Chapter VIII
Number Nine
Before the era of cheap train services, omnibuses, and trams—when the outer London suburbs of to-day were smiling meadowland, and people talked of Hampstead “village”—there were many residential quarters within a walk of the City on both the Middlesex and Surrey sides of the river. But with the growth of steam power arose great factories, and as fast as these central residential quarters were swept away by commerce, rows and rows of new streets swallowed up the fields that fringed Suburbia, and afforded accommodation to those whose homes in the heart of London were being razed to the ground.
But some of these quiet old squares and crescents have survived to this day, and you may still find them here and there, sadly shorn of the respectable family appearance they wore in their youth, and hemmed in by huge and ugly business barracks from whose grimy windows issue the whirr and hiss and thud of machinery, the monotonous clacking of type-writers, and the continuous patter of footsteps on iron-shod stairs.
These architectural survivors of a day when the world, humanly speaking, did not go round so fast—when the Times received news by “electric telegraph,” and issued bulletins of various interest supplied by “Mr Reuter’s” special service—nowadays look like faded old maids, for their exterior smartness is gone and their interior arrangement smack of a time when it never occurred to a builder to put a bathroom in a house, for the simple reason that he did not know how to convey hot water to it, save by means of a can. In some of them each floor is occupied by a separate family, while in others you may perceive the familiar dreary legend “Apartments to Let” on a card which hangs disconsolately in the fanlight over the door.
Such a crescent as we have described is Derby Crescent, which is situated but a stone’s throw from the bustling thoroughfare that leads from Blackfriars Bridge to the “Elephant,” and thence on and away to the Old Kent Road, itself suggestive of coach and chaise and the days of our grandfathers. Why Derby Crescent escaped demolition when Dame Commerce stretched out her long, lean, hungry hand and grabbed wide acres of comfortable homesteads for her building needs, nobody can tell you. But it remained, while its neighbouring squares and crescents vanished; and so, when William Maybury cotton spinner, of Manchester, was declared a bankrupt, he was glad to hide his head in one of the two houses which belonged to his wife in this self-same area. It was his second wife, for his first had died whilst still pretty and youthful. And it may be added that he had long since repented his second matrimonial venture, in spite of the houses and money the lady brought with her as a marriage portion.
To No. 9, therefore, he removed such goods and chattels as he was able to save from the wreck of his luxurious house in Manchester, and at No. 9 he had been residing for three years when Jim Mortimer rattled up in a cab a few hours after his talk with Sir Savile, and announced his arrival by plying a knocker that, like the house it belonged to, had seen very much better days.
After some delay the door was opened by a slatternly maid of tender years, for her hair still hung down her back in a plaited queue.
The girl surveyed Jim, and then said, “Are you the new boarder, please?” Then, before Jim could reply, she turned swiftly round and exclaimed, in a shrill voice, “Oh, shut hup, Master Frank!”
A boyish laugh rang out, and Jim, peering into the gloomy hall, perceived a lad aged about fourteen accoutred in Etons a good deal the worse for wear—apparently harmony reigned at No. 9 as far as appearances went—with a gleeful smirk on his face.
“Yes,” said Jim, “I am Mr Mortimer.”
“Will you come in, please?” the girl rejoined, and again swished round to remonstrate with her tormentor. “Give hover, Master Frank—I’ll tell your ma, I will!”
“Sneak!” observed the amiable young gentleman addressed.
“Leave my ’air alone, then!”
Jim turned round and bade the cabman bring his portmanteau into the house, and as the cabman, with much heavy breathing, deposited the portmanteau in the hall, a large, middle-aged lady emerged from one of the sitting-rooms and treated the new boarder to a gracious smile.
“Dr Mortimer, I presume?”
Jim bowed.
“Sir Savile Smart was so kind as to wire—as well as you—and tell us that you were coming to take poor Dr Morgan’s place. Very sad, was it not? Such a nice, quiet old gentleman! But it’s only old gentlemen and women that these cowardly Hooligans venture to touch—indeed, we hardly dare go out after dark! It gave us a great shock when we heard of what had happened to Dr Morgan. The poor dear gentleman was really past work, and must have fallen an easy prey to the ruffians. My husband is not so young as he was, and I often feel nervous lest something should happen to him! He makes me very cross by refusing to carry a life-preserver. Every evening I expect to see his mangled corpse brought to the door. If we could afford to, we should move out of this dreadful neighbourhood, but there! people must live where they can live! When my husband met with his reverses, you see, Dr Mortimer, our thoughts naturally turned to Derby Crescent, where we could live rent free, as my dear mother left me her property in this—but your cabman is waiting, Dr Mortimer, and no doubt you wish to dismiss him!”
During her flight of eloquence the cabman had been regarding Mrs Maybury with a most grim and forbidding expression on his face. Jim, remembering that he had left his overcoat in the cab, walked back to the vehicle with him.
