For reply, Dora flung her arms round her father's neck and burst into
tears.
"Why, Dora, dear--what is the matter?"
But Dora still sobbed upon his shoulder.
"Is it anything to do with Mr Jefferson, dearest?"
"Yes," said Dora.
"You have not quarrelled, I hope?"
Dora lifted her head and looked bravely into her father's eyes.
"No, we haven't quarrelled, father dear. On the way home he asked me to
marry him within a month from now."
"And you said?"
"And I promised that I would, father."
*CHAPTER XXI.*
*A MATTER OF WAGES.*
After this declaration, Dora's father, knowing something of the nature
of women, expected a fresh outburst of tears. But none came. Dora
turned towards her glass, and a moment later wheeled round with a smile
upon her face.
"And so, you see, dear," she said, "you must make the most of me, while
you have me. It does seem a short time, doesn't it--a month--such a
very little time for us to be together!"
Mr Maybury took the girl's soft hand in his and looked thoughtfully into
her face. For this news came as a sudden shock to him. He had not
anticipated parting with her for at least a twelve-month--or perhaps
more--from the day of her betrothal to Harold Jefferson.
Dora and he had been very firm friends from the earliest days, and since
his commercial downfall this bond between the two had increased tenfold.
For, when Mr Maybury was rich, Dora had been a queen-in-little, very
imperious, exacting, impetuous, and possibly somewhat selfish. But ever
she had been her father's most treasured possession, and he had loved to
see her in dainty dresses, and surrounded by those pretty things which
his wealth had enabled him to buy for her in abundance. So devoted was
he to the child, indeed, that when he married for the second time, his
new wife had exhibited no little jealousy on Dora's account.
Then came the crash--when Dora was a schoolgirl--and then, when the
elder Miss Maybury and Mrs Maybury uttered lamentations for their
altered estate, and even went so far as to upbraid Mr Maybury for his
short-sighted business policy, Dora's arms closed about his neck, her
lips sought his haggard face, and Dora's voice, with words of love and
affection, acted like healing balm upon his sore heart.
"Yes," he said at length, "it does seem a little time--a month!"
He sighed--and Dora's eyes filled with tears she would not let fall, so
that she saw him as through a mist, dimly.
"Oh, father," she said, laying her head upon his shoulder, "it does seem
dreadful to have to leave you, but I shall come to see you very
often--very, _very_ often!"
"Yes, yes, dear," he said, "you will come and see me. I must not be
selfish. I cannot expect to keep you by my side all my life. It is the
same with most fathers. Their sons seek wives, their daughters are
taken from them, and they are left alone."
"Poor father," said Dora, gently, as she kissed him.
Mr Maybury sat down, and Dora placed herself on his knees, as had been
her custom from babyhood, with one round arm encircling his neck.
In those early days Dora may have sadly plagued her nurse or governess,
but with her father she had always been docile, serving him with a
demure obedience that had been very sweet to see. As a child, her
storms of tears would be replaced of a sudden by sunny smiles when she
heard his voice or noticed his approaching form. Their mutual love was
a talisman which chased away her frowns and pouts, and changed her, upon
his entrance, into a totally different creature, her nurse or governess
wondering greatly the while. And so, though of a naturally wilful
disposition, Dora would often strive to conquer the rebellious mood when
she felt it coming upon her, simply that she might please her father.
Tender recollections had both now of the strolls they used to take
through the fields which surrounded their old home, which stood far
enough outside Manchester to be free from the smoke of the factories.
Mr Maybury revelled in the peace of the meadowland after the din of the
city in whose midst he earned his money, and Dora, though she loved to
romp with other girls, and to go to theatres and concerts and parties,
preferred these quiet walks to anything else--the walks which came to an
end when she was just merging into womanhood. And now they lived in a
poor crescent, and one had to go by train to reach woods and green
fields. On Sunday evenings now the clang of many bells came to their
ears above the ceaseless hum of toiling omnibuses and trams, and the
badinage of Londoners promenading--so sadly different was it all to the
excursions of olden times, her little hand in his big one, the grave
father's voice mingling with her childish tones.
Picture after picture presented itself to their minds in phantasmal
fashion. There was the cool old church where they sat side by side in a
roomy, ancient pew, Dora nestling close to her father and watching the
preacher with wondering big eyes. Then there was the pleasant
after-service talk with their neighbours, and finally the walk home
along the leafy lanes, with Nature's winged choristers chanting songs of
the holy day, and all sorts of tiny hedge-people buzzing and laughing in
the sunshine.
"Father, you look so sad!" said Dora. "But there is still a month, and
we must make the most of that--you and I! We will go to the theatre
together--so as to be quite by ourselves--and sit in the pit and enjoy
ourselves tremendously. It will be such a change, after stalls and
boxes! I don't suppose I shall ever sit in the pit after I am married."
It seemed to Mr Maybury that her voice lost its gay ring as she uttered
these concluding words, but it never occurred to him to ask her whether
she was quite sure that she loved the man she was going to marry. He
took it for granted that she did.
They chatted on together until a clock near at hand tolled out "One."
Then Mr Maybury said it was time they both went to bed.
He kissed her tenderly on the forehead, and then she held the light so
that he might see his way down to the next landing. "Good-night, dear!"
she said; and he, glancing upwards, thought he had never beheld so fair
a picture as she made standing there in the dark doorway.
[Illustration: "GOOD-NIGHT!"]
And thus they parted--he to rest, she to think. For, long after the
house was hushed in slumber, Dora paced up and down her little bedroom.
Often she paused in front of her glass and communed with the white-faced
reflection that gazed back at her.
On their way home from the theatre, Harold Jefferson had told her that
he intended to use all his influence to procure her father a more
remunerative position at the office.
"And then," said Dora, at length, to the face in the glass, "father will
be comfortably off all his life. That is everything!"
With a little shiver she blew out her candle and crept into bed. For
long she lay sleepless, but presently a compassionate angel, in the
course of her flight over the Dark City, entered the little room, and,
touching the girl's eyelids with her cool finger-tips, led her away to
Dreamland.
