“Oh, what is it? what is it? I can’t bear this suspense. Why don’t you tell me?” and she trembled so violently and looked so deadly pale that Mrs Shuckleford began to get alarmed.
“There, there,” said she soothingly; “I’ll tell you another time. You’re not equal to it now. I’ll come in to-morrow, or the next day, when you’ve had a good night’s rest, poor dear.”
“For pity’s sake tell me all now!” gasped Mrs Cruden; “unless you want to kill me.”
It dawned at last on the well-meaning Mrs Shuckleford that no good was being done by prolonging her neighbour’s suspense any further.
“Well, well! It’s only that I’m afraid he’s been doing something—well—dreadful. Oh, Mrs Cruden, how sorry I am for you!”
Mrs Cruden lay motionless, like one who had received a stab.
“What has he done?” she whispered slowly.
“I don’t know, dear—really I don’t,” said Mrs Shuckleford, beginning to whimper at the sight of the desolation she had caused. “It was Sam, my son, told me—he wouldn’t say what it was—and I ’ope you won’t let ’im know it was me you ’eard it from, Mrs Cruden, for he’d be very— Mercy on us!”
Mrs Cruden had fainted.
Help was summoned, and she was carried to her bed. When Horace arrived shortly afterwards he found her still unconscious, with Mrs Shuckleford bathing her forehead, and tending her most gently.