CHAPTER XXIII.
A MEMORABLE DAY.
"...But do you know, dear Maurice, that you propose marrying a beggar; and, more than that, a most unabashed beggar, as you will be saying to yourself presently? The fact is, immediately after you left this afternoon, the post brought me a letter from Sister Alexandra, who tells me that two of her small children, suffering from hip-disease, must be sent home, for the doctors say they are getting no better, and the beds in the ward are wanted. They are not fit to be sent home, she writes; then all the country holiday money collected last summer has been spent, and what is she to do? Well, I have told her to send them on to me, and I shall take my chance of finding the £5 that will be necessary. The fact is, I happen to know one of the poor little things—Grace Wilson her name is, the dearest little mite. But the truth is, dear Maurice, I haven't a penny? for I have overdrawn the small allowance that comes to me quarterly, and spent it all. Now don't be vexed that I ask you, so soon, for a little help; a sovereign will do, if Linn will give another; and Linn has always been very good to me in this way, though for some time back I have been ashamed to take anything from him. The doctor grumbles, but gives me five shillings whenever I ask him; Auntie will give me the same; and the rest I can get from our friends and acquaintances about here. Don't be impatient with me, dear Maurice; and some day I will take you down to Whitechapel and show you the very prettiest sight in the whole world—and that is Sister Alexandra with her fifty children...."
Maurice Mangan read this passage as he was driving in a hansom along Pall Mall, on his way to call on Lionel. The previous portion of the letter, which more intimately concerned herself and himself, he had read several times over before coming out, studying every phrase of it as if it were an individual treasure, and trying to listen for the sound of her voice in every
sentence. And as for this more practical matter, why, although he was rather a poor man, he thought he was not going to allow Frances to wander about in search of grudging shillings and half-crowns so long as he himself could come to her aid; so at the foot of St. James Street he stopped the hansom, went into the telegraph-office, and sent off the following message: "Five pounds will reach you to-morrow morning. You cannot refuse my first gift in our new relationship.—Maurice." And thereafter he went on to Piccadilly—feeling richer, indeed, rather than poorer.
When he rang the bell at Lionel's lodgings, it was with no very clear idea of the message or counsel he was bringing with him; but the news he now received put all these things out of his head. The house-porter appeared, looking somewhat concerned.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Moore is up-stairs; but I'm afraid he's very unwell."
"What is the matter?" Maurice asked, instantly.
"He must have got wet coming home last night, sir; and he has caught a bad cold. I've just been for Dr. Whitsen, and he will be here at twelve."