“Heavens!—why, it is a perfect little animal!” she exclaimed, drawing back. “What eyes!—how frightfully large! Mr. Turner, Mr. Turner, how very imprudent in you! It may be contagious fever or small-pox. Do take the creature away!”
She drew slowly back while giving this command, with a look of absolute terror.
“Take her away—quite away!” she kept repeating.
“Shall I leave her on the door-steps, madam?” said he, with a sort of rebuking humor.
There was something so familiar about his curt, dry way of putting the question, that I felt more at home with him than ever.
“Turner—Turner, this is trifling, inexcusable! but that you are a favorite servant of my poor brother’s, I would not endure it an instant.”
“I am a man! At least I was, till this poor, poor—there I am at it again—till she made me cry like a baby for the first time in my life; but I will obey you—I will carry her off, not that her disease is contagious—souls are not catching, at any rate, in this neighborhood.”
The old man muttered over these last words to himself; then lifting his voice said in a more respectful tone, “Madam, your orders—where am I to place the child?”
“Anywhere. It is not of the least consequence—take it down to the village. I fancy some of the tenants would like it of all things. I have no right to receive incumbrances in Lord Clare’s house during his absence.”
“Lord Clare never sent a starving fellow-creature from his door yet,” answered Turner, stoutly. “It is not in him.”