“The doctor says he’s better, sir, as he has for months; but he do keep so low, and,” continued the man in a despairing tone, “it ain’t no matter what I cook or make up, or try to tempt him with, he don’t seem to pick a bit.”
“Poor fellow!” muttered Artingale, handing his overcoat and hat to the man.
“I did think this morning that he was coming round, sir, for he has had his colours and a canvas on the bed, and I had to prop him up. I don’t know, sir, I—I—”
The great Hercules of a fellow’s voice changed, and he turned aside to hide the weak tears that gathered in his eyes, and began to trickle slowly down his cheeks, though they had not far to go before they were able to hide themselves in his beard.
“Oh, come, come, Burgess,” cried Artingale, who felt touched at this display of affection on the part of servant towards master, “it isn’t so bad as that.”
The man hastily threw the light overcoat upon a chair, and turned sharply round to catch the visitors arm, and gaze earnestly in his eyes.
“Do you—do you really think, sir, that poor master will get well?”
“Yes, yes, of course I do, Burgess. I feel sure of it, my dear fellow. There, shake hands, Burgess. ’Pon my soul I like you, I do indeed.”
“And him a real true lord!” thought Burgess, as he gingerly held out a great hand, which the other shook.
“Get well? of course he will, if it’s only to help me break that scoundrel’s neck,—a blackguard!”