Harold Jefferson was as good as his word, for, shortly before lunch time
on the following day, Mr Maybury was informed that the head of the firm
wished to see him in his private room. Mr Maybury at once obeyed the
summons, concluding that it must have something to do with his
daughter's engagement to Harold. Possibly the elder Jefferson objected
to the match, and a curious feeling of elation took possession of Mr
Maybury as it occurred to him that this might be the case.
Mr Jefferson was a stout, rather apoplectic-looking man of some sixty
years--quite unlike his son in appearance. There was nothing of the
keen, lean stockbroker about him; indeed, his ponderous manner and
measured speech reminded one of an old-fashioned type of merchant that
is now almost extinct.
"Ha! sit down, Mr Maybury. A pleasant change after the muggy weather we
have been experiencing lately! Ahem! yes, I wanted to see you on a
little matter--quite a little matter--ahem! You have been with us
now----"
"Three years, sir," said the other quietly.
"Three years? So long! Well, well--time flies, time flies. But to
business. I--er--I have--er--asked my manager, Mr Jacobs, to recommend
such persons in--er--in my employ as he considers deserving of an
increase in salary. The new year is close at hand, and it appears to me
an--er--an appropriate season for such--er--recommendations. Your name,
Mr Maybury, comes first on the list. I am assured that you are most
punctilious in--er--in the discharge of your duties, and that you are a
man to be implicitly trusted in all respects. I gather, in short, that
you are in all respects a most satisfactory servant of the--er--firm. I
have decided, therefore, to make a substantial addition to your present
salary. You are now paid--er--you receive----"
"One hundred and fifty pounds a year, sir."
"One hundred and fifty? Well, well,--that is hardly adequate
remuneration for a man of your integrity and ability. A good man
is--er--is worth good pay. I shall have much pleasure, therefore, Mr
Maybury, in raising your salary to--er--three hundred pounds a year."
_Three hundred a year_! The amount had a refreshing, satisfying sound!
It would mean a very different state of things at No. 9, would three
hundred a year.
"I am deeply grateful to you, sir----" began Mr Maybury.
"Don't mention it. You deserve it. Your increase of salary will
commence on New Year's Day. And now, Mr Maybury, we will turn to another
topic. There has for some time been a little affair--a little
love-making--between two young people we both know very well. I have
known, of course, that my son Harold was paying attentions to your
daughter; he has spoken of her--in fact, he has shown me her photograph.
She is, if I may say so, a very charming young lady, and I hope to have
the--er--pleasure of making her acquaintance quite shortly. In fact, I
trust that Mrs Maybury and yourself will bring Miss--er--Flora----"
"Dora," corrected Mr Maybury, with a slight smile.
"_Dora_! Pardon my mistake! Yes, I trust you will all three come and
dine with Harold and myself at an early date. I--er--I had no idea that
Harold contemplated matrimony--ahem!--quite so soon, but I shall be glad
to see him settle down, as he has hitherto been a little restless--a
little--ahem!--a little irregular in his habits. So I am not displeased
at this--er--this approaching union."
"I am glad to hear that it meets with your approval, sir."
Mr Jefferson drummed thoughtfully on the table with his fingers. For a
long time he had been dissatisfied with his son's conduct, and the news
of the latter's matrimonial intentions had come as an immense relief to
the worried parent.
"I do not think I need keep you any longer, Mr Maybury," said the
stockbroker, at length; "er--we shall no doubt see a little more of each
other in--er--in future."
Mr Maybury rose from his chair with a curiously determined look on his
face. He had fully made up his mind on a certain matter that had dawned
upon him during the latter part of this short interview.
"I wish to ask you one question, sir," he said, "before I definitely
accept your proffered increase of salary."
"Certainly, certainly," said the other. "What is it?"
"I wish to ask you, as man to man, and not as servant to employer,
whether your son's forthcoming marriage with my daughter has anything to
do with your proposed doubling of my salary?"
The stockbroker frowned. "That, Mr Maybury," he replied, "is entirely
my business. It is sufficient for you to know that I have decided to
enlarge your stipend by the amount I have named."
"I wish you to answer my question, sir," said Mr Maybury, firmly.
"And I decline to answer it," returned the other, his previously urbane
manner vanishing as he spoke.
"Then, sir, I shall take it that I am correct in my assumption--that you
are making this increase solely because you wish me to occupy a better
position in the world than my present salary enables me to hold."
"And supposing it _were_ that?" demanded the stockbroker, roughly. "Do
you mean to say you will refuse such an offer?"
"I do, sir. I absolutely decline this increase of salary. I will take
what I earn, and not a penny more."
So saying, with a slight bow, Mr Maybury turned on his heel and left the
room.
The stockbroker sat for some time in a state of amazement. At length he
spoke.
"I could not have imagined--I would not have believed--that the City of
London contained such a fool. Here is a man, as poor as a rat, actually
throwing away a hundred and fifty a year! He must be mad!"
Mr Maybury breathed not a word at home of his interview with Mr
Jefferson the elder. As for Harold, when he was informed by his father
of the result of the conversation, he too marvelled greatly.
But he did not think it necessary to mention the upshot of the interview
to Dora.
*CHAPTER XXII.*
*THE WARNING.*
On the same morning, at breakfast, Miss H. R. Maybury informed Jim that
her sister was to be married to Harold Jefferson at the end of January.
Miss Maybury kept a careful watch on Jim's face while she imparted this
piece of news, for she, like her stepmother, had for some time suspected
the young doctor of not being entirely indifferent to Dora. Of the
latter's attitude towards Dr Mortimer Miss H. R. Maybury was in a state
of aggravating doubt. She had a shrewd idea that Dora, on her part, was
not insensible to such charms as Jim might possess, but she was not sure
about it. She had quite unsuccessfully endeavoured to "draw" Dora on
the subject, but Dora had listened to H. R.'s references to Jim with a
blank countenance that told no tales and gave nothing away.
