"No," said Osborne, "I beg your pardon; but it's not that; I am
really out of order. I daresay my unwillingness to encounter any
displeasure from my father is the consequence of my indisposition;
but I'll answer for it, it is not the cause of it. My instinct tells
me there is something really the matter with me."
"Come, don't be setting up your instinct against the profession,"
said Mr. Gibson, cheerily.
He dismounted, and throwing the reins of his horse round his arm, he
looked at Osborne's tongue and felt his pulse, asking him various
questions. At the end he said,--
"We'll soon bring you about, though I should like a little more quiet
talk with you, without this tugging brute for a third. If you'll
manage to ride over and lunch with us to-morrow, Dr. Nicholls will
be with us; he's coming over to see old Rowe; and you shall have the
benefit of the advice of two doctors instead of one. Go home now,
you've had enough exercise for the middle of a day as hot as this is.
And don't mope in the house, listening to the maunderings of your
stupid instinct."
"What else have I to do?" said Osborne. "My father and I are not
companions; one can't read and write for ever, especially when
there's no end to be gained by it. I don't mind telling you--but in
confidence, recollect--that I've been trying to get some of my poems
published; but there's no one like a publisher for taking the conceit
out of one. Not a man among them would have them as a gift."
"Oho! so that's it, is it, Master Osborne? I thought there was some
mental cause for this depression of health. I wouldn't trouble my
head about it, if I were you, though that's always very easily said,
I know. Try your hand at prose, if you can't manage to please the
publishers with poetry; but, at any rate, don't go on fretting
over spilt milk. But I mustn't lose my time here. Come over to us
to-morrow, as I said; and what with the wisdom of two doctors, and
the wit and folly of three women, I think we shall cheer you up a
bit."
So saying, Mr. Gibson remounted, and rode away at the long, slinging
trot so well known to the country people as the doctor's pace.
"I don't like his looks," thought Mr. Gibson to himself at night,
as over his daybooks he reviewed the events of the day. "And then
his pulse. But how often we're all mistaken; and, ten to one, my own
hidden enemy lies closer to me than his does to him--even taking the
worse view of the case."