I am certain
that my journey will prove useless. But I will go. Yes, I will go this
evening."
Then, with a final promise to write as soon as possible--as soon as
there should be anything to communicate--Fanny went away.
Mrs. Vimpany, alone, listened. From the bedroom came no sound at all.
Mr. Mountjoy slept still. When he should be strong enough it would be
time to let him know what had been done. But she sat thinking--
thinking--even when one has the worst husband in the world, and very
well knows his character, it is disagreeable to hear such a story as
Fanny had told that wife this morning.
CHAPTER LII
THE DEAD MAN'S PHOTOGRAPH
"HE is quite dead," said the doctor, with one finger on the man's pulse
and another lifting his eyelid. "He is dead. I did not look for so
speedy an end. It is not half an hour since I left him breathing
peacefully. Did he show signs of consciousness?"
"No, sir; I found him dead."
"This morning he was cheerful. It is not unusual in these complaints. I
have observed it in many cases of my own experience. On the last
morning of life, at the very moment when Death is standing on the
threshold with uplifted dart, the patient is cheerful and even joyous:
he is more hopeful than he has felt for many months: he thinks--nay, he
is sure--that he is recovering: he says he shall be up and about before
long: he has not felt so strong since the beginning of his illness.
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