Longer
than one moment, she well knew, it could not be; for his spirit was
ever on the march- ever ascending- and each instant required something
that was beyond the scope of the instant before.
The sound of her husband's footsteps aroused her. He bore a crystal
goblet, containing a liquor colorless as water, but bright enough to
be the draught of immortality. Aylmer was pale; but it seemed rather
the consequence of a highly wrought state of mind, and tension of
spirit, than of fear or doubt.
"The concoction of the draught has been perfect," said he, in
answer to Georgiana's look. "Unless all my science have deceived me,
it cannot fail."
"Save on your account, my dearest Aylmer," observed his wife, "I
might wish to put off this birthmark of mortality by relinquishing
mortality itself, in preference to any other mode. Life is but a sad
possession to those who have attained precisely the degree of moral
advancement at which I stand. Were I weaker and blinder, it might be
happiness. Were I stronger, it might be endured hopefully. But, being
what I find myself, methinks I am of all mortals the most fit to die."
"You are fit for heaven without tasting death!" replied her
husband. "But why do we speak of dying? The draught cannot fail.
Behold its effect upon this plant!"
On the window-seat there stood a geranium, diseased with yellow
blotches, which had overspread all its leaves.
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