“Dead? Lord bless my soul, I am—I—dead, do you say?” exclaimed the doctor, in surprise and confusion.
“Yes, sir, she is gone. Come and see.”
“Lord bless my soul, I am very much shocked!” exclaimed the good little man, as he followed the bereaved husband to the lounge on which the body of the ill-fated wife lay.
Old ’Phia lifted the white handkerchief that covered the white face, and then withdrew to give way to her master and the doctor, leading the trembling child away with her.
“How did this happen?” solemnly inquired the doctor, as he gazed down on the waxen face, with the stream of scarlet blood curdled from the corner of the mouth down upon the chin and throat, where it lay in a thick cake.
“Through me. I killed her,” answered De Crespigney, in the same dread monotone in which all his answers to the doctor’s questions had been made.
Dr. Prout turned and gazed at him in amazement for a moment, and then said gravely and kindly:
“My dear friend, this shock has been too much for you. Compose yourself. This unhappy lady has had a fatal hemorrhage of the lungs, such as I feared for a long time past; such as I warned you might be the result of any unusual excitement.”
“Just so, you warned me, yet I killed her.”
The doctor looked at him in a great trouble, then replaced the handkerchief over the quiet face of the dead, and taking his arm led him to a distant sofa, placed him on it, took the seat beside him, and said: