The something proved to be a fly, and it brought Mr. Duffham. Before the groom had reached the village, he overtook this said fly and the surgeon in it, who was then returning home from another accident. Turning round at the groom’s news—“Some little child had run against Sir Geoffry’s horse, and was hurt”—he came up to the Grange.
When Mr. Duffham saw that it was this child, he felt curiously taken aback. Up the room and down the room looked he; then at Sir Geoffry, then at Miss Layne, then at Hester Picker, saying nothing. Last of all he walked up to the sofa and gazed at the white face lying there.
“Well,” said he, “and what’s this? And how did it happen?”
“It was the peacock,” Arthur answered. “I ran away from Aunt Mary to look at it, and the horse came.”
“The dear innocent!” cried Hester Picker. “No wonder he ran. It’s a love of a peacock.”
“Don’t you think it was very naughty, young sir, to run from your aunt?” returned Mr. Duffham.
“Yes, very; because she had told me not to. Aunt Mary, I’ll never do it again.”
The two gentlemen and Hester Picker remained in the room; Mary again left it. The arm was crushed rather badly; and Mr. Duffham knew it would require care and skill to cure it.
“You must send to Worcester for its best surgeon to help you,” said the baronet, when the dressing was over. “I feel that I am responsible to Major Layne.”
Old Duffham nearly closed his eyelids as he glanced at the speaker. “I don’t think it necessary,” he said; “no surgeon can do more than I can. However, it may be satisfactory to Major Layne that we should be on the safe side, so I’ll send.”