"But, Geoff," said old Bowker, with a great gulp, "you could never have been any thing to her again you have nothing to reproach yourself with in your conduct to her. It was her misfortune, poor soul, that she did not value you as she should have done; and yet before she died she spoke very, very affectionately of you, and your name was the last on her lips."
"Tell me about that, William," said Geoffrey, raising his head; "tell me what she said about me." He was comparatively calm even then, and sat quite quietly to listen to the details which Bowker had heard from Annie Maurice, and which he now poured into Geoff's eager ears. When he had finished, Geoff thanked him, and said he felt much easier and more relieved than he had been for some days past, but that he was tired out, and would ask Bowker to excuse him then, and by all means to come the next day. Honest William, glad to have accomplished his mission under such apparently favourable circumstances, and with so little of a "scene," took his leave.
But the next day, when he arrived at Elm Lodge, he found Dr. Brandram's gig at the gate, and on entering the house was met by Dr. Brandram himself in the hall. "And a very fortunate man I esteem myself in meeting you, my dear Mr. Boucher--beg pardon, Bowker! Boucher--name of old friend of mine in Norfolk--very fortunate indeed. Let's step into the dining-room, eh?--no need to stand in the draught, eh? You see I speak without the least professional feeling--ha, ha." And the little doctor laughed, but very softly. "Now look here, my dear sir," he continued; "our friend upstairs--I advised his remaining upstairs to-day--this won't do, my dear sir--this won't do."
"I know it, doctor, almost as well as you," said old William gruffly; "but what I don't know, and what I suppose you do, is--what will?"
"Change, my dear sir--thorough and entire change; not merely of air and scene, but of thought, life, habits, surroundings. He has a splendid constitution, our friend; but if he remains much longer in this cage, from which all the--all the joys have flown--he'll beat himself to death against the bars." This was a favourite simile with Dr. Brandram; and after he had uttered it he leant back, as was his wont, and balanced himself on his heels, and looked up into the eyes of his interlocutor to see its effect. On this occasion he was not much gratified, for old Bowker had not troubled himself about the poetical setting, but was thinking over the sense of the doctor's remark.
"Change," he repeated, "thorough change; have you told him that yourself, doctor?"
"Fifty times, my dear sir; repeated it with all the weight of medical authority."
"And what does he say?"
"Always the same thing--that his duty keeps him here. He's an extraordinary man, our friend, a most estimable man; but it would be an excellent thing for him,--in fact, make all the difference in the length of his life,--if his duty would take him abroad for six months."
"It shall," said old Bowker, putting on his hat, and driving it down hard down on his head. "Leave that to me. I'll take care of that." And with these words he nodded at the doctor and departed, leaving the little medico more astonished at the "odd ways" of artists than ever.