Jimmy Quixote: A Novel

Some two days before the actual production a card was brought to Jimmy, while he sat disconsolately in the stalls watching Mr. Bennett Godsby raving up and down on the other side of the footlights, and expressing his opinion volubly concerning the musical director, and the fashion in which the incidental music had been arranged. The card bore the name of "Mrs. Daniel Baffall"; and the messenger whispered that the lady was in a carriage outside. Jimmy presently went out, to find the good-natured creature flutteringly leaning towards him over the door of the carriage, and wondering if he remembered her.

"Why, of course," said Jimmy, "although it seems such a long time ago. How did you find me?"

"Oh – everyone knows you," said Mrs. Baffall, glancing across at a young girl seated at the other side of the carriage. "And we're all so tremendously proud of you – and we can't possibly think how you've managed to do it. Even Mr. Baffall has almost forgotten about the warehouse – though he did say once (not meaning it in the least, poor dear man) that he was sure you'd starve."

"We have taken a box, Jimmy," said the young girl, in the most surprising fashion; and Jimmy wheeled about to look at her.

In a moment he remembered who this must be; yet the change in her was so great that he might not have known, but for connecting her with Mrs. Baffall and the carriage. For this was a radiant vision, beautifully dressed, and belonging to the carriage far more than poor Mrs. Baffall could ever hope to do. She held out her hand to him and laughed at his evident embarrassment.

"You do remember me, I hope," she said.

"Why, of course – Alice," he replied. "I'm very glad you're coming; I'm very anxious about it all."

"Oh – it's certain to be all right – and a big success," she replied. "Aunt Baffall is making up her mind at this very moment to ask you to come and dine with us to-night – aren't you, Aunt Baffall?"

"Yes, of course – if you think so – and if Mr. Jimmy can spare the time. I'm sure that if I'd ever tried anything of this kind (that is, always supposing that Baffall would have let me), I should have had such a dreadful headache that I shouldn't have been able to eat or walk or do anything else. You know what it is, my dear" – Mrs. Baffall turned plaintively to Alice – "you know what it means for me when I even try to write a letter. And when you come to a book (not that I could quite make out the end of it, Mr. Jimmy, but I suppose you meant well), and then a play, which, I suppose, has to be written too – it makes me feel quite sorry for you. So that if you can eat anything – "

Jimmy promised, almost with eagerness. It was a rare event in his life to be going out anywhere in a friendly way; and he needed greatly just then to find someone to whom to talk – someone to tell of his great success and all that the future was to hold for him. He found himself wondering, as he sat in the theatre, why he had not thought of Alice before – why he had not known instinctively that she must have grown into this flower-like creature – this rare and delicate beauty. He was to see her to-night; he would have a chance of telling her a great deal about himself and his work. He had been foolish to lose sight for so long of such a girl as this; he remembered what good friends they had been in far-off childish days. More than that, he considered with gratification that they must regard him as something rare in the world of young men; this boy who had been started in a warehouse, and now had blossomed into an important man. He felt glad that they had come to find him at the theatre.

Escaping at last from the theatre, and from what now amounted almost to the reproaches of Mr. Bennett Godsby, Jimmy hastened to his room, and put on his rarely used dress suit. From a financial point of view, things were very, very wrong with Jimmy; it was only by persistently pointing out the flattering paragraphs in the newspapers that he had been able to convince his landlady that if only she waited for a week or two he would be able to pay all that was due. He had tried her with a photograph of himself, reproduced in an evening newspaper; but it seemed that she had once had a nephew "in trouble," as she expressed it, and his portrait had appeared in much the same fashion; she was distrustful.

Jimmy walked, because he could not afford a cab, and because also the night was fine. And as he walked, there passed him, going along the road, an omnibus, and on the side of the omnibus, standing out clearly and distinctly, the name of the theatre and the name of his play; it was there for all London to read. He wondered what people would have thought, had they known who he was, and what the names on the sides of the 'buses (for there were others going on other routes) meant to him. Though he walked with but a shilling or two in his pocket that night, he felt once again as he had felt before – that he envied no man, and that the world was very pleasant, and that the world smiled upon him.

