Chapter XX After the Play
“Dear old man!” said the red-haired student, wringing Jim’s hand. “I’m so glad we got here in time!”
The red-haired one then briefly recapitulated the events of the evening, and just as he concluded his story the stout sergeant touched him on the shoulder.
“My men have taken those rascals off to the station, sir,” he said. “It’s a good haul, and we couldn’t have got ’em if you gentlemen hadn’t helped. That being the case, I don’t feel like taking you to the station as well. Couldn’t you arrange matters, sir, with the gentleman at Dr Taplow’s surgery?”
“Certainly, sergeant,” said the red-haired one, who promptly approached the bearded man, Mr Deadwood following in his wake.
“I say, you know, sir,” said the red-haired one to the bearded man, “if we’ve done any damage we shall be glad to make it good, don’t you know. You don’t wish to take further proceedings, do you?”
“It was a most unwarrantable intrusion,” rejoined the bearded man, stiffly.
“I admit it,” said the red-haired student.
“And we’re sorry,” added Mr Deadwood, “—beastly, awfully sorry.”
Mr Deadwood accompanied this statement with a glance which was intended to indicate that if he (the bearded man) didn’t accept the red-haired one’s proposal, he (the bearded man) would get a jolly good punch in the nose from him (Mr Deadwood).
The bearded man evidently interpreted the glance thus, for he replied: “Very well, I will see what damage has been done, and send you the bill.”
“Right O!” said the red-haired one. “My name’s Evans Evans, of Matt’s.”
“Matt’s!” cried the bearded man. “Why didn’t you tell me that before? I’m a Matt’s man!”
“You didn’t look like a Matt’s man, you see,” explained Mr Deadwood in his nice way.
“But I am a Matt’s man,” said he of the beard, “so I won’t send in any account.”
“Thanks. But if we’ve done any serious damage, we’ll pay for it. That’s only fair,” responded the Welshman.
Jim had joined the group. “Well,” he said, “I hope you’ll all come along to my place now and have some of the old poison.”
“We will,” said Mr Deadwood, with emphasis. “Come on, old cock,” he added, linking his arm in the bearded man’s. “I believe you’re not a bad sort, in spite of your looks.”
The bearded man wisely submitted to being led off in this way, and the rest followed, Jim bringing up the rear with the Welshman. The stout sergeant’s friendliness had not been forgotten, for he arrived at the police-station the wealthier by half-a-sovereign.
It was midnight before the students left Jim’s surgery, and by that time Jim and the bearded man were good friends, the latter having proved to be by no means a “bad sort.” Mr Deadwood insisted on making a note of the bearded man’s natal day, as he said he would like to send him a birthday present. In parting, Mr Deadwood shook the bearded man warmly by the hand several times, wished him a merry, merry Christmas, and added that after all it was better to be healthy than handsome, and that he saw no reason why he (the bearded man) should not, therefore, be perfectly contented.
After this Mr Deadwood climbed into a cab and fell fast asleep. Edmund Mildmay got in after him, and said it would be all right, he would “see Deady home—merry Christmas everybody!” So they drove off amid the wild hallooing of their fellow-students, who then chartered other cabs, and drove off too, leaving Jim and the bearded man saying very nice things to each other on the pavement. And so the evening ended in seasonable fashion.
Christmas came on apace. Down at Threeways, Christmas was always kept jovially, and Jim had been much in request everywhere. There were skating and hockey, theatricals and dancing, and Jim had been the central figure of all such activities and recreations. But, alas! Threeways was now forbidden land to him.
Late in the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Jim sat by his surgery fire smoking a solitary pipe. Paying Koko the twenty-five pounds had left him with very light pockets, but he had bought a few presents. No. 9 was now his home, so to speak, and he did not like to let Christmas pass without recognising the fact in some way. So, earlier in the afternoon, he had journeyed to Regent Street and wandered vaguely round a huge shop which seemed to contain nothing else but what one would like to buy. While waiting his turn, Mortimer found amusement in watching the crowd of purchasers. Here was a boy hungrily eying a huge model yacht or torpedo boat; there a girl, wistfully calculating whether she could afford to give the price marked on the purse, or the letter-case, or the inkstand she knew mother would love! Here were two sisters, holding a whispered consultation; there a portly uncle, blandly making a big hole in a ten-pound note for little nephews and nieces.
Christmas has not gone from us, although some soured folk say that this sweet and holy season is not what it was. Christmas has certainly conformed itself to the times, like everything else, but Christmas will always be with us. Though there be no snow on the ground, no ice upon the ponds, yet it will always be Christmas in our hearts.
Jim was at length brought to bay by a good-looking dark girl in a neat black dress. There was a touch of Dora about her, and as she smiled in a friendly way upon the very tall customer, Jim told her just exactly what he wanted, and the dark girl’s suggestions were so practical and tasteful that his presents subsequently proved great successes. For that voluble dame, Mrs Maybury, and her elder step-daughter, Miss H. R. Maybury, he bought neat little velvet handbags of the kind ladies carry when they take walks abroad; for Frank he got a huge knife, containing, among other wonders, an implement for extracting stones from horses’ hoofs—no boy’s knife, indeed, seems complete without this strange appendage, which is never by any chance used for the humane purpose it is intended for. For Dora, Jim bought a little writing-case made of light brown leather. Upon the corner he had an initial “D” affixed, in silver. This addition was expeditiously made while he waited. Jim knew that he must be very discreet in the kind of present he gave to Dora, so he chose something that looked quite simple, though, as a matter of fact, the little writing-case cost him more than the other three presents put together. The dark girl, with her quick instinct, seemed to read in Jim’s eyes that this was a very special present, for Jim looked at eleven other writing-cases before he fixed on the brown one.
