“Mrs. Bedwin,” said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; “that boy, Oliver, is an imposter.”
“It can’t be, sir. It cannot be,” said the old lady energetically.
“I tell you he is,” retorted the old gentleman. “What do you mean by can’t be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life.”
“I never will believe it, sir,” replied the old lady, firmly. “Never!”
“You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books,” growled Mr. Grimwig. “I knew it all along. Why didn’t you take my advice in the beginning; you would if he hadn’t had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn’t he? Interesting! Bah!” And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish.
“He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir,” retorted Mrs. Bedwin, indignantly. “I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty years; and people who can’t say the same, shouldn’t say anything about them. That’s my opinion!”
This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted nothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was stopped by Mr. Brownlow.
“Silence!” said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from feeling. “Never let me hear the boy’s name again. I rang to tell you that. Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember! I am in earnest.”
There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow’s that night.
Oliver’s heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it was well for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it might have broken outright.