For he was young, and he was talked about; and he had done something already in the world. And a pretty girl had held his hand that day, and had said that she was proud of him; and he was on his way now to see her. What more, in the name of Fortune, need any man ask?

CHAPTER IX

THE DAWN

Jimmy had been dressed three hours before it was absolutely necessary that he should be at the theatre, and then had wandered about his rooms, tortured by doubts and fears; wondering if by chance it would not have been better to have altered this line at the last, or to have extended that phrase, so as to convey the meaning better. Suppose, after all, the theatre took fire – now, when people were gathering at its very doors; suppose the iron curtain refused to go up (such things had been known to happen); or suppose Bennett Godsby, in the very hour of his triumph, dropped dead from sheer excitement. Would there be a call for the author, and should Jimmy go on, in that case? Nay, more – would he be permitted to go on? That was the more vital question, because Bennett Godsby had to be reckoned with in such a matter.

He went down to the theatre at last, to find the man at the stage door, who always sat in the company of the gas stove and the very old dog, rising to his feet to wish him good luck; Jimmy blushed to think that he had not sufficient in his pocket for a tip. Also, there were telegrams; one in particular from Alice, which he thrust into an inner pocket. Then he went down on to the stage and looked about him.

Actually there was a man there – a property man, or some other debased character – lounging on a settee, and whistling! It did not seem to occur to him that so much depended on this night; if anything, the debased one looked a trifle bored. Jimmy trembled at the thought that in the hands of such people as this rested perhaps the fate of the play; for, according to Bennett Godsby, the wrong coloured carpet put down on the stage, or a chair six inches too much to the left, had ruined the fate of the finest ere this. Thinking that, Jimmy went in search of Bennett Godsby, with the object of cheering him.

He found him in his dressing-room, opening letters and telegrams, and apparently not in the least anxious. The great man looked round at Jimmy as he entered and nodded.

"I've got a ghastly feeling come over me, Larrance," he said – "a horrible feeling that I shan't do myself justice to-night. It's the life, I suppose; it's telling on me a bit. Every blessed thing seems to have gone out of my head. I know I look calm," he added, as if in reply to Jimmy's deprecatory smile, "but that's only manner. I've got to that pitch that I simply don't care what happens – I don't indeed. It may suit the part better, in a way – and it may not. Here – take this coat!"

He turned to the dresser, and began to prepare for the evening's work. Jimmy, with a dull feeling that all was over with him, and that he wished someone would stop the band then tuning up in the distance, turned to go. Mr. Bennett Godsby called him back.

"By the way – you'll be somewhere about, I suppose?" he said.

"Oh, yes; I shall be somewhere about," replied Jimmy, and went out into the streets again.

But the curtain went up in due time, and Mr. Bennett Godsby, also in due time, went on to receive the applause of his friends in his dual capacity of author and actor. Jimmy knew nothing of what was happening; he could only guess, as he paced about outside, that this part of the play had been reached, or that part; he knew that an act was over and another begun when men in caps came tumbling out of the stage door, and adjourned hurriedly to a neighbouring public-house. Then Jimmy ventured inside again.

But he was not alone that night in his anxiety; there was someone else who counted the hours, and wondered what was happening; someone who, like Jimmy, but for a different reason, could have no sight of the proceedings. Although Jimmy did not know it then, and was not to know it until long, long afterwards, Moira had counted the days, and then the hours; knew to a moment when the curtain was to rise; guessed almost to a moment when it might fall again, and Jimmy's fate be known. And it was her fate to stand outside, bitterly enough, and to see nothing.

She had not seen Jimmy since that night when she had gone to his rooms, and had told him of herself and Charlie; that night she was so often to remember, when she had seen him sitting in the circle of light from his lamp; that night when the merciful darkness of the room had hidden her tears. But she had thought about him often and often; had once, on a little foolish impulse, put a common newspaper to her lips when she was alone, because it spoke of him kindly and wished him well. Charlie knew nothing of that; Charlie stood outside, as another part of her life – something Jimmy did not touch.

