“Right as right, my boy. Here in four years you have done the work of about eight. It’s very grand, no doubt, but it won’t do.”
“But what is to be done?” cried Sir John.
“Let the brain run fallow for the other four years, and give the body a chance,” said the doctor bluntly.
“What! do nothing for four years?” cried the lad indignantly.
“Who said do nothing?” said the doctor testily.
“Do something else. Rest your brain with change, and give your body a fair chance of recovering its tone.”
“Yes, Jack, my boy; he is quite right,” cried Sir John.
“But, father, I should be wretched.”
“How do you know?” said the doctor. “You have tried nothing else but books. There is something else in the world besides books, my lad. Ask your father if there is not. What’s that about sermons in insects and running stones in the brooks, Meadows? I never can recollect quotations. Don’t you imagine, my conceited young scholiast, that there is nothing to be seen or studied that does not exist in books. But I’m growing hoarse with talking and telling you the simple truth.”
“Yes, Jack, my boy, it is the simple truth,” said Sir John. “I was saying something of the kind to you, as you know, when Doctor Instow came; but all the time I was sure that you were ill—and you are.”