The parson started, and so did Leonard.
The homoeopathist 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 organization, 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 pocketbook 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 powder must be dissolved in eight
tablespoonfuls of water; one spoonful every two hours."
"Tablespoonful?"
"Tablespoonful."
"'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 homoeopathy."
"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 homoeopathist 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 recognize in the person before
him the gaunt, care-worn 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, "'t is the first doctor I ever
saw swallow his own medicine! There must be sornething 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, 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 /protege/, 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 homoeopathist.
"I am going in 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 from his heir an answer as dry as a bone.
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 revery. "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 coats 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 of 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!