Dr Heidenhoffs Process | Page 7

darkness. A distant bell, with slow and
heavy strokes, struck three. It was the dead point in the daily revolution
of the earth's life, that point just before dawn, when men oftenest die;
when surely, but for the force of momentum, the course of nature
would stop, and at which doubtless it will one day pause eternally,
when the clock is run down. The long-drawn reverberations of the bell,
turning remoteness into music, full of the pathos of a sad and infinite
patience, died away with an effect unspeakably dreary. His spirit,
drawn forth after the vanishing vibrations, seemed to traverse waste
spaces without beginning or ending, and aeons of monotonous duration.
A sense of utter loneliness--loneliness inevitable, crushing, eternal, the
loneliness of existence, encompassed by the infinite void of
unconsciousness--enfolded him as a pall. Life lay like an incubus on his
bosom. He shuddered at the thought that death might overlook him, and
deny him its refuge. Even Madeline's face, as he conjured it up, seemed
wan and pale, moving to unutterable pity, powerless to cheer, and all
the illusions and passions of love were dim as ball-room candles in the
grey light of dawn.
Gradually the moon passed, and he slept again.
As early as half-past eight the following forenoon, groups of men with
very serious faces were to be seen standing at the corners of the streets,
conversing in hushed tones, and women with awed voices were talking
across the fences which divided adjoining yards. Even the children, as

they went to school, forgot to play, and talked in whispers together, or
lingered near the groups of men to catch a word or two of their
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 been
paralleled in the history of the village. That morning the sun, as it
peered through the closed shutters of an upper chamber, had relieved
the darkness of a thing it had been afraid of. George Bayley sat there in
a chair, 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
arrangements for leaving the village. The doctor thought that the fatal
shot must have been 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 that had 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.
When Mr. Lewis undertook to tell him, for his comfort, that there was
reason to 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
wish any one to think otherwise. I am prouder of him than I had ever
expected to be again."
A choir of girls with glistening eyes sang sweet, sad songs at the
funeral, songs which, while they lasted, took away the ache of
bereavement, like a cool sponge pressed upon a smarting spot. It
seemed almost cruel that they must ever cease. And, after the funeral,
the young men and girls who had known George, not feeling like
returning that day to their ordinary thoughts and occupations, gathered
at the house of one of 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
off a fortnight.

CHAPTER III.
About half-past eight on the morning of the day set for the postponed
picnic, Henry knocked at Widow Brand's door. He had by no means
forgotten Madeline's consent to allow him to carry her basket, although
two weeks had intervened.
She came to the door herself. He had never seen her in anything that set
off her dark eyes and olive complexion more richly than the simple
picnic dress of white, trimmed with a little crimson braid about the
neck and sleeves, which she wore to-day. It was gathered up at the
bottom for wandering in the woods, just enough to show the little boots.
She looked surprised at seeing him, and exclaimed--
"You haven't come to tell me that the picnic is put off again, or Laura's
sick?"
"The picnic is all right, and Laura too. I've come to carry your basket
for you."
"Why, you're really very kind," said she, as if