Chapter IX: 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.

"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.