On this occasion Jim was taken quite by surprise, and his face yielded
up his secret. H. R., warily observing his expression, saw that she had
been correct in her surmise. Dr Mortimer _was_ in love with her sister!
"Indeed!" said Jim confusedly. "Rather soon, isn't it?"
"Yes, it has been a very short engagement," returned H. R.--"in fact, I
don't think myself that Dora ought to be married until she's at least
twenty--she is so _very_ young for her age! What do you think?"
"It has never struck me that she was," replied Jim, beginning to regain
his self-possession.
"She is still a child in her thoughts," Miss Maybury declared.
Jim, framing his opinion on the events of a certain walk Dora and he had
taken in the Crescent one night, thought otherwise, but thought it quite
to himself.
"However," continued Miss Maybury, "it appears that Mr Jefferson has
been advised by Dr Taplow to go abroad for a few months--until the worst
of the winter is over."
"He looks delicate," said Jim, grimly.
"Yes, I'm afraid his chest is not too strong. Well, as I was saying, he
has got to go abroad, and, as he can't bear to leave Dora all that time,
he thinks that the best plan will be for them to get married at once."
Jim wondered whether Mr Jefferson's delicate chest was his sole reason
for hurrying on the marriage.
"And so now," concluded Miss Maybury, "it will be all bustle and
milliners until the important day, and I am afraid you poor men will be
made rather uncomfortable."
"Oh, you mustn't mind us," said Jim, good-humouredly; "we can have our
meals on the stairs, if you like."
And so, with a laugh, Jim got on to his long legs and departed to his
surgery, leaving Miss Maybury wondering more than ever whether Dora had
given him any secret encouragement.
Jim whistled in a melancholy, stolid way as he walked along Blackfriars
Road to his work. So Dora Maybury was to be married in a month. One
month! And that would be the end of the little romance which had
started in a tea-shop at mid-summer, when he, Jim, first saw a face
which had haunted him ever since.
Dora was to be married in a month's time, and the face would vanish, and
he didn't suppose he would ever care about another girl all his life
long.
"For if I live to a hundred," thought Jim, still staunch to his
lady-love, "I shall never meet such an angel again. Henceforth, J.
Mortimer, you've got to settle down to a bachelor existence. It's Dora
or nobody, and, as it can't be Dora, it must be nobody."
It was lucky for Jim that he found heaps of work awaiting him in the
shape of a long queue of humble patients, for he had no time to brood
over his sorrows. He had to anoint unsavoury sores and bind up ugly
wounds; he had to listen to long tales of neuralgias, sleepless nights,
cramps, and the _olla podrida_ of small woes to which our human flesh is
heir--and heiress. It was chiefly heiress, as we have before remarked,
at the Mount Street surgery. And Jim, of course, had to listen very
carefully, for sometimes he found himself face to face with a malignant
disease--something that called for prompt and accurate diagnosis. Love
and lovers' thoughts must be driven into the background when a doctor
finds himself gazing on a waxen-faced morsel of humanity which,
unbeknown to its mother, has the seeds of diphtheria apparent in its wee
throat--and such cases were presented to Jim in plenty. The dire
complaints which came into Jim's surgery seemed to be shed upon him by a
beneficent Providence, for they brought out the man and the surgeon, and
bade the love-sick swain forget his own woes in the bodily ills of his
fellow-creatures.
After the visiting patients had been dealt with, Jim went out upon his
rounds. He returned to his surgery about tea-time, and had not been
long back when the Chinaman adorning the mantelpiece was precipitated on
to his face, and a sound of shuffling steps proceeded from the
waiting-room.
"Come in!" bawled Jim, who was reading an evening paper by the fire.
"Old Harris, I'll bet a dollar," he added to himself.
He had guessed aright. Mr Harris it was, but this time his disorder was
something more substantial than a feeling as if his hair were being
brushed. In point of fact, the face of the junior partner in the firm of
Harris & Father was decorated with scratches.
The old man sank into a chair.
"I've come over for a box of ointment, doctor. You see these marks on my
face?"
"They're pretty visible," said Jim.
"_Rebecca!_" explained the old man, in a hollow voice.
"Miss Nathan?"
"Yes, that was the party vot done it."
"Showing her affection for her future father-in-law rather early in the
day?" ventured Jim.
"_Father-in-law?_--not me! She'll never marry that velp Isaac. She's
about finished vith '_im_!"
"That's good news," said Jim. "Who's the new young man?"
"Vy," said the provision dealer, "I'm thinkin' she'll be after _you_
next, doctor!"
"_Me!_" said Jim, looking so amazed that the old Jew was seized with a
most unpleasant spasm of mirth.
"Yes, ever since you chucked Isaac out that night," he explained, "she's
referred to you in an admirin' vay vich turns Isaac simply yeller. Yes,
I told you she'd marry a gentleman, and you're 'er choice, my dear sir!"
And again the old man's throat gave out a croaking wheeze which, by a
lurid effort of the imagination, might be described as laughter.
"So you will understand," added Mr Harris, "that Isaac don't love yer.
In fact, I believe 'e set those 'Ooligans on yer in Pine Court."
"You think that?" inquired Jim, sharply.
"It's a bad thing to say of one's own flesh an' blood," returned Mr
Harris, "but I think 'e did. I want to _varn_ yer, doctor; keep yer eye
open, for them ruffians ain't done vith yer yet--nor 'as Isaac."
"You imagine they'll have another go at me?" said Jim.
"I do," said the old man, "and next time they'll make dead sure of yer.
They're not men--they're wolves. They never forgive. That's their
natur'--and Isaac's."
Jim pulled at his pipe thoughtfully. He felt that the old Jew, despite
Isaac's unfilial conduct, would not have denounced his own son in this
way if there had not been serious reasons for his so doing.
"I'll remember your warning, Mr Harris," he said at length; "and now,"
he added, "let me see what I can do for you. Stand here by the gas,
will you?"
The old man obeyed.
