovery.
"Thank God!" ejaculated old Michael.
He could not trust himself to say more. He felt so glad that he could have cried like a child for very gladness. As it was he had to take off his spectacles and wipe them very carefully more than once before he could go on with his work.
"Thank God," he said to himself over and over again. God had heard his prayer—their prayer. How he wished his new friend would come in, that they might rejoice together! He had known her but for a day; he did not even know her name; but the sorrow and anxiety they had shared, the prayer they had joined in breathing forth as from one heart, had united them by a close bond of sympathy which years of ordinary acquaintance could not have wrought.
But the girl did not appear all that day, nor the second day, nor the third. Michael began to feel a vague uneasiness concerning her.
"Surely she might have come round just to say how pleased she was," he thought. "Can it be that she wants to drop my acquaintance, or is her father worse? If only I knew where she lived, I'd go and see."
Meanwhile each day Margery was reported to be a little better. Her throat grew clearer, her voice more distinct, and signs of returning strength gladdened the heart of her anxious mother, till at length the little one's recovery no longer seemed doubtful.
How thankful Michael was, no words can tell. He felt that if the little one had died, he could never have forgiven himself for what he had done. As it was, the burden of his past weighed heavily on his mind. He fell into the habit of walking round to Mrs. Lavers' house every evening when his shop was closed. He would carry with him some little gift of flowers or fruit for the child. And Mrs. Lavers never refused these, never showed by word or look the least consciousness of the wrong he had done her.
Once when he spoke of it, she said: "Dear friend, let us forget all about that. Our Lord taught us that if we did not forgive the brother who wronged us, we could have no blessed sense of God's forgiving love. I forgive you from my heart, and God will forgive you too if you ask Him."
But old Michael went home with a heavy heart. He remembered how he had treated his own brother, and it seemed to him that he had no right to expect that God would forgive him his sins.
One evening Michael was in his shop, setting things in order at the close of the day. He had not yet put up his shutters; but he scarcely expected to have any more customers that day, when suddenly the door opened, the bell tinkled, and he looked up to see the worn, weary-looking preacher entering the shop. It was some time since this gentleman had been there, and Michael was pleased to see him again.
"Just in time, sir," he said; "in another ten minutes my shutters would have been up."
"Ah, well, I am very glad to find you here," replied the gentleman; "though I do not come as a purchaser. But what is the matter with you, Betts? You are not looking at all well."
"I have not been well, sir; but I'm better now. I've had a sharp attack of rheumatic fever, and it has left me as you see. I shall never be again the man I was."
"Dear me! I am sorry to hear that. Rheumatism is a terrible thing. You do look as if it had pulled you down. And unhappily I bring you news that will distress you. Do you know I am visiting a poor man in the district where my mission-hall is who tells me he is your brother."
Michael started and changed colour.
"It's true, sir," he said, after a moment's pause; "he is my brother."
"I thought so. I could not doubt his story as he told it. It is a sad story, Mr. Betts. He is now on his death-bed. I have come to entreat you to go with me to him."
Michael sank on to the nearest chair. He was trembling so that he could not stand. He said nothing, and the gentleman went on speaking.
"He feels that he has wronged you grievously, and he wants to make what amends he can, and to hear you say you forgive him, ere he passes away. I don't think you will find it hard to forgive him when you see him as he is."
"There's no need to talk so, sir. You don't understand. I've most need to ask his forgiveness. The wrong wasn't all on one side. I can see that now, though I couldn't before. Where is he, if you please, sir?"
"At no great distance. I will take you there at once, if you can come."
"Ay, I can come, sir; I have only to put up the shutters, and I shall be ready."
So in a few minutes they were on their way. In Oxford Street, the gentleman hailed an omnibus going westward, into which he helped old Michael, and then seated himself beside him. From this they alighted when it had carried them about a couple of miles.
"Now, do you feel able to walk a few steps?" the minister asked Michael.
"Yes, yes, I can walk," he replied; but in truth, he felt faint and tremulous, and could not have walked far. Happily it took them but a few minutes to reach their destination. A dreary, miserable street it was, though it lay very near to the large and handsome dwellings of the rich.
Michael looked with dismay on the dirty, squalid houses, the ill-kempt, slatternly women who sat on the doorsteps, or hung about the public-houses—there were three in the street, though it was not long—and the ragged urchins who disported themselves in the road. The minister paused before one of the houses. The wretched-looking women crouched together on the doorstep slowly rose and made room for them to pass into the house. The minister led the way up a foul and rickety staircase. Not till he reached the top did he pause and tap at a door. A voice within bade him enter, and he opened the door and advanced into the room.
Michael was slowly following him. The steep stairs tried his breathing, the close, ill-smelling atmosphere made him feel faint. He had to pause at the top of the stairs, clinging for a moment to the unsteady bannister, ere he could find strength to advance. As he waited, he heard a weak voice within asking painfully:
"Will he not come, Mr. Mason? Oh, don't tell me that he refuses to come!"
Michael went forward quickly into the room. It was a poor place. A table, a couple of chairs, a box or two, and the bed on which the sick man lay, were all the furniture; but it was fairly clean, and there were tokens of womanly efforts to make things as comfortable as they might be. By the bed stood the girl whose acquaintance Michael had made at Mrs. Lavers' door.
