Since Horace, on the first day of her illness, had written, telling him all, no one had heard a word from him.
At last, when after a week Horace wrote again, saying,—
“Come to us, if you love us,” and still no letter or message came back, a new cloud of anxiety fell over the house.
Reginald must be ill, or away from Liverpool, or something must have happened to him, or assuredly, they said, he would have been at his mother’s side at the first breath of danger.
Mrs Shuckleford only, as day passed day, and the prodigal never returned, shook her head and said to herself, it was a blessing no one knew the reason, not even the poor delirious sufferer herself. Poor people! they had trouble enough on them not to need any more just now! so she kept her own counsel, even from Jemima.
This was the more easy to do because she knew nothing either of Reginald or his doings beyond what her son had hinted, and as Samuel was at present in the country on business, she had no opportunity of prosecuting her inquiries on the subject.
Sam, in fact, whether he liked it or not, happened just now to hold the fortunes of the family of Cruden pretty much in his own hands.
A few days before the conversation with his mother already reported, he had been sitting in his room at the office, his partner and the head clerk both being absent on County Court business.
Samuel felt all the dignity of a commander-in-chief, and was therefore not at all displeased when the office-boy had come and knocked at his door, and said that a lady of the name of Wrigley had called, and wished to see him.
“Show the lady in,” said Sam grandly, “and put a chair.”