The presents were packed up at last, and Jim told the dark girl he was very much obliged to her, and that he was afraid he had given her a great deal of trouble. But the dark girl said that he hadn’t given the slightest trouble, and hoped he would come there for his presents next Christmas, which Jim promised faithfully to do.
When he got back to his surgery he made up some medicine, and then sat down by the fire to smoke. And while he smoked he wondered whether his grandfather was thinking of him, and whether they would ever be re-united. Judging from his grandfather’s stern silence, it seemed that he and the dear old home at Threeways were destined to be strangers for evermore.
Now it happened that the enterprising son of a Mount Street tradesman had taken a snapshot of Jim one sunny November afternoon, as the Long ’Un was standing by his surgery door. The snapshot showed a good deal of the building as well as its occupier, and made a good picture. The youth had subsequently given Jim a mounted copy of the photo.
“I’ll send the old man a Christmas card,” said Jim, and straightway took the photo off his mantelpiece and wrote upon its back: “The present quarters of your affectionate grandson, Jim. Wishing you a Happy Christmas.”
He put his Mount Street address under this message, and on his way to No. 9, posted the photo to his grandfather.
Christmas Day dawned bright and frosty, and passed off far more pleasantly than Jim had anticipated. Those for whom Jim had bought presents were genuinely surprised and pleased by Jim’s thoughtfulness. Mrs Maybury scrutinised Dora’s face keenly as the girl opened the packet addressed to her in Jim’s handwriting. But Dora simply thanked Jim as her sister had thanked him. She did not appear at all self-conscious, and so Mrs Maybury, who had begun of late to regard Jim and Dora with some suspicion, felt distinctly puzzled.
Frank was delighted with the knife, and for several days kept a sharp look-out for a limping horse that might require a stone removed from its hoof. But, as he afterwards told Jim, he didn’t have any luck—probably because “nearly all the streets were made of beastly wood.”
By the first post on Christmas morning there arrived for Dora a magnificent diamond brooch—Mr Jefferson’s gift. At the same time Mr Jefferson reminded her that he would be calling about seven o’clock on Boxing Night to take her to the pantomime at Drury Lane.
At breakfast on Boxing Day Jim produced some yellow tickets. “There’s a big show on for children in the Mount Street Church Room to-night,” he said, “and I’m going to sing. Anyone care to come? It’s a free show.”
Mr Maybury quietly said that he would like a ticket, but nobody else accepted Jim’s offer, so, as he had several tickets at his disposal, Jim gave one to Mary, and, later on, one to the old woman who looked after his surgery.
Mr Cleave and Miss Bird, it should be mentioned, were spending Christmas with relations—a fact which filled Jim with a feeling of devout thankfulness.
There was a very early dinner at No. 9 that evening, as Mrs Maybury, Miss “H.R.,” and Frank were going to the pantomime at the Surrey Theatre. Punctually at seven, Mr Jefferson arrived and bore Dora, radiant and blushing, off to Drury Lane. The others went out about the same time, Mary trotting off to the Church Room in advance of Mr Maybury and Jim in order to secure a good seat.
So No. 9 remained locked up and tenantless until a quarter past eleven, when Mr Maybury arrived home.
The others trailed in half an hour later, Frank bursting with laughter over the antics and wheezes of the principal low comedian. Between twelve and one Dora and Mr Jefferson came.
Dora, strangely silent, went to her room at once. Mr Jefferson, on the other hand, seemed much elated, and chatted gaily for some minutes before he took his departure.
Dora had not been in her room long before there came a little tap at her door, followed by the entrance of Mary.
“Oh, Miss, I’m sure you must be tired,” said Mary; “may I help you?”
“If you like, Mary; yes, I am very tired.”
Dora sighed as she sat down in front of her glass. Mary hastened to comb and brush her young mistress’s hair. It was like old times to Dora, having her hair brushed by a maid—the old times when Mr Maybury was wealthy and held his head high in the commercial world. But now, alas! he was only a clerk in the office of the man who had taken Dora to the theatre that night! Her diamonds came from the man who paid her father a weekly wage!
“Oh, Miss, wasn’t the pantomime lovely?”
“Yes, it was very nice,” replied Dora, absent-mindedly. Then, rousing herself a little, she said: “And did you enjoy the concert, Mary?”
“Oh, Miss Dora, it was grand! And so was the doctor, Miss!”
“Did he sing well?”
“Sing! I should think he did! You should ’ave ‘eard ’em larf! They wouldn’t let ’im leave off. They clapped and ‘oorayed every time—them children—till I thought they’d never stop. Funny ain’t the word. I very nearly split in ’arf, Miss! There was five hundred children, and ’eaps of other folk, and the vicar and ’is curates, and their lady friends—and they larfed as much as the children did, Miss. And right at the end ’e sang a little song—to finish with—which was funny at first, and then made you feel you’d like to cry. And the kiddies kept quite quiet in that part—they seemed to understand, Miss. And when he’d done, Miss, he bowed to all the children just as if they were lords and ladies, and it was real pretty to see the little girls kiss their hands to ’im, and the doctor kiss his hand back to them! Everybody enjoyed it, and them kids went ’ome as ’appy as if they’d each found a shillin’.”
Mary dilated on the concert at great length, but she went off at last, and Dora was still sitting thoughtfully before the glass when there came yet another knock at her door.
She rose from her chair and went to see who it was. “May I come in a moment, dear?”
It was Mr Maybury. “I wanted to hear how you enjoyed the pantomime.”
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.”