Part 15

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 L150 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 L300 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.

*CHAPTER XXXI.*

*IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT THE BEARDED MAN HAD MADE ANOTHER MISTAKE.*

Mr Evans Evans, of the red hair, and Mr Deadwood, the truculent and filibustering, having recently (after an eight or nine years' struggle) obtained their qualification, accepted Dr Mortimer's invitation with alacrity. Yes--certainly they would look after the Long 'Un's practice. Only too pleased. Start at once and share proceeds? Right O!

They were both capable men, and so they found it quite within their power to cope with the work in Mount Street and its environments. True, Mr Evans did the brunt of the work, but Mr Deadwood had his uses.

For, taking into consideration the manner in which the Long 'Un and his predecessor had been handled by the Hooligans of the neighbourhood, Mr Deadwood, after due thought, decided that the thing was to take a strong line with such roughs as might assume a hostile, or even an impertinent, attitude towards himself and his colleague. There were still a good many Hooligans about, and the colour of Mr Evans's hair provoked a variety of rude jests from a group of them on the afternoon of the day Messrs Evans and Deadwood started operations in this district.

The first guffaw had hardly sounded out upon the raw February air when Mr Evans smote the nearest humorist on his nose, and Mr Deadwood knocked the principal guffawer's head against the wall that was supporting his idle form. The other Hooligans objecting to this species of rebuke, a spirited free fight was soon in progress. But, after Covent Garden porters, Mr Deadwood found the weedy louts of Mount Street comparatively mild customers to tackle, and he laid about him with such energy that the group of Hooligans soon decamped with many oaths and much gnashing of such teeth as Jim's deputy had left in their gums.

In brief, Mr Deadwood, who had been a scrapper from his birth, and who had only been knocked out in fair fight once in his life--his opponent on that occasion being James Mortimer--established what is called a "funk" in Mount Street, for, after his primary bout with the Hooligans, the mere sight of his great shoulders and bull-dog jaw caused such law-breaking vagabonds as he might meet in the course of his rounds to slink off rapidly down dark alleys and tortuous byways in order to avoid him.

"The fact is," said Mr Deadwood one day, "Jim was much too gentle with these chaps. He didn't hurt 'em enough. By George! when I think how he was served, I feel inclined to go for every pub-propper-up I meet."

And indeed, Mr Deadwood's countenance wore such a pugilistic expression whenever he walked abroad--which was a good many times daily--that the local Hooligans began to decamp to less perilous quarters, and Mount Street in time came to be quite a respectable thoroughfare for those parts.

Occasionally Messrs Evans and Deadwood, having finished their day's work, would go to see Jim. The little Scottish nurse took care that they did not talk very much, and so the partners found their visits to No. 9 hardly what one would call lively excursions, though it is true they took a certain pleasure in calling there, for Mr Evans quickly came to the conclusion that the trained nurse was "a nice little thing," while Mr Deadwood, after talking to Dora, would fall into a strangely sentimental and melancholy mood. A few pints of bitter ale, however, served to dispel his gloom in the long run, and then he would hie forth and search for Hooligans, and the latter had a bad time if he happened to find them.

One evening, when the partners called at No. 9, they were told that they couldn't see Jim, as Dr Trefusis and Sir Savile Smart were with him. Mr Evans therefore challenged Miss Bird to a game of draughts, and Mr Deadwood favoured Dora and Frank with a lurid account of the various battles he had fought during his hospital career. It was not an improving discourse, and as a consequence of it Frank came home the next day with a black eye, the result of having engaged a much larger boy than himself in fistic combat.

The outcome of the specialists' conversation with Messrs Evans and Deadwood, after a rigorous examination of Jim's injuries, was that Mr Deadwood called on the bearded man when the latter was discussing tea and crumpets on the following afternoon.

"Oh, how do you do?" said the bearded man rather stiffly, as he rose from the table.

