Mary's tears were not those of unmixed anguish; the
display of his virtues gave her extreme delight--yet human nature
prevailed; she trembled to think they would soon unfold themselves in a
more genial clime.
CHAP. XXIX.
She found Henry very ill. The physician had some weeks before declared
he never knew a person with a similar pulse recover. Henry was certain
he could not live long; all the rest he could obtain, was procured by
opiates. Mary now enjoyed the melancholy pleasure of nursing him, and
softened by her tenderness the pains she could not remove. Every sigh
did she stifle, every tear restrain, when he could see or hear them. She
would boast of her resignation--yet catch eagerly at the least ray of
hope. While he slept she would support his pillow, and rest her head
where she could feel his breath. She loved him better than herself--she
could not pray for his recovery; she could only say, The will of Heaven
be done.
While she was in this state, she labored to acquire fortitude; but one
tender look destroyed it all--she rather labored, indeed, to make him
believe he was resigned, than really to be so.
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