So in a few minutes they were on their way. In Oxford Street, the gentleman hailed an omnibus going westward, into which he helped old Michael, and then seated himself beside him. From this they alighted when it had carried them about a couple of miles.
"Now, do you feel able to walk a few steps?" the minister asked Michael.
"Yes, yes, I can walk," he replied; but in truth, he felt faint and tremulous, and could not have walked far. Happily it took them but a few minutes to reach their destination. A dreary, miserable street it was, though it lay very near to the large and handsome dwellings of the rich.
Michael looked with dismay on the dirty, squalid houses, the ill-kempt, slatternly women who sat on the doorsteps, or hung about the public-houses—there were three in the street, though it was not long—and the ragged urchins who disported themselves in the road. The minister paused before one of the houses. The wretched-looking women crouched together on the doorstep slowly rose and made room for them to pass into the house. The minister led the way up a foul and rickety staircase. Not till he reached the top did he pause and tap at a door. A voice within bade him enter, and he opened the door and advanced into the room.
Michael was slowly following him. The steep stairs tried his breathing, the close, ill-smelling atmosphere made him feel faint. He had to pause at the top of the stairs, clinging for a moment to the unsteady bannister, ere he could find strength to advance. As he waited, he heard a weak voice within asking painfully:
"Will he not come, Mr. Mason? Oh, don't tell me that he refuses to come!"
Michael went forward quickly into the room. It was a poor place. A table, a couple of chairs, a box or two, and the bed on which the sick man lay, were all the furniture; but it was fairly clean, and there were tokens of womanly efforts to make things as comfortable as they might be. By the bed stood the girl whose acquaintance Michael had made at Mrs. Lavers' door.
He started, and an exclamation of surprise escaped him as he recognised her; but she made a quick movement enjoining him to silence, and he said nothing.
"I've come, Frank," he said, turning his eyes upon the bed; "I've come, and with all my heart, I wish I had come sooner."
There could be little doubt that the hand of death was on the man who lay there. His wasted face was deadly pale, the breath came with difficulty through his parted lips; there was a look of anguish in his eyes, and when he spoke it was by a painful effort.