"She went for you pretty hard," remarked Jim, proceeding to mix up some
healing ointment for his patient; "how did it happen?"
"Like this," said Mr Harris. "Last night Isaac and I vos invited to
spend the evenin' at the Nathans. On'y she and 'er brother vos
there--the old 'uns vos out. 'Er brother is a big loud feller, and
despises Isaac. Vell, ve set down to cards--'Uncle Sam' vos the
game----"
"A tricky one, too," put in Jim.
"So ve found," added the provision dealer, "for Rebecca, she von nearly
ev'ry pool. After a bit I votched 'er close, and found some of the
cards vos marked. So I says: 'Rebecca,' I says, 'you ain't playin'
fair,' I says. '_Vot!_' she cries, colourin' up. 'Vy,' I says, 'you're
cheatin', my dear!' Yes, I said that--to 'er face--and she up and let
me 'ave 'er nails--all ten of 'em--down my face, an' 'er brother 'e says
if I vosn't an old man 'e'd throw me out of the 'ouse. Yes, 'e said
that. And I says, 'Isaac,' I says, 'vill you see your old fader used in
this vay, vithout raisin' a 'and to 'elp 'im?' But Isaac was turnin'
green an' pink, and didn't dare say nothink, so ven I'd got out of
Rebecca's clutches I ups vith my glass of gin-and-vater an' lets
Rebecca's brother 'ave it full in the face, an' then I gets 'old of the
poker an' I says: 'Touch me,' I says, 'an' I'll rap you over the skull,'
I says. Yes, like that! And he daren't put a finger on me, so I gets
my 'at an' off I goes, and if they've got my money I've got their
poker--yes, and I'll keep it, too--yes, and that's vot 'appened, doctor
dear."
[Illustration: "TOUCH ME," I SAYS, "AN' I'LL RAP YOU OVER THE SKULL," I
SAYS]
"Bravo!" said Jim, who had listened to this improving story with all
possible interest. "You're quite a scrapper, Mr Harris."
But the old man, whose eyes had burnt fiercely during his recital of the
incident, sat down with a sigh.
"But it's vorse than ever at 'ome, now," he said. "Isaac, 'e's like a
vild beast. 'E sees vot Rebecca is, and yet 'e's mad after 'er still.
Yes, that's 'is state."
It was hardly to be supposed that Jim would evince any sympathy for the
young Jew, knowing, as he did, that Isaac had put the Hooligans on his
track in Pine Court that night. But Jim felt for the old dealer.
"Now, look here, Mr Harris," he said, "if you pull up and play the man
you can get that business back, and be your own master again."
But the dealer shook his head. A reaction had followed his animated
account of the card-party, and he seemed to have shrunk into a smaller
and older man than he really was.
He took the ointment Jim handed to him and put on his hat. His grey
locks were unkempt, his clothes shabby and unbrushed, his eyes dim. He
presented, indeed, a pathetic spectacle. Bidding Jim good evening, the
old Jew, with bowed shoulders, crept out of the surgery, and trudged
away through the December drizzle to resume his joyless tasks at the
provision shop.
For some time Jim sat by his fire thinking over the words of warning Mr
Harris had uttered. Next time, the provision dealer had said, the
Hooligans would make sure of him.
Of a sudden, a pebble crashed through the waiting-room window. Jim
started to his feet, hurried into the passage, and threw open the front
door. Mount Street was the picture of desolation; a light, clammy rain
was descending steadily, and the pavements were deserted. One figure,
however, was plainly visible by the lamp-post on the opposite
pavement--that of a man with his head bound up.
In a flash Jim recognised him as one of the gang that had assaulted him
in Pine Court--this was the man, indeed, whom he had knocked down early
in the proceedings.
Instantly on making this discovery Jim strode across the road. As
quickly the man vanished down an alley. Jim, reaching the entrance to
the alley, hesitated. Might not this fellow be acting as a decoy?
Jim had learnt prudence. Slowly he turned on his heel and went back to
the surgery. Closing the street door, he resumed his chair by the fire,
and in a narrow street just off the alley a group of Hooligans, baffled
again, uttered curses of disappointment as they slowly dispersed about
their bad business.
*CHAPTER XXIII.*
*THE IVORY FAN.*
"In my opinion," quoth Miss Bird, looking up from her embroidery (she
was making Dora a table-centre for a wedding present), "girls have too
many dresses. When I was your age, my dear, I had two dresses--one for
everyday and the other for Sundays. They were both black. In those days
girls were taught to be contented with a few clothes, and to make them
last a _very_ long time!"
"How long did you have to make your best dress last?" asked Dora.
"Five years," said Miss Bird.
"Just fancy!" cried Dora. "Why, it must have been _green_ by that
time."
"It _was_ green," acknowledged Miss Bird, with a hard smile.
"And you still wore it?"
"Of course I wore it! I had no other."
"But you must have _hated_ wearing it!"
"I _did_ hate wearing it," said Miss Bird; "I loathed the sight of it.
I could have torn it to pieces. But it was my only good dress, and so I
kept it in constant repair, and cleaned it, and brushed it, and put it
away very carefully every Sunday night or after a party. Ah! young
girls had a very different time of it forty years ago, _I_ can tell you,
my dear!"
Dora gazed at Miss Bird in some surprise. The severe-looking maiden
lady seldom spoke so feelingly. Yet, of late, she had talked to Dora a
good deal. Dora had given up her situation at the post-office--by
Harold Jefferson's express desire--and so was at home all day now.
Consequently, she and Miss Bird saw much of each other, and a kind of
little friendliness had grown up between them which had never existed
previously. In fact, before this cold, wet January set in, Miss Bird
had seemed to entertain a feeling of dislike for Dora.
"No," recommended Miss Bird, who probably felt that she had shown a
little too much of her human side, "in those days girls didn't gad about
on bicycles and scamper after footballs and cricket balls like so many
boys. Nor did they go to the theatre alone with young men. No, in my
young days I wasn't even allowed to look out of the window at people
passing along the pavement. I was fined a shilling if I did. You may
not believe that, but it's true! I was brought up very strictly by an
aunt in a country village, and I don't suppose anybody on this
earth--except a convict in prison, who deserves all he gets, the
rascal!--ever passed such a monotonous existence as I did."
