The nurse read the letter haltingly, as one reads an unfamiliar handwriting; it was signed, like all the letters, with initials only, and told him of Edith’s anxiety to see him, of her hopes and fears, and all the other foolish things that women write to men they love. To him it seemed a message from heaven, for he loved her very deeply, and her slightest word became a treasure to him, invested with a new significance; lifted from its commonplace surroundings; something to ponder over, and think about all through the long, weary day. He sent a reply, treating lightly of his illness, so as not to alarm her needlessly. The nurse carefully wrote it down for him at his dictation. He hesitated when it came to telling the woman the address—he did not wish to compromise Edith, to give her name to a stranger. There was no other way, however, and, after all, he believed that, within a month at the outside, they would be standing hand in hand at the taffrail of some great ocean liner, watching the towering skyline of New York as it disappeared in the hazy distance along with their troubles and cares. The mere fact that their secret was known, now, to a hospital nurse, could do no harm; in a few weeks all the world would know it, but they would be in each other’s arms, and the opinion of the world would not matter very much.
The day seemed strangely long and he was glad when night came, and with it some respite from his pain. He felt tired, terribly tired, and his head throbbed with a burning fever. They gave him things to make him sleep, and water for his cracking lips. As the evening wore on even the thoughts of the morning’s letter no longer interested him. He turned his face to the wall, and tried not to think of anything at all. After a while he slept, while the nurse and the doctor on his evening round spoke together softly, and in grave tones, with many anxious glances in his direction.
The next morning his fever was better, and the letter brought him from his hotel made the day seem for a time full of joy and brightness, but after a little while a great sense of weariness overcame him. Nothing seemed to matter much; whether he lived or died. He was conscious only of a desire to sleep—how long, even though forever, he did not care in the very least.
About noon he was roused by the approach of someone toward his bed, and opened his eyes to see Doctor Oliver standing beside him. The doctor looked very grave as he took his patient’s hand, his fingers mechanically feeling the rapid, weak pulse. “Mr. West,” said the doctor, “I think you should let your family know of your illness.”
West tried to raise his hand, then fell back with a sigh of weariness. “Am I as sick as all that?” he inquired faintly, as he gazed into the doctor’s inscrutable eyes.
“You are a very sick man, Mr. West. I do not wish to needlessly alarm you, but it would be best to communicate with your people, and put your affairs in order, so that, whatever happens, you will be ready to meet it.”
The sick man looked at the doctor with a long, intent look. His lips quivered, his hand tightened fearfully upon the one that held it. “You mean that I am going to die?” he asked bravely. “Tell me the truth, doctor. I would rather know.” The doctor nodded his head slowly, but made no other reply.
West was a long time in realizing the truth, yet it seemed as though he had always known it. He had never quite believed that all the happiness he looked forward to so gladly would ever really come true. It seemed almost too much to ask of fate. And now it was all ended. He must die, here alone, with not even Edith’s presence to gladden his few remaining hours. For a long time he looked at the doctor with burning eyes, yet no words would come to say that which he felt. The doctor must have understood, for he, too, stood silent, his eyes fixed tenderly upon the dying man’s face. At last he spoke.
“You should send for your people, Mr. West,” he said.
“I have no people, doctor.”