Dr. Paull's Theory: A Romance

								

departure from ordinary hospital routine.
Yet when Hugh took up his position at the patient’s bedside with some
books as the possible companions of his vigil, he smiled to himself with
a cynical wonder.
“Why am I doing this?” he asked himself. Why, indeed? He could have been
summoned if any change took place. He could have ordered an extra night
nurse for Sir Roderick. Why should he go out of his way for a strange
man? Because this old man’s brother and the housekeeper had behaved so
coolly, and his sense of humanity was aroused? Because this human
windfall in the accident ward was Sir Roderick Pym, of Pym, Clithero &
Pym? No! for neither of these reasons. Hugh Paull was in the habit of
self-interrogation. His dissatisfaction with ordinary life as ordinary
people took it had made him desperately in earnest; and being
desperately in earnest, had made—



                   “To thine own self be true,

               Thou canst not then be false to any man,”
one of his governing mottoes. As he settled himself to his night watch
he grimly told himself that he was here for the sole reason that he knew
he could not without a struggle have kept away. Sir Roderick Pym
attracted him like a magnet. Why, he had still to learn.
Alternately watching the slightest movement of the patient, and reading,
the night wore on. There was silence in the long ward. The rows of beds
loomed whitely in the distance. The fire crackled. Now and then there
was a sigh or a weary moan. The distant clatter of cab-wheels, the howl
of a restless dog, or the slow rumbling of the market-waggons, were the
only signs that not all in London slept, as did these victims of
carelessness or misadventure within the quiet stone building.
Between one and two o’clock, Sir Roderick gave signs of returning
consciousness. As the night nurse glided from bed to bed, administering
medicine to those patients for whom it had been ordered, he opened his
eyes, and muttered something. Then he moved his head on his pillow,
turned, and gradually subsided into natural sleep.
After Hugh was completely satisfied that this was real slumber—“tired
Nature’s sweet restorer,” indeed—he might safely have sought “balmy
sleep” for his own solace; but by this time he was so wide awake, and
his brain so fit for study, that he remained. Sir Roderick slept for
hours as placidly as an infant, while Hugh studied with all his might
and strength.
At six o’clock the night nurse brought him a cup of tea, and
congratulated him on the changed appearance of the patient.
“Yes; he’ll do now, I think,” said Hugh, contentedly.
The clatter of the spoon in the saucer, or the whispering, or both,
aroused Sir Roderick. He opened his eyes, and stared at Hugh, first
wildly, then with an amazed expression.
“Kemble, in Hamlet,” he muttered. Then, as Hugh bit his lip to
restrain a smile—a shaken brain must not be irritated—he frowned and