Dr. Paull's Theory: A Romance

								

snobs. And they rule him. Rule him? They sit upon him. They drive him,
like the old donkey he is. He was always the same. At school they called
him Neddy, because he took everything so meekly. It used to enrage me,
youngster as I was. I used to say to him: ‘Man, why can’t you hold up
your head?’ And I’ve gone on saying it to him all through life. If
there’s one thing I despise, it’s a man who can’t hold up his head and
defend himself.”
“Against the women?” suggested Hugh. He had seated himself in the chair
he had offered Mr. Pym. His arms were folded. He saw that he must treat
Sir Roderick boldly, if they were to be friends. And some inward feeling
told him that Fate, or Providence, had brought them together—that at
least they were to be well acquainted with each other, if nothing more.
“I am afraid, sir, that you are a woman-hater.”
He half expected his patient to turn upon him somewhat after the manner
in which he had snubbed his brother, in which case he would have left
the old gentleman to himself, as far as conversation went, for the
future. Instead, Sir Roderick smiled, and seemed gratified.
“No, Hamlet, my friend,” he said, with a sort of pleased chuckle,
leaning back against his pillows. “You must excuse my calling you
Hamlet, but with your serious speculative nature, the name seems to fit
you exactly. No, I am no woman-hater. I know we can’t do without them.
But I object to them out of their proper place, as I object to cats out
of the kitchen, or mastiffs and Newfoundlands in the drawing-room. The
drudge woman and the ornamental woman are necessary evils. When strictly
kept under, they serve their purpose. But bowed down to and worshipped
as my unfortunate brother fetishes his womankind, they are only fit for
extermination—as if they were so many rats.” He spoke viciously. Then
turning to Hugh, he said: “I suppose you consider me a barbarian? Like
the rest, you adore a petticoat—eh?”
“No,” said Hugh. “But I can’t say I am with you in the extermination
idea; I have not known any domineering women. My mother was soft,
gentle—more a helpmeet than a companion to my father, who is a very
studious man. She was his right hand. His is not a mind to require a
second self. My sisters are like her.”
“I understand,” said Sir Roderick, in a depreciatory tone. “Good
specimens of the domestic genus. But what about the lady-love, the ideal
realised, the creature apart—eh?”
“I have so many, you see, Sir Roderick,” said Hugh. “Silent lassies, who
only speak when spoken to, and wait patiently side by side for days,
even weeks, till I throw the handkerchief. Their petticoats are
half-calf—morocco—cloth, lettered—”
“Oh! your books,” said the old man. “Ah! well, your turn will come, your
turn will come! And the longer you wait the worse it’ll be.”
“May your words not come true,” said Hugh, as he went off, amused,