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."