"How long did you live with your aunt?" asked Dora, rather timidly.
"Until I was thirty," replied Miss Bird, "and then she died and left me
just enough to live on. And I've been living on that just enough ever
since."
Miss Bird's customary conversation consisted of harsh comments on
current events or severe criticisms of internal affairs at No. 9. She
had never been so communicative regarding her past life before.
Dora employed herself with her sewing for a time, and then observed: "I
am afraid you cannot have been very happy as a girl, Miss Bird.
Did--did you ever see any young men?"
Miss Bird uttered a grating, unmusical laugh. "I saw the backs of a few
in church."
"Was that all?"
"And occasionally talked to a curate at a croquet party."
"How _dreadful_!" cried Dora.
"My aunt,", explained Miss Bird, "hated men! She was jilted as a girl,
and detested men ever afterwards. So I never spoke to any men--except
curates. No man ever said a tender word to me--no man ever lent me a
book or wrote a poem to me, or presented me with a bunch of flowers.
That was my girlhood--and now, perhaps, you won't be so surprised at my
being a cross old woman!"
Dora, with a sweet impulse, dropped her sewing, and, putting her arms
round the elderly lady's neck, kissed her on the cheek.
"I am so sorry you were unhappy," she said, gently.
The grimness faded out of Miss Bird's face. She laid down her
embroidery and took Dora's hand.
"My dear," she said, "that is all over and gone. Still, I shall not
forget what you said. Some day you may want a friend--a woman--and then
you mustn't be afraid to come to me. My bark, child, is worse than my
bite.... There! now we mustn't be sentimental any longer, but get on
with our work."
Dora therefore relapsed once more into her seat by Miss Bird's side and
resumed her sewing, and for some time the silence was unbroken save by
the sound of stitching.
"When is the wedding, child?" asked Miss Bird, suddenly.
"On the 26th," said Dora, bending rather more closely over her work.
Miss Bird submitted the girl's profile to a severe scrutiny.
"Personally," she said at length, "I don't like the man."
"Who?" said Dora.
"Jefferson."
"But," Dora hastened to retort, "you were in favour of my being engaged
to him."
"I know more of him now," said the old maid, "and in my opinion that
young doctor's worth ten of him."
Dora started, and her needle went into her finger.
"You pricked yourself then," jeered Miss Bird.
Dora said nothing.
"Because I mentioned _him_!"
"What _do_ you mean, Miss Bird?" demanded Dora, with cheeks afire.
Before Miss Bird could reply, however, the door opened and Mr Cleave
appeared.
"I hope--er--I hope I am not interrupting you," said the newcomer, with
a slight cough; "that is to say, you may be discussing some matter of
dress--ahem!--trust I am not _de trop_?"
"That's exactly what you _are_!" roared Miss Bird.
"Oh--er--ahem!--in that case I will retire----"
"If you please!" replied Miss Bird, sternly.
"Oh, Mr Cleave, of _course_ you may come in!" cried Dora, rising to her
feet. "In fact, I was just going out----"
"That's a fib!" said Miss Bird.
But Dora had flown. "Well, come in, come in," said Miss Bird; "come in
and read your wretched little paper----"
"Pardon?" inquired Cleave.
"Your _paper_!" howled Miss Bird; "your wretched little rag of a paper
that squeals like a pig when anybody has a glass of beer."
"I--er--think--I--er--I think I will _not_ come in just now," bleated
Cleave, retiring precipitately.
"Bah!" muttered Miss Bird, "everything's upside down. That man ought to
be in skirts, and Mortimer ought to be _shot_ for not eloping with
Dora!"
And so the preparations for the wedding continued apace. Of course,
economy had to be studied, wherefore Mrs Maybury hired an industrious
seamstress to come and sew every day; and sew the seamstress did, till
her fingers ached. Miss Bird sat by and threw out hints; H. R. snapped
at Miss Bird, and Mrs Maybury snapped at H. R. Finally, the two latter
would snap at Dora, who, after firing up at them, would retire to her
bedroom, presently descending softly to sit in the drawing-room, the
others being in possession of the dining-room.
So passed this damp January time, and the wedding day drew nearer and
nearer. Occasionally Mr Jefferson appeared, very dapper and smiling, in
evening dress, and carried Dora off to a theatre. But after these
excursions, Dora would be very silent, and slip off to her bedroom at
the first possible moment.
Mr Maybury and Dora had a quiet evening together at the theatre. They
went to see a comedy--a piece in which laughter and tears trod upon one
another's heels--a good little piece whose like is not often seen on
London boards. They sat hand-in-hand, as in the old days, this father
and daughter, and when it was all over, and they came out into the
street, their faces were sad. For they were to part soon--so soon.
One day Koko met Jim, by appointment, at Charing Cross, and they both
set off for Regent Street to buy Dora a wedding present.
"I know a shop," said Jim; "bought some things there at Christmas."
"Oh yes," said Koko, "you told me. Very nice dark girl there, eh?"
"I forget," said Jim, indifferently; "I daresay there is. Most of the
girls in these shops are dark."
"I recollect you mentioned this one to me particularly," said Koko.
"Did I?" replied Jim. "Well, I daresay I did. Anyhow, I haven't the
faintest idea what I'm going to get. Been thinking about it for three
weeks, too."
"Personally," said Koko, "I am going to buy her a work-box."
"A _what_?"
"A work-box--full of pins and needles and tapes, and all that sort of
thing."
"I thought ladies used work-_baskets_," hazarded Jim, vaguely.
"Boxes," said Koko.
"_Baskets_," insisted Jim; "work-_boxes_ are a trifle obsolete, I
believe."
"Obsolete or not obsolete," said Koko, "I shall get her a work-_box_."
"All right," returned Jim; "I don't care."
