Chapter XXX The Week Passes
True to the prognostication of the great Trefusis, Jim Mortimer remained unconscious for seven days. During that time, liquid food—beef extract and milk—was poured down his throat, and thus the lamp of his life was kept alight. At the end of the week, Jim, emaciated and hollow-cheeked, opened his eyes, and the first person he caught sight of and addressed was, appropriately enough, his friend George Somers.
“Well, young feller!” he said, with a brave attempt to smile in his old, cheery way.
Koko took his hand and pressed it gently.
“You must get well quick now, Jim, old boy.”
“It isn’t in me,” said Jim.
“But you must. Oh, Jim, please buck up and get well!”
Jim tried to shake his head, and the agonising pain which this slight action caused him brought the perspiration out on his face.
“I’m too far gone, dear old chap,” he murmured. “I know it.”
Koko gently bathed his friend’s damp face with a sponge dipped in some cool, soothing lotion. His touch was as soft as a woman’s. The trained nurse, when she went out for her daily ride on the top of a ’bus, knew that she was leaving her patient in good hands when she left him with Koko.
“That’s great,” muttered Jim, and fell into a doze.
As Koko kept watch by his chum’s bedside, his kindly brown eyes became dim and misty. Could it be that he was to lose Jim after all? he wondered. Oh no, that could not be! Surely this great, honest fellow would be spared! He was so young—hardly more than a boy—and had lived such a little time.
Surely, thought Koko, in his simple faith, God would take that into consideration. He would remember how young Jim was, and remember, too, that in spite of all the knocking about and drinking and ragging he had done, Jim had never once been guilty of a dishonourable action. He had lived a clean life, and such errors of conduct as he had been guilty of had been due rather to his careless, happy-go-lucky nature than to vicious inclination. He had knocked policemen down and painted the town blue, but he had been a gentleman through it all. The policemen always seemed to feel that, apart from the apologies and sovereigns he had subsequently applied to their bruises as healing balm of a practical kind.
The matter with Jim had been—until a few months since—that he had always had too liberal a supply of pocket money to draw upon down at Threeways. Consequently, unscrupulous fellow-students had borrowed from him and never troubled to repay him; consequently, it was always Jim who stood treat; consequently, he had got into disgrace and earned the penalty of banishment.
Such were Koko’s sad reflections as he sat by the sick-bed. Presently he looked at his watch, and discovered that he had just forty minutes in which to get his bag from his rooms in the Adelphi, and then catch a north-going express. For that night he was due to referee at a glove fight, at Gateshead, between Micky Brown, the Northumberland middle-weight champion, and Jake Morris, of Bethnal Green. He had also to wire a half-column report of the fight to the Sporting Mail.
So he had, perforce, to leave Jim, not knowing whether he would ever see him alive again. For Trefusis had said that the forty-eight hours following Mortimer’s return to consciousness would decide his fate.
Jim was still dozing. One of his hands lay limply on the coverlet of the bed. Koko laid his right hand upon it and gazed at the white face and the boyish, close-clipped head in its snowy bandages.
“Good-bye, Jim!” he murmured, and went softly round to the door. He expected the nurse back about this time. If she had not come in he would have to ask Miss Bird to sit with Jim, as Miss Bird had already taken turns with Koko, Mr Maybury, and the trained nurse in sick-room duty.
Koko was looking back for the last time at the still form of his friend, the sadness of his heart showing very visibly in his face, when the handle was turned and the trained nurse came in, fresh and rosy from her ride in the keen air. She was a bonny Scotswoman—quite a little thing—with blue eyes and flaxen hair.
“Are you going so soon, Mr Somers?” she said.
“Yes, I haven’t a moment to lose. I have to catch a train for Newcastle.”
A third person, watching the two faces, would have noticed a shadow of disappointment fall across the little nurse’s pretty face. A third person—such as Miss Bird or Dora—would possibly have deducted a certain fact from this shadow. And a third person, watching Koko and Jim’s nurse clasp hands in bidding each other good-bye, would have smiled to herself and looked another way, for it would seem that the parting of these two was not without a touch of feeling which had nothing whatever platonic about it.
