I rose mechanically and prepared to obey him. He watched me furtively.
“Will you take a composing draught if I mix it for you?” he said—“It is harmless, and will give you a few hours’ sleep.”
“I would take poison from your hand!” I answered recklessly—“Why don’t you mix that for me?—and then, ... then I should sleep indeed,—and forget this horrible night!”
“No,—unfortunately you would not forget!” he said, going to his dressing-case and taking out a small white powder which he dissolved gradually in a glass of water—“That is the worst of what people call dying. I must instruct you in a little science by-and-by, to distract your thoughts. The scientific part of death,—the business that goes on behind the scenes you know—will interest you very much—it is highly instructive, particularly that section of it which I am entitled to call the regeneration of atoms. The brain-cells are atoms, and within these, are other atoms called memories, curiously vital and marvellously prolific! Drink this,”—and he handed me the mixture he had prepared—“For temporary purposes it is much better than death—because it does numb and paralyse the conscious atoms for a little while, whereas death only liberates them to a larger and more obstinate vitality.”
I was too self-absorbed to heed or understand his words, but I drank what he gave me submissively and returned the glass,—he still watched me closely for about a minute. Then he opened the door of the apartment which adjoined his own.
“Throw yourself on that bed and close your eyes,”—he continued in somewhat peremptory accents—“Till morning breaks I give you a respite,—” and he smiled strangely—“both from dreams and memories! Plunge into Oblivion, my friend!—brief as it is and as it must ever be, it is sweet!—even to a millionaire!”
The ironical tone of his voice vexed me,—I looked at him half reproachfully, and saw his proud beautiful face, pale as [p 381] marble, clear-cut as a cameo, soften as I met his eyes,—I felt he was sorry for me despite his love of satire,—and grasping his hand I pressed it fervently without offering any other reply. Then, going into the next room as he bade me, I lay down, and falling asleep almost instantly, I remembered no more.
[p 382]
XXXIII
With the morning came full consciousness; I realized bitterly all that had happened, but I was no longer inclined to bemoan my fate. My senses were stricken, as it seemed, too numb and rigid for any further outbreak of passion. A hard callousness took the place of outraged feeling; and though despair was in my heart, my mind was made up to one stern resolve,—I would look upon Sibyl no more. Never again should that fair face, the deceitful mask of a false nature, tempt my sight and move me to pity or forgiveness,—that I determined. Leaving the room in which I had passed the night, I went to my study and wrote the following letter;—