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 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, 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!
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