“ Mr. Lydgate, pray be open with me: I like to know the truth. Has anything happened to Mr. Bulstrode?”
“Some little nervous shock,” said Lydgate, evasively. He felt that it was not for him to make the painful revelation.
“But what brought it on?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, looking directly at him with her large dark eyes.
“There is often something poisonous in the air of public rooms,” said Lydgate. “Strong men can stand it, but it tells on people in proportion to the delicacy of their systems. It is often impossible to account for the precise moment of an attack—or rather, to say why the strength gives way at a particular moment.”
Mrs. Bulstrode was not satisfied with this answer. There remained in her the belief that some calamity had befallen her husband, of which she was to be kept in ignorance; and it was in her nature strongly to object to such concealment. She begged leave for her daughters to sit with their father, and drove into the town to pay some visits, conjecturing that if anything were known to have gone wrong in Mr. Bulstrode’s affairs, she should see or hear some sign of it.
She called on Mrs. Thesiger, who was not at home, and then drove to Mrs. Hackbutt’s on the other side of the churchyard. Mrs. Hackbutt saw her coming from an upstairs window, and remembering her former alarm lest she should meet Mrs. Bulstrode, felt almost bound in consistency to send word that she was not at home; but against that, there was a sudden strong desire within her for the excitement of an interview in which she was quite determined not to make the slightest allusion to what was in her mind.
Hence Mrs. Bulstrode was shown into the drawing-room, and Mrs. Hackbutt went to her, with more tightness of lip and rubbing of her