Well, Koko caught his train, and ten hours later was the central figure of an almost indescribable inferno. For, as neither man had been knocked out in the twenty rounds to which the contest was limited, Koko, according to rule, had awarded the fight to the London man “on points.” Whereupon had arisen such a hurricane of yells and oaths from the miners and shipwrights with which the hall was crammed, that a man with less pluck might well have been appalled. But the little bald-headed reporter from London stood his ground, and looked calmly upon the infuriated faces and forest of horny fists that surrounded the ring.
“Jake Morris wins,” he said again, during a lull in the storm, “on points.”
And again the miners—most of whom had money on the local pet—howled like wolves.
The police inspector standing near Koko whispered a warning.
“Go out by the extra exit,” he said; “they won’t be looking for you there.”
Koko, without looking round, nodded, and, having made certain necessary entries in his note-book, took the inspector’s hint, and made such good time over the high level bridge into Newcastle that he was safe in the smoking-room of his hotel while a mass of drink-inflamed Northumbrians were still awaiting his appearance at the stage door.
From the sick-room to this scene of unbridled brute passions—a change indeed! But Koko took it coolly, as part of the day’s work—sent off his report, snapped up some supper, and went to bed, and by eight next morning was speeding back to London and Jim, with a sixpenny novel—upside down on his knees.
During these seven days, events had been treading quickly on each other’s heels.
Harold Jefferson, knowing perfectly well that Mr Maybury thoroughly intended that he should be taken at his word with regard to the marriage, had not attempted to see Dora. As a matter of fact, he had entertained doubts for some time past with regard to Dora’s affection for himself, and her father’s unexpected call at the Albany that night had made it doubly plain to the young stockbroker that Dora Maybury, even though she might be prevailed upon eventually to marry him, was not likely ever to prove a very affectionate wife.
So Jefferson, instead of putting on his wedding clothes, informed his best man (the only guest invited on his side) that the marriage had been postponed owing to an illness in Dora’s family, and that he (Jefferson) was off to Nice.
To Nice, therefore, he went, expecting to meet his father there and explain the situation to him. But, unfortunately for this plan, Jefferson senior made up his mind that very day to cut his visit short and return to London.
Two days after the date fixed for the wedding, therefore, Mr Jefferson arrived at his office in Cornhill to find that his cashier had been run over and seriously injured by an omnibus, and also that he was a book-keeper short, “Mr Harold,” before his departure for Nice, having notified the manager to the effect that Mr Maybury had decided to relinquish his post in the firm. “Mr Harold” gave no reasons—he simply stated the fact. The manager therefore presumed that Mr Maybury had obtained a better job.
So far from having secured a more lucrative post, Mr Maybury had been a prey to considerable anxiety. Being his wife’s property, he had no rent to pay for No. 9 Derby Crescent, and so he was always certain of having a roof over his head. The weekly sums paid by Miss Bird, Mr Cleave, and Jim went into his wife’s pocket for housekeeping purposes. Out of the princely salary of £150 a year which he had received from the Jeffersons, Mr Maybury had had to pay rates and taxes, defray Frank’s schooling expenses, and contribute towards his family’s clothing bill. It will therefore be readily comprehended that he himself was not able to indulge in a very sumptuous midday meal, or pander to his own modest wants in any but a most economical manner.
When, therefore, the ex-merchant explained to his wife that he was no longer employed by the Jeffersons, and why, such a shower of vicious invective descended upon his unfortunate head that he felt strongly inclined to take a steerage passage to the States and there endeavour—with his extensive knowledge of the cotton trade—to retrieve his fallen fortunes. He was, in point of fact, actually looking through the shipping advertisements with the laudable object of finding the cheapest line by which it was possible to cross the Atlantic, when he received a wire from Jefferson senior desiring him to attend at the office with the least possible delay. When he returned in the evening, Mr Maybury informed his wife that Mr Jefferson had appointed him cashier to the firm at a salary of £300 per annum, vice the gentleman who had been run over by the omnibus, whose injuries, it appeared, had proved so serious that Mr Jefferson had decided to pension him off.