Koko stole a glance at Jim as they walked up Waterloo Place. He had
noticed, of late, that Jim was looking unusually gaunt and thin. Koko
felt very sorry for his friend, for, in spite of the Long 'Un's lively
manner, Koko saw that his old chum was quite a different man now to the
jaunty youth who had been the life and soul of Matt's.
"I must get him away for a holiday," thought Koko, in his quiet way;
"this business has knocked him over a bit."
They stood for some time outside the shop staring at the array of
presents in the window. Koko was staunch to his work-box, but Jim,
after gazing into the window for five minutes, was still quite
undecided. At length he declared he would leave it to the dark girl.
[Illustration: JIM WAS STILL QUITE UNDECIDED.]
Koko walked in first, and, espying the dark girl, approached her part of
the counter. Very soon a dozen work-boxes lay before him, and he was
not long in making up his mind about one. Then, true to his programme,
he had it well stocked with everything that Dora could possibly
require--even down to a box of matches.
"You never know when you won't want matches," he explained to Jim.
"Well," said Jim, brusquely, "you've got your work-box. Now what about
me?"
"Go ahead," said Koko; "there are about twenty thousand things to choose
from in this shop."
"A present for a lady?" queried the dark girl.
"Yes," said Jim; "a wedding present."
"I know the very thing," she said, and took down from a shelf near by an
ivory fan with forget-me-nots painted by hand upon it.
"Yes, very pretty," agreed Jim; "but--er--I should prefer some other
kind of flower."
The dark girl fancied she understood.
"I have another ivory fan that is just as pretty as this one. I will
get it."
The fan was brought. Upon the pure ivory was painted a little sprig of
rosemary.
"'That's for remembrance,'" quoted Koko, softly.
And so Jim chose the ivory fan as a wedding present for Dora.
*CHAPTER XXIV.*
*JIM CATCHES A TRAIN.*
When old Dr Mortimer received Jim's Christmas card, his face hardened
into stone, and his first impulse was to throw the little photograph
into the fire. After Jim's final and crowning sin, the Doctor had
decided that he would have nothing more to do with his grandson, whose
hospital career had been one long escapade, punctuated, at rare
intervals, with fits of steady reading.
Jim owed his qualification to his natural genius rather than to these
bursts of study. A certain amount of book-work he had been obliged to
do, and he did it. Practical work he had revelled in, for action suited
his mercurial, restless disposition, and his practical work had saved
him. He was by head and shoulders the finest operator Matt's had turned
out for many a year, and the examining board knew it.
Throughout his student's career he had been by turns the pride and
despair of his grandfather. Dr Mortimer had sent him angry letters when
he was in town, and delivered stern reproofs when he came down to
Threeways. Jim had promised reformation, only to fall away from the
narrow path of rectitude at the first opportunity that presented itself.
At last came the paragraph in the local paper anent Jim's doings at the
Exhibition, and this had used up the last scrap of his grandfather's
patience. Everybody read the paragraph, and everybody laughed at it.
Overcome with rage, the Doctor had sat down at his desk and penned the
letter which changed the whole course of Jim's existence.
So the old doctor put Jim out of his life--thrust him forth to get his
bread--or starve. But he could not put his grandson out of his heart,
and, as he sat by his lonely fireside during the following weeks and
months, his thoughts had often wandered to the wayward lad, and he had
often wondered how Jim was faring--had wondered even, indeed, whether he
were alive or dead.
The photograph of his surgery which Jim sent to his grandfather served
to allay the old man's misgivings. He had fancied at one time that Jim
had gone clean to the bad, and that Sir Savile and other old friends who
knew both grandfather and grandson were loth to inform him of the lad's
downfall. But it appeared from the photograph--and the particulars on
the back of it--that Jim was earning his living. His practice did not
appear to embrace an aristocratic quarter, but that did not matter very
much. Jim was working, and probably amassing much useful experience.
The old doctor felt relieved. His first impulse--to tear up the little
picture--soon departed. He turned Jim's card over several times, and
finally, wondering somewhat at his unusual weakness propped it up
against one of the massive bronze candlesticks which stood upon his
dining-room mantelpiece. It was the only card Dr Mortimer received, and
it looked curiously small and forlorn stuck up on that spacious,
dignified mantelpiece all by itself.
There, however, the Doctor put it, and there it stayed. The servants
examined it and read the message it bore on its little back, and so they
too came to learn where "Mr James" was, as did Hughes and the other
attendants over at the asylum, not to mention the gardeners, the
coachman, and the stable hands. So the kitchen drank a bumper on
Christmas night; the butler gave the toast "Mr James--his health!" and
with right honest warmth was it drunk. "Bless his handsome face and kind
heart!" added the cook, wiping her motherly eyes--and thus Jim, knowing
nothing of it, was remembered.
And it is just possible that the proud old man in the dining-room drank
a silent toast to the lad he had expelled--without acknowledging to
himself that he did so.
Christmas passed away, and January was drawing to a close, when not only
the county of Eastfolk but the whole country was distressed by news to
the effect that Lord Lingfield, the eminent statesman--one of the few
prominent politicians of the day reputed to speak and vote according to
the dictates of conscience--had been laid low by a dangerous and
distressing internal malady. The illness had been threatening for some
months; indeed, it had first manifested itself on the day when Lady
Lingfield, having driven over to consult Dr Mortimer, encountered Jim in
the act of crossing the high road in his dressing-gown.
Since that day old Dr Mortimer had paid frequent visits to his
distinguished patient, who had at first made light of his complaint, and
who did not really realise that his life was in jeopardy until a sudden
change in the weather gave him a chill and brought matters to a head. A
provincial specialist had been summoned to consult with Dr Mortimer, and
Jim, glancing through his morning paper on 25th January--the eve of
Dora's wedding day--lighted on a paragraph announcing that Sir Savile
Smart was also in attendance at the invalid's bedside. The three
doctors had issued the following bulletin on the previous evening:--
The Earl of Lingfield is in a critical condition. Should no improvement
take place during the next twelve hours, an operation will be rendered
imperative.
