“I am dying, Philip!” murmured Marie, in low tones, and her voice resounded on his ear like the last expiring notes of an Æolian harp. “It is useless to deceive you longer; the truth is evident, and we must both bear it as we best may.”
“Marie, I cannot, cannot bear it!” he sobbed, burying his countenance in her lap. “God is merciful; He will take pity on me, on my agony, on my love! God will grant you recovery!”
“The only recovery God vouchsafes me is at hand,” whispered Marie. “Recovery is death! I have felt it approaching for many, many days—in the long, fearful nights I have lain awake struggling with this thought, unable to comprehend it, and doubting God’s mercy and goodness. My defiant heart refused to submit humbly to God’s will, and still continued to entreat a little more life, a little happiness, of Him who is inexorable, and upon whose ear the wail of man strikes in as low tones as the last breath of the insect we tread under foot. I comprehended, finally, that all complaints were useless—that nothing remained but to submit, to humble myself, to thank God for each hour of life as for a gracious boon, and to consider each ray of sunshine shed on my existence as a proof of His goodness. I have conquered myself; my stubborn heart has been softened, and no longer rebels against the hand of the Almighty, to whom men are as worms, and as the grain of sand to the mighty glacier that touches the clouds. You, too, must be gentle and submissive, my Philip. Learn to submit to the eternal laws of God!”
“No, I cannot,” said he, in heart-rending tones; “I cannot be submissive. My heart is rebellious; in my anguish I could tear it from my breast when I see you suffer!”
“I am not suffering, Philip,” said she, her countenance radiant with a heavenly smile. “All pain has now left me, and I feel as though I floated in a rosy cloud, high above all earthly sorrow. From this height I see how paltry all earthly sorrows are, and how little they deserve a single tear. Here below, all is paltry and insignificant—above, all is great and sublime. Oh, Philip, how sweet it will be to meet you once more up there! In blissful embrace, our spirits will soar from star to star, and the glories of all worlds and the mysteries of all creations will be made manifest to us, and our life will be bliss and joy unending! The cloud is soaring higher and higher! Philip, I see thee no longer!”
“But I see thee, my darling,” cried Philip, despairingly, as he clasped her sinking head between his hands, and covered it with tears and kisses. “Do not leave me, Marie; stay with me, thou sole delight of my life! Do not leave me alone in the world.”
His imploring voice had that divine power which, as we are told by the Greeks, breathed life into stone, and transformed a cold, marble statue into a warm, loving woman. His imploring voice recalled the spirit of the loving woman to the body already clasped in the chilly embrace of death.
“You shall not be solitary, Philip,” she murmured; “it is so sad to have to struggle alone through life. I must go, Philip, but you shall not be left alone.”
“But I will be if you leave me, Marie; therefore stay! Oh, stay!”
“I cannot, Philip,” gasped Marie, in low tones. “You must place another at your side! Another must fill my place. Hear my last wish, my last prayer, Philip. Take a wife, marry!”