‘Much better. But very weak.’
‘No wonder. You have had a hard bout of it. But country air, and change of scene,’ said John, ‘will make another man of you! Why, Mrs Gamp,’ he added, laughing, as he kindly arranged the sick man’s garments, ‘you have odd notions of a gentleman’s dress!’
‘Mr Lewsome an’t a easy gent to get into his clothes, sir,’ Mrs Gamp replied with dignity; ‘as me and Betsey Prig can certify afore the Lord Mayor and Uncommon Counsellors, if needful!’
John at that moment was standing close in front of the sick man, in the act of releasing him from the torture of the collars before mentioned, when he said in a whisper:
‘Mr Westlock! I don’t wish to be overheard. I have something very particular and strange to say to you; something that has been a dreadful weight on my mind, through this long illness.’
Quick in all his motions, John was turning round to desire the women to leave the room; when the sick man held him by the sleeve.
‘Not now. I’ve not the strength. I’ve not the courage. May I tell it when I have? May I write it, if I find that easier and better?’
‘May you!’ cried John. ‘Why, Lewsome, what is this!’
‘Don’t ask me what it is. It’s unnatural and cruel. Frightful to think of. Frightful to tell. Frightful to know. Frightful to have helped in. Let me kiss your hand for all your goodness to me. Be kinder still, and don’t ask me what it is!’
At first, John gazed at him in great surprise; but remembering how very much reduced he was, and how recently his brain had been on fire with fever, believed that he was labouring under some imaginary horror or despondent fancy. For farther information on this point, he took an opportunity of drawing Mrs Gamp aside, while Betsey Prig was wrapping him in cloaks and shawls, and asked her whether he was quite collected in his mind.