"Yes, my lord, several; never threatened seriously, but once--at Dartbroke, about two years ago--in the stomach."
"Ah! I forgot it was the stomach. I remember his illness though," said the Bishop, graciously.
"Not _actually_ the stomach--only threatened," suggested Dives, deferentially. "I have made acquaintance with it myself, too, slightly; never so sharply as poor Jekyl. I _wish_ that other doctor would come! But even at best it's not a pleasant visitor."
"I dare say--I can well suppose it. _I_ have reason to be _very_ thankful. I've _never_ suffered. My poor _father_ knew what it was--suffered horribly. I remember him at Buxton for it--horribly."
The Bishop was fond of this recollection, people said, and liked it to be understood that there was gout in the family, though he could not show that aristocratic gules himself.
At this moment Tomlinson approached, respectfully--I might even say religiously--and with such a reverence as High-Churchmen make at the creed, accosted the prelate, in low tones like distant organ-notes, murmuring Sir Jekyl's compliments to "his lordship, and would be very 'appy to see his lordship whenever it might be his convenience." To which his lordship assented, with a grave "_Now_, certainly, I shall be most happy," and turning to Dives--
"This, I hope, looks well. I fancy he must feel better. Let us hope;" and with slightly uplifted hand and eyes, the good Bishop followed Tomlinson, feeling so oddly as he threaded the same narrow half-lighted passages, whose corners and panelling came sharply on his memory as he passed them, and ascended the steep back stair with the narrow stained-glass slits, by which he had reached, thirty years ago, the sick-chamber of the dying Sir Harry Marlowe.
The Bishop sighed, looking round him, as he stood on the lobby outside the little ante-room. The light fell through the slim coloured orifice opposite on the oak before him, just as it did on the day he last stood there. The banisters, above and below, looked on him like yesterday's acquaintances; and the thoughtful frown of the heavy oak beams overhead seemed still knit over the same sad problem.
"_Thirty_ years ago!" murmured the Bishop, with a sad smile, nodding his silvery head slightly, as his saddened eyes wandered over these things. "What is man that thou art mindful of him, or the son of man that thou so regardest him?"