Dr. Heidenhoff's Process

by Edward Bellamy

  CHAPTER V.

  Now, Henry had not chanced to be at church that first Sunday evening whenCordis obtained an introduction to Madeline, nor was he at Fanny Miller'steaparty. Of the rapidly progressing flirtation between his sweetheartand the handsome drug-clerk he had all this time no suspicion whatever.Spending his days from dawn to sunset in the shop among men, he was notin the way of hearing gossip on that sort of subject; and Laura, whoordinarily kept him posted on village news, had, deemed it best to tellhim as yet nothing of her apprehensions. She was aware that the affectionbetween her brother and Madeline was chiefly on his side, and knew enoughof her wilfulness to be sure that any attempted interference by him wouldonly make matters worse. Moreover, now that she had warned Cordis thatMadeline was pre-empted property, she hoped he would turn his attentionelsewhere.

  And so, while half the village was agog over the flirtation of the newdrug-clerk with Madeline Brand, and Laura was lying awake nights frettingabout it, Henry went gaily to and from his work in a state of blissfulignorance. And it was very blissful. He was exultant over the progress hehad made in his courtship at the picnic. He had told his love--he hadkissed her. If he had not been accepted, he had, at least, not beenrejected, and that was a measure of success quite enough to intoxicate soardent and humble a lover as he. And, indeed, what lover might not havetaken courage at remembering the sweet pity that shone in her eyes at therevelation of his love-lorn state? The fruition of his hopes, to which hehad only dared look forward as possibly awaiting him somewhere in the dimfuture, was, maybe, almost at hand. Circumstances combined to prolongthese rose-tinted dreams. A sudden press of orders made it necessary torun the shop till late nights. He contrived with difficulty to get outearly one evening so as to call on Madeline; but she had gone out, and hefailed to see her. It was some ten days after the picnic that, on callinga second time, he found her at home. It chanced to be the very evening ofthe day on which the conversation between Madeline and Cordis, narratedin the last chapter, had taken place.

  She did not come in till Henry had waited some time in the parlour, andthen gave him her hand in a very lifeless way. She said she had a badhead-ache, and seemed disposed to leave the talking to him. He spoke ofthe picnic, but she rather sharply remarked that it was so long ago thatshe had forgotten all about it. It did seem very long ago to her, but tohim it was very fresh. This cool ignoring of all that had happened thatday in modifying their relations at one blow knocked the bottom out ofall his thinking for the past week, and left him, as it were, all in theair. While he felt that the moment was not propitious for pursuing thattopic, he could not for the moment turn his mind to anything else, and,as for Madeline, it appeared to be a matter of entire indifference to herwhether anything further was said on any subject. Finally, he remarked,with an effort to which the result may appear disproportionate--

  "Mr. Taylor has been making quite extensive alterations on his house,hasn't he?"

  "I should think you ought to know, if any one. You pass his house everyday," was her response.

  "Why, of course I know," he said, staring at her.

  "So I thought, but you said 'hasn't he?' And naturally I presumed thatyou were not quite certain."

  She was evidently quizzing him, but her face was inscrutable. She lookedonly as if patiently and rather wearily explaining a misunderstanding. Asshe played with her fan, she had an unmistakable expression of beingslightly bored.

  "Madeline, do you know what I should say was the matter with you if youwere a man?" he said, desperately, yet trying to laugh.

  "Well, really"--and her eyes had a rather hard expression--"if you prefergentlemen's society, you'd better seek it, instead of trying to get alongby supposing me to be a gentleman."

  "It seems as if I couldn't say anything right," said Henry.

  "I think you do talk a little strangely," she admitted, with a faintsmile. Her look was quite like that of an uncomplaining martyr.

  "What's the matter with you to-night, Madeline? Tell me, for God's sake!"he cried, overcome with sudden grief and alarm.

  "I thought I told you I had a headache, and I really wish you wouldn'tuse profane language," she replied, regarding him with lack-lustre eyes.

  "And that's all? It's only a headache?"

  "That's quite enough, I'm sure. Would you like me to have toothachebesides?"

  "You know I didn't mean that."

  "Well, earache, then?" she said, wearily, allowing her head to rest backon the top of her chair, as if it were too much of an effort to hold itup, and half shutting her eyes.

  "Excuse me, I ought not to have kept you. I'll go now."

  "Don't hurry," she observed, languidly.

  "I hope you'll feel better in the morning."

  He offered her his hand, and she put hers in his for an instant, butwithdrew it without returning his pressure, and he went away, sorelyperplexed and bitterly disappointed.

  He would have been still more puzzled if he had been told that not onlyhad Madeline not forgotten about what had happened at the picnic, buthad, in fact, thought of scarcely anything else during his call. It wasthat which made her so hard with him, that lent such acid to her tone andsuch cold aversion to her whole manner. As he went from the house, shestood looking after him through the parlour window, murmuring toherself--.

