And so saying, Mrs. Lupton shrieked hysterically, and fell back insensible.
Grieved to the soul, Colin and his wife retired in tears, while Miss Shirley assisted in having the poor lady conveyed to her own room and laid in bed, where such restoratives were resorted to as her case seemed to require. When she had somewhat recovered—“Walter!” she exclaimed—“Walter! I want to see my husband.”
After a while Mr. Lupton entered the chamber, and all present retired into an adjoining room.
“Walter!” said she faintly, “I am going—but I wish to tell you I die in peace—in love with you, even now. Very soon and I shall trouble you no more. But if I can come back to you, I will. I have loved and watched over you here—I will do so hereafter. You shall see me—but do not be afraid, for I would not injure you even to gain heaven. Try to be good for the future, and then perhaps we may meet again. I have lost happiness here, but I hope for it to come. It is mine, I know it is! Heaven will not make me miserable for ever, as I have endured so much. Give me your hand—say one good kind word to me—nay, kiss me truly, and I am content. See you! There about the bed angels are asking me to come. I knew they would. I knew those blessed creatures would pity my misery, and wait for me when the gate of the Everlasting was opened. Heaven bless you—bless you!” And as she uttered those words the gripe of her hand on his became convulsive.
“I will come again!” she exclaimed with preternatural energy, as she strove to rise up towards her husband, but sunk back dying,—dead, in the effort.
If ever grief was in any house it was there on this occasion, when the death of Mrs. Lupton became known. All the household, as well as those who were not of it, flocked round the bed whereon she was laid, to weep in truth and earnest heart over the corpse of one who had won all love from all but him who should have loved her most—though from him she had won it even at last when such love became useless. And if ever the living felt truly that the dead should be strewn with flowers—“sweets to the sweet,”—if ever it were felt that a funeral garment ought to be decked with the choicest offerings of the garden, and the melancholy grave be made beautiful,—assuredly was it felt then. Not one but felt that a friend was lost,—that an emptiness existed in the bosom unknown before, and never to be remedied; while some gave loose to that expression of grief which tells us that all hope was gone with the departed, and that the world had nothing more left in it for man to love, or by man to be beloved.
Amongst those latter must be numbered Mr. Lupton himself. The words of his dying wife had sunk deep into his soul—too deep ever again to be eradicated. Misery had made him wise. Or, as Shakspeare has it—
“Being gone,—
The hand would call her back that pushed her on.”
But it was now too late. Nature's fiat had been pronounced, and man was left to reconcile himself to her decree as best he might.
I shall not linger over this scene of death, save just to record how, during some days, the body lay in solemn state in a certain room always appropriated to that purpose; during which time it was looked upon by many eyes that grew dim as they gazed, and spoken of by many a voice that faltered and failed in the stifling effort to record the kindnesses and virtues of the dead.