5th June 1819.
William is in the greatest danger. We do not quite despair, yet we have the least possible reason to hope.
I will write as soon as any change takes place. The misery of these hours is beyond calculation. The hopes of my life are bound up in him.—Ever yours affectionately,
M. W. S.
I am well, and so is Shelley, although he is more exhausted by watching than I am. William is in a high fever.
Sixty death-like hours did Shelley watch, without closing his eyes. Clare, her own troubles forgotten in this moment of mortal suspense, was a devoted nurse.
As for Mary, her very life ebbed with William’s, but as yet she bore up. There was no real hope from the first moment of the attack, but the poor child made a hard struggle for life. Two more days and nights of anguish and terror and deadly sinking of heart,—and then, in the blank page following June 4, the last date entered in the diary, are the words—
The journal ends here.—P. B. S.
On Monday, the 7th of June, at noonday, William died.