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 up-stairs 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 hands than was usually observable in her, these being precautions adopted against freedom of speech.  She was resolved not to ask how Mr. Bulstrode was.

“I have not been anywhere except to church for nearly a week,” said Mrs. Bulstrode, after a few introductory remarks.  “But Mr. Bulstrode was taken so ill at the meeting on Thursday that I have not liked to leave the house.”

Mrs. Hackbutt rubbed the back of one hand with the palm of the other held against her chest, and let her eyes ramble over the pattern on the rug.

“Was Mr. Hackbutt at the meeting?” persevered Mrs. Bulstrode.

“Yes, he was,” said Mrs. Hackbutt, with the same attitude.  “The land is to be bought by subscription, I believe.”

“Let us hope that there will be no more cases of cholera to be buried in it,” said Mrs. Bulstrode.  “It is an awful visitation.  But I always think Middlemarch a very healthy spot.  I suppose it is being used to it from a child; but I never saw the town I should like to live at better, and especially our end.”

“I am sure I should be glad that you always should live at Middlemarch, Mrs. Bulstrode,” said Mrs. Hackbutt, with a slight sigh.  “Still, we must learn to resign ourselves, wherever our lot may be cast.  Though I am sure there will always be people in this town who will wish you well.”

Mrs. Hackbutt longed to say, “if you take my advice you will part from your husband,” but it seemed clear to her that the poor woman knew nothing of the thunder ready to bolt on her head, and she herself could do no more than prepare her a little.  Mrs. Bulstrode felt suddenly rather chill and trembling:  there was evidently something unusual behind this speech of Mrs. Hackbutt’s; but though she had set out with the desire to be fully informed, she found herself unable now to pursue her brave purpose, and turning the conversation by an inquiry about the young Hackbutts, she soon took her leave saying that she was going to see Mrs. Plymdale.  On her way thither she tried to imagine that there might have been some unusually warm sparring at the meeting between Mr. Bulstrode and some of his frequent opponents—­perhaps Mr. Hackbutt might have been one of them.  That would account for everything.