He had observed the arrival of the partners in Mount Street with some misgivings, for he recognised them as members of the Matt's band that laid waste his surgery. He did not go out of his way to renew his acquaintance with them, and trusted they would not take the initiative in that respect. However, in view of the ferocious character his patients had given Mr Deadwood, he thought it would be as well to be polite to him.

"Don't let me disturb you," said Mr Deadwood; "I have only dropped in to tell you, in the plainest way the mind of man is capable of conceiving, that you are an ass!"

"What reason have you for saying this?" demanded the bearded man, coldly.

"In the sublimity of your ignorance," explained Mr Deadwood, "added to your coruscatingly conceited idea that you know anything whatever about the human frame, you informed a sporting gentleman of my acquaintance that Jim Mortimer would only last twenty-four hours."

"Yes," said the bearded man, "I said that, and I meant it. Is he still alive?"

"Man, man!" exclaimed Mr Deadwood, "it hurts me to think that you come from Matt's--a place that has bred many eminent surgeons, including myself and my friend of the carmine tresses."

"Is Mortimer still alive, then?" reiterated the bearded man.

"He is so alive," returned Mr Deadwood, "that Trefusis says he will be playing cricket in June! Wherefore, what price _your_ diagnosis of his hurts, my whiskered fakir?"

"I am surprised to hear it," said he of the beard.

"Of course you are," exclaimed Mr Deadwood, "and why? Because you are an ass. Sir, you ought to take a job on an Australian liner. You would find little to do except consume meals and inhale ozone. Going out, possibly there would be a few sick infants, and a gentleman afflicted with what is politely called the 'drink habit'! You would help the latter on his way to a watery grave, and no one would mind. Coming home, you might pick up a soldier from Egypt with dog-bite, bound for the Pasteur Institute. You would cut off his leg and think you had cured him. So why not get a liner job, my hairy false prophet?"

"Please moderate your language!" exclaimed the bearded man, shortly.

"Tut! tut! Go to!" replied Mr Deadwood; "I am only giving you these hints for your good. You ought not to doctor human beings, bar pirates or Esquimaux. Why not turn vet. and specialise in elephants? They take a lot of killing."

"I think you are very rude," protested the bearded man.

"Pulling out horses' teeth isn't a bad-paying business, either," continued Mr Deadwood. "You use forceps about as large as tongs. They would just suit your delicate touch."

"Everybody is liable to make mistakes," pleaded the bearded one.

"But when a man practising medicine makes the mistakes you do," returned Mr Deadwood, "he had better set up at once as secret agent--on a liberal salary--to a necropolis company."

But the bearded man was only half-listening to his visitor.

"I can't understand it," he muttered; "he was frightfully injured."

"But he's frightfully tough," rejoined Deadwood: "footer, rowing, cricket--all good for the spine. He'll get well! Ahem! Sorry to have to suggest it myself, but have you got any tea to give away to a thirsty apothecary?"

"Certainly. Sit down and have a cup."

"I will," said Mr Deadwood. "As I have previously remarked, you're not a bad sort. After all, you can't help being an ass. _You_ condemned Jim to death, and Trefusis has reprieved him. Two lumps and plenty of milk, and the toast is--JIM!"

*CHAPTER XXXII.*

*IN WHICH TWO PEOPLE SET OUT UPON A JOURNEY.*

The Long 'Un lay staring at the wall-paper. How often had he counted that design! Above the window it was repeated seventeen times--over and over again he counted the pattern to make sure it was repeated seventeen times--eight each side and one odd one in the middle. And again underneath and along each wall ran the design in serried and monotonous rows. He knew every bend and turn of it by heart. It represented a herb or flower of some kind, the like of which never was seen by mortal eye in garden, forest, field, or dell.

Almost unceasingly Jim had gazed on this stiff unnatural growth since he had regained consciousness. He had nothing else to do. He didn't want to talk, and he wasn't encouraged to. All he could do was lie there and stare at the wall-paper.

