Chapter XI Mr Maybury’s Resolve
Mr Maybury received a long and severe curtain lecture from his wife on the night of Jim’s arrival at No. 9, the subject of it being Jim Mortimer and Jim Mortimer’s delinquencies.
“After the disgraceful revelations of this evening,” said the good dame, as, having blown out the candle, her lord composed himself for slumber, “we can’t allow him to stay with us. It would give the house a bad name. People would tattle and gossip until we should be obliged to move. Imagine! Drunk and disorderly! fought the policemen! had to be bound with ropes and taken in an ambulance to a police-station——”
“I hardly think it was quite so bad as that,” Mr Maybury interrupted in a mild, sleepy voice.
“The fact remains,” continued Mrs Maybury, with energy, “that he was taken to a police-station, was fined, was reprimanded by the magistrate. A nice sort of man to have in one’s house contaminating the children! Frank has taken a fancy to him already; the next thing will be Frank fighting policemen——”
“Don’t talk such nonsense, my dear,” said Mr Maybury. “Medical students,” he added, “often get into trouble. Nobody cares much if they do; they are regarded as privileged madcaps. Dr Mortimer is a very young man—still a student at heart. I must say I like what I’ve seen of him very much, and am not surprised at Frank’s taking a fancy to him.”
“Do you want your son to be sent to a reformatory, as Miss Bird suggested?” inquired Mrs May bury.
“He won’t be,” her spouse assured her; “Frank has no vices; he’s only mischievous.”
“If he imitates Dr Mortimer,” cried Mrs Maybury, “there’s no knowing what the boy won’t come to. No, William, you must tell Dr Mortimer that he must find fresh lodgings. He can’t stay here. Miss Bird and Mr Cleave will both leave if he does. Mr Cleave told me to-night that he cannot breathe the same air as such a man.”
“Cleave’s an old woman,” muttered Mr Maybury.
“Miss Bird——” began Mrs Maybury.
“I wish Miss Bird would go,” put in Mr Maybury.
“And you can see Mr Jefferson doesn’t like him,” continued Mrs Maybury, “with half an eye. Mr Jefferson!—the man to whom you are indebted for your daily bread!”
“I’m employed by his father,” objected Mr Maybury.
“It’s all the same. Mr Jefferson got you your post. Suppose he told his father that you were harbouring a man who fights policemen and gets drunk——”
“His father would say that that was my business,” rejoined Mr Maybury.
“Well, we can’t risk keeping him here. It’s too dangerous. I’ve no objection to the young man myself——”
“Then why d’you go on about him so much?” retorted Mr Maybury.
“For the sake of our home and its reputation,” almost shrieked Mrs Maybury, “that’s why. Here I work and slave and get no thanks—not a word of thanks—and then, when I express an opinion, you snap my head off. It’s more than flesh and blood can stand!” she concluded, dissolving into tears.
“Suppose,” said Mr Maybury, placidly, “we discuss the matter in the morning?”
“I won’t say another word,” cried Mrs Maybury, between her sobs; “I’ve said all I have to say. If you keep this man here, he’ll take our good name away. There—now I’ve done!”
And so, with sobs at intervals, she at length fell asleep.
The once wealthy merchant held a very modest position in the business house of Jefferson & Son. He was, in fact, but one of their book-keepers. He—the erstwhile employer of fifty clerks and five hundred workpeople—now sat on a high stool at a high desk and laboured at the books for a small salary. When a man has come down in the world with a sudden run he is generally to be had at a low figure, and Jefferson & Son bore the fact in mind when they engaged Mr Maybury. The hours (ten to four) were short, it is true, but Mr Maybury would have worked later willingly could he have thereby added to his earnings.
The other clerks at Jefferson & Son’s were mainly young fellows between whom and Mr Maybury no great bond of fellowship could very well exist. He was left largely to himself, therefore, went out to his frugal mid-day meal alone, returned alone, and said very little to those about him from the time the office opened till its closing hour.
