She found Henry very ill. The physician had some weeks before declared
he never knew a person with a similar pulse recover. Henry was certain
he could not live long; all the rest he could obtain, was procured by
opiates. Mary now enjoyed the melancholy pleasure of nursing him, and
softened by her tenderness the pains she could not remove. Every sigh
did she stifle, every tear restrain, when he could see or hear them. She
would boast of her resignation--yet catch eagerly at the least ray of
hope. While he slept she would support his pillow, and rest her head
where she could feel his breath. She loved him better than herself--she
could not pray for his recovery; she could only say, The will of Heaven
be done.
While she was in this state, she labored to acquire fortitude; but one
tender look destroyed it all--she rather labored, indeed, to make him
believe he was resigned, than really to be so.
She wished to receive the sacrament with him, as a bond of union which
was to extend beyond the grave. She did so, and received comfort from
it; she rose above her misery.
His end was now approaching. Mary sat on the side of the bed. His eyes
appeared fixed--no longer agitated by passion, he only felt that it was
a fearful thing to die. The soul retired to the citadel; but it was not
now solely filled by the image of her who in silent despair watched for
his last breath. Collected, a frightful calmness stilled every turbulent
emotion.
The mother's grief was more audible. Henry had for some time only
attended to Mary--Mary pitied the parent, whose stings of conscience
increased her sorrow; she whispered him, "Thy mother weeps, disregarded
by thee; oh! comfort her!--My mother, thy son blesses thee.--" The
oppressed parent left the room. And Mary _waited_ to see him die.
She pressed with trembling eagerness his parched lips--he opened his
eyes again; the spreading film retired, and love returned them--he gave
a look--it was never forgotten. My Mary, will you be comforted?
Yes, yes, she exclaimed in a firm voice; you go to be happy--I am not a
complete wretch! The words almost choked her.
He was a long time silent; the opiate produced a kind of stupor. At
last, in an agony, he cried, It is dark; I cannot see thee; raise me up.
Where is Mary? did she not say she delighted to support me? let me die
in her arms.
Her arms were opened to receive him; they trembled not. Again he was
obliged to lie down, resting on her: as the agonies increased he leaned
towards her: the soul seemed flying to her, as it escaped out of its
prison. The breathing was interrupted; she heard distinctly the last
sigh--and lifting up to Heaven her eyes, Father, receive his spirit, she
calmly cried.
The attendants gathered round; she moved not, nor heard the clamor; the
hand seemed yet to press hers; it still was warm. A ray of light from
an opened window discovered the pale face.
She left the room, and retired to one very near it; and sitting down on
the floor, fixed her eyes on the door of the apartment which contained
the body. Every event of her life rushed across her mind with wonderful
rapidity--yet all was still--fate had given the finishing stroke. She
sat till midnight.--Then rose in a phrensy, went into the apartment, and
desired those who watched the body to retire.
She knelt by the bed side;--an enthusiastic devotion overcame the
dictates of despair.--She prayed most ardently to be supported, and
dedicated herself to the service of that Being into whose hands, she had
committed the spirit she almost adored--again--and again,--she prayed
wildly--and fervently--but attempting to touch the lifeless hand--her
head swum--she sunk--