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
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.
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
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!"
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
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
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