“What do you expect?” I said in wonder.
He would not answer. “Aspirations,” he whispered. He fell into a broken
monologue, regardless of me. “Trailing clouds of glory,” he said, and
“first-rate poet, first-rate....George was always hard. Always.”
For a long time there was silence.
Then he made a gesture that he wished to speak.
“Seems to me, George”
I bent my head down, and he tried to lift his hand to my shoulder. I
raised him a little on his pillows, and listened.
“It seems to me, George, always—there must be something in me—that
won’t die.”
He looked at me as though the decision rested with me.
“I think,” he said; “—something.”
Then, for a moment, his mind wandered. “Just a little link,” he
whispered almost pleadingly, and lay quite still, but presently he was
uneasy again.
“Some other world”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Who knows?”
“Some other world.”
“Not the same scope for enterprise,” I said.
“No.”
He became silent. I sat leaning down to him, and following out my own
thoughts, and presently the _religieuse_ resumed her periodic conflict
with the window fastening. For a time he struggled for breath.... It
seemed such nonsense that he should have to suffer so—poor silly little
man!
“George,” he whispered, and his weak little hand came out. “_Perhaps_—”
He said no more, but I perceived from the expression of his eyes that
he thought the question had been put.
“Yes, I think so;” I said stoutly.
“Aren’t you sure?”
“Oh—practically sure,” said I, and I think he tried to squeeze my hand.
And there I sat, holding his hand tight, and trying to think what seeds
of immortality could be found in all his being, what sort of ghost
there was in _him_ to wander out into the bleak immensities. Queer
fancies came to me.... He lay still for a long time, save for a brief
struggle or so for breath and ever and again I wiped his mouth and
lips.
I fell into a pit of thought. I did not remark at first the change that
was creeping over his face. He lay back on his pillow, made a faint
zzzing sound that ceased, and presently and quite quietly he
died—greatly comforted by my assurance. I do not know when he died. His
hand relaxed insensibly. Suddenly, with a start, with a shock, I found
that his mouth had fallen open, and that he was dead....