The coach stopped at eleven o'clock, to allow the passengers to sup. The
homoeopathist 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 farther. The homoeopathist
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 homoeopathist 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 homoeopathist 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 homoeopathist
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
cannot 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 homoeopathist 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 cannot 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."