“I will follow your advice,” said he; “but promise to pray this sorrow may be spared me. God has endowed the one I love with a soul so elevated that it would be easy to make her as pious as an angel.... And I love her so much!”
“My poor friend! I do not know that I shall be permitted to pray at once for you in yonder world. If I can, I will pray God you may be united with her, if this union will render you happy—happy, understand me, in the Christian sense of the word; that is to say, happy and better, both of you.”
In the middle of the night, Victor requested me to go into the next chamber for some papers he wanted. He availed himself of this opportunity to recommend me to Louis’ care, as I afterwards learned.
“Agnes,” said he, “has exhausted her strength in taking care of me so many months. Her physical and mental strength are now merely factitious. It is the very excess of her grief that sustains her. As soon as I am gone, she will be sensible of her weakness. I fear the reaction may prove fatal to her. I implore you to take her and her mother to some place near you in the country. Find them a temporary residence that is healthy and pleasant. Change of scene and pure country air will do her more good than anything else, especially if you add the benefit of your efforts to console her, on which I depend.”
Louis made the required promise.... But these recollections are still too painful. Alas! they will always be so. You will excuse me from dwelling on them.
The next day, I lost the companion of my life. That pure soul, so full of intelligence, sweetness, and energy, took flight for heaven, leaving me for ever sad and desolate upon earth.... Oh! how happy are those women who to the very hour of death are permitted by God to retain the companionship of a husband tenderly loved, and worthy of being so!...
The first moments of overpowering grief had scarcely passed before that which Victor had foreseen took place. All at once I lost my apparent strength. I was weighed down with a dull despair. My poor mother trembled for my life. Throughout the day I sat motionless in an arm-chair, interested in no person or subject. My lips alone made an effort from time to time to murmur the words at once so bitter and so sweet: “O Lord! thou gavest him to me; thou hast taken him away; thy will be done!” That was my only prayer. I repeated it from morning till night. Thus lifting my soul heavenward, I found strength to resist the temptation to rebel which constantly assailed me.
During that sad time, Louis’ sister joined him in unceasing attentions to me. Louis gave himself entirely up to my service, and notified Mr. Smithson he should be absent several days longer from the manufactory. You can realize how generous this was in him. To absent himself at a time his dearest interests were at stake, and leave the field clear for his enemies, was making an heroic sacrifice to friendship. It was not till a subsequent period I fully appreciated it. At that time, I was wholly absorbed in myself. Extreme grief becomes a kind of passion, and, like all passions, it renders us selfish.
When Louis at last saw me a little calmer, he told me of Victor’s wish. “His last request was,” said he, “that you should go into the country awhile with your mother. The air is purer there, and you will regain your strength.”
I exclaimed against the proposition. I declared I would not leave the house in which Victor died—where everything recalled his presence. Louis insisted, urged on by the physicians, who declared the change indispensable.