Jeffray, sensitive to Miss Hardacre’s scorn, hesitated whether he should dismount and inquire at the house for Mr. Lancelot. In the height of his indecision, the green door opened again, and Surgeon Stott, in blue coat and buckskin breeches, appeared upon the steps. He bowed to Jeffray and lifted his hat. Richard wheeled his horse round close to the footway, and looked earnestly in the surgeon’s face.
“Can I speak with you a moment, Stott?”
The surgeon’s features relaxed into a kindly smile. He came down the six red steps, and stood on the flagged footway, his fingers playing with the gold seals that reposed upon his white waistcoat.
“How is my cousin, Stott. I have ridden over to inquire?”
The gentleman in the blue coat half closed his eyes, threw out his stomach, and cleared his throat.
“Mr. Hardacre has had a nasty mauling, sir,” he said; “but I have done the best for him.”
“Will he recover?”
Surgeon Stott glanced searchingly at Jeffray.
“The lung was touched, sir, and he was bleeding like a pig when they brought him in here yesterday. It is my opinion, however, that Mr. Hardacre’s vitality will pull him through.”
“Thank God,” said the younger man, with genuine and hearty relief.