CHAPTER IX.
Henry had not referred to their marriage after the first interview. Fromday to day, and week to week, he had put off doing so, hoping that shemight grow into a more serene condition of mind. But in this respect theresult had sadly failed to answer his expectation. He could not deny tohimself that, instead of becoming more cheerful, she was relapsing into amore and more settled melancholy. From day to day he noted the change,like that of a gradual petrifaction, which went on in her face. It was asif before his eyes she were sinking into a fatal stupor, from which allhis efforts could not rouse her.
There were moments when he experienced the chilling premonition of adisappointment, the possibility of which he still refused to actuallyentertain. He owned to himself that it was a harder task than he hadthought to bring back to life one whose veins the frost of despair haschilled. There were, perhaps, some things too hard even for his love. Itwas doubly disheartening for him thus to lose confidence; not only on hisown account, but on hers. Not only had he to ask himself what wouldbecome of his life in the event of failure, but what would become ofhers? One day overcome by this sort of discouragement, feeling that hewas not equal to the case, that matters were growing worse instead ofbetter, and that he needed help from some source, he asked Madeline if hehad not better write to her mother to come to Boston, so that they twocould keep house together.
"No," she said in a quick, startled voice, looking up at him in a scaredway.
He hastened to reassure her, and say that he had not seriously thought ofit, but he noticed that during the rest of the evening she cast furtiveglances of apprehension at him, as if suspicious that he had some plotagainst her. She had fled from home because she could not bear hermother's eyes.
Meanwhile he was becoming almost as preoccupied and gloomy as she, andtheir dreary interviews grew more dreary than ever, for she was nowscarcely more silent than he. His constant and increasing anxiety, inaddition to the duties of a responsible business position, began to tellon his health. The owner of the manufactory of which he wassuperintendent, called him into his office one day, and told him he wasworking too hard, and must take a little vacation. But he declined. Soonafter a physician whom he knew buttonholed him on the street, and managedto get in some shrewd questions about his health. Henry owned he did notsleep much nights. The doctor said he must take a vacation, and, thisbeing declared impossible, forced a box of sleeping powders on him, andmade him promise to try them.
All this talk about his health; as well as his own sensations, set him tothinking of the desperate position in which Madeline would be left in theevent of his serious sickness or death.
That very day he made up his mind that it would not do to postpone theirmarriage any longer. It seemed almost brutal to urge it on her in herpresent frame of mind, and yet it was clearly out of the question toprotract the present situation.
The quarter of the city in which he resided was suburban, and he wenthome every night by the steam cars. As he sat in the car that eveningwaiting for the train to start, two gentlemen in the seat behind fell toconversing about a new book on mental physiology, embodying the latestdiscoveries. They kept up a brisk talk on this subject till Henry leftthe car. He could not, however, have repeated a single thing which theyhad said. Preoccupied with his own thoughts, he had only been dimlyconscious what they were talking about. His ears had taken in theirwords, but he had heard as not hearing.
After tea, in the gloaming, he called, as usual, on Madeline. After a fewcasual words, he said, gently--
"Madeline, you remember you promised to marry me a few weeks ago. I havenot hurried you, but I want you now. There is no use in waiting anylonger, dear, and I want you."
She was sitting in a low chair, her hands folded in her lap, and as hespoke her head sank so low upon her breast that he could not see herface. He was silent for some moments waiting a reply, but she made none.
"I know it was only for my sake you promised," he said again. "I know itwill be nothing to you, and yet I would not press you if I did not thinkI could make you happier so. I will give up my business for a time, andwe will travel and see the world a little."
Still she did not speak, but it was to some extent a reassurance to himthat she showed no agitation.
"Are you willing that we should be married in a few days?" he asked.
She lifted her head slowly, and looked at him steadfastly.
"You are right," she said. "It is useless to keep on this way anylonger."
"You consent, then?" said he, quite encouraged by her quiet air andapparent willingness.
"Don't press me for an answer to-night," she replied, after a pause,during which she regarded him with a singular fixity of expression. "Waittill to-morrow. You shall have an answer to-morrow. You are quite right.I've been thinking so myself. It is no use to put it off any longer."
He spoke to her once or twice after this, but she was gazing out throughthe window into the darkening sky, and did not seem to hear him. He roseto go, and had already reached the hail, when she called him--
"Come back a moment Henry."
He came back.
"I want you to kiss me," she said.
She was standing in the middle of the room. Her tall figure in its blackdress was flooded with the weird radiance of the rising moon, nor was themoonshine whiter than her cheek, nor sadder than her steadfast eyes. Herlips were soft and yielding, clinging, dewy wet. He had never thought akiss could be so sweet, and yet he could have wept, he knew not why.
When he reached his lodgings he was in an extremely nervous condition. Inspite of all that was painful and depressing in the associations of theevent, the idea of having Madeline for his wife in a few days more hadpower to fill him with feverish excitement, an excitement all the moreagitating because it was so composite in its elements, and had so littlein common with the exhilaration and light-heartedness of successfullovers in general. He took one of the doctor's sleeping powders, tried toread a dry book on electricity, endeavoured to write a business letter,smoked a cigar, and finally went to bed.
