“If what?” asked Thomas, leaning over her.
She was sitting back upon the sofa, her fair young face wan and colourless, her delicate hands clasped together, as in apathy. “If it were not for leaving Meta, I should be glad to die!”
“Hush, Maria! Rather say you are glad to live for her sake. George may by some means or other become prosperous again, and you may once more have a happy home. You are young, I say; you must bear up against this weakness.”
“If I could only pay all we owe; our personal debts!” she whispered, unconsciously giving utterance to the vain longing that was ever working in her heart. “Papa’s nine thousand pounds—and Mrs. Bond’s ten pounds—and the Jekyls—and the tradespeople!”
“If I could only have paid!” he rejoined in a voice broken by emotion. “If I could—if I could—I should have gone easier to the grave. Maria, we have a God, remember, who sees all our pangs, all our bitter sorrow: but for Him, and my trust in Him, I should have died long ago of the pain.”
Maria covered her face with her hand. Thomas rose.
“You are not going?” she exclaimed.
“Yes, for I must hasten home. This has been a morning of exertion, and I find there’s no strength left in me. God bless you, Maria!”
“Are we never to meet again?” she asked, as he held her thin hands in his, and she looked up at him through her blinding tears.
“I hope we shall meet again, Maria, and be together for ever and for ever. The threshold of the next world is opening to me: this is closing. Fare you well, child; fare you well.”