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 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.”