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 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
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 toward 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 Welsh 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 toward his cousin, then
toward 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 can not
have the pleasure of scolding one's partner, but a regular orthodox
rubber, with the pleasing prospect of scolding all the three other
performer's. 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
homoeopathist.
"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 practiced 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 honor, sir?"
"By my honor, 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 every where, 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!