Fitzgerald, a year
or two before her death, she recalled another accident which seems the
more likely origin of her distressing malady. Once when she was riding
alone in the woods in Brazil she was pursued by a brigand. As she was
unarmed, she fled as fast as her horse would carry her. The brigand
gave chase, and in the course of an hour's exciting ride Isabel's horse
stumbled and threw her violently against the pommel of her saddle.
Fortunately the horse recovered its footing, and she was able to get
safely away from her pursuer; but the bruise was a serious one (though
she thought little of it at the time), and many years later she came to
the conclusion that this was the probable origin of her illness.
The third week in April she left Trieste for England to meet her husband,
who was due at Liverpool in May. While she was in London she consulted
an eminent surgeon on the subject of her illness, which was then at its
beginning. He advised an operation, which he said would be a trifling
matter. There is every probability, if she had consented, that she
would have recovered, and been alive to this day. But she had a horror
of the knife and anaesthetics. Nevertheless she would have braved them
if it had not been for another consideration, which weighed with her most
of all. She knew that an operation of this kind would lay her up for
some time, and she would not be able to look after her husband on his
return from his long absence.
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