“You had better run for a doctor, ’Orace,” whispered she, as the scared boy entered the room.
“What is the matter? What has happened?” gasped he.
“Poor dear, she’s broken down—she’s— But go quick for the doctor, ’Orace.”
Horace went as fast as his fleet feet would carry him. The doctor pronounced Mrs Cruden to be in a state of high fever, produced by nervous prostration and poor living. He advised Horace, if possible, to get a nurse to tend her while the fever lasted, especially as she would probably awake from her swoon delirious, and would for several days remain in a very critical condition.
In less than five minutes Horace was at Miss Crisp’s, imploring her assistance. The warm-hearted little lady undertook the duty without a moment’s hesitation, and from that night, and for a fortnight to come, hardly quitted her friend’s bedside.
Mrs Shuckleford, deeming it prudent not to refer again to the unpleasant subject which had been the immediate cause of Mrs Cruden’s seizure, waited till she was assured that at present she could be of no further use, and then withdrew, full of sympathy and commiseration, which she manifested in all sorts of womanly ways during her neighbour’s illness. Not a day passed but she called in, morning and afternoon, to inquire after the patient, generally the bearer of some home-made delicacy, and sometimes to take her post by the sick bed while Miss Crisp snatched an hour or so of well-earned repose.
As for Horace, he could hardly be persuaded to leave the sick chamber. But the stern necessity of work, greater than ever now at this time of special emergency, compelled him to take the rest necessary for his own health and daily duties. With an effort he dragged himself to the office every morning, and like an arrow he returned from it every evening, and often paid a flying visit at midday. His good-natured companions voluntarily relieved him of all late work, and, indeed, every one who had in the least degree come into contact with the gentle patient seemed to vie in showing sympathy and offering help.
Young Gedge was amongst the most eager of the inquirers at the house. He squandered shillings in flowers and grapes, and sometimes even ran the risk of disgrace at the Rocket by lingering outside the house during a doctor’s visit, in order to hear the latest bulletin before he went back to work.
In his mind, as well as in Horace’s, a faint hope had lurked that somehow Reginald might contrive to run up to London for a day or two at least, to cheer the house of watching. Mrs Cruden, in her delirium, often moaned her absent son’s name, and called for him, and they believed if only he were to come, her restless troubled mind might cease its wanderings and find rest.
But Reginald neither came nor wrote.