THIS evening was extremely quiet, and something dull, to the inhabitants of Bellevue. Though everybody knew of the little adventure of Mr Endicott, the young people were all too reverential of the romance of youth themselves to laugh very freely at the disappointed lover. Charlie sat by himself in the best room, sedulously making out his case. Charlie had risen into a person of great importance at the office since his return, and, youth as he was, was trusted so far, under Mr Foggo’s superintendence, as to draw up the brief for the counsel who was to conduct this great case; so they had not even his presence to enliven the family circle, which was very dull without Louis. Then Agnes, for her part, had grown daily more self-occupied; Mrs Atheling pondered over this, half understood it, and did not ask a question on the subject. She glanced very often at the side-table, where her elder daughter sat writing. This was not a common evening occupation with Agnes; but she found a solace in that making of fables, and was forth again, appealing earnestly, with all the power and privilege of her art, not so much to her universal audience as to one among them, who by-and-by might find out the second meaning—the more fervent personal voice.
As for Marian and Rachel, they both sat at work somewhat melancholy, whispering to each other now and then, speaking low when they spoke to any one else. Papa was at his newspaper, reading little bits of news to them; but even Papa was cloudy, and there was a certain shade of dulness and melancholy over all the house.
Some one came to the door when the evening was far advanced, and held a long parley with Susan; the issue of which was, that Susan made her appearance in the parlour to ask information. “A man, ma’am, that Mr Louis appointed to come to him to-night,” said Susan, “and he wants to know, please, when Mr Louis is coming home.”
Mrs Atheling went to the door to answer the inquiry; then, having become somewhat of a plotter herself by force of example, she bethought her of calling Charlie. The man was brought into the best room; he was an ordinary-looking elderly man, like a small shopkeeper. He stated what he wanted slowly, without any of the town sharpness. He said the young gentleman was making out some account—as he understood—about Lord Winterbourne, and hearing that he had been once about the Hall in his young days, had come to him to ask some questions. He was a likely young gentleman, and summat in his own mind told the speaker he had seen his face afore, whether it were about the Hall, or where it were, deponent did not know; but thinking upon it, just bethought him at this moment that he was mortal like the old lord. Now the young gentleman—as he heard—had gone sudden away to the country, and the lady of the house where he lived had sent the perplexed caller here.
“I know very well about that quarter myself,” said Mrs Atheling. “Do you know the Old Wood Lodge? that belongs to us; and if you have friends in the village, I daresay I shall know your name.”
The man put up his hand to his forehead respectfully. “I knowed the old lady at the Lodge many a year ago,” said he. “My name’s John Morrall. I was no more nor a helper at the stables in my day; and a sister of mine had charge of some children about the Hall.”
“Some children—who were they?” said Charlie. “Perhaps Lord Winterbourne’s children; but that would be very long ago.”
“Well, sir,” said the man with a little confusion, glancing aside at Mrs Atheling, “saving the lady’s presence, I’d be bold to say that they was my lord’s, but in a sort of an—unlawful way; two poor little morsels of twins, that never had nothing like other children. He wasn’t any way kind to them, wasn’t my lord.”
“I think I know the children you mean,” said Charlie, to the surprise and admiration of his mother, who checked accordingly the exclamation on her own lips. “Do you know where they came from?—were you there when they were brought to the Hall?”
“Ay, sir, I know—no man better,” said Morrall. “Sally was the woman—all along of my lord’s man that she was keeping company with the same time, little knowing, poor soul, what she was to come to—that brought them unfortunate babbies out of London. I don’t know no more. Sally’s opinion was, they came out o’ foreign parts afore that; for the nurse they had with them, Sally said, was some outlandish kind of a Portugee.”
“A Portuguese!” exclaimed both the listeners in dismay—but Charlie added immediately, “What made your sister suppose she was a Portuguese?”
“Well, sir, she was one of them foreign kind of folks—but noways like my lady’s French maid, Sally said—so taking thought what she was, a cousin of ours that’s a sailor made no doubt but she was a Portugee—so she gave up the little things to Sally, not one of them able to say a word to each other; for the foreign woman, poor soul, knew no English, and Sally brought down the babbies to the Hall.”
“Does your sister live at Winterbourne?” asked Charlie.
“What, Sally, sir? poor soul!” said John Morrall, “to her grief she married my lord’s man, again all we could say, and he went pure to the bad, as was to be seen of him, and listed—and now she’s off in Ireland with the regiment, a poor creature as you could see—five children, ma’am, alive, and she’s had ten; always striving to do her best, but never able, poor soul, to keep a decent gown to her back.”
“Will you tell me where she is?” said Charlie, while his mother went hospitably away to bring a glass of wine, a rare and unusual dainty, for the refreshment of this most welcome visitor—“there is an inquiry going on at present, and her evidence might be of great value: it will be good for her, don’t fear. Let me know where she is.”
While Charlie took down the address, his mother, with her own hand, served Mr John Morrall with a slice of cake and a comfortable glass of port-wine. “But I am sure you are comfortable yourself—you look so, at least.”
“I am in the green-grocery trade,” said their visitor, putting up his hand again with “his respects,” “and got a good wife and three as likely childer as a man could desire. It ain’t just as easy as it might be keeping all things square, but we always get on; and lord! if folks had no crosses, they’d ne’er know they were born. Look at Sally, there’s a picture!—and after that, says I, it don’t become such like as us to complain.”
Finally, having finished his refreshment, and left his own address with a supplementary note, and touch of the forehead—“It ain’t very far off; glad to serve you, ma’am”—Mr John Morrall withdrew. Then Charlie returned to his papers, but not quite so composedly as usual. “Put up my travelling-bag, mother,” said Charlie, after a few ineffectual attempts to resume; “I’ll not write any more to-night; it’s just nine o’clock. I’ll step over and see old Foggo, and be off to Ireland to-morrow, without delay.”