My Novel Part 54

DR. DOSEWELL (provoked to the utmost).--"Humbug!"

DR. MORGAN.--"Humbug! Cott in heaven! You old--"

DR. DOSEWELL.--"Old what, sir?"

DR. MORGAN (at home in a series of alliteral vowels, which none but a Cymbrian could have uttered without gasping).--"Old allopathical anthropophagite!"

DR. DOSEWELL (starting up, seizing by the back the chair on which he had sat, and bringing it down violently on its four legs).--"Sir!"

DR. MORGAN (imitating the action with his own chair).--"Sir!"

DR. DOSEWELL.--"You're abusive."

DR. MORGAN.--"You're impertinent."

DR. DOSEWELL.--"Sir!"

DR. MORGAN.--"Sir!"

The two rivals confronted each other.

They were both athletic men, and fiery men. Dr. Dosewell was the taller, but Dr. Morgan was the stouter. Dr. Dosewell on the mother's side was Irish; but Dr. Morgan on both sides was Welsh. All things considered, I would have backed Dr. Morgan if it had come to blows. But, luckily for the honour of science, here the chambermaid knocked at the door, and said, "The coach is coming, sir."

Dr. Morgan recovered his temper and his manners at that announcement.

"Dr. Dosewell," said he, "I have been too hot,--I apologize."

"Dr. Morgan," answered the allopathist, "I forgot myself. Your hand, sir."

DR. MORGAN.--"We are both devoted to humanity, though with different opinions. We should respect each other."

DR. DOSEWELL.--"Where look for liberality, if men of science are illiberal to their brethren?"

DR. MORGAN (aside).--"The old hypocrite! He would pound me in a mortar if the law would let him."

DR. DOSEWELL (aside).--"The wretched charlatan! I should like to pound him in a mortar."

DR. MORGAN.--"Good-by, my esteemed and worthy brother."

DR. DOSEWELL.--"My excellent friend, good-by."

DR. MORGAN (returning in haste).--"I forgot. I don't think our poor patient is very rich. I confide him to your disinterested benevolence."

(Hurries away.)

DR. DOSEWELL (in a rage).--"Seven miles at six o'clock in the morning, and perhaps done out of my fee! Quack! Villain!"

Meanwhile, Dr. Morgan had returned to the sick-room.

"I must wish you farewell," said he to poor Mr. Digby, who was languidly sipping his tea. "But you are in the hands of a--of a--gentleman in the profession."

"You have been too kind,--I am shocked," said Mr. Digby. "Helen, where's my purse?"

Dr. Morgan paused.

He paused, first, because it must be owned that his practice was restricted, and a fee gratified the vanity natural to unappreciated talent, and had the charm of novelty, which is sweet to human nature itself. Secondly, he was a man--

"Who knew his rights; and, knowing, dared maintain."

He had resigned a coach fare, stayed a night, and thought he had relieved his patient. He had a right to his fee.

On the other hand, he paused, because, though he had small practice, he was tolerably well off, and did not care for money in itself, and he suspected his patient to be no Croesus.

Meanwhile the purse was in Helen's hand. He took it from her, and saw but a few sovereigns within the well-worn network. He drew the child a little aside.

"Answer me, my dear, frankly,--is your papa rich?--" And he glanced at the shabby clothes strewed on the chair and Helen's faded frock.

"Alas, no!" said Helen, hanging her head. "Is that all you have?"

"All."

"I am ashamed to offer you two guineas," said Mr. Digby's hollow voice from the bed.

"And I should be still more ashamed to take them. Good by, sir. Come here, my child. Keep your money, and don't waste it on the other doctor more than you can help. His medicines can do your father no good. But I suppose you must have some. He's no physician, therefore there's no fee.

He'll send a bill,--it can't be much. You understand. And now, G.o.d bless you."

Dr. Morgan was off. But, as he paid the landlady his bill, he said considerately, "The poor people upstairs can pay you, but not that doctor,--and he's of no use. Be kind to the little girl, and get the doctor to tell his patient (quietly of course) to write to his friends--soon--you understand. Somebody must take charge of the poor child. And stop--hold your hand; take care--these globules for the little girl when her father dies,"--here the doctor muttered to himself, "grief,--aconite, and if she cries too much afterwards, these--(don't mistake). Tears,--caustic!"

"Come, sir," cried the coachman.

"Coming; tears,--caustic," repeated the h.o.m.oeopathist, pulling out his handkerchief and his phial-book together as he got into the coach; and he hastily swallowed his antilachrymal.

CHAPTER XIV.

Richard Avenel was in a state of great nervous excitement. He proposed to give an entertainment of a kind wholly new to the experience of Screwstown. Mrs. M'Catchley had described with much eloquence the Dejeunes dansants of her fashionable friends residing in the elegant suburbs of Wimbledon and Fulham. She declared that nothing was so agreeable. She had even said point-blank to Mr. Avenel, "Why don't you give a Dejeune dansant?" And, therewith, a Dejeune dansant Mr. Avenel resolved to give.

The day was fixed, and Mr. Avenel entered into all the requisite preparations, with the energy of a man and the providence of a woman.

One morning as he stood musing on the lawn, irresolute as to the best site for the tents, Leonard came up to him with an open letter in his hand.

"My dear uncle," said he, softly.

"Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Avenel, with a start. "Ha-well, what now?"

"I have just received a letter from Mr. Dale. He tells me that my poor mother is very restless and uneasy, because he cannot a.s.sure her that he has heard from me; and his letter requires an answer. Indeed I shall seem very ungrateful to him--to all--if I do not write."

Richard Avenel's brows met. He uttered an impatient "Pish!" and turned away. Then coming back, he fixed his clear hawk-like eye on Leonard's ingenuous countenance, linked his arm into his nephew's, and drew him into the shrubbery.