It seemed to him that he went all the next day in a dazed, dreamingstate, until the moment when he presented himself, after tea, atMadeline's lodgings, and she opened the door to him. The surprise whichhe then experienced was calculated to arouse him had he been indeeddreaming. His first thought was that she had gone crazy, or else had beendrinking wine to raise her spirits; for there was a flush of excitementon either cheek, and her eyes were bright and unsteady. In one hand sheheld, with a clasp that crumpled the leaves, a small scientific magazine,which he recognized as having been one of a bundle of periodicals that hehad sent her. With her other hand, instead of taking the hand which heextended, she clutched his arm and almost pulled him inside the door.
"Henry, do you remember what George Bayley said that night in meeting,about the river of Lethe, in which, souls were bathed and forgot thepast?"
"I remember something about it," he answered.
"There is such a river. It was not a fable. It has been found again," shecried.
"Come and sit down, dear don't excite yourself so much. We will talkquietly," he replied, with a pitiful effort to speak soothingly, for hemade no question that her long brooding had affected her mind.
"Quietly! How do you suppose I can talk quietly?" she exclaimedexcitedly, in her nervous irritation throwing off the hand which he hadlaid on her arm. "Henry, see here, I want to ask you something. Supposinganybody had done something bad and had been very sorry for it, and thenhad forgotten it all, forgotten it wholly, would you think that made themgood again? Would it seem so to you? Tell me!"
"Yes, surely; but it isn't necessary they should forget, so long asthey're sorry."
"But supposing they had forgotten too?"
"Yes, surely, it would be as if it had never been."
"Henry," she said, her voice dropping to a low, hushed tone of wonder,while her eyes were full of mingled awe and exultation, "what if I wereto forget it, forget that you know, fo
rget it all, everything, just as ifit had never been?"
He stared at her with fascinated eyes. She was, indeed, beside herself.Grief had made her mad.. The significance of his expression seemed torecall her to herself, and she said--
"You don't understand. Of course not. You think I'm crazy. Here, take it.Go somewhere and read it. Don't stay here to do it. I couldn't stand tolook on. Go! Hurry! Read it, and then come back."
She thrust the magazine into his hand, and almost pushed him out of thedoor. But he went no further than the hall. He could not think of leavingher in that condition. Then it occurred to him to look at the magazine.He opened it by the light of the hall lamp, and his eyes fell on thesewords, the title of an article: "The Extirpation of Thought Processes. ANew Invention."
If she were crazy, here was at least the clue to her condition. He readon; his eyes leaped along the lines.
The writer began with a clear account of the discoveries of modernpsychologists and physiologists as to the physical basis of theintellect, by which it has been ascertained that certain ones of themillions of nerve corpuscles or fibres in the grey substance in thebrain, record certain classes of sensations and the ideas directlyconnected with them, other classes of sensations with the correspondingideas being elsewhere recorded by other groups of corpuscles. Thesecorpuscles of the grey matter, these mysterious and infinitesimalhieroglyphics, constitute the memory of the record of the life, so thatwhen any particular fibre or group of fibres is destroyed certainmemories or classes of memories are destroyed, without affecting otherswhich are elsewhere embodied in other fibres. Of the many scientific andpopular demonstrations of these facts which were adduced, reference wasmade to the generally known fact that the effect of disease or injury atcertain points in the brain is to destroy definite classes ofacquisitions or recollections, leaving others untouched. The article thenwent on to refer to the fact that one of the known effects of thegalvanic battery as medically applied, is to destroy and dissolve morbidtissues, while leaving healthy ones unimpaired. Given then a patient, whoby excessive indulgence of any particular train of thought, had broughtthe group of fibres which were the physical seat of such thoughts into adiseased condition, Dr. Gustav Heidenhoff had invented a mode of applyingthe galvanic battery so as to destroy the diseased corpuscles, and thusannihilate the class of morbid ideas involved beyond the possibility ofrecollection, and entirely without affecting other parts of the brain orother classes of ideas. The doctor saw patients Tuesdays and Saturdays athis office, 79 ---- Street.
Madeline was not crazy, thought Henry, as still standing under the halllamp he closed the article, but Dr. Heidenhoff certainly was. Never hadsuch a sad sense of the misery of her condition been borne in upon him,as when he reflected that it had been able to make such a farrago ofnonsense seem actually creditable to her. Overcome with poignantsympathy, and in serious perplexity how best he could deal with herexcited condition, he slipped out of the house and walked for an hourabout the streets. Returning, he knocked again at the door of herparlour.
"Have you read it?" she asked, eagerly, as she opened it.
"Yes, I've read it. I did not mean to send you such trash. The man mustbe either an escaped lunatic or has tried his hand at a hoax. It is atissue of absurdity."
He spoke bluntly, almost harshly, because he was in terror at the thoughtthat she might be allowing herself to be deluded by this wild andbaseless fancy, but he looked away as he spoke. He could not bear to seethe effect of his words.
"It is not absurd," she cried, clasping his arm convulsively with bothhands so that she hurt him, and looking fiercely at him out of hot,fevered eyes. "It is the most reasonable thing in the world. It must betrue. There can be no mistake. God would not let me be so deceived. He isnot so cruel. Don't tell me anything else."
She was in such a hysterical condition that he saw he must be verygentle.
"But, Madeline, you will admit that if he is not the greatest of alldiscoverers, he must be a dangerous quack. His process might kill you ormake you insane. It must be very perilous."
"If I knew there were a hundred chances that it would kill me to one thatit would succeed, do you think I would hesitate?" she cried.
The utmost concession that he could obtain her consent to was that heshould first visit this Dr. Heidenhoff alone, and make some inquiries ofand about him.
Dr. Heidenhoff's Process Page 9