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.
[Illustration]
"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.