Her husband was dying, and she was alone with him. Nothing
could exceed the desolation of her surroundings. She and the
man who was going from her were in the third- floor-back of a
New York boarding-house. It was summer, and the other boarders
were in the country; all the servants except the cook had been
dismissed, and she, when not working, slept profoundly on the
fifth floor. The landlady also was out of town on a brief
holiday.
The window was open to admit the thick unstirring air; no sound
rose from the row of long narrow yards, nor from the tall deep
houses annexed. The latter deadened the rattle of the streets.
At intervals the distant elevated lumbered protestingly along,
its grunts and screams muffled by the hot suspended ocean.
She sat there plunged in the profoundest grief that can come to
the human soul, for in all other agony hope flickers, however
forlornly. She gazed dully at the unconscious breathing form of
the man who had been friend, and companion, and lover, during
five years of youth too vigorous and hopeful to be warped by
uneven fortune. It was wasted by disease; the face was
shrunken; the night- garment hung loosely about a body which
had never been disfigured by flesh, but had been muscular with
exercise and full-blooded with health. She was glad that the
body was changed; glad that its beauty, too, had gone some
other- where than into the coffin. She had loved his hands as
apart from himself; loved their strong warm magnetism. They lay
limp and yellow on the quilt: she knew that they were already
cold, and that moisture was gathering on them. For a moment
something convulsed within her. They had gone too. She repeated
the words twice, and, after them, "forever." And the while the
sweetness of their pressure came back to her.
She leaned suddenly over him. He was in there still, somewhere.
Where? If he had not ceased to breathe, the Ego, the Soul,, the
Personality was still in the sodden clay which had shaped to
give it speech. Why could it not manifest itself to her? Was it
still conscious in there, unable to project itself through the
disintegrating matter which was the only medium its Creator had
vouchsafed it? Did it struggle there, seeing her agony, sharing
it, longing for the complete disintegration which should put an
end to its torment? She called his name, she even shook him
slightly, mad to tear the body apart and find her mate, yet
even in that tortured moment realizing that violence would
hasten his going.
The dying man took no notice of her, and she opened his gown
and put her cheek to his heart, calling him again. There had
never been more perfect union; how could the bond still be so
strong if he were not at the other end of it? He was there, her
other part; until dead he must be living. There was no
intermediate state. Why should he be as entombed and
unresponding as if the screws were in the lid? But the faintly
beating heart did not quicken beneath her lips. She extended
her arms suddenly, describing eccentric lines, above, about
him, rapidly opening and closing her hands as if to clutch some
escaping object; then sprang to her feet, and went to the
window. She feared insanity. She had asked to be left alone
with her dying husband, and she did not wish to lose her reason
and shriek a crowd of people about her.
The green plots in the yards were not apparent, she noticed.
Something heavy, like a pall, rested upon them. Then she
understood that the day was over and that night was coming.
She returned swiftly to the bedside, wondering if she had
remained away hours or seconds, and if he were dead. His face
was still discernible, and Death had not relaxed it. She laid
her own against it, then withdrew it with shuddering flesh, her
teeth smiting each other as if an icy wind had passed.
She let herself fall back in the chair, clasping her hands
against her heart, watching with expanding eyes the white
sculptured face which, in the glittering dark, was becoming
less defined of outline. Did she light the gas it would draw
mosquitoes, and she could not shut from him the little air he
must be mechanically grateful for. And she did not want to see
the opening eye--the falling jaw.
Her vision became so fixed that at length she saw nothing, and
closed her eyes and waited for the moisture to rise and relieve
the strain. When she opened them his face had disappeared; the
humid waves above the house-tops put out even the light of the
stars, and night was come.
Fearfully, she approached her ear to his lips; he still
breathed. She made a motion to kiss him, then threw herself
back in a quiver of agony--they were not the lips she had
known, and she would have nothing less.
His breathing was so faint that in her half-reclining position
she could not hear it, could not be aware of the moment of his
death. She extended her arm resolutely and laid her hand on his
heart. Not only must she feel his going, but, so strong had
been the comradeship between them, it was a matter of loving
honor to stand by him to the last.
His breathing was so faint that in her half-reclining position
she could not hear it, could not be aware of the moment of his
death. She extended her arm resolutely and laid her hand on his
heart. Not only must she feel his going, but, so strong had
been the comradeship between them, it was a matter of loving
honor to stand by him to the last.
Fearfully, she approached her ear to his lips; he still
breathed. She made a motion to kiss him, then threw herself
back in a quiver of agony--they were not the lips she had
known, and she would have nothing less.
She sat there in the hot heavy night, pressing her hand hard
against the ebbing heart of the unseen, and awaited Death.
Suddenly an odd fancy possessed her. Where was Death? Why was
he tarrying? Who was detaining him? From what quarter would he
come? He was taking his leisure, drawing near with footsteps as
measured as those of men keeping time to a funeral march. By a
wayward deflection she thought of the slow music that was
always turned on in the theatre when the heroine was about to
appear, or something eventful to happen. She had always thought
that sort of thing ridiculous and inartistic. So had He.
