So still and motionless did he remain that she thought he slept,—indeed, the long-drawn breathing, and the repose of his attitude, betokened sleep.
Mary did not venture to move, but sat, one hand clasped in his, the other resting on his forehead, still and silent.
The darkened room, the unbroken silence, the figure of him in whom was centred her every thought and hope, lying sick before her, sank with a dreary weight upon her heart; and in the gloom of her sorrow dark foreboding of future evil arose, vague terrors of trials, new and hard to bear! That strange prescience, which never is wanting in great afflictions, and seems itself a Heaven-sent warning to prepare for the coming blow, revealed a time of sore trouble and calamity before her. “Let him be but spared to me,” she cried, in her heart-uttered prayer, “and let me be so fashioned in spirit and temper that I may minister to him through every hour,—cheering, consoling, and encouraging; giving of my youth its gift of hopefulness and trust, and borrowing of his age its serenity and resignation. But oh that I may not be left solitary and alone, unfriended and unsupported!” A gush of tears, the first she shed, here burst forth, and, in the transport of her grief, brought calm to her mind once more.
A low tap at the window, and a voice in whisper aroused her. “It is the doctor, miss,—Dr. Tiernay,” said the gardener.
A motion to admit him was all her reply, and with noiseless step the physician entered and approached the sofa. He felt the pulse, and listened to the respiration of the sick man; and then, withdrawing the curtain so as to let the light fall upon his features, steadily contemplated their expression. As he looked, his own countenance grew graver and sadder; and it was with an air of deep solemnity that he took Mary's hand and led her from the room.
With a weight like lead upon her heart Mary moved away. “When did it happen?” whispered he, when he had closed the door behind them.
“Happen!” gasped she, in agony; “what do you mean?”
“I meant when—this—occurred,” replied he, faltering; “was he in his usual health this morning?”
“Yes, perfectly,—a little less composed; anxious about his letters; uneasy at the delay,—but no more.”
“You do not know if he received any unpleasant tidings, or heard anything to distress him?”