"It's nonsense thinking her so ill as that--you know it's only the
delicacy she's had for years; and if you can't do her any good in
such a simple case--no pain--only weakness and nervousness--it is a
simple case, eh?--don't look in that puzzled way, man!--you'd better
give her up altogether, and I'll take her to Bath or Brighton,
or somewhere for change, for in my opinion it's only moping and
nervousness."
But the Squire's bluff florid face was pinched with anxiety, and worn
with the effort of being deaf to the footsteps of fate as he said
these words which belied his fears.
Mr. Gibson replied very quietly,--
"I shall go on coming to see her, and I know you'll not forbid my
visits. But I shall bring Dr. Nicholls with me the next time I come.
I may be mistaken in my treatment; and I wish to God he may say I am
mistaken in my apprehensions."
"Don't tell me them! I cannot bear them!" cried the Squire. "Of
course we must all die; and she must too. But the cleverest doctor
in England shan't go about coolly meting out the life of such as her.
I daresay I shall die first. I hope I shall. But I'll knock any one
down who speaks to me of death sitting within me. And, besides, I
think all doctors are ignorant quacks, pretending to knowledge they
haven't got. Ay, you may smile at me. I don't care. Unless you can
tell me I shall die first, neither you nor your Dr. Nicholls shall
come prophesying and croaking about this house."
Mr. Gibson went away, heavy at heart from the thought of Mrs.
Hamley's approaching death, but thinking little enough of the
Squire's speeches. He had almost forgotten them, in fact, when about
nine o'clock that evening, a groom rode in from Hamley Hall in hot
haste, with a note from the Squire.
DEAR GIBSON,--
For God's sake forgive me if I was rude to-day. She is
much worse. Come and spend the night here. Write for
Nicholls, and all the physicians you want. Write before
you start off. They may give her ease. There were
Whitworth doctors much talked of in my youth for curing
people given up by the regular doctors; can't you get one
of them? I put myself in your hands. Sometimes I think it
is the turning point, and she'll rally after this bout. I
trust all to you.
Yours ever,
R. HAMLEY.
P.S.--Molly is a treasure.--God help me!
Of course Mr. Gibson went; for the first time since his marriage
cutting short Mrs. Gibson's querulous lamentations over her life,
as involved in that of a doctor called out at all hours of day and
night.