"His mother wants him, his child wants him, and for that matter Mrs. Potts's child wants him too. Charley talks some nonsense about waiting to baptize the little girl until Geoff comes home 'with water from the Jordan,' said Master Charley, being uncertain in his geography, and having some confused notion about some sacred river. However, if we could only get him home, he might bottle a little of the Nile for us instead. I really wish he'd come. I want to know how far he has really lived down his trouble; I can't bear to think that it may conquer and spoil him."
"It has not done that; it won't do that--no fear of it," said Annie eagerly; "I can tell from his letters that Geoffrey is a strong man again,--stronger than he has ever been before."
"He needs to be, Miss Maurice," said William, with a short, kind, sounding laugh, "for Geoffrey's nature is not strong. I don't think I ever knew a weaker man but one--"
He paused, but Annie made no remark. Presently he fell to talking of the child and his likeness to Geoffrey, which was very strong and very striking.
"There is not a trace of the poor mother in him," said Bowker; "I am glad of it. The less there is before Geoffrey's eyes when he returns to remind him of the past the better."
"And yet," said Annie in a low voice, and with something troubled in her manner, "I have often thought if he returned, and I saw his meeting with the child, how dreadful it would be to watch him looking for a trace of the dead in little Arthur's face, and not finding it, to know that he felt the world doubly empty."
Her face was half averted from Bowker as she spoke, and he looked at her curiously and long. He marked the sudden flush and pallor of her cheek, and the hurry in her words; and a bright unusual light came into William Bowker's eyes. He only said,
"Ay--that would indeed be a pang the more." And a few minutes later he took his leave.
"Charley," said Mr. Bowker to Mr. Potts, three or four Gays afterwards, as he stood before that gentleman's easel, criticising the performance upon it with his accustomed science and freedom, "why don't you get your wife to write to Geoffrey, and make him come home? He ought to come, you know, and it's not for you or me to remonstrate with him. Women do these things better than men; they can handle sores without hurting them, and pull at heartstrings without making them crack. There's his mother, growing old, you know, and wanting to see him; and the child's a fine young shaver now, and his father ought to know something of him, eh, Charley, what do you think?"
"You're about right, old fellow, that's what I think. Til often talks about it, particularly since the baby was born, and wonders how Geoffrey can stay away; but I suppose if his own child won't bring him home, ours can't be expected to do it; eh, William? Til doesn't think of that, you see."