(Signed) SAVILE SMART, F.R.C.S.
E. A. M'IVER, M.D.
JOHN MORTIMER, M.D.
Jim smiled affectionately at the sight of his grandfather's familiar
name thus figuring in the public press. He was turning to another item
of news, when there came a thundering rat-tat at No. 9's front door, and
next moment Mary entered with a telegram, which she handed to Jim. He
tore open the envelope. The message it contained was addressed from
"Carhall," Lord Lingfield's country seat near Threeways, and ran:--
Come by first train. Most urgent.--SAVILE SMART.
Jim stared in amaze at the summons. This was, indeed, a strange turn of
fortune's wheel. He--Jim Mortimer--was evidently required to assist in
an operation in which his grandfather would also be participating! He
had helped Sir Savile in this very operation a score of times, and had
performed it by himself at Matt's with the great specialist looking on.
For Jim had guessed the nature of the operation when Sir Savile was sent
for.
"And so he wants me to lend a hand. Good man!"
In a few moments Jim had looked up a train. There was an express leaving
for Threeways in half an hour. Just time! Mary flew for a cab, Jim got
into his hat and coat, and was away before the Maybury family had fully
grasped the reason of his haste or the exalted nature of his
destination.
"Half-a-sovereign if you catch the 9.30 at Liverpool Street," said Jim
to the cabman.
"Right, sir!" said the cabby, joyously.
But the roads were slippery, and travelling was bad. Horses steamed and
plunged, drivers lashed and swore--and Jim's cab made slow progress.
At last the cabby found an opening and dashed forward. But, alas! he
had just got up speed, when his horse stumbled and fell, and could not
regain its feet, despite its frantic struggles.
Jim leapt out nimbly. "Hard luck, cabby!" he said. "Here's your
half-sov."
"You're a gentleman, sir," returned the driver, touching his hat as he
went to undo the prostrate nag's harness.
Jim took a fresh cab, and caught his train with a minute to spare. He
welcomed this journey, for the rapid motion suited him to a nicety.
This was better than brooding in his surgery--this was action, life,
excitement. The country was anxiously awaiting news of the great
statesman's illness--and Jim was to help in the drama. The operation
would not be performed, Jim knew, until he arrived at Lord Lingfield's
residence ... and the train whirled on, and Jim, though sore at
heart--for was not Dora to be married on the morrow?--derived great
comfort from Sir Savile's call.
The train sped on, and Jim's thoughts raced along with it. His brain
and the mighty engine kept stride for stride.
"To-morrow! To-morrow!" sang the whirling wheels.
As the meadows, streams, and woods came into view and as quickly passed
out again, so the events of the last few months presented themselves
panorama-wise to Jim's mind. The tea-shop--the dainty girl with the
fairest face in the world--he in raptures, with Koko soberly
listening--the vacation--the return--the introduction--the fight at the
Exhibition--his grandfather's letter--No. 9--the surgery in Mount
Street--and ... that night in the Crescent! Ah, that one kiss! ...
Meadows, streams, woods flashed into view and out again as the express
flew eastwards. London was left farther and farther behind, and Dora
with it. Jim's heart telegraphed her a farewell. To-morrow she was to
be married--_to-morrow_! So good-bye, little Dora--good-bye! ...
"THREEWAYS! THREEWAYS!"
Here he was at last! A tall footman was on the platform. Evidently he
had received a description of Jim, for he advanced directly the latter
stepped out of the train, and in another half-minute Jim was rolling
along a road very dear and familiar to his eyes.
It was four miles to Lord Lingfield's residence--and the earl's fine
bays made a mouthful of the journey.
"Sir Savile wishes to see you at once, sir," said the butler, as Jim
entered the lofty hall of the great house.
Jim followed the servant into the library. Sir Savile was leaning back
in a big easy-chair, and Jim noted with some concern that the
specialist's right arm was in a sling. By his side stood Jim's
grandfather. The third doctor was in the sick-room.
Sir Savile, without rising, put out his left hand.
"My dear Mortimer, this is splendid of you! You have not lost a
moment!"
They shook hands. Jim turned to his grandfather. "How do you do, sir?"
he said, flushing a little.
Dr Mortimer bent his head slightly, but did not speak.
"I suppose you were surprised to receive my message?" said Sir Savile.
"The fact is, I've had an accident. I was coming downstairs this
morning, when I fell and dislocated my shoulder. That being the case, I
wired to you----"
"I shall be pleased to assist in any way I can," said Jim.
The specialist smiled. "You haven't got to assist, Mortimer--you've got
to operate yourself."
"I, sir!" cried Jim.
"Yes, _you_! You're the best man in England after me, as I have reason
to know. So, when I found myself out of the running, I sent for you. I
shall direct you, and you will receive assistance from my colleagues,
but the success or failure of the operation will rest entirely in your
hands. If you succeed, you're a made man; if you fail----"
"I shall not fail," said Jim quietly.
"I know you won't, my boy," said Sir Savile; "for, if I had had any
doubt of you, I shouldn't have sent for you ... and now we will go
upstairs."
*CHAPTER XXV.*
*IN THE SILENT HOUSE.*
At six o'clock that night Jim Mortimer caught a train back to London.
He had operated with complete success, and every evening paper in the
country had published the reassuring bulletin which Sir Savile drew up
after the satisfactory completion of Jim's task.
Had the operation failed, no mention would have been made of Jim's
participation in the affair. But the young surgeon had come through the
trying ordeal with an unshaken nerve and triumphant skill, and Sir
Savile was more than satisfied.
It was the concluding sentence of the bulletin, therefore, which caused
universal surprise and set the whole medical world by the ears--as well
as a multitude of laymen--until the fact of the specialist's accident
became public knowledge.
The operation was performed by Mr James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., late of St
Matthew's Hospital.
