The Parson started, and so did Leonard.
The Homœopathist did not at first notice either. With an unobservant bow
to the visitors, he went straight to the patient, and asked, “How go the
symptoms?”
Therewith the Captain commenced, in a tone of voice like a schoolboy
reciting the catalogue of the ships in Homer. He had been evidently
conning the symptoms, and learning them by heart. Nor was there a single
nook or corner in his anatomical organisation, so far as the Captain was
acquainted with that structure, but what some symptom or other was
dragged therefrom, and exposed to day. The Squire listened with horror
to the morbific inventory—muttering at each dread interval, “Bless me!
Lord bless me! What, more still! Death would be a very happy release!”
Meanwhile the Doctor endured the recital with exemplary patience, noting
down in the leaves of his pocket-book what appeared to him the salient
points in this fortress of disease to which he had laid siege, and then,
drawing forth a minute paper, said—
“Capital—nothing can be better. This must be dissolved in eight
table-spoonfuls of water; one spoonful every two hours.”
“Table-spoonful?”
“Table-spoonful.”
“‘Nothing can be better,’ did you say, sir?” repeated the Squire, who,
in his astonishment at that assertion applied to the Captain’s
description of his sufferings, had hitherto hung fire—“‘nothing can be
better?’”
“For the diagnosis, sir!” replied Dr Morgan.
“For the dogs’ noses, very possibly,” quoth the Squire; “but for the
inside of Cousin Higginbotham, I should think nothing could be worse.”
“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Dr Morgan. “It is not the Captain who
speaks here—it is his liver. Liver, sir, though a noble, is an
imaginative organ, and indulges in the most extraordinary fictions. Seat
of poetry, and love, and jealousy—the liver. Never believe what it says.
You have no idea what a liar it is! But—ahem—ahem. Cott—I think I’ve
seen you before, sir. Surely your name’s Hazeldean?”
“William Hazeldean, at your service, Doctor. But where have you seen
me?”
“On the hustings at Lansmere. You were speaking on behalf of your
distinguished brother, Mr Egerton.”
“Hang it!” cried the Squire: “I think it must have been my liver that
spoke there! for I promised the electors that that half-brother of mine
would stick by the land; and I never told a bigger lie in my life!”
Here the patient, reminded of his other visitors, and afraid he was
going to be bored with the enumeration of the Squire’s wrongs, and
probably the whole history of his duel with Captain Dashmore, turned,
with a languid wave of his hand, and said, “Doctor, another friend of
mine, the Rev. Mr Dale,—and a gentleman who is acquainted with
homœopathy.”
“Dale? What, more old friends!” cried the Doctor, rising; and the Parson
came somewhat reluctantly from the window nook, to which he had retired.
The Parson and the Homœopathist shook hands.
“We have met before on a very mournful occasion,” said the Doctor, with
feeling.
The Parson held his finger to his lips, and glanced towards Leonard. The
Doctor stared at the lad, but he did not recognise in the person before
him the gaunt careworn boy whom he had placed with Mr Prickett, until
Leonard smiled and spoke. And the smile and the voice sufficed.
“Cott—and it _is_ the poy!” cried Dr Morgan; and he actually caught hold
of Leonard, and gave him an affectionate Welch hug. Indeed, his
agitation at these several surprises became so great that he stopped
short, drew forth a globule—“Aconite—good against nervous shocks!”—and
swallowed it incontinently.
“Gad,” said the Squire, rather astonished, “’tis the first doctor I ever
saw swallow his own medicine! There must be something in it.”
The Captain now, highly disgusted that so much attention was withdrawn
from his own case, asked in a querulous voice, “And as to diet? What
shall I have for dinner?”
“A friend!” said the Doctor, wiping his eyes.
“Zounds!” cried the Squire, retreating, “do you mean to say, sir, that
the British laws (to be sure, they are very much changed of late) allow
you to diet your patients upon their fellow-men? Why, Parson, this is
worse than the donkey sausages.”
“Sir,” said Dr Morgan, gravely, “I mean to say, that it matters little
what we eat, in comparison with care as to whom we eat with. It is
better to exceed a little with a friend, than to observe the strictest
regimen, and eat alone. Talk and laughter help the digestion, and are
indispensable in affections of the liver. I have no doubt, sir, that it
was my patient’s agreeable society that tended to restore to health his
dyspeptic relative, Mr Sharpe Currie.”
The Captain groaned aloud.
“And, therefore, if one of you gentlemen will stay and dine with Mr
Higginbotham, it will greatly assist the effects of his medicine.”
The Captain turned an imploring eye, first towards his cousin, then
towards the Parson.
“I’m engaged to dine with my son—very sorry,” said the Squire. “But
Dale, here”—
“If he will be so kind,” put in the Captain, “we might cheer the evening
with a game at whist—double dummy.”
Now, poor Mr Dale had set his heart on dining with an old college
friend, and having, no stupid, prosy double dummy, in which one cannot
have the pleasure of scolding one’s partner, but a regular orthodox
rubber, with the pleasing prospect of scolding all the three other
performers. But as his quiet life forbade him to be a hero in great
things, the Parson had made up his mind to be a hero in small ones.
Therefore, though with rather a rueful face, he accepted the Captain’s
invitation, and promised to return at six o’clock to dine. Meanwhile, he
must hurry off to the other end of the town, and excuse himself from the
pre-engagement he had already formed. He now gave his card, with the
address of a quiet family hotel thereon, to Leonard, and not looking
quite so charmed with Dr Morgan as he was before that unwelcome
prescription, he took his leave. The Squire, too, having to see a new
churn, and execute various commissions for his Harry, went his way,
(not, however, till Dr Morgan had assured him that, in a few weeks, the
Captain might safely remove to Hazeldean;) and Leonard was about to
follow, when Morgan hooked his arm in his old _protégé’s_, and said,
“But I must have some talk with you; and you have to tell me all about
the little orphan girl.”
