“You are a practised observer,” said Hugh. Upon which they began a conversation that partially showed Hugh there was a bond of sympathy between them. Both were dissatisfied with life generally, and with certain matters particularly. Both were prompted to study deeply, and ponder much on the great problems which have puzzled philosophers from Thales to Schopenhauer; and although Sir Roderick was a materialist and pessimist, and Hugh had taken refuge in a high ideal optimism which was to a certain extent original, they met on the common ground of mental disquietude.
Seen thus, Sir Roderick seemed another man. Weak though he still was, his eyes sparkled, his face was brightened by an almost youthful animation. Hugh was about to end the interview, fearing overfatigue for his patient, when Sir Roderick stopped short. His countenance changed. His brother, Mr. Edmund Pym, came into the ward with the secretary of the hospital.
Edmund Pym was a short, wizened little man, with pinched features and blinking eyes, scant white hair and smooth shaven face. Greater opposites in personal appearance than these two brothers could hardly be.
He glanced at Hugh through his eye-glass, nodded, somewhat awkwardly asked the invalid how he was getting on, then stood fidgeting at the bedside.
Hugh offered him a chair, but Sir Roderick gave him such a look that he would have retired precipitately but for his patient’s apologetic—
“Pray don’t go, Mr. Paull, I want to speak to you. My brother cannot stay long.”
“No, I cannot stay long,” said Mr. Edmund, uncomfortably. “I only came in to see how you were getting on, and to tell you how sorry Mary and the girls are about this. Mary will come and see you, if you like?”
“But I don’t like,” interrupted Sir Roderick, pettishly. “Tell her—anything you please. I don’t mind Mary and the girls when I am well. But they can’t come here. If they do, I sha’n’t see them.”
Mr. Pym nervously assured his brother that “Mary and the girls” would not dream of doing anything to displease him. They were most anxious to show their solicitude and sympathy, that was all.
“Tell them that as long as they hold their tongues and don’t gossip about my infernal accident, they may do what they please,” said Sir Roderick, surlily. “And if they must chatter about it, tell them to pray for me. Yes, tell them that. They’ll think the black sheep is coming into the fold at last. It’ll please them, and won’t do me any harm.”