Silence reigned throughout the house; I hung over the object of my tender cares—his features were serene—but his cheeks and lips were pale and bloodless. From time to time I took his lifeless hand—a low, fluttering, pulse, sometimes seeming to stop, and then to vibrate with a tremulous motion, but too plainly justified my fears—his breath, though less laborious, was quick and short—a cold dew hung upon his temples—I gently wiped them with my handkerchief, and pressed my lips to his forehead. Yet, at that moment, that solemn moment—while I beheld the object of my virgin affections—whom I had loved with a tenderness, 'passing the love of woman'—expiring before my eyes—I forgot not that I was a wife and a mother.—The purity of my feelings sanctified their enthusiasm!
The day had far advanced, though the house still remained quiet, when Augustus, after a deep drawn sigh, opened his eyes. The loss of blood had calmed the delirium, and though he regarded me attentively, and with evident surprize, the wildness of his eyes and countenance had given place to their accustomed steady expression. He spoke in a faint voice.
'Where am I, how came I here?'
I drew nearer to him—'An unfortunate accident has thrown you into the care of kind friends—you have been very ill—it is not proper that you should exert yourself—rely on those to whom your safety is precious.'
He looked at me as I spoke—his eyes glistened—he breathed a half smothered sigh, but attempted not to reply. He continued to doze at intervals throughout the day, but evidently grew weaker every hour—I quitted him not for a moment, even my nursery was forgotten. I sat, or knelt, at the bed's head, and, between his short and broken slumbers, administered cordial medicines. He seemed to take them with pleasure from my hand, and a mournful tenderness at times beamed in his eyes. I neither spake nor wept—my strength appeared equal to every trial.
In the evening, starting from a troubled sleep, he fell into convulsions—I kept my station—our efforts were successful—he again revived. I supported the pillows on which his head reclined, sprinkled the bed cloaths, and bathed his temples, with hungary water, while I wiped from them the damps of death. A few tears at length forced their way, they fell upon his hand, which rested on the pillow—he kissed them off, and raised to mine his languid eyes, in which death was already painted.
The blood forsaking the extremities, rushed wildly to my heart, a strong palpitation seized it, my fortitude had well nigh forsaken me. But I had been habituated to subdue my feelings, and should I suffer them to disturb the last moments of him, who had taught me this painful lesson? He made a sign for a cordial, an attendant offering one—he waved his hand and turned from her his face—I took it—held it to his lips, and he instantly drank it. Another strong emotion shook my nerves—once more I struggled and gained the victory. He spoke in feeble and interrupted periods—kneeling down, scarce daring to breathe, I listened.
'I have a son,' said he,—'I am dying—he will have no longer a parent—transfer to him a portion of—'
'I comprehend you—say no more—he is mine—I adopt him—where shall I find—?'
He pointed to his cloaths;—'a pocket book'—said he, in accents still fainter.