And when he was not counting the wall-paper pattern he would close his eyes and picture Dora to himself. He would think of her in the neat coat and skirt she wore to the post-office and back; then simply in the blouse and skirt she dressed in "for the house"; then in the white frock she donned when bound for any entertainment in Jefferson's company. On the whole, Jim most liked to dream of her in the blouse and skirt. He had seen her thus attired most frequently; such was her costume when he first set eyes on her in the A B C shop that memorable August afternoon.

And so he lay with his head in white bandages and his back in plaster-of-Paris--not able to sit up or to turn even; so he lay and gazed upon the pictures of Dora that floated before his mind's eye.

They had not told him that no marriage had taken place. The matter had been delicately mentioned to the two great surgeons by Mr Maybury, but they had both set their faces against the idea of saying anything to Jim about it, Trefusis declaring that it would excite his patient too much.

Sir Savile concurring, Mr Maybury was obliged to submit, although he himself could not help thinking that the intelligence would banish that brooding expression for ever from Jim's eyes. For Dora's father sitting by the bedside, could see that Jim was suffering from something more than the physical injuries he had sustained in the Silent House.

Mr Maybury spoke to Koko about it.

"Yes," said Koko, promptly; "I have a good mind to tell Jim, and let the doctors go hang. They only take a scientific view of his case. _Shall_ I?"

"We must obey orders," said Mr Maybury.

"Well I don't believe it would do him all that harm--and it might do him an awful lot of good."

"I think with you," said Mr Maybury, "but the doctors probably know best."

"All the same, doctors don't know everything," grumbled Koko.

Jim did not make a single inquiry on the subject. He presumed Dora was away honey-mooning under the fair blue skies of the Mediterranean. He had no idea she was still at No. 9, seriously considering the question of taking a business situation of some sort, since she could not return to the post-office. Her father did not encourage the idea, nor did he oppose it. If Dora would be happier going to a city office every day, well--she had better go. But, on the other hand, he was quite content that she should remain at home, now that he was so much better off.

So stood matters when old Doctor Mortimer stole a couple of days from his wealthy and, in many cases, hypochondriacal patients down at Threeways, and, running up to town to see Jim, pitched his tent in a quiet Arundel Street hotel. In order to reach Mount Street he had only to make his way along the Embankment to Blackfriars Bridge, whence to Derby Crescent was a smart fifteen minutes' walk. For the Doctor always walked if it was fine weather. "It keeps a man alive--walking," the old gentleman told Koko, who lunched with him on the day of his arrival in town. And, to be sure, it was good to see the Doctor's stalwart form striding briskly along the crowded pavements, his fine, clean-cut face ruddy and wholesome showing up refreshingly against the pallid cheeks of London wayfarers.

"We must get Jim away to the seaside as soon as possible," he said to Koko, as the latter with some difficulty kept step for step with his big companion; "what he wants is oxygen--oxygen."

During lunch Koko had given Jim's grandfather a complete history of the Jefferson episode. He also mentioned that Jim was being kept in ignorance of the closing incident. So, after a short silence, Dr Mortimer slackened his pace, and said: "She's a nice girl, then, Mr Somers?"

"She's as nice a girl as you could meet, Doctor."

"Doesn't spend all her time reading silly novels, I trust?"

"Hardly _all_ her time, Doctor. She reads a certain number, I suppose."

"She's a good girl--I mean, a girl with religion? I don't believe in your modern young lady who strums waltzes on the piano instead of going to church!"

"Nor do I," said Koko. "Yes," he added, "she's a good girl. She's been looking after the poor flower-seller who saved Jim's face from the Hooligan's boot."

"And so,"--the Doctor slackened his pace still more,--"and so, if we manage to pull Jim round and make him as strong a man as he ever was, you think this girl will marry him?"

"I'm sure of it," said Koko.

"And you're sure this is no passing fancy of Jim's? You think he will want to marry her?"

"I'd stake my life on it," cried Koko.

"Then," said the Doctor, "the very best medicine the boy can have is a daily visit from Miss--er----"

"Dora," supplied Koko.

"From Miss Dora Maybury," added the Doctor, emphatically. "Very good. I'll take the responsibility of the matter on my own shoulders. He shall see her."