night that was to
last forever. There was no answer, nothing but the deaf silence, the
blind darkness. But in a moment he felt that the very silence, the very
lack of answer, was answer in itself; there was nothing for him. Even
that vast mysterious power to which he had cried could not help him now,
_could_ not help him, could not stay the inexorable law of nature, could
not reverse that vast terrible engine with its myriad spinning wheels
that was riding him down relentlessly, grinding him into the dust. And
afterward? After the engine had done its work, when that strange other
time should come, that other life, what then? No, not even then, nothing
but outer darkness then and the gnashing of teeth, nothing but the deaf
silence, nothing but the blind darkness, nothing but the unbroken
blackness of an eternal night.

It was the end of everything! With a muffled cry, "Oh, I can't stand
this!" Vandover threw himself from his bed, groping his way out into the
sitting-room. By this time he was only conscious of a suffering too
great to be borne, everything else was blurred as in a thick mist. For
nearly an hour he stumbled about in the darkened room, bruising himself
against the furniture, dazed, numb, trying in vain to find the drawer of
the desk where he kept his father's revolver. At last his hand closed
upon it, gripping it so tightly that the hundreds of little nicks and
scratches made by the contact of the tacks and nails which he had
hammered with it nipped and bit into his palm like the teeth of tiny
mice. A vague feeling of shame overcame him at the last moment: he had
no wish to be found sprawling upon the floor, dressed only in his
night-gown. He lit the gas and put on his bathrobe, drawing the cords
securely about his waist and neck.

When he turned about to pick up the revolver again he found that his
determination had weakened considerably, and he was obliged to reflect
again upon the wreck of his life and soul before he was back once more
to the proper pitch of resolution. It was five minutes to two, and he
made up his mind to kill himself when the clock struck the hour. He
spent the intervening moments in arranging the details of the matter. At
first he thought he would do it standing, but he abandoned that idea,
fearing to strike his head against the furniture as he fell. He was
about to decide upon the huge leather chair, when the remembrance of his
father's death made that impossible. He finally conclu