University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.

Since morning, Mary had lain in the deep, dreamless
sleep of exhaustion: and now the leafless boughs, which
waved to and fro before her window, threw long shadows
athwart the wall and across the deserted yard. Evening
was creeping slowly on. Over the wan, yet lovely face of
the sleeper had come a gradual change—agonizing, yet indescribable.
It ever appears when Death approaches to
claim his victim, and it seems as though the shadow cast
by his black pinions. Mary opened her eyes and looked
silently on the sad group which clustered around her couch.
Mr. Stewart, alone able to command his voice, asked if she
was not better, as she had slept so gently.

“All is well, Mr. Stewart—I have no pain;” and her
eye again rested on Florence. Long was the look, and full
of deep, unutterable tenderness. Feebly she extended her
hand.

“Florry!”

Her cousin knelt beside her, and buried her face in her
hands. Mary laid hers on the bowed head.

“Dear Florry, I have little time to stay. Do not sadden

this last hour with vain regrets. Ah! my cousin, I thank
God that you will be so happy. When you miss me from
your side you will feel lonely enough, and your heart will
ache for me again. Yet, though bodily absent, I shall not
be far away, Florry. My spirit will hover round the loved
ones I leave on earth. Your dead, forming an angel-guard,
will ever linger about your earthly path, and in the hour
like this will bear up your spirit to God. Think not of me
as resting in the silent grave. I shall not be there, but
ever near you. I do not say, try to forget me, and fix your
thoughts on other things. Oh! I beg you to think of me
often, and of our glorious reunion in heaven! Florry, there
is one thing which will stand between you and me. My
dear cousin, conquer your pride, cast away your haughtiness,
and learn to lean on God, and walk in accordance
with his law. Oh! who would exchange the hope of a
Christian for all that worlds could offer? One may pass
through life, and do without it; but in the hour of death
its claim is imperatively urged, and none can go down to
the tomb in peace without it. Florry, you said last night
it was hard that I should die. I am not merely reconciled,
but I am happy! Earth looks very bright and joyous, and
if I might stay, my future is attractive indeed. Yet I know
that for some good end I am taken, and what seems to you
so hard, is but a blessing in disguise. Oh! then, when you
are summoned away, may you feel, as I now do, that the
arms of your God are outstretched to receive you.” She
held out her hand to Mr. Stewart, who stood beside her:
he clasped it in his.

“Cherish Florry, and let no shadow come between you.

It gives me inexpressible joy to know that when I am gone
you will be near to love and to guide her.”

“We will comfort and guide each other, dear Mary, and
oh! I pray God that we may be enabled to join you in
that land of rest to which you are hastening.” He fervently
kissed the thin white hand he held, and then gently raised
Florence. Mary lifted her arms feebly, and they clasped
each other in a long, last embrace.

“Mary, my angel cousin, I can not give you up. Oh!
I have never prized you as I ought. Who will love me as
you have done?”

“Hush, Florry!” whispered the sinking voice of the sufferer.
“I am very, very happy—kiss me, and say good-by.”

Gently Dr. Bryant took Florence from her cousin, and
then each in turn, Mrs. Carlton and Aunt Lizzy, bent over
her; as the latter turned away, Mary took her hand, and
drawing her down, murmured:

“My dear aunt, forgive what may have pained you in
my past life. We have differed on many points, but we
both know there is one God. Oh! aunt, in his kingdom
may we soon meet again: think of me often, dear aunt.
When I am gone you will be very lonely, but only for a
short period are we separated.”

Dr. Bryant elevated her pillow that she might rest more
easily. She lifted her eyes to his pale face. “Frank, will
you turn the sofa that I may see the sun set once more?”

He moved it to the west window, and drew aside the
curtain that the golden beams might enter: she could not
look out, for the sofa was low, and sitting down beside

her, he passed his arm around her, and lifted her head to
his bosom. For a time she looked out on the brilliant hues
of the setting sun, now just visible above the tree tops.
Slowly it sank, then disappeared forever to her vision.
Once Dr. Bryant had seen her lips move, as in prayer; now
the deep blue eyes were again raised to the loved face bending
over her.

“Long ago, I prayed to God that I might fade away
gently, and die a painless death. He has granted my
petition. All things seem very calm and beautiful—earth
ne'er looked so like heaven before; yet how insignificant
in comparison with the glories which await me. Frank,
if aught could draw me back, and make me loth to leave
this world, it would be my love for you. Life would be
so bright passed by your side. You know the depth of my
love, yet I may not remain. Frank, tell me that you can
give me up for a little while. Oh! can you not say, `God's
will be done?'”

“Mary, it is a terrible trial to yield you up, when I
looked forward so joyously to the future. It is hard to
think of the long, long dreary years that are to come, and
know that you will not be near me; that I can not see
your face, or hear your loved tones. Oh, Mary, you know
not the bitterness of this hour; yet I can say God's will
be done, for I have conquered my own heart, but every
earthly joy and hope has passed away. To our reunion I
must ever look as my only comfort, and I pray God that
it may be speedy.”

He bent his head till his lips rested on the white brow,
now damp in death. Wearily she turned her face toward

his; he clasped the wasted form tightly to his heart, and
kissed the pale lips; her fingers clasped his hand gently,
and she whispered, “Good-by!”

“Good-by, my darling Mary!—my own angel one, good-by!”

Again he pressed his lips to hers, and then rested her
head more easily upon his arm. The eyes closed, and those
who stood watching her low, irregular breathing, fancied
she slept again.

One arm was around her, while the other supported the
drooping head. Her beautiful brown hair fell over his
arm, and left exposed the colorless face. She was wasted,
yet beautiful in its perfect peace and joy was the expression
which rested on her features. Dr. Bryant, leaning his
noble brow on hers, felt her spirit pass away in the last
sigh which escaped her lips. Yet he did not lift his head.
Cold as marble grew the white fingers which lingered in
his, still he clasped her tightly. He sat with closed eyes,
communing with his own saddened heart; he was stilling
the agony which welled up, and casting forth the bitterness
which mingled darkly with his grief, and he said unto
his tortured soul: “Be still! my treasure is laid up in
heaven.”

He lifted the hair from his arm, and gently drew his
hand from hers; yet, save for the icy coldness of her brow,
none would have known that the soul which lent such
gentle loveliness to the countenance had flown home to God.

Dr. Bryant pressed a last kiss on the closed eyes and
marble brow, softly laid her on her pillow, and left the
room.