“What’s the damage, cabby?” inquired the Long ’Un, when he had secured his coat.
“Leave it to you, sir.”
Jim gave him sixpence over his fare. Over-paying cabmen had always been a weakness of his.
“Much obliged, sir!” The cabman touched his hat and pocketed the silver. “Wish you luck of your new quarters, sir.”
“Thanks, cabby,” said Jim.
“The way to treat ‘er,” continued the cabman, indicating the house—and presumably its mistress—with his thumb, “is to cut in when she’s ’arfway through what she’s got to say. Them kind o’ wimmen don’t mind bein’ interrupted. Leastways, they mind a bit, but they ain’t annoyed. They go on afterwards same as if you ’adn’t interrupted of ’em. You sees what I mean?”
“I see what you mean,” said Jim.
“My old woman goes on just like ’er”—with another thumb indication—“and so I know. I let ’er reel it off till I’m tired, and then I change the subjick, casual-like. It’s quiet easy to make ’em change the subjick. There’s wimmen ’oo, directly an idea enters their brains, utters it wiv their mouves. See? It goes inter one and outer the other as natural as rockin’ a baby. But you can always interrupt ’em wivout doin’ any ’arm, so you bear my tip in mind. Good-night to you, sir!” he added, mounting his box.
“Good-night to you, cabby,” said Jim, who concluded, as he walked up the steps, that the cabman was something of a philosopher.
He found the little servant endeavouring to raise one end of his portmanteau, which, being chock full of clothes, boots, books, and instruments, was no light weight.
“Don’t trouble,” said Jim; “I’ll carry it upstairs.”
“I really cannot allow you to do that,” said Mrs Maybury. “Frank,” she added, turning to the boy, “help Mary with Dr Mortimer’s portmanteau.”
“Shan’t!” said the boy, pouting.
“Obey me at once, Frank!”
“Shan’t!” repeated the boy, disappearing into the room from which his stepmother had emerged.
By way of settling the matter, Jim shouldered the portmanteau. “Kindly go first,” he said to Mary, “and show me where my room is.”
As he was about to ascend the staircase, an immense black cat came stalking along the hall and rubbed itself, purring loudly, against his leg.
“What a wonder!” cried Mary. “Tom generally don’t like strangers.”
“Good old Tom!” said Jim. Then he commenced his ascent of the stairs, Mary preceding and “Tom” following him.
Thus guided—and accompanied—he at length reached his bedchamber—a by no means spacious apartment on the second floor.
“This was Dr Morgan’s room, sir,” said the servant; “it’s to be yours now, sir.”
“Thank you, Mary,” said Jim.
Mary lingered. So did the cat.
“It’s the room he slept in the night before he—he died, sir,” she added, fearfully.
“Well,” said Jim, with a smile, “I suppose he had to sleep somewhere!”
“Y—yes, sir—but don’t you mind, sir?”
“Mind! No, of course not! You can run along now, if you like,” he added, proceeding to unstrap his portmanteau.
As Jim, after unpacking the peculiar assortment of articles in his portmanteau, indulged in what barbers designate a “wash and brush up,” his thoughts naturally turned to the people he was henceforth to live with. He wondered how many of them there were; whether there were any more boys like Master Frank; whether there were any more servants, and, if so, whether they were all as small as Mary; whether there were any more boarders, and, finally, whether this was really the home of the Dora Maybury he had met at the Milverton Street post-office. On this last point, however, he felt pretty certain. To begin with, Jim told himself, it was not probable that there were two pretty Dora Mayburys employed by the London Post Office; and, to end with, the boy Frank bore a most remarkable resemblance to the Dora Maybury Jim had been introduced to. In the dim light of the hall, indeed, the likeness was positively startling. Take that boy’s Etons off and clothe him in a neat black dress, put a wig of woman’s black hair on him, and then, with the angularities of his figure shrouded by the gloom of the hall, there would be presented to view a very good double of Dora Maybury.
Taking these two arguments—if such they may be called—into consideration, Jim felt pretty sure that this was Dora’s home. Her home! Jim’s brain reeled for a moment at the mere idea of it. His coming here seemed to have happened as things happen in dreams—he could hardly realise even yet that he was actually under the same roof as that which afforded shelter to Dora Maybury.
So quickly had this change in his circumstances been brought about, that he had not even considered what Miss Maybury’s ideas on the subject of his advent might be. In truth, he hardly dared to consider the position from that point of view.
