Dr. Paull's Theory: A Romance

								

cruel tales of some of their lives.
About a week after his arrival, he was reminded of Sir Roderick. In the
weekly journal, Speculative Thought, there was a letter on some
subject that bore upon certain theories he held in regard to animal
magnetism. It was signed “R. Pym.” At dinner he inquired of his father
whether he had noticed it. He had not. So, after dinner Hugh read it
aloud.
“Why, I should have thought you had written that,” said his father.
“That is a pet theory of yours, is it not?”
“The old thief!” said Hugh, half to himself, but with an amused smile.
“At least, I have no right to say that. It is written by Sir Roderick
Pym. Of that I have little or no doubt. We had a discussion on the
subject. He defended the opposite view. Now, he is on my side. That is
what I can’t make out.”
“You brought him round to your way of thinking, I suppose,” said the
rector, with a satisfied glance at his son. “You certainly have the gift
of persuasion. Many a time, in our walks and talks, you have staggered
me. I have felt that your hypotheses were uncalled for and preposterous.
But for the life of me I could not advance anything solid in the way of
refutation.”
“You certainly haven’t got the gift of persuasion, papa,” said the
fair-haired, round-faced Daisy. “Giles was drunk again last night. Mary
Giles has a black eye to-day. I am sure I thought your sermon on Sunday
week would do something. But old Brown went to the Arms just the same
all last week, Mrs. Brown told me. I said, quite aghast: ‘What! after
papa’s sermon?’ And she said: ‘Lawk, miss, Brown do go to church, I
know, but he allers settles hisself for a good sleep while the sermon’s
a-goin’ on.’”
“One man, single-handed, is powerless against alcohol,” said the rector,
helplessly. “I’ve fought it these seven-and-twenty years, and haven’t
scored a point. If they will drink, they will drink—an earthquake would
not stop them.”
The conversation drifted away from Sir Roderick Pym. But next morning it
drifted back again.
“There is a letter for you, Hugh; such a curious-looking letter,” said
Maud, a tall, dark, handsome girl, who was pouring out the tea and
coffee when her brother came down to breakfast. “A most original
handwriting. You must tell me whose it is. I have been reading up
graphology lately, and there seems to me a great deal of sense in it. At
least, my friends’ handwritings correspond wonderfully with what I know
of their characters.”
“I warn you, Maud is getting quite a dangerous person,” said Daisy, with
wide-open eyes. “I found her reading one of your medical books the other
day, Hugh.”
But Hugh did not hear, or heed her. He was turning over the square, grey
envelope, with a big black P stamped on the flap. The first
communication from Sir Roderick after ten weeks’ silence. There was no
mistaking the large, crooked scrawl. The stamp was stuck on corner-ways.