He started, and an exclamation of surprise escaped him as he recognised her; but she made a quick movement enjoining him to silence, and he said nothing.
"I've come, Frank," he said, turning his eyes upon the bed; "I've come, and with all my heart, I wish I had come sooner."
There could be little doubt that the hand of death was on the man who lay there. His wasted face was deadly pale, the breath came with difficulty through his parted lips; there was a look of anguish in his eyes, and when he spoke it was by a painful effort.
"Thank God you've come in time, Michael. Will you come and sit here close beside me, so you may hear what I have to say, though I can't speak loud?"
Michael took the seat indicated without a word. Such emotions swept over him at the sight of his brother that it was impossible to speak.
"Kate," said the sick man, making a sign which she understood in a moment.
She knelt down beside the bed, and began fumbling for something beneath the mattress. Presently she drew forth a tiny bag made of faded scarlet flannel, which she placed beside her father.
"Michael," said the sick man feebly, "I was a sore trial to you before we parted. You might well feel ashamed of me, as I know you did. I was a bad, ungrateful brother."
"Don't speak of it," said Michael huskily; "never mind that now."
"But I must speak of it. I sent for you that I might speak of it, as Mr. Mason knows. Michael, the last time you gave me shelter in your home I was so ungrateful, so shameless, that I stole one of your books and carried it off with me."
"I know that you did," replied Michael, "but never mind that now, Frank."
"It was a Greek book," continued the other, without heeding his words. "I'd heard you say that it was worth seven pounds. I could not get that for it; but I found a dealer who was willing to give me half, and for that I sold it. The money soon went in drink, and I thought no more about it for a long time. Then I married. At first I let my wife think that I had no one in the world belonging to me; but one day when I'd taken a drop too much, I let out that I had a brother who was a well-to-do tradesman, and then she set her heart on seeing me reconciled to my brother. I had to tell her the whole story at last, just to make her see it was impossible. But even then she would not see it. No; she just said that I must save the money I'd had for the book, and pay it back to you. It was she who began the saving, you see. We did not get on very fast with the saving; but we made a beginning. Then she fell ill. Mr. Mason began to visit us then. He's been a good friend to us. He tried to make me a sober man for a long, long while before he succeeded."
"Don't say that I succeeded," said Mr. Mason. "It was the grace of Christ that delivered you from sin and enabled you to begin a new life."
"It is more than a year ago," said the sick man slowly, "since I took the pledge, and Kate and I have been trying ever since to add to the money in the bag. My wife left it in Kate's hands; she knew she could not trust it to me. It has not been easy to save. Kate put most into it, not I. She's a good girl is Kate, though I say it."
"Ah, she's a good girl," said Michael, so fervently that his brother looked at him in surprise.
"What, you say so too? But you do not know her."
"I can tell by the looks of her," said Michael evasively.
"Ah, well—it's true anyway. But now about this money, Michael. I have so longed to make your loss good. I thought you'd believe I was a changed man if I gave you back your money. But it's been hard work. We've had to draw out some of the money since I've been ill. There's only five pounds in the bag now, and I wanted to make it seven, for you said the book was worth that to you. Here's the money; take it and count it."
But Michael pushed the bag from it.
"No, no, Frank; keep the money. I don't want it, indeed. I would rather not have it."
"But you must take it," cried the other excitedly. "I can't rest unless you do. Ah, Michael, you don't know, an honest, respectable man as you've always been, what it is to have the burden of such a deed resting on your conscience."
"Don't say that, Frank—don't for goodness sake talk that way, for it's not true!"
"But it is true," protested the other; "don't I know the good, honest, steady man you've always been? Haven't I sometimes felt proud that I had such a brother, and wished enough that I'd been more like you? Why, I've told Kate here about you often enough. Once I sent her round to the shop, to have a look at the place and to see the kind of man you were."
"But all the while you were under a mistake concerning me," groaned Michael, feeling himself compelled to confession. "What if I were to tell you that I am a man who has robbed the fatherless and the widow?"
"I'd not believe it," returned his brother. "No, not if you said it with your own lips, Michael."
"But it is true," he cried. And then brokenly, confusedly, he told the story of how he had kept the bank-notes he had found in the professor's book.
There was silence for some moments when he had ceased. Then the sick man leaned forward and laid his wasted hand on his brother's.
"Oh, I am so sorry for you, Michael," he whispered. "I know what you must have suffered with that burden on your heart. We are fellow-sinners."
"But I am the worse," said Michael. "'The first shall be last,' the Bible says. In the pride of my heart I thought myself far above you; but you would never have done a thing like that. No, you have been a better man than I all along. It's bad to be profligate; but I do believe it is worse to have a hard, unloving, pharisaical heart."
"'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins,'" said the minister; and, as they all kept silence, he began to pray aloud, expressing as he believed the desire of each heart as he besought the Divine Father to forgive and blot out the sins of the past.
And as he prayed, its burden fell from the spirit of Michael Betts; his proud, hard heart was broken, and became as the heart of a little child in its sorrow and contrition. It was the birth-hour of a new life to him.