[CHAPTER XIV
A CHEERFUL CHANGE]
He was a merry, cheerful man, the active surgeon, who lived in the tall, red-bricked house, in Orwell Place. His practice was good, extending from the best families in the town and neighbourhood of Ipswich, to that which is always the most benevolent part of a surgeon’s duty, the dispensing medicine and advice to the poor. George Stebbing was an early riser, and a very active practitioner; he was skilful and attentive; and it was truly said of him, that he never neglected a poor patient to attend a rich one. He had his rounds before breakfast, among his poorer patients; next his town practice; and his country visits in the afternoon. He generally contrived to be found at home from nine to ten o’clock in the morning; and from two to three in the afternoon, always dining at one.
There was one passion, if it may be so called, which, at certain seasons of the year, made the doctor break through all his rules and regulations, and to which he so willingly gave way, as to cause him serious loss of practice among family patients, who could not make allowances for his neglect,—namely, a passion for shooting. He was an excellent shot, delighted in the exercise, and enjoyed it as much in his old days as he did in his youth. His figure scarcely ever altered through life. He never grew corpulent, never inactive; but retained his zest for his gun, with a steady hand, to a good old age.
But for this passion for shooting, the doctor might have secured for himself a more extensive and lucrative practice. It certainly was a kind of passport among many great landed proprietors, who liked his shooting and his society, and for a good day’s shooting, come it when it might, many of his patients were neglected. He was of a very generous nature, and sometimes felt keenly the reproaches of those whom for the sports of the field he deserted; and there were times in which his own conscious neglect made him sorrowful; but it did not cure him of his favourite propensity. At all other times, he was as regular as a well-cleaned clock.
Margaret arrived at this gentleman’s door, and was shown into the surgery just as he was preparing to go into the country. The surgery was a lofty room, though of small dimensions; the window looked down a neatly paved area, beside the offices of the house; and flower-stands, filled with geraniums and other green-house plants, stood against the side of the wall opposite the kitchen. All was neatness within and without the walls of his house.
She had scarcely been seated in the surgery a minute, before in came the merry man, with his cheerful smile and ready address. “Well, young woman, what’s the matter with you, eh? What is it? A bad tooth? let us see—let us see. It can be nothing else. You look the picture of health! What’s the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter, sir,” said Margaret, rising and curtsying.
“Then what do you want with the doctor, my girl?”
“I am come to ask you, sir, if you could help me to a place.”