Leonard could not resist the pleasure of talking about Helen; and he got
into the carriage, which was waiting at the door for the homœopathist.
“I am going into the country a few miles to see a patient,” said the
Doctor; “so we shall have time for undisturbed consultation. I have so
often wondered what had become of you. Not hearing from Prickett, I
wrote to him, and received an answer as dry as a bone from his heir.
Poor fellow! I found that he had neglected his globules, and quitted the
globe. Alas, _pulvis et umbra sumus_! I could learn no tidings of you.
Prickett’s successor declared he knew nothing about you. I hoped the
best; for I always fancied you were one who would fall on your
legs—bilious-nervous temperament; such are the men who succeed in their
undertakings, especially if they take a spoonful of _chamomilla_
whenever they are over-excited. So now for your history and the little
girl’s—pretty little thing—never saw a more susceptible constitution,
nor one more suited—to pulsatilla.”
Leonard briefly related his own struggles and success, and informed the
good Doctor how they had at last discovered the nobleman in whom poor
Captain Digby had confided, and whose care of the orphan had justified
the confidence.
Dr Morgan opened his eyes at hearing the name of Lord L’Estrange. “I
remember him very well,” said he, “when I practised murder as an
allopathist at Lansmere. But to think that wild boy, so full of whim,
and life, and spirit, should become staid enough for a guardian to that
dear little child, with her timid eyes and pulsatilla sensibilities.
Well, wonders never cease. And he has befriended you too, you say. Ah,
he knew your family.”
“So he says. Do you think, sir, that he ever knew—ever saw—my mother?”
“Eh! your mother?—Nora?” exclaimed the Doctor quickly; and, as if struck
by some sudden thought, his brows met, and he remained silent and musing
a few moments; then, observing Leonard’s eyes fixed on him earnestly, he
replied to the question:—
“No doubt he saw her; she was brought up at Lady Lansmere’s. Did he not
tell you so?”
“No.” A vague suspicion here darted through Leonard’s mind, but as
suddenly vanished. His father! Impossible. His father must have
deliberately wronged the dead mother. And was Harley L’Estrange a man
capable of such wrong? And had he been Harley’s son, would not Harley
have guessed it at once, and so guessing, have owned and claimed him?
Besides, Lord L’Estrange looked so young;—old enough to be Leonard’s
father!—he could not entertain the idea. He roused himself, and said
falteringly—
“You told me you did not know by what name I should call my father.”
“And I told you the truth, to the best of my belief.”
“By your honour, sir?”
“By my honour, I do not know it.”
There was now a long silence. The carriage had long left London, and was
on a high-road somewhat lonelier, and more free from houses than most of
those which form the entrances to the huge city. Leonard gazed wistfully
from the window, and the objects that met his eyes gradually seemed to
appeal to his memory. Yes! it was the road by which he had first
approached the metropolis, hand in hand with Helen—and hope so busy at
his poet’s heart. He sighed deeply. He thought he would willingly have
resigned all he had won—independence, fame, all—to feel again the clasp
of that tender hand—again to be the sole protector of that gentle life.
The Doctor’s voice broke on his reverie. “I am going to see a very
interesting patient—coats to his stomach quite worn out, sir—man of
great learning, with a very inflamed cerebellum. I can’t do him much
good, and he does me a great deal of harm.”
“How harm?” asked Leonard, with an effort at some rejoinder.
“Hits me on the heart, and makes my eyes water—very pathetic case—grand
creature, who has thrown himself away. Found him given over by the
allopathists, and in a high state of _delirium tremens_—restored him for
a time—took a great liking to him—could not help it—swallowed a great
many globules to harden myself against him—would not do—brought him over
to England with the other patients, who all pay me well (except Captain
Higginbotham.) But this poor fellow pays me nothing—costs me a great
deal in time and turnpikes, and board and lodging. Thank Heaven I’m a
single man, and can afford it! My poy, I would let all the other
patients go to the allopathists if I could but save this poor big
penniless princely fellow. But what can one do with a stomach that has
not a rag of its coat left? Stop—(the Doctor pulled the check-string.)
This is the stile. I get out here and go across the fields.”
That stile—those fields—with what distinctness Leonard remembered them.
Ah, where was Helen? Could she ever, ever again be his child-angel?
“I will go with you, if you permit,” said he to the good Doctor. “And
while you pay your visit, I will saunter by a little brook that I think
must run by your way.”
“The Brent—you know that brook? Ah, you should hear my poor patient talk
of it, and of the hours he has spent angling in it—you would not know
whether to laugh or cry. The first day he was brought down to the place,
he wanted to go out and try once more, he said, for his old deluding
demon—a one-eyed perch.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Leonard, “are you speaking of John Burley?”
“To be sure, that is his name—John Burley.”
“Oh, has it come to this? Cure him, save him, if it be in human power.
For the last two years I have sought his trace everywhere, and in vain,
the moment I had money of my own—a home of my own. Poor, erring,
glorious Burley. Take me to him. Did you say there was no hope?”
“I did not say that,” replied the Doctor. “But art can only assist
nature; and, though nature is ever at work to repair the injuries we do
to her, yet, when the coats of a stomach are all gone, she gets puzzled,
and so do I. You must tell me another time how you came to know Burley,
for here we are at the house, and I see him at the window looking out
for me.”
The Doctor opened the garden gate to the quiet cottage to which poor
Burley had fled from the pure presence of Leonard’s child-angel. And
with heavy step, and heavy heart, Leonard mournfully followed, to behold
the wrecks of him whose wit had glorified orgy, and “set the table in a
roar.”—Alas, poor Yorick!