CHAPTER XXIV. THE EXPERIMENT.
The next morning Haldane was busy in his laboratory. When he came in to lunch, looking disreputable enough in his old coat, and smelling strongly of tobacco, he said to his wife—
“By-the-by, Nell, do you remember what I told you last night about Dupré’s wonderful elixir? I forgot to tell you that I have brought some of it with me, for purposes of private experiment.” Ellen looked horrified.
“Don’t be afraid,” he continued, laughing; “your cats and dogs are safe from me. I have found a better subject, and mean to operate on him this very afternoon.”
“Whom do you mean?”
“As a sort of penance for his shamming illness, I shall kill Baptisto.”
She uttered a cry, and raised her hands in protest.
“For heavens sake, George, be warned! If you have any of that horrible stuff, throw it away.”
“Now, my dear Nell,” said the philosopher, “be reasonable; there is not the slightest cause for alarm. You will see this experiment, and it will, I hope, treble your faith in miracles.”
“I will not see it. I beseech you, abandon the idea. As for Baptisto——”
At this moment the Spaniard entered the room, carrying certain dishes.
“I have been telling your mistress, Baptisto, that you are ready to be a martyr to science. At four o’clock precisely, you will be a dead man.”
Baptisto bowed solemnly.
“I am quite ready, senor.”
But here Ellen interposed.
“It is ridiculous; your master is only joking. He would not do anything so foolish, so wicked. As for you, I forbid you to encourage him.”
Baptisto bowed again, with a curious smile.
“It is for the senor to command. As he knows, he has saved my life, and he may take it whenever he pleases.”
Haldane nodded, in the act of drinking a glass of wine.
“Don’t be afraid, Baptisto. After death, there is the resurrection.”
“That, senor, is your affair,” returned the Spaniard, phlegmatically, shrugging his shoulders. “You will do with me as you please.”
And so saying, he glided from the room.
Ellen again and again entreated her husband not to proceed in his experiment; but he had long made up his mind that it was perfectly safe, and he could not be persuaded. To her gentle: spirit, the whole idea seemed horrible in the extreme; but her greatest dread was that it might be attended with danger to the subject. Haldane, however, assured her that this was impossible.
All the afternoon Haldane and Baptisto were together in the laboratory. A little after four o’clock, as Ellen was walking on the terrace, Haldane came to her, smiling and holding up a small vial.
“It is all over,” he said, “and the experiment is quite successful. Come and see.”
Not quite understanding him, she suffered him to lead her into the laboratory; but, on crossing the threshold, she uttered a cry of horror. Stretched on a sofa, lay Baptisto, moveless, and, to all seeming, without one breath of life. His eyes were wide open, but rayless; his jaw fixed, his face pale as grey marble; a peaceful smile, as of death itself, upon his handsome face. The light of the sun, just sinking towards the west, streamed in through the high window upon the apparently lifeless form. In the chamber itself there was a sickly smell, like that of some suffocating vapour. The whole scene would have startled and appalled even a strong man.
“Oh, George!” cried the lady, clasping her hands. “What have you done?”
“Don’t be alarmed,” was the reply, “Its all right!”
“But you said the experiment——-
“Was successful? Perfectly. There lies our poor friend, comfortably finished.”
“But are you sure, quite sure, that he is not dead? He is not breathing.”
“Of course not. The simulation is perfect. Place your hand on his wrist—you will detect no pulse. Turn his pupils to the light—you see, they do not contract. The case would deceive a whole college of physicians.”
As he spoke, he suited the action to the word—placed his finger upon the pulse, gazed at the glazing pupils; raised one of the lifeless arms, which, on being released, fell heavily as lead.
“Horrible, horrible! For God’s sake, recover him!”
“All in good time. He has only been dead a quarter of an hour; in half an hour precisely I shall say, ‘Arise and walk.’ Feel his forehead, Nell; it is as cold as marble.”
But Ellen drew back, shuddering, and could not be persuaded to touch the sleeper.
“Well, go back to your promenade. I will call you when he is awakened.” Sick and terrified, Ellen obeyed her husband. Standing on the terrace, she waited for his summons; and at last it came. Haldane appeared, and beckoned; she followed him to the laboratory, and there, seated in an armchair, comfortably sipping a glass of wine, was the Spaniard—a little pale still, but otherwise not the worse for his state of coma.
“Thank God!” cried Ellen.
“I thought he would never recover. But it must have been a horrible experience.”
Baptisto smiled.
“Tell the signora all about it,” said his master. “Did you feel any pain?”
“None, senor.”
“What were your sensations? Pleasant or otherwise?”
“Quite pleasant, senor. It was like sinking into an agreeable sleep. If death is like that, it is a bagatelle.”
“Were you at all conscious?”
“Not of this world, senor, but I had bright dreams of another. I thought I was in paradise, walking in the sunshine—ah, so bright! I was sorry, senor, when I came back to this world.”
“You hear!” cried Haldane, turning to his wife. “After all, death itself may be a glorious experience; for ‘in that sleep of death what dreams may come!’ It is quite clear at least that all the phenomena of death, such as we shrink from and shudder at, may be accompanied by some kind of pleasant psychic consciousness. Bravo, Baptisto! After this, we shall call you Lazarus the second. You have passed beyond the shadow of the sepulchre, and returned to tell the tale.”
Despite the resuscitation, Ellen still revolted from the whole proceeding.
“Now you are satisfied,” she said, “promise me never to use that dreadful elixir again.”
“I think you may make your mind easy. The experiment is an ugly one, I admit, and I am not anxious to repeat it—at least, not on the human organism. For the same reason, my dear Nell, pray keep the affair to yourself, and make no confidences, even to your confessor—I should say, your clergyman, Will you promise?”
“Most certainly. I should not like any one to know you did such things. As for Mr. Santley, he would be shocked beyond measure.”
So saying, she left the two men together. In the mean time, Baptisto had-finished his wine and risen to his feet. While his master regarded him with an approving smile, he walked over to the door, softly closed it, and returning noiselessly across the room, said in a low voice—
“There is something, senor, I did not tell you. I had dreams.”
“So you said, my Baptisto.”
“Ah yes, but not all. While I was lying there, I thought that you were the dead man, and that the senora, your widow, had married.”
“Married?”
“The English priest.”
Haldane started, and looked in amazement at the speaker.
“What the devil do you mean?”
“Ah, senor, it was only my dream; a foolish dream. You were lying in your winding-sheet, and they were kneeling at the altar—smiling, senor. I did not like to speak of it to the senora; but it was very strange.”
Haldane forced a laugh, while, with a mysterious look, Baptisto crept from the chamber. Was it in sheer simplicity or in deep cunning that the Spaniard had spoken, touching so delicate a chord? Left alone, Haldane paced up and down the laboratory in agitation. He was not by temperament a jealous or a suspicious man, but he was troubled in spite of himself. The words sounded like a warning, almost an insinuation.
“What could the fellow mean?” he asked himself again and again. “Could he possibly have dreamed that? No; it is preposterous. There was malice in his eye, and mischief.... Ellen married to Santley! Bah! what am I thinking about? The fellow is not a prophet!”
In this manner, whether in innocence or for some set purpose of his own, Baptisto contrived to poison all the sweetness of that successful experiment. When Haldane again joined his wife that evening, he was taciturn, distraught, nervous, and irritable. All his buoyancy had departed. Ellen saw the change, and puzzled herself to account for it.
She played to him, sang to him, but failed to drive the cloud from his brow.
When she had retired for the night, he still sat pondering over Baptisto’s words.