Chapter XVII In the Crescent
This was the first time Jim had met Dora all by herself without the stronghold—No. 9, to wit. And there he had found few opportunities to say anything to her that was not formal and commonplace; indeed, their intercourse, with watching eyes and listening ears about them, had been (to Jim, at any rate) of a gallingly circumscribed character.
It is poor satisfaction, when the heart is hungry, to look into the eyes one loves, and remark that it is colder than it was yesterday; your lover is kept on conversation’s shortest commons when, though burning to say a thousand tender things to the one girl he holds most precious, he has, perforce, to hazard a remark to the effect that there may be rain before morning.
Thus it was with Jim. He often saw Dora, but seldom spoke with her. There was that evening when she drew the course of the Rhine under his tutelage—but that was a memory by itself—a verdant oasis in the desert of verbal starvation!
It may be easily imagined, therefore, how fast beat Jim’s heart when he found himself absolutely alone—and unwatched—with Dora Maybury.
“Have you too been listening to the organ?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Dora, “I was there when you came up. I have been shopping. Frank came out with me, but disappeared.”
Jim devoutly hoped that Frank would not reappear. Dora was carrying a heavy marketing-net—the shops keep open late in Blackfriars Road—and Jim promptly possessed himself of this.
“Frank ought to have been carrying it,” explained Dora, as they walked down the by-street, “but,” she added, “you know what brothers are!”
“I have heard accounts of them,” said Jim, “but can’t speak from experience, as I haven’t any.”
“Nor sisters?”
“Nor sisters either,” said Jim; “nobody, in fact, but a grandfather.”
“Dear me!” said Dora, “what a very lonely boy you must have been! I suppose your grandfather is very fond of you?”
“I think he has a sort of mild affection for me,” said Jim, “but unfortunately I offended him when I—er—when I was put on The Total Abstainers black list.”
Dora seemed interested.
“And what did he do?” she inquired.
“He behaved in a manner that was not even mildly affectionate.”
“And you don’t see him now?”
Jim admitted that that was so.
“But perhaps he will make it up at Christmas-time,” suggested Dora. “He ought to.”
Jim shook his head.
“My grandfather is not the sort of man to do anything because he ought to.”
“Oh, I hope he will,” said Dora; “it must be so wretched for you—having nobody.”
“You are very kind,” said Jim, his voice suddenly changing.
“But surely,” said Dora, quickly, “anybody would be sorry for a man who had nobody in the world to care for him.”
Jim made no rejoinder. So Dora, meaning only to make him feel that she sympathised with his position, said again that she hoped all would be right between him and his grandfather by the time Christmas came.
“But you have friends,” she continued, comfortingly; “there is Mr Somers, and Sir Savile and I know my father likes you—oh yes, you have friends. You must not be disheartened. You must look upon us all as your friends, Dr Mortimer.”
“I did not mean to extract all this sympathy from you, Miss Dora,” said Jim. “I was only answering your questions.”
“But I am glad you have told me,” said Dora, “because I did not know all this about you before. And I am so sorry for people who have no home,” she added, gently.
So spoke this maid, barely nineteen, in the innocent warmth of her nature. She could not have remembered that a man can bear taunts, abuse, sarcasm, and show a smiling front, but that the least word of sympathy will break down the same man’s defences and leave his heart—hardened to all else—without a shield.
“You are too kind,” said Jim again; “it would be better, perhaps, if you were not kind to me at all.”
Then a silence fell upon them, and in silence they passed from the by-street into the crescent, whose glory was so faded. They walked by several of the shabby houses, still without speaking, but as they drew near to No. 9, the question Dora wanted to ask would not stay within her lips.
“Why?” she said, without looking at him.
“Because,” replied Jim, steadily, “I love you. That is why it will be the kindest thing on your part never to be kind to me again.”
As Jim spoke, Dora gazed up at him in a surprised, half-frightened manner. When she said “Why?” she knew very well that there was no need on her part to ask such a question. Her woman’s instinct told her “why”; there was no need for Jim to do so. But, with a wilful disregard of conscience, which bade her not inquire too closely into Jim’s reasons for that little speech, she had allowed her lips to shape the word that had extracted so blunt a confession from her companion.
Even had she not been engaged to Jefferson, Jim’s avowal, considering the length of their acquaintance and the very small amount of conversation they had enjoyed together, would have been ill-timed and premature. As matters stood, Jim had no possible right to speak thus. But she had asked “Why?” and he had told her.
