“Oh! an accident—a fall—a fall from a coach—from a stage-coach, perhaps,” continued Mrs. Holloway, smiling significantly at Mr. Supine: “you take me for a conjuror, young gentleman, I see by your astonishment,” continued she to Oliver; “but a little bird told me the whole story; and I see Mrs. Howard knows how to keep a secret as well as myself.”
Mrs. Howard looked for an explanation.
“Nay,” said Mrs. Holloway, “you know best, Mrs. Howard; but as we’re all out of school now, I shall not be afraid to mention such a little affair, even before the doctor’s lady; for, to be sure, she would never let it reach the doctor’s ears.”
“Really, ma’am,” said Mrs. Howard, “you puzzle me a little; I wish you would explain yourself: I don’t know what it is that you would not have reach the doctor’s ears.”
“You don’t?—well, then, your nephew must have been very clever, to have kept you in the dark; mustn’t he, Mr. Supine?”
“I always, you know, thought the young gentleman very clever, ma’am,” said Mr. Supine, with a malicious emphasis.
Mrs. Howard’s colour now rose, and with a mixture of indignation and anxiety she pressed both Mr. Supine and Mrs. Holloway to be explicit. “I hate mysteries!” said she. Mrs. Holloway still hung back, saying it was a tender point; and hinting, that it would lessen her esteem and confidence in one most dear to her, to hear the whole truth.
“Do you mean Howard, ma’am?” exclaimed little Oliver: “oh, speak! speak! it’s impossible Charles Howard can have done any thing wrong.”
“Go for him, my dear,” said Mrs. Howard, resuming her composure; “let him be present. I hate mysteries.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Howard,” whispered Mrs. Holloway, “you don’t consider; you’ll get your nephew into a shocking scrape; the story will infallibly go from Mrs. B. to Dr. B. You are warm, and don’t consider consequences.”