"How pleasant London is in September!" he exclaimed, with a laugh.
"I've been driving about, as one does in a town abroad, just to see
the streets. Strange that one knows Paris and Rome a good deal
better than London. Yet it's really very interesting--don't you
think?"
The twinkling eye, the humorous accent, which had won Piers'
affection, soon allayed his disquietude at being in this house. He
spoke of his own recent excursion, confessing that he better
appreciated London from a distance.
"Ay, ay! I know all about that," replied Mr. Jacks, his Yorkshire
note sounding, as it did occasionally. "But you're young, you're
young; what does it matter where you live? To be your age again, I'd
live at St. Helens, or Widnes. You have hope, man, always hope. And
you may live to see what the world is like half a century from now.
It's strange to look at you, and think that!"
John Jacks' presence in London, and alone, at this time of the year
had naturally another explanation than that he felt tired of the
seaside. In truth, he had come up to see a medical specialist.
Carefully he kept from his wife the knowledge of a disease which was
taking hold upon him, which--as he had just learnt--threatened
rapidly fatal results. From his son, also, he had concealed the
serious state of his health, lest it should interfere with Arnold's
happy mood in prospect of marriage. He was no coward, but a life
hitherto untroubled by sickness had led him to hope that he might
pass easily from the world, and a doom of extinction by torture
perturbed his philosophy.
Pages:
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272