He wrote: 'Just as I expected. Mrs. C. seriously ill.' That was
all.
Mrs. C. could, of course, only mean Mrs. Christopherson. I mused over the
message--it took hold of my imagination, wrought upon my feelings; and that
afternoon I again walked along the interesting street.
There was no face at the window. After a little hesitation I decided to
call at the house and speak with Pomfret's aunt. It was she who opened the
door to me.
We had never seen each other, but when I mentioned my name and said I was
anxious to have news of Mrs. Christopherson, she led me into a
sitting-room, and began to talk confidentially.
She was a good-natured Yorkshirewoman, very unlike the common London
landlady. 'Yes, Mrs. Christopherson had been taken ill two days ago. It
began with a long fainting fit. She had a feverish, sleepless night; the
doctor was sent for; and he had her removed out of the stuffy,
book-cumbered bedroom into another chamber, which luckily happened to be
vacant. There she lay utterly weak and worn, all but voiceless, able only
to smile at her husband, who never moved from the bedside day or night. He,
too,' said the landlady, 'would soon break down: he looked like a ghost,
and seemed "half-crazed.
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