The agent's thanks, and they appeared very heartfelt and genuine, were cut short by the approach of Mr. Moore. He joined them as they walked along; and the conversation fell on the illness of the deceased.
"There was no real hope from the beginning, once the disease had set fairly in," cried the surgeon. "There never is. In Sir Adam's case, the terrible anxiety he endured day and night brought it on, and caused it to develop with unusual rapidity: there was not a shadow of chance for him."
"You did not tell me that," said Karl.
"I was not quite sure of it myself at first: though I suspected it. I did not tell you, you say, Sir Karl: well, no, not in so many words: but your own eyes might have seen it as its progress went on. Sir Adam knew it himself, I fancy, as surely as I."
"Do you remember saying you wished he could have further advice?" asked Karl. "Did not that prove that you had hope!"
"I wished it chiefly for the satisfaction of those connected with him. All the advice in the world could not--as I suspected then, and soon saw--have availed to save his life. We sometimes say of people, death has been a happy release for them. In his case, Sir Karl, it has been most unquestionably so: he is at rest."
[CHAPTER XXII.]
Repentance.
Down on her knees, in self-abasement, the tears of contrition raining from her eyes, her face scarlet in its agony of shame, cowered Lucy Andinnian at her husband's feet. She would not let him raise her. It seemed to her that a whole lifetime of repentance could never wash out her sin.
The elucidation of the misunderstanding that had kept them apart for months was taking place.