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?