There was some solace, assurance, in the naturalness of things about him. Everything else was just the same; it did not seem that it could be part of natural law then for his own life to be entirely overturned.
And the world was so beautiful! It was a buoyant spring morning. There was assurance in the song of the birds, in the perfume of flowers and trees. The air upon his face was soft and reassuring. This seemed far away from the hideous phantoms of the night. Why the world did not feel like tragedy this morning!
He had a lecture at eight o'clock, and he made up his mind he would give it. In the night he had thought of going first of all to the laboratory. The truth would be waiting for him there. But it was his business to give the lecture and he could not be sure of giving it if he went to the laboratory first. A man had no right to let his own affairs interfere with his work. Oh yes—by all means, he would give the lecture. In spite of his prayer that the uncertainty should end, he reached out for another hour of holding it off.
He knew as the hour advanced that he had never done better work in the lecture room. He pinned his mind to it with a rigidity which prompted him to put the subject as though it were the most vital thing in all the world. He threw the whole force of his will to filling his mind with the things of which he spoke that he might not yield so much as an inch to the things which waited just outside.
He talked until the last minute; in fact, he went so much over his time that another class was waiting at the door. He clung to those last moments with the desperation of the drowning man to the splintered piece of board. After it was over, just as he was yielding the desk to the man who followed him, one of his students approached him with a question and the thankfulness, the appeal, almost, in the smile with which he received him, mystified the student until he stammered out his question bewilderedly.
He could wait no longer now. That room belonged to others. The next period was his usual hour in the laboratory. It was an hour which on Monday morning he could, if he wished, spend alone.
His temples were beating, thundering. His hands were so cold that they seemed things apart from him. But his mouth—how parched it was!—was set very hard, and his steps, though slow, was firm.
In the outer laboratory, Professor Hastings stopped him, remonstrating against his working when he was having trouble with his eyes. He assured him, elaborately, that he was taking care of them, that probably he would not be in there long.
He opened the door of his laboratory and passed in. He closed it behind him, and stood there leaning against it. He was all alone now. There was nothing in the room but himself and the truth which was waiting for him.
He put his book down upon the table. He walked over and sat down before the culture oven. He must get this over with! He was getting sick. He could not stand much more.