Wednesday was to me the day of greatest torture in the melancholy series.  It was now decided that the only chance of supporting her through what she had to suffer, was by supplying her rather freely with wine.  This task was devolved upon me.  I began about four o’clock in the afternoon.  But for me, totally ignorant of the nature of diseases and of the human frame, thus to play with a life that now seemed all that was dear to me in the universe, was too dreadful a task.  I knew neither what was too much, nor what was too little.  Having begun, I felt compelled, under every disadvantage, to go on.  This lasted for three hours.  Towards the end of that time, I happened foolishly to ask the servant who came out of the room, “What she thought of her mistress?” she replied, “that, in her judgment, she was going as fast as possible.”  There are moments, when any creature that lives, has power to drive one into madness.  I seemed to know the absurdity of this reply; but that was of no consequence.  It added to the measure of my distraction.  A little after seven I intreated a friend to go for Mr. Carlisle, and bring him instantly wherever he was to be found.  He had voluntarily called on the patient on the preceding Saturday, and two or three times since.  He had seen her that morning, and had been earnest in recommending the wine-diet.  That day he dined four miles out of town, on the side of the metropolis, which was furthest from us.  Notwithstanding this, my friend returned with him after three-quarters of an hour’s absence.  No one who knows my friend, will wonder either at his eagerness or success, when I name Mr. Basil Montagu.  The sight of Mr. Carlisle thus unexpectedly, gave me a stronger alleviating sensation, than I thought it possible to experience.

Mr. Carlisle left us no more from Wednesday evening, to the hour of her death.  It was impossible to exceed his kindness and affectionate attention.  It excited in every spectator a sentiment like adoration.  His conduct was uniformly tender and anxious, ever upon the watch, observing every symptom, and eager to improve every favourable appearance.  If skill or attention could have saved her, Mary would still live.  In addition to Mr. Carlisle’s constant presence, she had Dr. Fordyce and Dr. Clarke every day.  She had for nurses, or rather for friends, watching every occasion to serve her, Mrs. Fenwick, author of an excellent novel, entitled Secrecy, another very kind and judicious lady, and a favourite female servant.  I was scarcely ever out of the room.  Four friends, Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Basil Montagu, Mr. Marshal, and Mr. Dyson, sat up nearly the whole of the last week of her existence in the house, to be dispatched, on any errand, to any part of the metropolis, at a moment’s warning.

Mr. Carlisle being in the chamber, I retired to bed for a few hours on Wednesday night.  Towards morning he came into my room with an account that the patient was surprisingly better.  I went instantly into the chamber.  But I now sought to suppress every idea of hope.  The greatest anguish I have any conception of, consists in that crushing of a new-born hope which I had already two or three times experienced.  If Mary recovered, it was well, and I should see it time enough.  But it was too mighty a thought to bear being trifled with, and turned out and admitted in this abrupt way.