Knowing his man, and inwardly reproaching himself that he had not done something in this direction before, Anthony Ditchburn adopted the grand manner in dealing with him.
"Rev. and Gentle Sir,
"I venture to turn, in the midst of unmerited misfortune, to one who has been placed (and I would add, quite deservedly placed) in a position of ease and comfort; as a scholar I appeal to a scholar.
"You may doubtless remember that some years ago I grounded in the elements some children, who afterwards (solely owing to a whim on the part of our poor dear old friend Nannock) were passed on to you for further instruction. Incidentally, it will ever be a satisfaction to me that they lisped their first words of knowledge under the guidance of two such men.
"Since that period, although I have been a wanderer in various seats of learning, and have contributed with some degree of success to various of the heavier reviews, the time has at last come when, owing to a difference of opinion with an editor, I am in temporary difficulties. I am amazed when I think that such a misfortune should ever have befallen me; I tremble at the thought of what I must face in the great world." (It may be added that Anthony Ditchburn had trembled often and often in a hundred such letters, until he knew quite well the trick of it; could even give a shake of his pen to emphasise it.) "Will you—quite as a temporary matter—oblige me with a small loan, which will enable me to satisfy a truculent being who demands a something for rent; and also to provide myself during the next day or two with the mere necessaries of life? I need scarcely add that the amount will be repaid as soon as I receive a remittance—long since overdue—from a friend to whom, in a more fortunate moment, I rendered assistance, and who shall of course be nameless.
"I am, Rev. Sir,
"Obediently and sincerely yours,
"Anthony Ditchburn.
"P.S.—A mere matter of ten shillings would stay the pangs of hunger, and permit me to pay something on account for my poor lodging.—A. D."
That written, and the envelope addressed, Anthony found a greasy piece of folded paper in an inner pocket, and from it took a stamp. Then the letter was despatched, bearing the name and address of the coffee-house as Anthony's abode; and so took its way down to Daisley Cross to startle the Rev. Temple Purdue, and to show him anew what a hard and sordid place this London was.
But the letter had one effect, and that incidentally a great one. For Mr. Purdue, after conning the letter for a long time, and clicking his tongue over it, and sighing and shaking his head, despatched it in turn to the only person he knew in London, who would be likely, as being on the spot, to give what assistance was necessary, and to take an old acquaintance by the hand. That person Charlie Purdue.
On his own account the rector sent a sovereign to Anthony Ditchburn, who under his present circumstances felt that he had tapped a gold mine. Also, the innocent rector mentioned his son's address, and begged that the eminent scholar would look the young man up. "Charlie will be glad of a solid friend," he wrote.
But long before Anthony Ditchburn had had time to enter into Charlie's life in that new and somewhat startling capacity of solid friend, Charlie himself had read his father's letter, and had, on an impulsive moment when things were wrong with him, and he had nothing very much to occupy his attention, started for Chelsea; had found the little house, and had climbed the stairs to find Moira. Of course, she knew nothing of him or of his coming; he took her unawares, in that little room wherein she spent her lonely days and her lonely evenings with the old woman.
It had been a day of misty rain and bitter wind; a day when the mere commonplace work of mean shopping had seemed more toilsome than usual. She had come home with damp skirts, and with limbs reluctant to climb the stairs; had sunk down in the firelight, and had leaned her head back and had closed her eyes. The lamp was lighted, and she was alone; for it happened that old Patience was in her bedroom, putting those little absurd touches to her dress and to her cap, without the addition of which she would not have faced the evening.
There came a tap at the door; Moira spoke wearily, although she did not turn her head; this was probably the landlady on some petty matter of the household. "Come in," she said.
The door was opened, and someone stood there. Moira waited for that someone to speak; heard a cough, and got up quickly. There, for a moment, she stood behind the lamp, looking with parted lips at the young man—fair, well-dressed, and smiling—who stood with a hand outstretched to her. Then something in the look told her who he was, whispered to her heart that here suddenly was a friend come out of the brighter world into her life. She touched his hand, and caught a sob—half of laughter, half of tears—in her throat, and whispered his name.
"Charlie!" And again, wringing his hand—"Charlie!" And yet again, almost hysterically as it seemed—"Charlie!"