Dr. Heidenhoff's Process Read online

  CHAPTER II.

  That same night toward morning Henry suddenly awoke from a sound sleep.Drowsiness, by some strange influence, had been completely banished fromhis eyes, and in its stead he became sensible of a profound depression ofspirits. Physically, he was entirely comfortable, nor could he trace toany sensation from without either this sudden awakening or the mentalcondition in which he found himself. It was not that he thought ofanything in particular that was gloomy or discouraging, but that all theends and aims, not only of his own individual life, but of life ingeneral, had assumed an aspect so empty, vain, and colourless, that hefelt he would not rise from his bed for anything existence had to offer.He recalled his usual frame of mind, in which these things seemedattractive, with a dull wonderment that so baseless a delusion should beso strong and so general. He wondered if it were possible that it shouldever again come over him.

  The cold, grey light of earliest morning, that light which is rather thefading of night than the coming of day, filled the room with a faint hue,more cheerless than pitchiest darkness. A distant bell, with slow andheavy strokes, struck three. It was the dead point in the dailyrevolution of the earth's life, that point just before dawn, when menoftenest die; when surely, but for the force of momentum, the course ofnature would stop, and at which doubtless it will one day pauseeternally, when the clock is run down. The long-drawn reverberations ofthe bell, turning remoteness into music, full of the pathos of a sad andinfinite patience, died away with an effect unspeakably dreary. Hisspirit, drawn forth after the vanishing vibrations, seemed to traversewaste spaces without beginning or ending, and aeons of monotonousduration. A sense of utter loneliness--loneliness inevitable, crushing,eternal, the loneliness of existence, encompassed by the infinite void ofunconsciousness--enfolded him as a pall. Life lay like an incubus on hisbosom. He shuddered at the thought that death might overlook him, anddeny him its refuge. Even Madeline's face, as he conjured it up, seemedwan and pale, moving to unutterable pity, powerless to cheer, and all theillusions and passions of love were dim as ball-room candles in the greylight of dawn.

  Gradually the moon passed, and he slept again.

  As early as half-past eight the following forenoon, groups of men withvery serious faces were to be seen standing at the corners of thestreets, conversing in hushed tones, and women with awed voices weretalking across the fences which divided adjoining yards. Even thechildren, as they went to school, forgot to play, and talked in whisperstogether, or lingered near the groups of men to catch a word or two oftheir conversation, or, maybe, walked silently along with a puzzled,solemn look upon their bright faces.

  For a tragedy had occurred at dead of night which never had beenparalleled in the history of the village. That morning the sun, as itpeered through the closed shutters of an upper chamber, had relieved thedarkness of a thing it had been afraid of. George Bayley sat there in achair, his head sunk on his breast, a small, blue hole in his temple,whence a drop or two of blood had oozed, quite dead.

  This, then, was what he meant when he said that he had made arrangementsfor leaving the village. The doctor thought that the fatal shot must havebeen fired about three o'clock that morning, and, when Henry heard this,he knew that it was the breath of the angel of death as he flew by thathad chilled the genial current in his veins.

  Bayley's family lived elsewhere, and his father, a stern, cold,haughty-looking man, was the only relative present at the funeral. WhenMr. Lewis undertook to tell him, for his comfort, that there was reasonto believe that George was out of his head when he took his life, Mr.Bayley interrupted him.

  "Don't say that," he said. "He knew what he was doing. I should not wishany one to think otherwise. I am prouder of him than I had ever expectedto be again."

  A choir of girls with glistening eyes sang sweet, sad songs at thefuneral, songs which, while they lasted, took away the ache ofbereavement, like a cool sponge pressed upon a smarting spot. It seemedalmost cruel that they must ever cease. And, after the funeral, the youngmen and girls who had known George, not feeling like returning that dayto their ordinary thoughts and occupations, gathered at the house of oneof them and passed the hours till dusk, talking tenderly of the departed,and recalling his generous traits and gracious ways.

  The funeral had taken place on the day fixed for the picnic. The latter,in consideration of the saddened temper of the young people, was put offa fortnight.