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 indoors,—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. Hollo, guard! get out my carpet-bag. I sha’n’t go on to-night.”
And the good man after a very slight supper went upstairs 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.