Yet there had been a faint hope in her mind that she might have seen the play – might have been present at Jimmy's triumph – for to imagine him failing was impossible, she felt. More than that, there was in the girl this night that strong, fine feeling – half the feeling of motherhood almost – that made her feel she would have liked to take him in her arms, and whisper words of comfort and of hope to him. It never occurred to Moira that there might be others to do that; it never seemed possible to her that this was a new Jimmy, grown out of old ways, and leaving her lightly and easily enough to Charlie. To-night at least Jimmy – her Jimmy! – stood alone, as it seemed to her, and she only understood from what he had come, and what struggles he had had, before his name could shine out before men as it did now. She wanted to tell him all this; wanted to be somewhere near him – and yet quite secretly – so that at the last crucial moment he might understand that she knew what he felt, and that she was with him in his fight.

And yet – the difference! There had come no word from him – no suggestion that she might like to see the play. She waited bravely until the very end – the very moment when she knew that people must be gathering at the theatre, and still nothing came. She determined then that she would go down to the place; she might see something of him at least – might even hear from others what was happening. Alone, and thinking only of him, she made her way down the stairs; stopped for a moment at Charlie's door. And as she stopped the door was opened, and Charlie stood there, looking out at her.

"Hullo! – going out?" he asked, yawning a little. From his appearance he had evidently been sitting over the fire for a long time, brooding.

"Yes, but only a little way," she said hurriedly, without looking at him; for in a sense this was a disloyalty to Charlie. "I shan't be long."

"Shall I come with you?" he asked, but with no alacrity in his tone.

"No – I shall be back directly – very soon, I mean," she replied.

"Oh – all right," he said, and as she went down stairs he closed the door and went back to the fire.

He sat down there in the comfortable warmth, and fell asleep. His pipe dropped from his mouth, and lay unheeded at his feet; he slept for quite a long time. When he awoke the room seemed cold and dark; the fire had died down and was almost out. Muttering impatiently against it, he set to work to replenish it; then, shuddering, looked round the place with a frown.

"I hate this room," he muttered. "Here I seem to spend my life; to this I get up in the morning; from this I go to bed at night. I wonder how long it'll last? No hope – nothing to look forward to; every jolly fellow I ever met gone from me, or gone ahead of me. It's cursed bad luck; if it wasn't for Moira, I'd – I wonder whether she's back yet?"

After a moment or two he went up softly to the upper rooms, and opened the door. Patience sat in her deep chair against the fire, asleep; there was no one else there. Charlie closed the door, and came down again; looked irresolutely about his own room.

"I'll go out," he muttered to himself. "I've got a fit of the blues, and I'll walk them off. What the deuce did Moira want to go out for – and stay away all this time?"

He got his hat and coat, and went out into the streets. It was a windy, gusty night, with splashes of rain flung at the few people in the streets; for a moment he hesitated, and almost turned back. But the thought of the cheerless room decided him against it; he walked on sharply into the brighter streets. And as he walked his spirits rose a little.

Meanwhile Moira had gone on, making straight for the theatre. Almost at that time she was obsessed with the idea that Jimmy wanted her; that on this night of all other nights he was lonely, even in the midst of his success, and that he called to her. Wind nor gusts of rain mattered anything to her then; it was Jimmy who called – Jimmy of whom she was proud; Jimmy whom she loved at this moment as she had never loved him before. In this hour her heart, so long held in check and starved within her, woke and cried for him, as a child, waking from some uneasy dream in the night, cries out for the touch of love – the sweet whisper of love to calm and soothe its fears. Jimmy in a blaze of glory in the lighted theatre was nothing to her then; her soul went out to the Jimmy of the woods and the fields of her childhood. Through the streets of that London that had taken them both into its cruel arms, and made of them what it would, she went on to meet her Jimmy.