  "Thank Heaven, I'm not engaged to him. How could I think I would evermarry him? Oh, if a girl only knew!"

  Henry could not rest until he had seen her again, and found out whetherher coldness was a mere freak of coquetry, or something more. One eveningwhen, thanks to the long twilight, it was not yet dark, he called again.She came to the door with hat and gloves on. Was she going out? he asked.She admitted that she had been on the point of going across the street tomake a call which had been too long delayed, but wouldn't he come in. No,he would not detain her; he would call again. But he lingered a moment onthe steps while, standing on the threshold, she played with a button of aglove. Suddenly he raised his eyes and regarded her in a quite particularmanner. She was suddenly absorbed with her glove, but he fancied that hercheek slightly flushed. Just at the moment when he was calculating thatshe could no longer well avoid looking up, she exclaimed--

  "Dear me, how vexatious! there goes another of those buttons. I shallhave to sew it on again before I go," and she looked at him with acharmingly frank air of asking for sympathy, at the same time that itconveyed the obvious idea that she ought to lose no time in making thenecessary repairs.

  "I will not keep you, then," he said, somewhat sadly, and turned away.

  Was the accident intentional? Did she want to avoid him? he could nothelp the thought, and yet what could be more frank and sunshiny than thesmile with which she responded to his parting salutation?

  The next Sunday Laura and he were at church in the evening.

  "I wonder why Madeline was not out. Do you know?" he said as they werewalking home.

  "No."

  "You're not nearly so friendly with her as you used to be. What's thematter?"

  She did not reply, for just then at a turning of the street, they met theyoung lady of whom they were speaking. She looked smiling and happy, andvery handsome, with a flush in either cheek, and walking with her was thenew drug-clerk. She seemed a little confused at meeting Henry, and for amoment appeared to avoid his glance. Then, with a certain bravado, oddlymingled with a deprecating air, she raised her eyes to his and bowed.

  It was the first intimation he had had of the true reason of heralienation. Mechanically he walked on and on, too stunned to think asyet, feeling only that there was a terrible time of thinking ahead.

  "Hadn't we better turn back, hear?" said Laura, very gently.

  He looked up. They were a mile or two out of the village on a lonelycountry road. They turned, and she said, softly, in the tone like thetouch of tender fingers on an aching spot--

  "I knew it long ago, but I hadn't the heart to tell you. She set her capat him from the first. Don't take it too much to heart. She is not good
enough for you."

  Sweet compassion! Idle words! Is there any such sense of ownership,reaching even to the feeling of identity, as that which the lover has inthe one he loves? His thoughts and affections, however short the time,had so grown about her and encased her, as the hardened clay imbeds thefossil flower buried ages ago. It rather seems as if he had found her byquarrying in the depths of his own heart than as if he had picked herfrom the outside world, from among foreign things. She was never foreign,else he could not have had that intuitive sense of intimateness with herwhich makes each new trait which she reveals, while a sweet surprise, yetseem in a deeper sense familiar, as if answering to some pre-existingideal pattern in his own heart, as if it were something that could nothave been different. In after years he may grow rich in land and gold,but he never again will have such sense of absolute right and eternallyforeordained ownership in any thing as he had long years ago in thatsweet girl whom some other fellow married. For, alas! this seeminglyinviolable divine title is really no security at all. Love is liable toten million suits for breach of warranty. The title-deeds he gives tolovers, taking for price their hearts' first-fruits, turn out no titlesat all. Half the time, title to the same property is given to severalclaimants, and the one to finally take possession is often enough one whohas no title from love at all.

  Henry had been hit hard, but there was a dogged persistence in hisdisposition that would not allow him to give up till he had tested hisfortune to the uttermost. His love was quite unmixed with vanity, forMadeline had never given him any real reason to think that she loved him,and, therefore, the risk of an additional snub or two counted for nothingto deter him. The very next day he left the shop in the afternoon andcalled on her. Her rather constrained and guarded manner was as if shethought he had come to call her to account, and was prepared for him. He,on the contrary, tried to look as affable and well satisfied as if hewere the most prosperous of lovers. When he asked her if she would go outdriving with him that afternoon, she was evidently taken quite off herguard. For recrimination she was prepared, but not for this smilingproposal. But she recovered herself in an instant, and said--

  "I'm really very much obliged. It is very considerate of you, but mymother is not very well this afternoon, and I feel that I ought not toleave her." Smothering a sick feeling of discouragement, he said, ascheerfully as possible--

  "I'm very sorry indeed. Is your mother seriously sick?"

  "Oh no, thank you. I presume she will be quite well by morning."