She drew her brows together angrily, wondering at her levity,
and pressed her relaxed palm against the heart it kept guard
over. For a moment the sweat stood on her face; then the pent-
up breath burst from her lungs. He still lived.
Once more the fancy wantoned above the stunned heart. Death--
where was he? What a curious experience: to be sitting alone in
a big house--she knew that the cook had stolen out--waiting for
Death to come and snatch her husband from her. No; he would not
snatch, he would steal upon his prey as noiselessly as the
approach of Sin to Innocence--an invisible, unfair, sneaking
enemy, with whom no man's strength could grapple. If he would
only come like a man, and take his chances like a man! Women
had been known to reach the hearts of giants with the dagger's
point. But he would creep upon her.
She gave an exclamation of horror. Something was creeping over
the window-sill. Her limbs palsied, but she struggled to her
feet and looked back, her eyes dragged about against her own
volition. Two small green stars glared menacingly at her just
above the sill; then the cat possessing them leaped downward,
and the stars disappeared.
She realized that she was horribly frightened. "Is it
possible?" she thought. "Am I afraid of Death, and of Death
that has not yet come? I have always been rather a brave woman;
He used to call me heroic; but then with him it was impossible
to fear anything. And I begged them to leave me alone with him
as the last of earthly boons. Oh, shame!"
he realized that she was horribly frightened. "Is it
possible?" she thought. "Am I afraid of Death, and of Death
that has not yet come? I have always been rather a brave woman;
He used to call me heroic; but then with him it was impossible
to fear anything. And I begged them to leave me alone with him
as the last of earthly boons. Oh, shame!"
But she was still quaking as she resumed her seat, and laid her
hand again on his heart. She wished that she had asked Mary to
sit outside the door; there was no bell in the room. To call
would be worse than desecrating the house of God, and she would
not leave him for one moment. To return and find him dead--gone
alone!
Her knees smote each other. It was idle to deny it; she was in
a state of unreasoning terror. Her eyes rolled apprehensively
about; she wondered if she should see It when It came; wondered
how far off It was now. Not very far; the heart was barely
pulsing. She had heard of the power of the corpse to drive
brave men to frenzy, and had wondered, having no morbid horror
of the dead. But this! To wait--and wait--and wait--perhaps for
hours--past the midnight--on to the small hours--while that
awful, determined, leisurely Something stole nearer and nearer.
She bent to him who had been her protector with a spasm of
anger. Where was the indomitable spirit that had held her all
these years with such strong and loving clasp? How could he
leave her? How could he desert her? Her head fell back and
moved restlessly against the cushion; moaning with the agony of
loss, she recalled him as he had been. Then fear once more took
possession of her, and she sat erect, rigid, breathless,
awaiting the approach of Death.
Suddenly, far down in the house, on the first floor, her
strained hearing took note of a sound--a wary, muffled sound,
as if some one were creeping up the stair, fearful of being
heard. Slowly! It seemed to count a hundred between the laying
down of each foot. She gave a hysterical gasp. Where was the
slow music?
Her face, her body, were wet--as if a wave of death-sweat had
broken over them. There was a stiff feeling at the roots of her
hair; she wondered if it were really standing erect. But she
could not raise her hand to ascertain. Possibly it was only the
coloring matter freezing and bleaching. Her muscles were
flabby, her nerves twitched helplessly.
She knew that it was Death who was coming to her through the
silent deserted house; knew that it was the sensitive ear of
her intelligence that heard him, not the dull, coarse-grained
ear of the body.
He toiled up the stair painfully, as if he were old and tired
with much. work. But how could he afford to loiter, with all
the work he had to do? Every minute, every second, he must be
in demand to hook his cold, hard finger about a soul struggling
to escape from its putrefying tenement. But probably he had his
emissaries, his minions: for only those worthy of the honor did
he come in person.
He reached the first landing and crept like a cat down the hall
to the next stair, then crawled slowly up as before. Light as
the footfalls were, they were squarely planted, unfaltering;
slow, they never halted.
Mechanically she pressed her jerking hand closer against the
heart; its beats were almost done. They would finish, she
calculated, just as those footfalls paused beside the bed.
She was no longer a human being; she was an Intelligence and an
EAR. Not a sound came from without, even the Elevated appeared
to be temporarily off duty; but inside the big quiet house that
footfall was waxing louder, louder, until iron feet crashed on
iron stairs and echo thundered.
She had counted the steps--one--two--three--irritated beyond
endurance at the long deliberate pauses between. As they
climbed and clanged with slow precision she continued to count,
audibly and with equal precision, noting their hollow
reverberation. How many steps had the stair? She wished she
knew. No need! The colossal trampling announced the lessening
distance in an increasing volume of sound not to be
misunderstood. It turned the curve; it reached the landing; it
advanced--slowly--down the hall; it paused before her door.
Then knuckles of iron shook the frail panels. Her nerveless
tongue gave no invitation. The knocking became more imperious;
the very walls vibrated. The handle turned, swiftly and firmly.
With a wild instinctive movement she flung herself into the
arms of her husband.
When Mary opened the door and entered the room she found a dead
woman lying across a dead man.