Jimmy Quixote: A Novel

by Tom Gallon

And this had not been love; bitterly she declared that to herself again and again. She was of the stuff that would have walked barefoot through hell in the service of a man to whom her heart had been fully given; and lo! it had been her fate to fall in so poor a fashion as this. That was the shame of it in her eyes.

She went once or twice to the house in which Jimmy lived. Not to see him, because she told herself that she was never to see him again; that, of all people in the world, he most of all must know nothing of her—must forget her. She never acknowledged to herself why that should be; she only thought of it with tears, many and many a time, as of something she had lost and could never regain. Jimmy, who was once to have said a word in a great crisis of her life—Jimmy, who had not said that word; he was the one above all others who must not know anything of this. Yet it was something of a comfort at that time to go to the house wherein he lived; even to stand in the cold streets, and look up at his windows and wonder what he was doing and how he fared. She found that she could say a prayer for him easily and earnestly, even while she could not pray for herself.

Once she was bold enough to climb the stairs of the house, on the pretext of seeing him, and to wait outside the door of his rooms in the darkness of the staircase; she put her face against the door, and listened, almost thinking that she would go in for a moment, just to touch his friendly hand—just to look into his eyes. But there came from the room a shout of laughter, and the sounds of men's voices; she hurried away again, and went home.

Meanwhile, the affairs of Charlie Purdue prospered not at all. He had scandalised the little house in Locker Street by getting deeply into debt with the landlady, and his constant assurances that he would be able to pay very soon were beginning to be regarded with suspicion. Always with that idea in his mind that presently something wonderful was to happen—something which should mean to him unlimited money, earned at the least possible expenditure of time or energy—he had racked his brains to discover any and every person from whom he could borrow, and had pretty nearly exhausted the list. The weeks had grown into months, and Charlie had lost something of his gaiety and his brightness; quite unused to trouble or responsibility, he fretted under the weight of both, and became morose and taciturn and embittered. He got to that easiest of all stages in such a career, wherein a man tells himself that to fight any longer is absurd, and that the world must have its way, and must do what it will with him. That further stage, wherein Charlie told himself (and others who would listen) that he had a father, if you please, with no one in the world dependent upon him; a father with a fat living and a private income to boot; yet here was poor Charlie Purdue (if you would but look at him for a moment) without a sixpence to call his own, and with no prospects in the world. Charlie conveniently forgot to mention how long-suffering the father in the fat living had been; that was a mere matter of detail that did not concern the question. The fact that Charlie, at the end of every such expression of opinion, declared with much heartiness that all he wanted in this world was plenty of work, if only someone would give it to him, commended him to such as did not know him, and caused him to be referred to sighingly and pityingly as "Poor Charlie Purdue."

He stooped to the depth of a meanness that was in a sense accidental when he strove to borrow from Patience. Instinctively he chose a time when Moira was away; and he was careful to explain to the old woman that this was merely a temporary matter, and that he expected to be in funds again in the course of a day or two; he seemed to suggest that it was only a question, on the part of Patience, of paying it out with one hand, and receiving it back with the other almost at once. Patience, however, had other views; she asked questions as to what Charlie was going to do in the near future. Evidently she had kept her eyes open, and had, moreover, heard whispers regarding those shadowy prospects of his of which he had suspected nothing.

"Well, you see, my dear Patience," Charlie explained, as carelessly as he could, "it isn't for my own sake exactly; it has to do with Moira."

"With Moira?" The old woman looked at him under lowering brows, and with a new note of suspicion in her tones. "Why with her?"

"Oh, I know nothing's been said about it yet," he went on, a little lamely, "but it's settled between us that we're going to be married. Don't look at me like that; we're awfully fond of each other—and I shall do better with her than I should alone."

"I can quite believe that," replied Patience steadily. "But how are you going to live?"

"That's the same old silly question that everyone seems to ask in this world," retorted Charlie. "You don't seem to realise that I'm a man—strong and healthy—and with all the world before me. I may have failed in one or two things; but I shan't fail in everything. Moira and I will be all right; it's only just at this present moment that things are a little tight with me, and that I want a little temporary assistance. You knew me in the old days, Patience—and you've seen something of me recently——"