I cannot tell what influence made me speak adverse to my feelings. The
gentle voice of my mother, that thrilled me, melted the ice from my
heart, and I longed to throw myself upon her neck; but I did not. My
words gave the lie to my heart when I said I was not sorry. I heard her
withdraw. I heard her groan. I longed to call her back, but I did not.
I was awakened from an uneasy slumber by hearing my name called loudly,
and my sister stood by my bedside:--
"Get up, Alfred! Don't wait a minute. Get up and come with me, mother is
dying!"
I thought I was yet dreaming, but I got up mechanically, and followed my
sister. On the bed, pale as marble, lay my mother. She was not yet
undressed. She had thrown herself upon the bed to rest, and rising again
to go to me she was seized with heart failure, and borne to her room.
I cannot tell you my agony as I looked upon her,--my remorse was
tenfold more bitter from the thought that she never would know it. I
believed myself to be her murderer. I fell on the bed beside her; I
could not weep. My heart burned within me; my brain was on fire. My
sister threw her arms around me and wept in silence. Suddenly we saw a
motion of mother's hand; her eyes unclosed. She had recovered her
consciousness, but not her speech.
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