Leonard and Helen settled themselves in two little chambers in a small
lane. The neighborhood was dull enough--the accommodation humble; but
their landlady had a smile. That was the reason, perhaps, why Helen
chose the lodgings; a smile is not always found on the face of a
landlady when the lodger is poor. And out of their windows they caught
sight of a green tree, an elm, that grew up fair and tall in a
carpenter's yard at the rear. That tree was like another smile to the
place. They saw the birds come and go to its shelter; and they even
heard, when a breeze arose, the pleasant murmur of its boughs.
Leonard went the same evening to Captain Digby's old lodgings, but he
could learn there no intelligence of friends or protectors for Helen.
The people were rude and sturdy, and said that the Captain still owed
them L1 17s. The claim, however, seemed very disputable; and was
stoutly denied by Helen. The next morning Leonard set off in search of
Dr. Morgan. He thought his best plan was to inquire the address of the
Doctor at the nearest chemist's, and the chemist civilly looked into
the _Court Guide_, and referred him to a house in Bulstrode-street,
Manchester Square. To this street Leonard contrived to find his way,
much marvelling at the meanness of London. Screwstone seemed to him
the handsomest town of the two.
A shabby man-servant opened the door, and Leonard remarked that the
narrow passage was choked with boxes, trunks, and various articles of
furniture. He was shown into a small room, containing a very large
round table, whereon were sundry works on homoeopathy, Parry's
_Cymbrian Plutarch_, Davies' _Celtic Researches_, and a Sunday
newspaper. An engraved portrait of the illustrious Hahnemann occupied
the place of honor over the chimneypiece. In a few minutes the door to
an inner room opened, and Dr. Morgan appeared, and said politely,
"Come in, sir."
The Doctor seated himself at a desk, looked hastily at Leonard, and
then at a great chronometer lying on the table. "My time's short,
sir--going abroad; and now that I am going, patients flock to me. Too
late. London will repent its apathy. Let it!"
The Doctor paused majestically, and, not remarking on Leonard's face
the consternation he had anticipated, he repeated peevishly--"I am
going abroad, sir, but I will make a synopsis of your case, and leave
it to my successor. Hum! Hair chestnut; eyes--what color? Look this
way--blue,--dark blue. Hem! Constitution nervous. What are the
symptoms?"
"Sir," began Leonard, "a little girl--"
_Dr. Morgan_, (impatiently)--"Little girl! Never mind the history of
your sufferings; stick to the symptoms--stick to the symptoms."
_Leonard._--"You mistake me, Doctor; I have nothing the matter with
me. A little girl--"
_Dr. Morgan._--"Girl again! I understand it! it is she who is ill.
Shall I go to her? she must describe her own symptoms--I can't judge
from your talk. You'll be telling me she has consumption, or
dyspepsia, or some such disease that don't exist: mere allopathic
inventions--symptoms, sir, symptoms."
_Leonard_, (forcing his way)--"You attended her poor father, Captain
Digby, when he was taken ill in the coach with you. He is dead, and
his child is an orphan."
_Dr. Morgan_, (fumbling in his medical pocket-book.)--"Orphan!
nothing for orphans, especially if inconsolable, like _aconite_ and
_chamomilla_."[12]
With some difficulty Leonard succeeded in bringing Helen to the
recollection of the homoeopathist, stating how he came in charge of
her, and why he sought Dr. Morgan.
The Doctor was much moved.
"But really," said he after a pause, "I don't see how I can help the
poor child. I know nothing of her relations. This Lord Les--whatever
his name is--I know of no lords in London. I knew lords, and physicked
them too, when I was a blundering allopathist. There was the Earl of
Lansmere--has had many a blue pill from me, sinner that I was. His son
was wiser; never would take physic. Very clever boy was Lord
L'Estrange--I don't know if he was as good as he was clever--"
"Lord L'Estrange!--that name begins with Les--"
"Stuff! He's always abroad--shows his sense. I'm going abroad too. No
development for science in this horrid city; full of prejudices, sir,
and given up to the most barbarous allopathical and phlebotomical
propensities. I am going to the land of Hahnemann, sir--sold my
good-will, lease, and furniture, and have bought in on the Rhine.
Natural life there, sir--homoeopathy needs nature; dine at one
o'clock, get up at four--tea little known, and science appreciated.
But I forget. Cott! what can I do for the orphan?"
"Well, sir," said Leonard rising, "Heaven will give me strength to
support her."
The doctor looked at the young man attentively. "And yet," said he in
a gentler voice, "you, young man, are, by your account, a perfect
stranger to her, or were so when you undertook to bring her to London.
You have a good heart--always keep it. Very healthy thing, sir, a good
heart--that is, when not carried to excess. But you have friends of
your own in town?"
_Leonard._--"Not yet, sir; I hope to make them."
_Doctor._--"Bless me, you do? How? I can't make any."
Leonard colored and hung his head. He longed to say "Authors find
friends in their readers--I am going to be an author." But he felt
that the reply would savor of presumption, and held his tongue.
