It was a day or two afterwards, that Mr. Gibson made time to ride
round by Hamley, desirous to learn more exact particulars of this
scheme for Roger than he could obtain from any extraneous source, and
rather puzzled to know whether he should interfere in the project or
not. The state of the case was this:--Osborne's symptoms were, in Mr.
Gibson's opinion, signs of his having a fatal disease. Dr. Nicholls
had differed from him on this head, and Mr. Gibson knew that the old
physician had had long experience, and was considered very skilful
in the profession. Still he believed that he himself was right, and,
if so, the complaint was one which might continue for years in the
same state as at present, or might end the young man's life in an
hour--a minute. Supposing that Mr. Gibson was right, would it be well
for Roger to be away where no sudden calls for his presence could
reach him--away for two years? Yet if the affair was concluded, the
interference of a medical man might accelerate the very evil to be
feared; and after all, Dr. Nicholls might be right, and the symptoms
might proceed from some other cause. Might? Yes. Probably did? No.
Mr. Gibson could not bring himself to say "yes" to this latter form
of sentence. So he rode on, meditating; his reins slack, his head
a little bent. It was one of those still and lovely autumn days
when the red and yellow leaves are hanging-pegs to dewy, brilliant
gossamer-webs; when the hedges are full of trailing brambles, loaded
with ripe blackberries; when the air is full of the farewell whistles
and pipes of birds, clear and short--not the long full-throated
warbles of spring; when the whirr of the partridge's wings is heard
in the stubble-fields, as the sharp hoof-blows fall on the paved
lanes; when here and there a leaf floats and flutters down to the
ground, although there is not a single breath of wind. The country
surgeon felt the beauty of the seasons perhaps more than most men.
He saw more of it by day, by night, in storm and sunshine, or in the
still, soft, cloudy weather. He never spoke about what he felt on
the subject; indeed, he did not put his feelings into words, even to
himself. But if his mood ever approached to the sentimental, it was
on such days as this. He rode into the stable-yard, gave his horse to
a man, and went into the house by a side entrance. In the passage he
met the Squire.
"That's capital, Gibson! what good wind blew you here? You'll have
some lunch? it's on the table, I only just this minute left the
room." And he kept shaking Mr. Gibson's hand all the time till he had
placed him, nothing loth, at the well-covered dining-table.