“Among the passengers on board the City of Zanzibar, which left Cape Town on the 3rd inst., for Alexandria and Brindisi, were Mr. Murthwait and Mr. Vansittart, returning from a hunting expedition to Lobengula’s country.”
Eve sent for her doctor that evening, the English doctor who had attended her at St. Moritz in January and February, and who was now taking a semi-professional holiday in Venice—willing to see old patients who might have drifted to the city in the sea, but not desiring new ones.
She submitted patiently to the necessary auscultation, while her sister stood by, pale and breathless, waiting to hear the words of doom.
The doctor’s face, when he laid down the stethoscope, was grave even to sorrowfulness. He had been warmly interested in this case in the winter, had hoped against hope.
“Am I worse than I was in February?” Eve asked quietly.
“I am very sorry to have to say it—yes, you are worse.”
“And you think badly of my case? You think it quite hopeless?”
“There is no such thing as hopelessness,” said the doctor, responding to an appealing look from Hetty. “You are so young—have such a fine constitution, and even after what you told me of your family history—who knows?—there is always a chance.”
“Yes, there was a chance for my youngest sister,” answered Eve, with a faint smile. “Peggy’s chance lasted six months.”
“If there is anything you want to settle—any business matter, such as the disposal of property, which makes your mind uneasy—it is always well to set such anxieties at rest,” answered the doctor, soothingly.