Dr. Paull's Theory: A Romance

								

davenport in the drawing-room, and presently posted a letter to Sir
Roderick with his own hands, lest once more he should change his mind.
In this he accepted the invitation to the Pinewood for the following
Saturday morning.
Why he was reluctant to enlighten his family on this subject, he could
not for the life of him make out. But whenever he neared it in
conversation, he felt uncomfortable. The days passed. He told them all
he should return to town the following Friday. But of the projected
visit to the Pinewood he said not one word.
The sweet summer days came and went, one by one. Once more Hugh said
good-bye, perhaps for months, to the old garden; had a farewell fish in
the river, and after a reluctant parting with father and sisters,
returned—to meet his strange fate.

                              CHAPTER III.

                 EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF HUGH PAULL.

                                                             July—, 18—.
Am I awake? Is my visit to the Pinewood a dream? No, no, it has all
happened—one of the strangest experiences that ever befell mortal man.
It has been like a visit to some new world: the impressions have been so
strong. It is the Pinewood which seems the reality, and this, my
hospital life, a dream. To my horror, things are growing shadowy. I
cannot concentrate my thoughts upon my cases; and when the fellows or
the nurses ask me anything, I am not “all there.” At last the climax
came this morning. An epileptic case came in, and Dr. Hildyard asked my
opinion upon his diagnosis. My mind was a blank. Suddenly I could have
sworn I heard a laugh—her laugh.
I will write it all down, that is what I will do; then perhaps I may
forget.
I left London last Saturday week morning, in the full possession of my
senses (of that I feel sure). I can remember everything—all the details
of the journey down to F——, through the heathery moorland, the firwoods,
the cornfields.
No one waiting at F—— station. Taking my bag, I was leaving, intending
to make inquiries as to the whereabouts of the Pinewood and to walk,
when an old coachman, perched up on the driving-seat of a high dogcart,
touched his hat and said:
“The gentleman for the Pinewood?”
“I am going to the Pinewood,” I said.
“The doctor, sir, what attended Sir Roderick in London?”
“Yes.”
I got up, and we drove off. The skittish bay (Reindeer) went like the
wind at first along the smooth highroad, through snug villages, past
outhouses, between hop-gardens, till we came to the hills covered with
pine-forest.
“This is the Pinewood, sir,” said the old man; “as far as you can see a
tree.”
That was much farther than I could see. The slopes were clad with the
straight, tall trees, from slim saplings to lofty giants, until the dark
green outlines of the hills melted into the lilac haze of the horizon.
Driving less quickly uphill, he told me something about his master and