“I fancy, Mother,” said Mary, who took after her quiet father, “he’ll be content if you’ll hold your peace.”
Mr Marshall found the ladies at the White Bear all assembled in the parlour. Mrs Louvaine had the ear of the House as he entered.
“So unfeeling as you are, Temperance, to a poor widow! and my only child as good as lost, and never found again. And officers and third-boroughs and constables all going about, making all manner of inquirations, trying to bring folks to justice, and Aubrey in with those wicked people, and going to sup with them, and all—and nobody ever trying to prevent him, and not a soul to care but me whether he went right or wrong—I do believe you thought more of the price of herrings than you ever did of the dear boy—and now, he’s completely lost and nobody knows what has become of him—”
Mr Marshall’s quiet voice effected a diversion.
“Mrs Louvaine, pardon me. Aubrey is at my house, safe and sound. There is no need for your trouble.”
“Of course!” responded Temperance. “I told her so. Might as well talk to the fire-bricks, when she takes a fancy of this sort. If the lad had come to any harm, we should have heard it. Faith never will think that ‘no news is good news.’”
“I am glad Aubrey is with you, Mr Marshall,” said the gentle voice of Lady Louvaine.
“I met with him, Madam, in a walk this afternoon, and brought him so far with me.”
“And why not a bit further, trow?” asked Temperance.
“That am I come to say. Madam,”—and he addressed himself to Lady Louvaine,—“having told you that your grandson is well in body, and safe at my lodging, I trust it shall not greatly touch you to learn that he is in some trouble of mind.”