In the meantime Mr. James Dodson had hurriedly left the precincts of
the court. He had made his way headlong to the refreshment buffet of
the Brontë Hotel.
“Chrissie,” said the eminent philosopher, “I want something that in the
quickest possible time will make me blind to the world. And as soon as
I am blind to the world I want you to put me in a cab and send me home.”
“What’s up, Jimmy?” said the lady at the buffet, betraying a lively
curiosity. “It isn’t love, because I know by experience that you are
not built in that way.”
“A lot you know about it,” said the philosopher hoarsely. “You think
because you have thrown me over twice and I have not said a word about
it, I haven’t got any feelings at all. You are wrong, Chrissie. If you
touch me in the right spot I have to squeal just like anybody else.
I want to knock my head against that beer-engine until I can’t feel
anything more. And why do you think I want to do that?”
“Ask me another, James Dodson,” said the siren. “But for whatever
reason you want to do it, I know very well it is not love.”
“Well, if it is not love,” said Mr. Dodson, “I don’t know what the name
is for it. Here is a chap I have known seven years, who was nothing to
me at first, who was not the kind of chap a fellow like me would take
up with, who has been found guilty of doing things--not one thing mind
you, but two--and although he has been found guilty, I say--and he
owns up himself--and he has just been put away for six months’ hard
labour--the whole business makes me feel--makes me feel, Chrissie, as
though I want to commit a murder.”
“Whatever you do, Jimmy,” said the siren, who was genuinely alarmed,
“you must keep off brandy. You are absolutely off the square. I can’t
make out what is the matter with you; I should have said you would have
been the last chap in the world to let go like this.”
“So should I, old girl,” said Mr. Dodson. “I don’t recognize J. D. in
this affair at all. The fact is, J. D. never has recognized himself in
his dealings with that poor lunatic. But there has come to be something
about that chap that is more to me than my own flesh and blood. If
it isn’t love I don’t know what it is; yet why it should be love I
don’t know. As you know, old girl, I don’t believe much in religion
as a general thing, but it has seemed to me lately that that chap was
just a saint in disguise. And now they have taken him from me--put
him away in gaol--to hard labour--and he deserves it too--and--and,
old girl, it has kind of knocked the bottom out of my little world
altogether--and--and I feel that I shall never be able to believe in
anything again.”
“Steady, old boy,” said Chrissie with an ample yet robust sympathy. “I
don’t like to see you let go.”
“I don’t like it either,” said the philosopher whitely. “But I feel
just now that I must either let out a little or go mad. One thing is
dead sure; I mustn’t go back to the office at present. If I do I am
certain to murder Octavius.”
“Jimmy,” said Chrissie, with matronly reserve from behind the buffet,
“if you like to bring that ring back again to-morrow I’ll wear it.”
“You give me something that will put me to sleep,” said the philosopher
hoarsely and with wild eyes. “Anything--I don’t care what--as long as
it does it soon.”