The coach stopped at eleven o'clock, to allow the passengers to sup. The
homeopathist woke up, got out, gave himself a shake, and inhaled the
fresh air into his vigorous lungs, with an evident sensation of delight.
He then turned and looked into the coach:
"Let your father get out, my dear," said he, with a tone more gentle
than usual. "I should like to see him in-doors--perhaps I can do him
good."
But what was Helen's terror when she found that her father did not stir.
He was in a deep swoon, and still quite insensible when they lifted him
from the carriage. When he recovered his senses, his cough returned, and
the effort brought up blood.
It was impossible for him to proceed further. The homeopathist assisted
to undress and put him into bed. And having administered another of his
mysterious globules, he inquired of the landlady how far it was to the
nearest doctor--for the inn stood by itself in a small hamlet. There was
the parish apothecary three miles off. But on hearing that the
gentlefolks employed Dr. Dosewell, and it was a good seven miles to his
house, the homeopathist fetched a deep breath. The coach only stopped a
quarter of an hour.
"Cott!" said he angrily to himself--"the _nux_ was a failure. My
sensibility is chronic. I must go through a long course to get rid of
it. Hallo, guard! get out my carpet-bag. I shan't go on to-night."
And the good man, after a very slight supper, went up-stairs again to
the sufferer.
"Shall I send for Dr. Dosewell, sir?" asked the landlady, stopping him
at the door.
"Hum! At what hour to-morrow does the next coach to London pass?"
"Not before eight, sir."
"Well, send for the doctor to be here at seven. That leaves us at least
some hours free from allopathy and murder," grunted the disciple of
Hahnemann, as he entered the room.
Whether it was the globule that the homeopathist had administered, or
the effect of nature, aided by repose, that checked the effusion of
blood, and restored some temporary strength to the poor sufferer, is
more than it becomes one not of the Faculty to opine. But certainly Mr.
Digby seemed better, and he gradually fell into a profound sleep, but
not till the doctor had put his ear to his chest, tapped it with his
hand, and asked several questions; after which the homeopathist retired
into a corner of the room, and, leaning his face on his hand, seemed to
meditate. From his thoughts he was disturbed by a gentle touch. Helen
was kneeling at his feet.
"Is he very ill--very?" said she; and her fond wistful eyes were fixed
on the physician's with all the earnestness of despair.
"Your father _is_ very ill," replied the doctor, after a short pause.
"He can not move hence for some days at least. I am going to
London--shall I call on your relations, and tell some of them to join
you?"
"No, thank you, sir," answered Helen, coloring. "But do not fear; I can
nurse papa. I think he has been worse before--that is, he has complained
more."
The homeopathist rose and took two strides across the room, then he
paused by the bed, and listened to the breathing of the sleeping man.
He stole back to the child, who was still kneeling, took her in his
arms, and kissed her. "Tamm it," said he, angrily, and putting her down,
"go to bed now--you are not wanted any more."
"Please, sir," said Helen, "I can not leave him so. If he wakes he would
miss me."
The doctor's hand trembled; he had recourse to his globules. "Anxiety,
grief suppressed," muttered he. "Don't you want to cry, my dear?
Cry--do!"
"I can't," murmured Helen.
"_Pulsatilla!_" said the doctor, almost with triumph. "I said so from
the first. Open your mouth--here! Good night. My room is opposite--No.
6; call me if he wakes."