Mr. Scunthorpe bowed, cleared his throat, and grasped her hand spasmodically. In a somewhat throaty voice he replied: “No, ma’am. Oh, no! Not ill, precisely!”
Her eyes eagerly scanned his face. She now perceived that his countenance wore an expression of deep melancholy, and felt immediately sick with apprehension. She managed to say: “ Not—not—dead? ”
“Well, no, he ain’t dead,” replied Mr. Scunthorpe, but hardly in reassuring tones. “I suppose you might say it ain’t as bad as that. Though, mind you, I wouldn’t say he won’t be dead, if we don’t take care, because when a fellow takes to—But never mind that!”
“Never mind it?” cried Arabella, pale with alarm. “Oh, what can be the matter? Pray, pray tell me instantly!”
Mr. Scunthorpe looked at her uneasily. “Better have some smelling-salts,” he suggested. “No wish to upset a lady. Nasty shock. Daresay you’d like a glass of hartshorn and water. Ring for a servant!”
“No, no, I need nothing! Pray do not! Only put me out of this agony of suspense!” Arabella implored him, clinging with both hands to the back of a chair.
Mr. Scunthorpe cleared his throat again. “Thought it best to come to you,” he said. “Sister. Happy to be of service myself, but at a standstill. Temporary, of course, but there it is. Must tow poor Bertram out of the River Tick!”
“River?” gasped Arabella.
Mr. Scunthorpe perceived that he had been misunderstood. He made haste to rectify this. “No, no, not drowned!” he assured her. “Swallowed a spider!”
“Bertram has swallowed a spider?” Arabella repeated, in a dazed voice.