Harold Jefferson did not trouble himself with business more than he could help. He preferred the West End to the City. However, he put in a certain number of appearances per week, and whilst at the office treated Mr Maybury with respect, mingled with a slight but distinct air of patronage.
Such conversations as they held related, of course, entirely to the firm’s business, and so it was with no little surprise that, on the day following Jim’s arrival at No. 9, Mr Maybury received an invitation from Harold Jefferson. “I want to speak to you about one or two matters,” ran the pencilled note which the office-boy handed to Dora’s father, “so shall be glad if you will lunch with me at 1.30. I will be waiting for you at the front entrance at that hour.”
It was, of course, as much a command as an invitation. At the appointed time Mr Maybury met young Mr Jefferson, who at once hailed a cab and drove his guest to a restaurant in the West End. It would not do at all (thought young Mr Jefferson) to be seen lunching with one of his clerks at a restaurant in the City.
“Now, Mr Maybury,” said the host, when lunch was over and they had lit their cigars, “I have two things to say to you. One of them concerns your daughter—Miss Dora.”
Mr Maybury inclined his head. He had not imagined that this invitation was the outcome of purely hospitable motives.
“I have been paying her attentions for some time,” said the well-to-do young stockbroker, “and I propose, with your sanction, to ask her to marry me.”
“You have my full consent to do so,” said the ruined merchant, graciously.
“From what you have observed, do you think that my proposal will be favourably received?” asked Jefferson, carelessly.
“I can offer no opinion,” said Mr Maybury.
“I may at least take it that, if she accepts me, you are willing to regard me as a prospective son-in-law?”
“Perfectly willing,” was the reply.
“Thank you. Now, as to this fellow Mortimer——”
“I beg your pardon. What has Mr Mortimer to do with the matter?”
“If,” said Jefferson, “I become engaged to your daughter, Mr Maybury, I shall have a decided objection to your allowing such a man as Mortimer to remain under the same roof as my fiancée.”
Mr Maybury took a thoughtful pull at his cigar. The well-to-do young stockbroker looked keenly at the ruined merchant. It was to the latter’s advantage to defer to the former. Was he not, as his wife remarked, indebted to this man for his daily bread?
Mr Maybury laid down his cigar and sipped his champagne, and meantime such reflections as these coursed through his brain. He was a very poor man, ’tis true, but he had always prided himself on being a just one. Personally, he had perceived no great harm in “this fellow Mortimer.” Why, therefore, should he turn him out of his house?
“Well?” inquired the young stockbroker, curtly.
“The most charitable course to pursue,” said Mr Maybury, at length, “would be to see how he goes on. Should he prove himself unfit——”
“He has. He is a low, drunken brawler. I cannot bear the thought of Dora being brought into daily contact with him. You will at least admit that I have a right to lodge an objection against him—or will have, should your daughter accept me?”
“I should prefer to see how he goes on,” said Mr Maybury.
“Very well, sir,” rejoined Jefferson, rising from his seat with a look of great annoyance on his face, “have it your own way. Waiter, my bill. Please excuse me now, Mr Maybury, as I am not returning to the City.”
Instead of going straight to the office, when he got back to the City, Mr Maybury turned into a quaint little churchyard—a smoke-begrimed patch of green, where one might rest awhile on a seat. Here he remained for ten minutes, and when he at length turned his steps officewards, he had made up his mind that, however disastrous such an attitude might prove to his prospects, he would in no way seek to influence Dora in Harold Jefferson’s favour. Nor should Jim Mortimer leave his house, unless he himself desired to go.
“I have lost pretty nearly everything,” thought the ex-merchant as he paced his way along the crowded pavement, “but till the day of my death I hope, please God, to retain my self-respect.”
The thought inspired him, and he went back to his book-keeping with an unusual light in his eyes—with an additional firmness in his step. ’Twas true that Fate had robbed him of wealth and position, but Fate’s worst buffets could not cause him to act in any way save that becoming a gentleman.