He went back to his own rooms, and tried to work; but he could only think of the man who lay dead, and of the girl who was in a sense his pitiful legacy. He felt he could do nothing until he had seen her; until he had completed the work left for him. After that he would settle down again to the life he knew—the life of which this had been so strange an interruption.
There came a note from Alice—a little hurried scrawled thing—demanding petulantly to know what had become of him, and whether he would not go and see her that evening; she would be all alone, she said, and promised to be very good. He was tearing it up slowly when there came a hesitating knock at the door; he went to open it, and found waiting there, outside on the landing, old Mr. Purdue. He took his hand, and drew him into the room, and shut the door.
Jimmy's head was in a whirl; there seemed at that time so many vital things to be thought about and arranged—things more vital than he had ever touched before. On the one hand, the desperate woman whose lover was gone; on the other, the woman who wrote from the security of her assured position, and asked him to go and see her. And, lastly, this broken old man whose only son was dead—the only hope he had in life gone. Jimmy dropped the pieces of paper in the fire, and faced Mr. Purdue.
"I came at once," said the old man. "It was kind of you to do what you have done—you have been most thoughtful. I would have liked—liked to have seen him again—alive, I mean. Because, you know"—he spread out his hands with a feeble gesture that was pitiful to see—"because, you know—this was my fault."
"Your fault?" Jimmy looked at him in astonishment.
"Yes. He came down to see me—he wanted to tell me something—wanted me to help him. And I drove him away; I wouldn't listen to him. I wish I'd listened now."
Jimmy stood waiting; he knew there must be something else to be said; he wondered, in view of what was in his own mind, what he might have to say himself. Mr. Purdue stood nervously rubbing one hand over the back of the other, and blinking his eyes at the fire; it almost seemed as if he tried to weep, but had forgotten the trick of it.
"When Charlie came to me—he spoke of a woman—some woman he must marry," went on the old man. "I would not listen to that—and I should have listened, I suppose. I suppose you know nothing—nothing about her?"
"Yes—I know everything," replied Jimmy, steadily. "I know the woman well; she will be provided for."
He did not mean it quite in that way—did not intend, perhaps, to put the statement so crudely; but in face of this new and strange situation he seemed to be acting in a new and strange fashion. Proud, in a curious sense, of what he was to do, he yet had in him that chivalry which would make him keep secret Moira's name, even while he boasted of what he was to do for her. While the old man stared at him, he repeated that phrase he had used.