“Yes, he wrote it, and I have read it, and I assure you it is a fine production; but he cannot read it, and of course the prize will be yours.”
I went to my room in no enviable state of mind. I wanted the prize. I had worked for it. But if Wright had written his essay, he must not lose the honor because he was sick. Nothing more was said of it, and all seemed to take it for granted that I should be the successful competitor.
At last I could bear it no longer. I called upon Stevens, as a friend of Wright, to procure the essay; and then, with the conviction that I was destroying my own hopes, I carried it to the chairman of the committee, and begged him to suspend his decision until this had been sufficiently examined.
The result was as I expected. Wright was announced the winner of the prize at the same time we were told that he was dangerously ill. How insignificant at that hour the honors of the world! How sorry I was that, in order to rival me, he had been obliged to study so hard; how glad to think that perhaps he might know that he had won, and the knowledge give him pleasure.
Not long afterwards a messenger came to me from the sick-room. Wright wanted to see me. I found him lying upon his bed, pale and wasted, the mere shadow of his former self.
“I wanted to thank you for your sacrifice on my behalf; they told me all about it;” and his eyes closed languidly. I pressed his thin hand cordially in my own.
“Nor is that all,” he said, opening his eyes, glistening with deep feeling. “I want you to forgive my former rudeness. I have always been ashamed of it; not a moment but I have longed to tell you of my regard; but you were my rival in study, and I could not bear it.”
Was this Wright, the rich student, the one who had never given me a word save those dictated by common civility, now asking my pardon, and saying that he had always regarded me, and had longed to tell me so? There was no room for deception; there he lay, weak and pale. I could not restrain my emotion, and before I was aware, I was on my knees, my arms about him, and my head resting on his pillow.
“Sickness has taught me to see life under a new phase,” he resumed. “These petty rivalries are unworthy the attention of immortal beings. I have lived as though this life were all, following a shadow until it had well-nigh landed me in the grave. Oh what would have become of me had I died then?” and a shudder passed over his features. “You will be glad to know that I have found Him whom you have loved for a long time. I trust my sins are pardoned, that I have given my heart to the Saviour. You must be my friend now; I cannot rest till I have it from your own lips.”
“Now, and ever,” I answered, as well as my emotion would allow. A sweet peace showed itself on his countenance.