It was quite time that the _Record_ had a vacancy for a sub-editor, and
Dodgson was willing to give the berth to Jimmy; only his ideas of salary
were far from being satisfactory.
"You see, you're new to the work, wholly inexperienced," he explained,
"and, under the circumstances, I cannot give you more than two pounds a
week for a start. Afterwards, if the chief sub-editor is satisfied, I
will raise it. If it is worth your while you can start to-morrow."
Jimmy bit his lip. He had expected three pounds at the very least, and
this would be poor news to take back to Lalage. Still, his work would
only be from about six in the evening until midnight, and he could do
some articles or stories during the day, or at any rate he hoped so.
After all, a certain two pounds was far better than nothing, even though
the rent of the flat would swallow fully half of it. So he accepted,
after a nervous and unsuccessful attempt to get Dodgson to increase the
offer by ten shillings.
As he walked back westwards, he found himself wondering what the editor
would have said had he explained how much that extra ten shillings
would have meant to him. The paper was paying a dividend of twenty per
cent., and if the wages of all the sub-editors had been doubled the
shareholders would never have noticed the difference; but to Lalage and
Jimmy the lack of that half-sovereign would involve semi-starvation,
unless it were possible to sell some articles.
Lalage put on a brave face when he told her. "It's a beginning, dear,"
she said. "Of course, it's a shame to pay a clever man like you so
little; but now you've got your foot in, you'll soon get on. You mustn't
be downhearted about it, Jimmy." She glanced at him keenly. "You're
tired out to-night, and I don't believe you've spent anything on
yourself in getting a drink and so on; and you've walked all the way
from Fleet Street. Now haven't you?"
Jimmy tried to protest he was all right, but his heavy eyes betrayed
him, and she insisted that he should go out and get a quartern of
brandy.
"But that will take pretty well all we've got," he answered. "And what
will you do to-morrow?"
"Oh, something will happen," she retorted. "And the worst thing for me
would be to have you ill. What would poor Lalage do then? Now go, like a
dear good boy."
As the door closed behind him, all the brightness left her face. "I
suppose his people would say I was making him drink," she sighed. "Oh,
Jimmy, Jimmy, I'm so afraid. If only I dare agree to give up this flat,
and we could go into quite cheap lodgings. But how can I risk losing
everything?"
Jimmy's work proved more tiring than he had expected. He was thoroughly
conscientious, savagely anxious to satisfy the chief sub-editor and get
a raise; moreover, he was in anything but good health. Consequently, he
always got back to the flat in the early mornings tired out, and, though
he tried hard to write during the daytime, even he, himself, could see
that the work he produced was below his usual level. Anyway, it did not
sell, coming back every time with sickening regularity.
Despite his protests, Lalage always insisted on sitting up for him. "You
must have something hot when you come in," she declared, "even if we can
only run to a cup of cocoa and a little bit of plaice from the fried
fish shop. You can't do brain work on nothing."
Jimmy gladly left all the finances to her. Sometimes he wondered how she
contrived to feed him as well as she did, besides paying the rent, and
letting him have at least a shilling a night when he went down to the
office. She even managed to get some bottled stout for him, and yet, at
any rate whilst he was at home, no one came to the door to dun her for
money. Had he been stronger, he would probably have been suspicious and
have made inquiries; but he was thoroughly run down and weary, and only
too ready to be free from household worries. He had never kept house
himself, knew but little of the cost of things, and had infinite faith
in Lalage's capacity for management.
Once or twice, during the first three months of Jimmy's engagement at
the _Record_, Dodgson asked him to write a special article with
reference to something which had happened abroad, and, when he went to
draw his money for the first of these, Jimmy found that his rate had
been raised to three guineas a column; but his weekly wage remained the
same, and, somehow, he could not summon up courage to ask boldly for a
raise. He was, as Lalage could see plainly, growing a little thinner, a
little more weary and nervous, every week.
At the end of the second month, Lalage sprang a surprise on him. They
were at breakfast when, with a rather heightened colour, she brought
five sovereigns out of her purse and gave them to him. "Jimmy," she
said, hurriedly, "you must get a new suit, and some collars and ties
and things, really you must."
He looked at the money, then at her. "Where did you get this, Lalage?"
he asked, very quietly.
She faced him so bravely that his suspicions vanished at once. "I saved
it up, from those articles of yours."
"And how about you? You want things far more than I do, sweetheart. I
don't think you have had any new clothes since I met you."
Lalage shook her head vehemently. "That's for you. You have to go to
work, and it worries me terribly when I see you shabby. You will feel
ever so much better when you've got a new suit, and they'll think more
of you at the office. Clothes give one confidence. Now, you shall come
out this morning and order a nice dark tweed, or a grey. I'm not sure I
shan't like you best in grey. Anyway, we'll see."
The new clothes certainly made Jimmy look better, and, for a little
while, Lalage deluded herself into the belief that he really was growing
stronger; then one night he came home shivering, with a severe chill,
and his old enemy, the malaria, gripped him again. True, he was only
absent from the office two nights; but the trouble seemed to remain, and
Lalage had to redouble her efforts to feed him up. Often, during those
days, she tried to steel herself into sending him away, into forcing
him to go back to his own people to be nursed as they could afford to
nurse him; but when it came to the point of speaking, her resolution
always failed her. She could not bear to part from him--yet. And, if she
did send him away, there was always the fear, amounting almost to a
certainty, that he would drink to drown remembrance of her.
No, she told herself, she must keep him as long as she could, for his
own sake, as well as for hers. What would happen to herself if the
parting did come, she never tried to consider. The thought of it was too
awful. Jimmy had been so sweet and kind and thoughtful that it was
absolutely impossible for her to imagine anyone replacing him. The fact
that the question of marriage between them had been tacitly dropped did
not weigh with her now. She had never dared to hope that he would redeem
his promise eventually; and, latterly, she had tried to make herself
forget that the matter had ever been mentioned between them.
Jimmy had seen none of his own people since his visit to the Walter
Griersons'. His work gave him a good and sufficient excuse for not
leaving town, and it never occurred to him to call on either Henry or
Walter in the City. Still, he wrote frequently; and, as time went on,
he began to lose some of his fear of their discovering the existence of
Lalage. Neither Ida nor May seemed to have any suspicions, so far as he
could judge from their letters. Consequently, it gave him a terrible
shock when, one morning, about the beginning of his fourth month on the
_Record_, he received a wire from May commanding him to meet her as soon
as possible at Walter's office.
Lalage, who had gone deadly pale, picked up the detestable brown
envelope.
"It's addressed here. So they know," she whispered.
"Yes, they know," he repeated dully.
They sat for a long time in silence, then he got up, evidently intending
to go out.
Lalage stood up, too. "Jimmy, you will leave me," she said.
He turned round quickly and took her in his arms. "Never, never,
sweetheart. After all you've done for me! You ought to know me better."
For answer, she gave him a long, passionate kiss, as though saying
farewell.