She came to the theatre, to find a crowd about it, and carriages and cabs driving up in a long line. Only then did she realise that her errand was a wrong one; that here was no place for her. She drew back – poor shabby figure that she was – among those who waited in a line at either side of the big doors to watch the carriage folk going in. And then, for the first time, understood the bitterness of her position, as she saw one bright girlish figure emerge from a carriage and flutter in at the great doors. It was Alice.

Mr. and Mrs. Baffall came immediately afterwards, Mr. Baffall very much out of place, and Mrs. Baffall but little more at ease. Peering through the little crowd, Moira saw the girl greeting acquaintances inside – almost heard the light ripple of her laughter. It wasn't fair – it wasn't right that Jimmy should have forgotten. She drew back, and got away from the crowd, and began to pace the streets again.

They would be taking their places now; Jimmy's play would be beginning. Perhaps after all, she thought, she might contrive to get in; it would be good to think that she might sit aloft somewhere and watch it, and tell Jimmy about it afterwards. Yes – she would go in, although shillings were hard to spare. She went round to a door in an alley, and mounted a flight of stone steps; a man behind a little paybox window shook his head at her.

"No good, miss; every seat gone, and not even standing room. Bless you, they've been waiting 'ere for hours."

She turned away again, and went round again to the front of the theatre. The last belated comers were hurrying in, and the crowd had gone; she stood there helpless. Moving away a little, she came to a board hung against the wall of the theatre; there in small print was Jimmy's name. Glancing about her quickly, and seeing that she was alone, she softly touched that name with her fingers, with infinite tenderness, before she turned away.

"Jimmy," she said in a whisper, "you might have remembered, dear."

She did not go back at once, she paced the streets for a long time; perhaps then some hardness was growing up in her heart – some new bitterness at the fashion in which everything and everyone seemed to have conspired to set her aside. When at last she turned her steps towards Locker Street it had grown very late, and she was very tired; she walked with lagging feet.

She got to the house and let herself in; the house was dark and silent. Going slowly up the stairs, she had a mental picture of what she must find when she reached her own rooms – Patience asleep in her chair, or Patience asleep in her bed in her own small room. Perhaps, worst of all, Patience asking questions – demanding querulously to know where she had been; perhaps speaking of Jimmy. No – she would not face that yet; she could not face it now. And so she halted on her way, and listened at the door of Charlie's room for a sound within; rapped lightly, and, getting no reply, turned the handle. The room was empty.

But the fire burned brightly, and the room held a welcome for her after the wet and chilly streets. Charlie would come in presently, and they could talk for a little while before she went to bed. For quite desperately she wanted someone to whom to talk to-night – someone who loved her; and Charlie had said, times without number, how much he loved her. Poor Charlie, who was unsuccessful, and yet had always a good word for her – always a smile with which to greet her.

She took off her hat and laid it down; presently stretched herself at length on the shabby old sofa, and laid her cheek on her palm and looked into the fire. The room was very silent; only the fire ticked a little as it fell together; even the streets were quiet. Lying there, she thought of what her life was to be, in all the days that were coming to her – days of poverty and of struggle such as she had known for so long.

"Charlie and I will be together – and perhaps I shall be able to help him," she murmured to herself. "It won't be so bad – with the firelight in the winter – and a quiet room; and in the summer, when the sun shines, the streets and the parks – and perhaps sometimes a glimpse of the country. It won't be so bad – and there will be Charlie. And perhaps Jimmy will – "

She broke off there, because her eyes had filled with tears, and she could not go on. She turned her face a little, so that her arm hid it from the fire; she seemed to murmur there a little brokenly: "Jimmy – you might have remembered" – and again, "Jimmy!"

Then from sheer weariness she slept, and dreamed that she was back again in the old days and the sun was shining. London was but a far-off dream, and she did not know what it would be like. And so, when presently Charlie Purdue opened the door and looked in, he saw her.

He came slowly across the room, and stood looking down at her; saw her lying warm and rosy in the firelight, with the tears yet undried upon her cheeks. As she murmured in her sleep, he suddenly stooped, and fell upon one knee, and put his arms about her; it was his kiss upon her lips that woke her to some consciousness of where she was.

