“By no means.  My only difficulty in answering your question, is the difficulty of explaining myself.  May I trust to your patience, if I refer once more to Mr. Candy’s illness:  and if I speak of it this time without sparing you certain professional details?”

“Pray go on!  You have interested me already in hearing the details.”

My eagerness seemed to amuse—­perhaps, I might rather say, to please him.  He smiled again.  We had by this time left the last houses in the town behind us.  Ezra Jennings stopped for a moment, and picked some wild flowers from the hedge by the roadside.  “How beautiful they are!” he said, simply, showing his little nosegay to me.  “And how few people in England seem to admire them as they deserve!”

“You have not always been in England?” I said.

“No.  I was born, and partly brought up, in one of our colonies.  My father was an Englishman; but my mother—­We are straying away from our subject, Mr. Blake; and it is my fault.  The truth is, I have associations with these modest little hedgeside flowers—­It doesn’t matter; we were speaking of Mr. Candy.  To Mr. Candy let us return.”

Connecting the few words about himself which thus reluctantly escaped him, with the melancholy view of life which led him to place the conditions of human happiness in complete oblivion of the past, I felt satisfied that the story which I had read in his face was, in two particulars at least, the story that it really told.  He had suffered as few men suffer; and there was the mixture of some foreign race in his English blood.

“You have heard, I dare say, of the original cause of Mr. Candy’s illness?” he resumed.  “The night of Lady Verinder’s dinner-party was a night of heavy rain.  My employer drove home through it in his gig, and reached the house wetted to the skin.  He found an urgent message from a patient, waiting for him; and he most unfortunately went at once to visit the sick person, without stopping to change his clothes.  I was myself professionally detained, that night, by a case at some distance from Frizinghall.  When I got back the next morning, I found Mr. Candy’s groom waiting in great alarm to take me to his master’s room.  By that time the mischief was done; the illness had set in.”

“The illness has only been described to me, in general terms, as a fever,” I said.

“I can add nothing which will make the description more accurate,” answered Ezra Jennings.  “From first to last the fever assumed no specific form.  I sent at once to two of Mr. Candy’s medical friends in the town, both physicians, to come and give me their opinion of the case.  They agreed with me that it looked serious; but they both strongly dissented from the view I took of the treatment.  We differed entirely in the conclusions which we drew from the patient’s pulse.  The two doctors, arguing from the rapidity of the beat, declared that a lowering treatment was the only treatment to be