  "Won't you, perhaps, go to-morrow afternoon, if she is better? The riverroad which you admire so much is in all its midsummer glory."

  "Thank you. Really; you are quite too good, but I think riding is ratherlikely to give me the headache lately."

  The way she answered him, without being in the least uncivil, left theimpression on his mind that he had been duly persistent. There was anawkward silence of a few moments, and he was just about to burst forthwith he knew not what exclamations and entreaties, when Madeline rose,saying--

  "Excuse me a moment; I think I hear my mother calling," and left theroom.

  She was gone some time, and returned and sat down with an absent andpreoccupied expression of face, and he did not linger.

  The next Thursday evening he was at conference meeting, intending to walkhome with Madeline if she would let him; to ask her, at least. She wasthere, as usual, and sat at the melodeon. A few minutes before nineCordis came in, evidently for the mere purpose of escorting her home.Henry doggedly resolved that she should choose between them then andthere, before all the people. The closing hymn was sung, and the buzz ofthe departing congregation sounded in his ears as if it were far away. Herose and took his place near the door, his face pale, his lips set,regardless of all observers. Cordis, with whom he was unacquainted saveby sight, stood near by, good-humouredly smiling, and greeting the peopleas they passed out.

  In general, Madeline liked well enough the excitement of electing betweenrival suitors, but she would rather, far rather, have avoided this publicchoice tonight. She had begun to be sorry for Henry. She was as long aspossible about closing the melodeon. She opened and closed it again. Atlength, finding no further excuse for delaying, she came slowly down theaisle, looking a little pale herself. Several of the village young folkswho understood the situation lingered, smiling at one other, to see thefun out, and Cordis himself recognized his rival's tragical look with anamused expression, at the same time that he seemed entirely disposed tocross lances with him.

  As Madeline approached the door, Henry stepped forward and huskily askedif he might take her home. Bowing to him with a gracious smile ofdeclination, she said, "Thanks," and, taking Cordis's arm, passed outwith him.

  As they came forth into the shadow of the night, beyond the illuminationof the porch lamps of the church, Cordis observed--

  "Really, that was quite tragical. I half expected he would pull out arevolver and shoot us both. Poor fellow, I'm sorry for him."

  "He was sorrier than you are glad, I dare say, said Madeline.

  "Well, I don't know about that," he replied; "I'm as glad as I can be,and I suppose he's as sorry as he can be. I can't imagine any man in lovewith such a girl as you not being one or the other all the while."

  But the tone was a little, a very little, colder than the words, and herquick ear caught the difference.

  "What's the matter? Are you vexed about anything? What have I done?" sheasked, in a tone of anxious deprecation which no other person butHarrison Cordis had ever heard from her lips.

  "You have done nothing," he answered, passing his arm round her waist ina momentary embrace of reassurance. "It is I that am ill-tempered. Icouldn't help thinking from the way this Burr pursues you that there musthave been something in the story about your having been engaged, afterall."

  "It is not true. I never was engaged. I couldn't bear him. I don't likehim. Only he--he--"

  "I don't want to pry into your secrets. Don't make any confessions to me.I have no right to call you to account," he interrupted her, ratherstiffly.

  "Please don't say that. Oh, please don't talk that way!" she cried out,as if the words had hurt her like a knife. "He liked me, but I didn'tlike him. I truly didn't. Don't you believe me? What shall I do if youdon't?"

  It must not be supposed that Cordis had inspired so sudden and strong apassion in Madeline without a reciprocal sentiment. He had beeninfatuated from the first with the brilliant, beautiful girl, and hisjealousy was at least half real, Her piteous distress at his slight showof coldness melted him to tenderness. There was an impassionedreconciliation, to which poor Henry was the sacrifice. Now that hethreatened to cost her the smiles of the man she loved, her pity for himwas changed into resentment. She said to herself that it was mean andcruel in him to keep pursuing her. It never occurred to her to findCordis's conduct unfair in reproaching her for not having lived solelyfor him, before she knew even of his existence. She was rather inclinedto side with him, and blame herself for having lacked an intuitiveprescience of his coming, which should have kept her a nun in heart andsoul.

  The next evening, about dusk, Henry was wandering sadly and aimlesslyabout the streets when he met Madeline face to face. At first she seemedrather unpleasantly startled, and made as if she would pass him withoutgiving him an opportunity to speak to her. Then she appeared to changeher mind, and, stopping directly before him, said, in a low voice--

  "Won't you please leave me alone, after this? Your attentions are notwelcome."

  Without giving him a chance to reply, she passed on and walked swiftly upthe street. He leaned against the fence, and stood motionless for a longtime. That was all that was wanting to make his loss complete--an angryword from her. At last his lips moved a little, and slowly formed thesewords in a husky, very pitiful whisper--

  "That's the end,"