LVI
Ateight o’clock in the evening of the same day when Jimmy Dodson made his nightly pilgrimage to the little room, he was greeted eagerly by him who kept the chimney-side.
“Our little treatise is in worthy hands at the English Museum?” he said. “But, good friend, I am so persuaded of it that I do not ask you to answer.”
“I do answer all the same, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson with a fervour which was born of careful preparation. “I took it to the chief, the head man, the curator or whatever they call him—you see, old boy, I thought if I left it to an understrapper it might get mislaid.”
“It might, it might,” said the poet with a smileof approval. “This little world of ours is so strange in its ways.”
“And what is more,” said Jimmy Dodson, “I told him what it was. I told him it was absolutely the greatest poem in the world.”
“That was doubtless wise,” said the poet with his curious simplicity.
“Yet, what do you think, old boy?” said Jimmy Dodson with indignation. “He as good as said he didn’t believe it. He as good as called me a liar.”
“Ah,” said the poet, breathing deep. “And then—and then, in what manner did you answer him?”
“Why, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson proudly, “I did precisely what you would have done yourself. I whipped the string off the parcel; I handed him the first page of the manuscript, and I said, ‘There it is; now look at it for yourself!’”
“Oh good, oh brave!” cried he who was sightless. “And—and——?”
As his lips shaped the question, the breath of the dying poet came in great heavy gasps. The face of the unhappy Dodson was set like a piece of marble, but there was a curious intensity burning in his eyes.
“And—and? Why, what doyouthink, old boy?” said the faithful emissary, and he paused dramatically.
“He was silent,” said the poet. “He did not speak.”
“No, old boy, that is just where you are wrong,” said Jimmy Dodson with an air of triumph. “He spoke right enough. You see, that chap couldn’t help himself. At first I felt sure he would go clean out of his mind. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘tell me who is the author of this?’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘the authorship is to remain a dead secret.’ ‘Youare not the author at any rate,’ he said, ‘a common, vulgar little chap like you.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘and it is no use pretending that I am; but all the same I have promised the author that I would keep hissecret; and what is more I am going to keep it.’ ‘I shall see the publishers,’ he said. ‘The world has a right to know who is the author of this.’ ‘By all means see them if you like,’ I said, ‘but you will be none the wiser. They don’t know any more than you do.’ Well, after that the poor old fellow—highly respectable, too—University man, and so on—behaved as though he was fairly up the pole. He swore he would know the author; he swore he wouldn’t let me go out of that room until I had told him your name. You see, that chap was simply mad keen on poetry; he had edited Chaucer and Keats and those chaps for the Oxbridge Press. But no, I stood firm; and when I left him, he said, ‘Well, sir, even if you won’t tell me the name of the author, I may tell you that this priceless manuscript will be placed among those we have of Shakespeare and Milton, for’—and these are his very words, Luney, old boy—‘for,’ said he, ‘this brown-paper parcel is a national possession.’”
When Jimmy Dodson had concluded his account of this remarkable scene at the English Museum, and he ventured to look at the blind poet through the tears that rendered his own eyes so dim, he was overcome by horror. The sightless eyes of the poet were closed; his head was thrown back in the chair; his breathing could no longer be heard. The illusion of death was so complete that for an instant Dodson felt that he had entered its presence, and that by his own too-faithful hand he had slain his friend.
However, almost immediately the poet uttered a sigh. He then raised his head, and opened his sightless eyes again. “Courage, Achilles!” he could be heard to mutter faintly.
An hour of silence passed ere the voice of the poet was heard again. He then addressed his unhappy friend in the manner that became the true prince.
“Jimmy,” he said, “the world will never know what it owes to one strong and faithful soul.”
Yet again the dying poet held forth his hand, which yet again received the homage of his unhappy friend.