AN UNWELCOME ENCOUNTER
MICHAEL paid the fifty pounds into his bank, and had the satisfaction
of seeing them entered in his pass-book. He was so much richer than
he had expected to be, yet somehow he did not feel richer, but
poorer. He had rather the feeling of one who had suffered loss. There
was a stain upon his conscience, and a weight upon his mind; yet,
with the strange perversity of human nature, he would not own this to
himself. He still professed to believe himself justified in keeping
the money he had found. He clung to it, and liked to think how it had
swelled his balance at the bank, even whilst he knew that he should
be filled with shame, if any one should ever learn how he had come by
that money.
In Michael's lonely life there was no one save Mrs. Wiggins, the
charwoman, to observe how he lived, and mark the variations in his
moods. She began at this time to observe a change in the bookseller.
He had never been what she would call a "pleasant-speaking"
gentleman. She had always found him short of speech, irritable, and
disposed to snub her whenever she attempted to inform him as to the
gossip of the neighbourhood; but now he was positively surly in his
manner towards her, and so quick of temper that it was almost more
than she could "put up" with.
One morning, she thought she was giving him intelligence in which he
could not fail to be interested, when she said:
"I've 'eard where that lady, the professor's widow, as you bought so
many books of, 'as gone to live."
Her words startled Michael, and he turned his eyes on her without
speaking. She took his silence as an encouragement to proceed.
"She's gone to live in Clarendon Gardens. That's not a very nice
place, is it? And even there, she 'as only part of a 'ouse. It seems
she's quite poor now she's lost 'er 'usband. She's sent away 'er
servants, and keeps only a bit of a girl now. She washes and dresses
the children 'erself, and does most of the cooking—and she such a
lady, too! It's 'ard, ain't it? I 'eard it all from my cousin, who
works for 'er landlady."
"I wish to goodness your cousin would mind her own business, or that
you would keep her gossip to yourself!" exclaimed Michael angrily.
"How can I help it, if Mrs. Lavers is poor and has to do without
servants? I've done what I can for her in buying her books. What more
can I do?"
"Oh, lor me! Nobody would expect you to do anything for her,"
exclaimed Mrs. Wiggins, with unconscious satire. "I just thought you
might like to know about the poor lady. You need not turn so fiercely
on me, Mr. Betts, for giving you a piece of news."
"Keep your news till it's wanted, and mind your own business,"
responded Michael crossly.
Mrs. Wiggins took up her dust-pan and brush, and retreated with much
clatter into the back premises, muttering words which were not
complimentary to her employer.
"Do, indeed! I'd like to see 'im ever do anything for anybody besides
'isself, the close-fisted old curmudgeon. I'd be sorry for a mouse
that had to live on 'is leavings. The idea of 'is turning on me like
that, as if a body couldn't speak about nothin'."
It was impossible for Mrs. Wiggins to understand how her words had
for Michael the force of an accusation. She did not know of the
secret consciousness which they awakened.
"So, then, it was a poor woman whom he had defrauded," said the voice
of Michael's conscience.
"Defrauded! What an absurd idea!" the voice of his other self
responded. "There was no fraud in the matter; the money had never
been Mrs. Lavers'. A man had a right to keep what he found, unless he
knew it to belong to some one else."
But reason as he might with himself, the information imparted by Mrs.
Wiggins had disturbed Michael's mind.
[Illustration]
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."