Thus did Sir Savile, with a few strokes of his pen, make Jim famous. He
need not have said anything of the kind, for the operation was carried
out under his close personal supervision, but he was a big man, with a
big mind, and he did not hesitate for a moment about crediting Jim with
the entire success of the perilous undertaking. A tremor in Jim's hand,
a slip of his knife, and Lord Lingfield's name would have been added to
the roll of illustrious dead. But Jim's hand did not tremble, nor did
his knife slip, and so the happy bulletin went forth, and the world was
glad because a good man had been saved to it.
The proud lady who had spoken to Jim from her carriage on that fine
September day was a different woman altogether when she thanked him for
what he had done. The aristocratic bearing and the air of fine breeding
were there, but her words were those of a wife sore stricken by watching
and waiting.
And following the mother came the girl Jim had also seen in the carriage
on that September day--"the pretty girl." Jim blushed to the roots of
his fair hair when the pretty girl added her gentle thanks to her
mother's.
"Your fee, my boy," said Sir Savile, encountering Jim a little later in
the library. The slip of paper he pushed into Mortimer's hand was a
cheque for a hundred pounds.
"But, sir----" began Jim, who did not want a penny, so highly had he
been paid in other ways.
"Not a word. It's my case, and I'm not down here for love, I can tell
you. Take your cheque, boy, and buy your girl a necklace out of it. By
the way, how are you getting on with Maybury's nice daughter?"
"She is to be married to-morrow," said Jim, turning to look at a
picture.
The great surgeon, however, did not miss the change in his voice. Jim
went on looking at the picture, and kept his back to Sir Savile, who put
his left hand--his right not being available--on his old pupil's
shoulder.
"Have I touched a tender spot, lad? Well, cheer up! It's a wide world,
with a heap of other pretty girls in it!"
And then he discreetly left Jim alone, and Jim studied the picture for
some time longer, though he could not have told you afterwards whether
it was a landscape or a portrait of a deceased noble earl of Lingfield.
There was no fast train back to town till six, so Jim had perforce to
remain on at Carhall. He did not see anything more of his grandfather,
who left the house after affixing his signature to the bulletin. He made
no inquiry for Jim, and Sir Savile looked perplexed when he saw that his
old friend did not intend to budge an inch from the relentless attitude
he had adopted towards his grandson.
"And yet," mused the specialist, "he must feel as proud as Punch of the
lad!"
Jim had a smoking-carriage all to himself on his return journey. He was
glad of that, for he wanted to think of Dora, and solitude suited his
mood. After this night he would have to put her out of his thoughts
altogether, but to-night she was still Dora Maybury--still the queen of
his heart. To-morrow Jim must in honour cease to be her subject; but
to-morrow had not come yet. Soon enough the new day, dawning, would
bring desolation to his love.
Strange that the turning-point in Jim's career should have come on
Dora's wedding eve! Seemingly it was one of those compensatory acts
wherewith Dame Fortune makes amends for the hard blows she deals. Jim
knew that this day's success was good enough to make a specialist of him
right away. And what joy would have filled his heart, this journey, had
he been speeding back to Dora's side--he could imagine, had she been
his, the pride that would have lit up her face when she heard of his
achievement!
As the train cleft the darkness, eating up a mile of iron road with each
minute that passed, Jim, just for the sake of the melancholy pleasure he
extracted from it, let his fancy wander in the world of make-believe.
Dora was _his_, and was awaiting him. He had only dreamed that she was
another's. London to him now was no grimy, smoke-begirt city, but a
palace of delight set in a garden fragrant with "the blended odours of a
thousand flowers."
But, alas for such vain imaginings! A rough voice roused Jim from his
half-dose, and a rain-spotted hand awaited his ticket.... It was
London, and London in its dampest and most dismal garb.
Jim had wired from Threeways asking Koko to meet him at his surgery at
eight. He thought they might spend the evening together amid cheery
surroundings.
Koko had not arrived at the surgery when he got there. The fire was
out--Mrs Brown, taking advantage of her master's absence, was probably
carousing with other ladies of her own station. Mount Street appeared
exceptionally sordid and forlorn. Everything seemed to have conspired
to add to Jim's weight of sadness.
He lit the gas, and as it flared up he was slightly startled to observe
the figure of a man huddled up on the sofa. On the floor, by the head
of the sofa, stood an empty glass jar.
Jim walked across the room and inspected the sleeper. It was the old
provision dealer.
"Wake up, Mr Harris!" he cried; "wake up! What are you doing here?"
The provision dealer slowly opened his eyes.
"Ain't I--ain't I dead, then?" he demanded.
"_Dead_? No! You're as alive as I am!"
"I thought I'd svallowed enough of the stuff to do the job."
"What stuff?"
"Vy, the prussic acid. That's deadly p'ison, ain't it?"
"Rather!"
"Well, I svallowed all there vos in the bottle ... and I ain't dead, it
seems."
Jim surveyed the empty jar, and found it to be the mislabelled vessel in
which he kept his whisky safe from Mrs Brown's thirsty raids.
"You're a foolish old man!" said Jim. "Never you try on any trick of
that sort again--d'you hear?"
"Vy didn't it kill me?" inquired the dealer in an aggrieved voice.
"Because what you drank wasn't poison--luckily for you."
"Vould it have been enough if it had been p'ison?"
"Yes, enough to kill an elephant."
Old Harris shuddered.
"Vould it have hurt?" he asked.
"It would have burnt your inside up and curled you into a knot. Yes, it
would have hurt a bit."
Mr Harris shook his head.
"It vos Isaac drove me to it. I felt I couldn't stand that velp no
longer--'e drove me to it."
Mr Harris looked very bleared. He had swallowed half a pint of neat
spirit, and the room seemed to be going round him.
"Well," said Jim, "you may thank your stars that wasn't prussic acid.
When you feel better, get along home and turn into bed."
"I vill, doctor, I vill," whined the old Jew; "and I'll pull up--so 'elp
me, I vill."
"That's right," said Jim; "now take another nap--it'll do you good."
As Jim turned towards the counter, his eye lighted on a folded piece of
paper. Picking it up, he found it to be a note that had been left for
him.