"Moira! my Moira!" he whispered. "I didn't hope to find you here."

Still almost with that dream upon her, she wound her arms about his neck, and nestled her head against his shoulder, as she might have done as a little child, long, long before. Still in that dream, as it seemed, and yet with a half memory of who she was and where she was, she whispered, with her lips against his:

"Let me stay with you; don't send me away. I can't – I can't bear cold looks to-night; don't speak to me. Let me stay; I want love to-night!"

It was his shame that he did not understand; his shame that he saw in her only what he might have seen in any other woman he could meet and conquer, in such an hour and under such circumstances. He wound his arms about her and held her close, and put his lips to hers. And the fire fell, and died down, and dropped to ashes.

The dawn was stealing in faint and grey, and the room was very cold. She stood against the door looking at him shamed and frightened, she shrank away from him when he would have held her; she beat him off with feeble hands.

"I didn't know, Charlie – I didn't understand," she breathed. And said it over and over many times.

When he would have touched her, she crouched away from him, and looked with wild eyes at the grey dawn that was coming in from the world outside, as though this were a new world on which she looked, and she was afraid of it. And presently fled up to her room, sobbing to herself as she went.

END OF BOOK II

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

"IT'LL BE ALL RIGHT"

There fell upon the little house in Locker Street, Chelsea, a silence greater than had fallen before. Charlie Purdue dashed upstairs no more with his laugh and his shout; Charlie Purdue was perplexed and a little afraid. The thing that that happened – the careless, brutal thing of a moment – had cut him off from the girl more completely than anything else could have done; in a sense, he could not meet her eyes; in a sense, it brought him back to what he was and to what he must do. At the mere thought of her – the mere sight of her – he recognised the desperate necessity for doing something with his life – making something of himself for her sake. If she would only have spoken to him – if she would have appealed to him in any set form of words to which he could have replied – he would have been better satisfied and less ashamed; but the tragedy of it was that she said nothing. Forced to remain there in the very house with him, she avoided him, spoke always, when the necessity arose, in mere monosyllables, and with hesitation. And that barrier he failed to break down for a long time.

He strove to bring to bear upon the situation something of his old cheery light-heartedness, however forced it might be; made something of a foil of Patience, the better to rouse the girl. But she bent always over her work, and only answered when actually challenged to do so by Patience.

Moira went no more to his room; she seemed to live a new life, apart from him. When once or twice he carried some new project to her, in the hope to rouse her sympathy, she answered dully enough; the old enthusiasm had gone. It was not given to him to understand her, or to know all that she felt, or what new outlook on life she took at that time; he was merely resentful that she should avoid him; merely bitter with himself that he should have driven her in that sense from him. There were no reproaches; he saw no tears; merely she withdrew into herself, and held him and the world at arms' length, and fought out this new fight for herself. How the battle went he could not know, and he dared not ask.

Now and then he persuaded himself that it would all be forgotten with any new change of circumstances; other women had been willing enough to forget – why not she? No one would ever know anything; the time was coming when he would marry her, and when they would begin to live out their lives together. He did her that grave injustice to believe that if the world prospered with him, and he could take her legitimately to his heart, she would be glad and relieved; he had no understanding of all her trembling fears at that time – no knowledge of the many hours when she wept in her bruised and troubled heart, and saw herself cut off from the rest of the world for ever, by reason of what she called her sin. She never spoke of it, because there was no one to whom she might speak; but she looked out on the world from that time with different eyes – with the eyes, sadly enough, of one who weeps for the might-have-been.

Stories she had read and heard came back to her – old scraps of poems, forgotten, or but dimly understood until this time – poems that touched this, the greatest of all tragedies. She knew now how to class herself – was afraid of what any who had loved her might have said, had they known the truth about her. She grew afraid to pray; in one bitter moment of self-abandonment and shame was glad to think that Old Paul was dead. Old Paul – who had wondered once what love would do to her in the great world!