Jimmy Quixote: A Novel

by Tom Gallon

Exactly how he had lived during the winter he did not know; it had been a matter of crouching over fires in mean kitchens of lodging houses—sometimes cooking poor food for himself, and sometimes begging it, already cooked, from others; a mean, scraping, starveling existence, going on from day to day. Some part of it had been spent in an infirmary, where he had given much trouble, and had lectured the doctors and nurses cantankerously about his own case and his own symptoms; they had been rather glad to get rid of him. Now, with the sun warming his veins, and putting some strength into his shrunken limbs, he cast about in his mind for someone to whom he could appeal.

A pathetic letter from him had reached Patience in the country; the old woman had been careful to reply, although, somewhat to his disgust, she had merely expressed sorrow for his difficulties, but had sent no money. Finding the letter now, after searching his pockets carefully, he discovered that the address of the place was a comparatively short distance from London; and, the country appealing to him on this bright day, and the chance of free lodging appealing even more strongly, he determined to make his way there. The shiftless life he had led had taught him to make the most of small opportunities; he knew that he might count on a lift in a cart now and then, and might even beg a little on the way, so low had he sunk.

Behold him, therefore, once more stirring in our story—creeping into it, as it were, with no thought of harm, and with only the desire for food and to shelter himself. See him going on his way, counting small possibilities in his mind, and wondering if by chance he might be able to quarter himself upon the two women for some indefinite period.

Drivers proved obdurate, and he got but few lifts upon the road; more than that, the begging was not a success, and he spent one night asleep under a hedge, cursing the stars that shone down upon him and the wind that ruffled his garments. But he went on hopefully, and came at last to the place to which Moira had retreated, and where she lived with old Patience and with the child.

Then it was that Anthony Ditchburn threw himself, with something of zeal, into what appeared to be a curious story. For he was informed merely that Moira was married, and that this was her child; he heard with astonishment that her husband was that Jimmy Larrance who had done great things in London, and who was reputed to be well-to-do. He questioned Patience artfully, but got no nearer to the real heart of the mystery.

They were good friends, he was told; but they preferred to live apart. Yes—Moira was perfectly happy; but they did not see anything of each other, and Jimmy had never been down to the place at all. More than that, they did not expect to see him there. The child, Anthony Ditchburn was told, was more than a year old.

They did not exactly welcome him; but he was by this time an adept in the art of forcing himself upon the unwary, and refusing to be got rid of. There was a small odd room in the house that had in it some old boxes and trunks; and out of these and some rugs and blankets he contrived a bed without their knowledge; and was actually discovered asleep there late at night. And there he camped for a week by night, and shamelessly lived upon them by day.

Also, he made discoveries which might in the future prove useful to himself. Creeping about in a noiseless fashion he had, he came upon Moira and the child more than once in the garden, and listened to what she said; saw her in tears, and saved up that picture in his mind for future use. He meant to turn everything to account; he was presently to visit a certain Mr. James Larrance in London, and to wring his heart (and incidentally his purse) with harrowing tales of a devoted woman, neglected and pining for love; of a child that was being taught to prattle his name.

He made other discoveries too. He found that at a certain still hour of the afternoon, when the child slept, and when old Patience nodded in a shadowy corner of a darkened room, Moira stole out into the garden carrying with her a worn, old writing-case, and that she wrote steadily for quite a long time. And while she wrote she smiled always; the tears were not for that time.

Yet the strange thing was that no letters were ever posted. The post office was quite a long way off, and Anthony more than once proffered his services; but he was smilingly told that there were no letters to go. Yet he certainly saw envelopes; concealing himself in the garden one afternoon, like the base unnatural creature he was, he saw without a blush that she kissed a letter she had put into an envelope and sealed and addressed. That evening he alluded pointedly to the carelessness of people who omitted to post letters, and even told a lengthy anecdote concerning a college friend of his who had lost a valuable appointment by missing a mail; but Moira only smiled and said nothing.