“And what did Mr Jefferson say about Dora?” inquired Mrs Maybury, when she at length came to the end of her eloquent expressions of satisfaction.
“He said,” replied Dora’s father, “when I had explained the circumstances to him, that he considered I had acted quite rightly.”
“And Harold?”
“Will stay at Nice till the spring.”
Thus did the wheel of Fortune, in its strange revolutions, bring Mr Maybury once more a modest sufficiency of Income. He had not hesitated a moment in accepting the vacant post and the additional salary, for he knew that he was quite capable of doing the work, and that he would not be receiving a penny too much for the responsibility and the trouble his new duties would involve.
“I think,” said Mr Maybury, just before he and his good lady fell asleep that night, “that we might now engage a cook. H. R. deserves a rest.”
“Very well, dear,” said Mrs Maybury, quite amicably.
“And then, as to Miss Bird and Mr Cleave——”
“Oh, they had better stay on,” interrupted Mrs Maybury; “three hundred a year, though magnificent compared to what you have been getting, is not a very great income. Miss Bird and Mr Cleave will still be a great help.”
“I have altered my opinion about Miss Bird,” said Mr Maybury; “I am beginning to like her.”
“And do you still consider Mr Cleave an ‘old woman’?” inquired Mrs Maybury.
“I do,” said Mr Maybury—“an older woman than ever. If he wants to go, I shan’t beg him to stop.”
Curiously enough, within a few days Mr Cleave put Mr Maybury’s declaration to the test. For, on the day Jim recovered consciousness, Mr Cleave informed Mrs Maybury that he had decided to go and live with some relatives at Norwood. Mrs Maybury said that she should be sorry to part with Mr Cleave, but Mr Maybury preserved a discreet silence on the point.
And it fell out in this wise.
Mr Cleave had always admired Dora, and had always exerted himself to be agreeable to her. When, therefore, Dora’s engagement with Harold Jefferson was broken off, Mr Cleave began to pay a large amount of attention to his appearance. He bought some new made-up ties and some new collars of the latest shape; also, he had his hair cut, and purchased a new pair of button-up boots.
At all meals, thenceforth, he engaged Dora in sprightly conversation, and one day, meeting her alone in the drawing-room, he handed her a book.
“A little present, Miss Dora,” he said.
“Oh, thank you, Mr Cleave,” said Dora, politely.
On examining the work, Dora found it to consist of The Total Abstainer for the past six months, bound up in a green cover. Glancing casually through it, she suddenly came across a passage heavily marked with a blue pencil. The page on which the passage occurred was headed “Our Pillory,” and directly Dora’s eye fell on the paragraph she recognised it as an old friend.
“A piteous example of what over-indulgence in alcohol may bring a man to (ran the paragraph) was afforded by a case which came before our notice one day last week in the Kensington Police Court. The degraded being who faced the magistrate with an unabashed gaze was a young doctor named Mortimer——”
Oh yes! Dora well remembered a certain evening in September when Mr Cleave read this out to the assembled company in the drawing-room.
“Do you know, Mr Cleave,” she said, sweetly, “I am afraid this book will be rather thrown away on me. I don’t drink——”
“There are some excellent tales illustrating the evils——” Cleave was protesting, when Dora interrupted him.
“Yes, but they are hardly the kind of tales girls care to read. It is very kind of you to give me this volume, but I feel you could bestow it better elsewhere.”
“As you like—as you like,” said Cleave, looking much offended.
“But,” said Dora, producing a tiny pair of scissors from her chatelaine, “there is one paragraph I should like to cut out, if you don’t mind. This one, look....”
Mr Cleave looked—and turned pale. He had entirely forgotten having marked that report of Jim’s wrong-doing.
“You see,” explained Dora, a bright flush irradiating her face, which had been very wan and pensive all this week of dire suspense, “I take a great interest in the—the person this paragraph is about.”
Then she quickly snipped the paragraph out and put it safely away in her purse.
“Thank you so much, Mr Cleave,” she said, handing back the volume.
And so Mr Cleave, after giving the matter due reflection, decided that he couldn’t do better than go to live with his relatives at Norwood. He had always fancied that they didn’t understand him at No. 9. He felt quite sure about it now.