Jim had accepted his present post in his usual happy-go-lucky way, being at an age when men of his temperament do not act with much forethought. Had Sir Savile asked him to accompany an expedition in search of the North Pole, he would have agreed to go without a moment’s hesitation; had the great surgeon offered him a billet as medical officer to a tour of exploration in Equatorial Africa, Jim would have “signed on” with all the readiness in the world; and with an equal amount of promptitude he would have sailed as surgeon on an emigrant steamer, would have taken over the medical duties in a small-pox ship, a workhouse, a blind school, or a convict prison. Had some great air-vessel been invented, Jim would have jumped at the opportunity to accompany her in her ethereal journey as medical adviser to the intrepid voyagers; or, if such a post had been on offer, he would have consented to doctor the exiles in a Siberian mine. He was, in fact, ready to go anywhere so long as he went in a medical capacity.
Whatever Jim’s faults were—and they were many in number—he was at least devoted to his profession. His heart was in his work, and when he really put his shoulder to the wheel there was more than a touch of genius in the manoeuvres of his “hand.” For Jim was a surgeon before anything.
Here he was, however, in charge of an obscure practice, where, owing to the proximity of hospitals, there would be few calls on his surgical skill. He would always be welcome, of course, in the operating theatre at “Matt’s,” although it was not likely that he would often have time to attend there.
Did Jim regret accepting this humble billet in a humble district? Not for a moment! Indeed, when he thought how Fate had afforded him a chance of seeing Dora every day, he very nearly broke into a hornpipe on his bedroom hearthrug. However, he restrained himself, and went down to the drawing-room, the big black cat following steadily in his wake.
Mrs Maybury, her large body clothed in a silk dress that was well in keeping with the fallen fortunes of the family, introduced Jim, firstly, to her husband—a slender man of medium height, between fifty and sixty, with an exceedingly well-cut face and neatly trimmed beard. He welcomed Jim to his house in a few well-chosen, courteous words, and Jim, as he noted the other’s perfectly easy tone and manner, understood how Dora had come by the same distinguishing characteristics.
Jim was then introduced to the two other boarders—to Miss Bird, a maiden lady of obese person, harsh voice, and some sixty summers; and to Mr Cleave, a tall, spare man, with a severe face whose beauty was not enhanced by the pimples which flourished upon its surface. Mr Cleave appeared to be about thirty years of age.
“And now,” said Mrs Maybury, as Jim took his seat on a small and uncompromisingly hard chair by her side, “I will tell you our ways and hours, Dr Mortimer. We breakfast at eight, as my husband and one of my daughters have to go to business early——” (“Aha!” thought Jim) “and Frank to school. Not that he does much good there,” she continued, “as he is kept in almost every day for not learning his home lessons properly. He goes to the Metropolitan School for Boys—yes, a very good school, but the money seems to be wasted in Frank’s case. Either he is teasing Mary or the cat, or getting into mischief of some sort—indeed,” lowering her voice, “he has nearly driven Miss Bird out of the house already; not that that would be a very great loss, indeed, seeing that she——”
“By the way, Mrs Maybury,” said Jim, recollecting the cabman’s advice, “you will excuse my mentioning it, but have you a dau——”
At that moment, with a jingle, a rattle, and a stamping of hoofs, a cab pulled up in front of No. 9. Mrs Maybury hastened to the window and peered through the blind.
“It is Dora and Mr Jefferson—how kind of him to drive her home!”
Jim’s tongue froze to his teeth. “Yes, I have two daughters—step-daughters, rather;” she continued, returning to Jim’s side, “the elder, Harriet Rebecca—she hates her names so much that we call her ‘H.R.’—helps me with the housekeeping, and Dora is in—in the—er—Civil Service. Mr Jefferson,” she added, confidentially, “has been paying her attentions for some time.”
At that moment the door opened, and Dora Maybury, radiant with excitement, hastened up to her stepmother. “Oh, mamma, Mr Jefferson has a box at Daly’s to-night. Can I go with him? He says he doesn’t mind Frank coming, too——”
“Certainly you may go, dear. Oh, and one moment, dear! Dr Mortimer—this is my step-daughter—Dora.”
“I have had the pleasure,” said Jim, as he bent his lofty head, “of meeting Miss Dora before, Mrs Maybury.”
“Indeed!” cried Mrs Maybury. “How very small the world is! Yes—and—Mr Jefferson—Dr Mortimer.”
Dora’s companion had entered the room and approached the group. Directly their eyes met, Mr Jefferson and Jim recognised each other, the former being no less a person than the pale-faced gentleman who had uttered loud remarks at the Exhibition concerning early closing.
“I too have had the pleasure of meeting Dr Mortimer before,” said Mr Jefferson, without troubling to return Jim’s bow, “but I cannot say that I am pleased to see him again.”
“Why, dear me!” said Jim with ready wit, “you must be the man who trod on my toes at the Exhibition the other night.”
And at this unexpected rejoinder—much to Mr Jefferson’s annoyance—Dora’s pretty lips parted in an unmistakable smile.