The minutes went on: the spirit fleeting, George watching with his aching heart. Soon she spoke again.
“Has it struck twelve?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Then it is my birthday. I am twenty-eight to-day. It is young to die!”
Young to die! Yes, it was young to die: but there are some who can count time by sorrow, not by years.
“Don’t grieve, George. It will pass so very soon, and you will come to me. Clad in our white robes, we shall rise at the Last Day to eternal life, and be together for ever and for ever.”
The tears were dropping from his eyes. The grief of the present, the anguish of the parting, the remorse for the irrevocable past, in which he might have cherished her more tenderly had he foreseen this, and did not, were all too present to him. He laid his face on hers with a bitter cry.
“Forgive me before you go! Oh, my darling, forgive me all!”
There was no answering response, nothing but the feeble pressure of her hand as it held him there, and he started up to look at her. Ah no: there could never more be any response from those fading lips, never more, never more.
Had the hour come? George Godolphin’s heart beat quicker, and he wildly kissed her with passionate kisses—as if that would keep within her the life that was ebbing. The loving eyes gazed at him still—it was he who had the last lingering look, not Meta.