"Fine morning, Jack; why don't you go and have a run?"
John Meadows--always "Jack," because his father's name was John--upon
hearing that father's voice, raised his dull, dreamy eyes slowly from
the perusal of the old Latin author over which he was bending, and
looked in Sir John's face, gazing at him inquiringly as if he had been
walking with Cicero in Rome--too far away to hear the question which had
fallen upon his ears like a sound which conveyed no meaning.
Father and son were as much alike as a sturdy sun-browned man of forty
can resemble a thin, pale youth of sixteen or so. In other words, they
possessed the same features, but the elder suggested an outdoor plant,
sturdy and well-grown, the younger a sickly exotic, raised in the hot
steaming air of the building which gardeners call a stove, a place in
which air is only admitted to pass over hot-water pipes, for fear the
plants within should shiver and begin to droop.
Sir John had just entered the handsome library, bringing with him a good
breezy, manly suggestion of having been tramping through woods and over
downs; and as soon as he had closed the door, he glanced at the large
fire near to which his son had drawn a small writing-table, said "Pff!"
unbuttoned his rough heather-coloured Norfolk jacket, raised his eyes to
the window as if he would like to throw it open, and then lowered them
and wrinkled up his forehead as he gazed at his son, carefully dressed
in dark-brown velvet, and wearing correctly fitting trousers and patent
leather shoes, a strong contrast to his own knickerbockers, coarse brown
knitted stockings, and broad-soled shooting-boots.
Sir John looked anxious and worried, and he stretched out a strong brown
hand to lay upon his son's shoulder, but he let it fall again, drew a
deep breath, and then very gently asked him the question about the walk.
"Did you speak to me, father?" said the lad vacantly.
"Speak to you!" cried Sir John, in an impatient, angry tone, "of course
I spoke to you. It worries me to see you so constantly sitting over the
fire reading."
"Does it, father?" said the lad, wincing at the tone in which these
words were spoken, and looking up in an apologetic way.
"I didn't mean to speak to you so sharply, my boy," continued Sir John,
"but I don't like to see you neglecting your health so. Study's right
enough, but too much of a good thing is bad for any one. Now, on a fine
morning like this--"
"Is it fine, father? I thought it was cold."
"Cold! Tut--tut--tut! The weather is never cold to a healthy, manly
boy."
"I'm afraid I'm not manly, father," said the lad.
"No, Jack, nor healthy neither; you are troubling me a great deal."
"Am I, father?" said the lad softly. "I'm very sorry. But I really am
quite well."
"You are not, sir," cried Sir John, "and never will be if you spend all
your time over books."
The lad gave him a sad, weary look.
"I thought you wanted me to study hard, father," he said reproachfully.
"Yes, yes, my boy, I do, and I should like to see you grow up into a
distinguished man, but you are trying to make yourself into the
proverbial dull boy."
"Am I? And I have worked so hard," said the lad in a weary, spiritless
way.
"Yes; it's all work and no play with you, Jack, and it will not do, boy.
When I was your age I was captain of our football club."
Jack shuddered.
"I often carried out my bat at cricket."
The lad sighed.
"I could stick on anything, from a donkey up to an unbroken colt; throw
a ball as far as any of my age, and come in smiling and ready for a good
meal after a long paper-chase."
Jack's pitiable look of despair was almost comical.
"While you, sir," cried Sir John angrily, "you're a regular molly, and
do nothing but coddle yourself over the fire and read. It's read, read,
read, from morning till night, and when you do go out, it's warm
wrappers and flannel and mackintoshes. Why, hang it all, boy! you go
about as if you were afraid of being blown over, or that the rain would
make you melt away."
"I am very sorry, father," said the youth piteously; "I'm afraid I am
not like other boys."
"Not a bit."
"I can't help it."
"You don't try, Jack. You don't try, my boy. I always had the best of
accounts about you from Daneborough. The reports are splendid. And,
there, my dear boy, I am not angry with you, but it is very worrying to
see you going about with lines in your forehead and this white face,
when I want to see you sturdy and--well, as well and hearty as I am.
Why, Jack, you young dog!" he cried, slapping him on the shoulder, and
making the lad wince, "I feel quite ashamed of myself. It isn't right
for an old man like I am."
"You old, father!" said the lad, with more animation, and a faint flush
came in his cheeks. "Why you look as well and young and strong as--"
"As you ought to be, sir. Why, Jack, boy, I could beat you at anything
except books--walk you down, run you down, ride, jump, row, play
cricket, shoot, or swim."
"Yes, father, I know," sighed the lad.
"But I'm ashamed to do anything of the kind when I see you moping like a
sick bird in a cage."
"But I'm quite well, father, and happy--at least I should be if you were
only satisfied with me."
"And I do want to see you happy, my boy, and I try to be satisfied with
you. Now look here: come out with me more. I want to finish my
collection of the _diptera_. Suppose you help me, and then we'll make
another collection--birds say, or--no, I know: we'll take up the British
fishes, and work them all. There's room there. It has never been half
done. Why, what they call roach vary wonderfully. Even in two ponds
close together the fish are as different as can be, and yet they call
them all roach. Look here--we'll fish and net, and preserve in spirits,
and you'll be surprised how much interest you will find in it combined
with healthy exercise."
"I'll come with you, father, if you wish it," said the lad.
"Bah! That's of no use. I don't want you to come because I wish it. I
want you to take a good healthy interest in the work, my boy. But it's
of no use. I am right; you have worked too hard, and have read till
your brain's getting worn out. There, I am right, Jack. You are not
well."
"Doctor Instow, Sir John," said a servant, entering.
"Humph! lost no time," muttered the baronet. "Where is he, Edward?"
"In the drawing-room, Sir John."
"I'll come. No; show him in here."
"Father," whispered the lad excitedly, and a hectic spot showed in each
cheek, "why has Doctor Instow come here?"
"Because I sent for him, my boy."
"But not to see me?" said the lad excitedly. "Indeed I am quite well."
"No, you are not, boy. Yes, he has come to see you, and try to set you
right, so speak out to him like a man."
At that moment steps were heard crossing the polished oak floor of the
great hall, and directly after a keen-eyed, vigorous-looking man of
about six-and-thirty entered the room in a quick, eager way.