Jim himself, as soon as he had spoken, condemned himself for a fool, an ass, and an idiot. This would put an end to any little friendship that might have hitherto existed between them. What could he do to mend the sorry mistake his tongue had made?
He was the first to break the awkward silence. He laughed. Dora, on the other hand, bit her lip nervously.
“Please don’t take me too seriously, Miss Dora,” said Jim.
“So,” said Dora, confronting him with dignity and flaming cheeks, “I am to regard what you said just now as a joke?”
“Well—if you like,” replied Jim, rather awkwardly.
“Then I think you are very rude!” exclaimed Dora, “and I won’t speak to you again.”
She turned abruptly toward the steps leading up to the door of No. 9.
“Oh, I say, come now,” expostulated Jim, “I think that is a little too severe. You asked ‘Why?’ and I told you ‘Why!’”
Dora switched round to him and turned a very red little face, illuminated by eyes that flashed with anger, up to his.
“You had no right to say what you did just now, because you know I am engaged to Mr Jefferson——”
“Lucky man?” sighed Jim.
“Are you still regarding me as a person just to be joked with?” demanded Dora, with something like a sob in her voice.
“No,” said Jim, earnestly, “as a girl to be loved for ever and ever!”
Jim’s astonishing comprehensiveness struck Dora dumb for a moment. What could a girl do with a man like this!
Dora considered what she could say that would make a good rebuke. And meanwhile she looked (as Jim declared to himself) bewilderingly lovely.
“What you said, considering the circumstances,” she continued at length, “was dishonourable and ungentlemanly.”
“I plead guilty on both counts,” said Jim.
“And so,” Dora went on, “I shall not speak to you again—ever.”
“I think,” replied Jim, “that you are taking far too harsh a view of the case. If you will walk round the crescent just once with me, I will try to put myself right in your eyes.”
“That you can never do,” said Dora. But, after a moment’s hesitation, she lifted her skirt and walked on, and Jim, with an overflowing heart, paced along by her side.
“I know you are engaged, of course,” began Jim, “and I know that I ought not to have said what I did, that being the case.”
“Then why did you say it?” demanded Dora, with an imperious little stamp of her foot.
“I couldn’t help it,” said Jim; “you are so pretty. You are the prettiest girl I have ever seen—the prettiest, the daintiest, and the sweetest. There is nothing on earth I wouldn’t do for you, even to the laying down of my life, if that would serve you. I have loved you from the first moment I ever set eyes on you, and I shall never love another girl as long as I live.”
Thus spoke Jim in the fulness of his heart, and his words were as music in Dora’s ears; for what woman—worthy of the name—would be displeased by such a confession? That was Jim’s speech—those were Jim’s sentiments—hackneyed sentiments enough in all conscience, seemingly, and yet not hackneyed at all, because they were quite fresh and sincere. He meant them, he felt them. Never did love speak more honestly.
Yet there was a ring on Dora’s finger—a ring—an emblem of her plighted troth. And this ring seemed to burn into her finger and reproach her for even letting this other lover complete his declaration.
“You are making it worse and worse,” she said, but not at all crossly.
“Well,” said Jim, “you know now. You can tell Jefferson what I’ve said if you like. I’ve told you I love you, and why. I’ve got it off my mind, and I shan’t be so miserable now.”
“Have—have you been miserable?” asked Dora, very gently.
“Yes,” said Jim.
“Very?”
“As miserable,” said Jim, “as a man could be.”
“Oh,” said Dora, “I’m so sorry! I suppose I ought to be angry with you, but I don’t see how I can be when you—you like me so much.”
Jim looked up at the sky with a mist in his eyes. They walked on, and all too soon came round to No. 9 again.
“Oh, if you please, give me my net,” said Dora, for all this time her purchases had been dangling from Jim’s left hand. She had forgotten all about them, and Jim had been quite unconscious of his burden.
“Then,” said Jim, as they stopped in the shadow thrown by the porch, “you forgive me?”
“Yes, yes, entirely—on condition you never say anything like that again. And now give me my net.”
“Here is the net,” said Jim, “and here,” as he kissed her, “is something else.”
“Oh, how dare you!” cried Dora, snatching at her net and running up the steps with cheeks of scarlet.
As for Jim, he diplomatically continued his walk round the crescent.