The Earl slightly started. “I forgot you!” he said. “I forgot we had a philanthropist in the room. Who was Michael?” And the gleam of queer amusement came back into the old man’s [deep-set] eyes.
“He was Bridget’s husband, who had the fever,” answered Fauntleroy; “and he couldn’t pay the rent or buy wine and things. And you gave me that money to help him.”
The Earl drew his brows together into a curious frown, which somehow was scarcely grim at all. He glanced across at Mr. Mordaunt.
“I don’t know what sort of a landed proprietor he will make,” he said. “I told Havisham the boy was to have what he wanted—and what he wanted, it seems, was money to give to beggars.”
“Oh! but they weren’t beggars,” said Fauntleroy eagerly. “Michael was a splendid bricklayer! They all worked.”
“Oh!” said the Earl, “they were not beggars.”
He bent his gaze on the boy for a few seconds in silence. “Come here,” he said, at last.
“What would you do in this case?”
It must be confessed that Mr. Mordaunt experienced for the moment a curious sensation. Being a man of great thoughtfulness, and having spent so many years on the estate of Dorincourt, [he realised] very strongly what power for good or evil would be given in the future to this one small boy standing there, his brown eyes wide open, his hands deep in his pockets; and the thought came to him also that a great deal of power might, perhaps, through the caprice of a proud, self-indulgent old man be given to him now, and that if his young nature were not a simple and generous one, it might be the worst thing that could happen, not only for others, but for himself.
“And what would you do in such a case?” demanded the Earl.