“Well, Sir Within Wardle, it is as I suspected, a case of concussion; there’s no organic mischief—no lesion.”
“What’s a lesion?”
“There is no fracture, nor any pressure, so far as I can detect; but there is very grave injury of another sort. There is concussion of the brain.”
“And is there danger—be frank, Doctor, is there danger?”
“Certainly there is danger; but I would not pronounce it to be imminent danger.”
“London has some men of great eminence, which of them all would you select to consult with on such a case? I am certain that you would wish a consultation.”
“I have no objection to one, Sir Within, and I would name Sir Henry Morland, as the first man in his profession.”
“Then write for him, Sir—write at once. Here, in this room, here”—and he opened a door into a small cabinet—“you will find everything you want.”
“Certainly; I obey your instructions. I will write immediately; but say in what terms. The young lady is your ward—am I to style her by that title or by her name?”
Sir Within blushed, but it was more in anger than shame; the barest approach to any question of Kate’s position jarred upon his feelings like an insinuation, and he fixed a steadfast stare on the Doctor before he replied, to assure himself that there was no covert impertinence in the request. Apparently he was satisfied, for in a calm voice he said, “It will be unnecessary to say more than that his presence is requested by Sir Within Wildrington Wardle at Dalradem Castle, and with all the speed possible.”