Part 55 (2/2)
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.”
”But Dr. Whitsen is a throat doctor.”
”Yes, sir; but it is always his throat Mr. Moore is most anxious about; and when he found himself husky this morning, he would take nothing but a raw egg beaten up and a little port-wine negus; and now he won't speak--he will only write on a piece of paper. He is saving himself for the theatre to-night, sir, I think that is it; but would you like to go up and see him?”
”Oh, yes, I will go up and see him,” Mangan said; and without more ado he ascended the stairs and made his way into Lionel's bedroom.
He found his friend under a perfect mountain of clothes that had been heaped upon him; and certainly he was not s.h.i.+vering now--on the contrary, his face was flushed and hot, and his eyes singularly bright and restless. As soon as Lionel saw who this new-comer was, he made a sign that a block of paper and a pencil lying on the table should be brought to him; and, turning slightly, he put the paper on the pillow and wrote:
”I'm nursing my voice--hope to be all right by night--are you busy to-day, Maurice?”
”No; there is no House on Sat.u.r.day,” Maurice made answer.
”I wish you would stay by me,” Lionel wrote, with rather a shaky hand.
”I'm in dreadful trouble. I undertook to pay Percival Miles 1100 and Lord Rockminster 300 to-day without fail; and I haven't a farthing, and don't know where to send or what to do.”
”Oh, never mind about money!” Maurice said, almost impatiently, for there was something about the young man's appearance he did not at all like. ”Why should you worry about that? The important business is for you to get well.”
”I tell you I _must_ pay Rockminster to-day,” the trembling pencil scrawled. ”He was the only one of them who stood my friend. I tell you I _must_ pay him--if I have to get up and go out and seek for the money myself.”
”Nonsense!” Mangan exclaimed. ”What do people care about a day or two, when they hear you are ill? However, you needn't worry, Linn. As for that other sum you mention, well, that is beyond me--I couldn't lay my hands on it at once; but as for the three hundred pounds, I will lend you that--so set your mind at rest on that point.”
”And you'll give it into Lord Rockminster's own hands--_this day?_”
”Surely it will be quite the same if I send the check by a commissionaire; he must get it sooner or later.”
The earnest, restless eyes looked strangely supplicating.
”Into his own hands, Maurice!”
”Very well, very well,” Mangan had just time to say, for here was the doctor.
Dr. Whitsen examined his patient with the customary professional calm and reticence; asked a few questions, which Lionel answered with such husky voice as was left him; and then he said,
”Yes, you have caught a severe chill, and your system is feverish generally; the throat is distinctly congested--”
”But to-night, doctor--the theatre--to-night!” Lionel broke in, excitedly. ”Surely by eight o'clock--”
”Oh, quite impossible; not to be thought of,” the doctor responded, with decision.
”Why can't you do something to tide me over, for the one night?” the young man said, with appealing and almost pathetic eyes. ”I've never disappointed the public once before, never once; and if I could only get over to-night, there's the long rest to-morrow and Monday.”
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