The Doctor continued to examine him, and with friendly interest. "You
say you walked up to London--was that from choice or economy?"
_Leonard._--"Both, sir."
_Doctor._--"Sit down again and let us talk. I can give you a quarter
of an hour, and I'll see if I can help either of you, provided you
tell all the symptoms--I mean all the particulars."
Then with that peculiar adroitness which belongs to experience in the
medical profession, Dr. Morgan, who was really an acute and able man,
proceeded to put his questions, and soon extracted from Leonard the
boy's history and hopes. But when the Doctor, in admiration at a
simplicity which contrasted so evident an intelligence, finally asked
him his name and connections, and Leonard told them, the
homoeopathist actually started. "Leonard Fairfield, grandson of my
old friend, John Avenel of Lansmere! I must shake you by the hand.
Brought up by Mrs. Fairfield!--Ah, now I look, strong family
likeness--very strong!"
The tears stood in the Doctor's eyes. "Poor Nora!" said he.
"Nora! Did you know my aunt?"
"Your aunt! Ah--ah! yes--yes! Poor Norah!--she died almost in these
arms--so young, so beautiful. I remember it as of yesterday."
The Doctor brushed his hand across his eyes, and swallowed a globule;
and, before the boy knew what he was about, had in his benevolence
thrust another between Leonard's quivering lips.
A knock was heard at the door.
"Ha! that's my great patient," cried the Doctor, recovering his
self-possession--"must see him. A chronic case--excellent
patient--tic, sir, tic. Puzzling and interesting. If I could take that
tic with me, I should ask nothing more from Heaven. Call again on
Monday; I may have something to tell you then as to yourself. The
little girl can't stay with you--wrong and nonsensical. I will see
after her. Leave me your address--write it here. I think I know a lady
who will take charge of her. Good-bye. Monday next, ten o'clock."
With this, the Doctor thrust out Leonard, and ushered in his grand
patient, whom he was very anxious to take with him to the banks of the
Rhine.
Leonard had now only to discover the nobleman whose name had been so
vaguely uttered by poor Captain Digby. He had again recourse to the
_Court Guide_; and finding the address of two or three lords the first
syllables of whose titles seemed similar to that repeated to him, and
all living pretty near to each other, in the regions of May Fair, he
ascertained his way to that quarter, and, exercising his mother-wit,
inquired at the neighboring shops as to the personal appearance of
these noblemen. Out of consideration for his rusticity, he got very
civil and clear answers; but none of the lords in question
corresponded with the description given by Helen. One was old, another
was exceedingly corpulent, a third was bed-ridden--none of them was
known to keep a great dog. It is needless to say that the name of
L'Estrange (no habitant of London) was not in the _Court Guide_. And
Dr. Morgan's assertion that that person was always abroad, unluckily
dismissed from Leonard's mind the name the homoeopathist had so
casually mentioned. But Helen was not disappointed when her young
protector returned late in the day and told her of his ill success.
Poor child! she was so pleased in her heart not to be separated from
her new brother; and Leonard was touched to how she had contrived, in
his absence, to give a certain comfort and cheerful grace to the bare
room devoted to himself. She had arranged his few books and papers so
neatly, near the window, in sight of the one green elm. She had coaxed
the smiling landlady out of one or two extra articles of furniture,
especially a walnut-tree bureau, and some odds and ends of
ribbon--with which last she had looped up the curtains. Even the old
rush-bottom chairs had a strange air of elegance, from the mode in
which they were placed. The fairies had given sweet Helen the art that
adorns a home, and brings out a smile from the dingiest corner of hut
and attic.
Leonard wondered and praised. He kissed his blushing ministrant
gratefully, and they sat down in joy to their abstemious meal, when
suddenly his face was overclouded--there shot through him the
remembrance of Dr. Morgan's words--"The little girl can't stay with
you--wrong and nonsensical. I think I know a lady who will take charge
of her."
"Ah," cried Leonard, sorrowfully, "how could I forget?" And he told
Helen what grieved him. Helen at first exclaimed that she would not
go. Leonard, rejoiced, then began to talk as usual of his great
prospects; and, hastily finishing his meal, as if there were no time
to lose, sat down at once to his papers. Then Helen contemplated him
sadly, as he bent over his delighted work. And when, lifting his
radiant eyes from his MS. he exclaimed, "No, no, you shall _not_ go.
_This_ must succeed, and we shall live together in some pretty
cottage, where we can see more than one tree"--_then_ Helen sighed,
and did not answer this time, "No, I will not go."
Shortly after she stole from the room, and into her own; and there,
kneeling down, she prayed, and her prayer was somewhat this--"Guard me
against my own selfish heart. May I never be a burden to him who has
shielded me."
Perhaps, as the Creator looks down on this world, whose wondrous
beauty beams on us more and more, in proportion as our science would
take it from poetry into law--perhaps He beholds nothing so beautiful
as the pure heart of a simple loving child.