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 a 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.
‘What’s this I hear about Roger?’ said Mr. Gibson, plunging at once into the subject.
‘Aha! so you’ve heard, have you? It’s famous, is it not? He’s a boy to be proud of, is old Roger. Steady Roger; we used to think him slow, but it seems to me that slow and sure wins the race. But tell me; what have you heard? how much is known? Nay, you must have a glass full. It’s old ale, such as we don’t brew now-a-days; it’s as old as Osborne. We brewed it that autumn and we called it the young squire’s ale. I thought to have tapped it on his marriage, but I don’t know when that will come to pass, so we’ve tapped it now in Roger’s honour.’
The old squire had evidently been enjoying the young squire’s ale to the verge of prudence. It was indeed as he said, ‘as strong as brandy,’ and Mr. Gibson had to sip it very carefully as he ate his cold roast beef.
‘Well! and what have you heard? There’s a deal to hear, and all good news, though I shall miss the lad, I know that.’
‘I did not know it was settled; I only heard that it was in progress.’
‘Well, it was only in progress, as you call it, till last Tuesday. He never let me know anything about it, though; he says he thought I might be fidgety with thinking of the pros and cons. So I never knew a word on’t till I had a letter from my Lord Hollingford — where is it?’ pulling out a great black leathern receptacle for all manner of papers. And putting on his spectacles, he read aloud their headings.
‘“Measurement of timber, new railings,” “drench for cows, from Farmer Hayes,” “Dobson’s accounts,”—‘um ‘um — here it is. Now read that letter,’ handing it to Mr. Gibson.
It was a manly, feeling, sensible letter, explaining to the old father in very simple language the services which were demanded by the terms of the will to which he and two or three others were trustees; the liberal allowance for expenses, the still more liberal reward for performance, which had tempted several men of considerable renown to offer themselves as candidates for the appointment. Lord Hollingford then went on to say that, having seen a good deal of Roger lately, since the publication of his article in reply to the French osteologist, he had had reason to think that in him the trustees would find united the various qualities required in a greater measure than in any of the applicants who had at that time presented themselves. Roger had deep interest in the subject; much acquired knowledge, and at the same time, great natural powers of comparison, and classification of facts; he had shown’ himself to be an observer of a fine and accurate kind, he was of the right age, in the very prime of health and strength, and unshackled by any family ties. Here Mr. Gibson paused for consideration. He hardly cared to ascertain by what steps the result had been arrived at — he already knew what that result was; but his mind was again arrested as his eye caught on the remuneration offered, which was indeed most liberal; and then he read with attention the high praise bestowed on the son in this letter to the father. The squire had been watching Mr. Gibson — waiting till he came to this part — and he rubbed his hands together as he said —
‘Ay! you’ve come to it at last. It’s the best part of the whole, is it not? God bless the boy! and from a Whig, mind you, which makes it the more handsome. And there’s more to come still. I say, Gibson, I think my luck is turning at last,’ passing him on yet another letter to read. ‘That only came this morning; but I’ve acted on it already, I sent for the foreman of the drainage works at once, I did; and tomorrow, please God, they’ll be at work again.’
Mr. Gibson read the second letter, from Roger. To a certain degree it was a modest repetition of what Lord Hollingford had said, with an explanation of how he had come to take so decided a step in life without consulting his father. He did not wish him to be in suspense for one reason. Another was that he felt, as no one else could feel for him, that by accepting this offer, he entered upon the kind of life for which he knew himself to be the most fitted. And then he merged the whole into business. He said that he knew well the suffering his father had gone through when he had had to give up his drainage works for want of money; that he, Roger, had been enabled at once to raise money upon the remuneration he was to receive on the accomplishment of his two years’ work; and that he had insured his life at once, in order to provide for the repayment of the money he had raised, in case he did not live to return to England. He said that the sum he had borrowed on this security would at once be forwarded to his father.
Mr. Gibson laid down the letter without speaking a word for some time; then he said —
‘He’ll have to pay a pretty sum for insuring his life beyond seas.’
‘He has got his Fellowship money,’ said the squire, a little depressed at Mr. Gibson’s remark.
‘Yes; that’s true. And he’s a strong young fellow, as I know.’
‘I wish I could tell his mother,’ said the squire in an under-tone.
‘It seems all settled now,’ said Mr. Gibson, more in reply to his own thoughts than to the squire’s remark.
‘Yes!’ said the squire; ‘and they’re not going to let the grass grow under his feet. He’s to be off as soon as he can get his scientific traps ready. I almost wish he wasn’t to go. You don&rsqu............