“I only asked, Lucy,” I said. “I didn’t suppose you had encouraged him.”
I didn’t, because I knew Lucy had set her cap, so to speak, at a young fellow in the village—a handsome young fellow, too—with a little black moustache, that was quite unique in the neighbourhood; but I asked her, because, having been in service, I know how girls will sometimes encourage forward lads—pages, for instance—being fond of larking, and saying, “Oh, there’s no harm; he’s only a boy.” So I thought I’d just ask Lucy the question.
I saw by her style she was quite innocent in the matter; so I told her to leave the letter with me, and I would speak to my husband about it, and he would decide what should be done.
When I showed the letter to Harry he couldn’t help laughing, though he was very cross. “The young varmint!” he said.
“What are you going to do?” I said. “You must get rid of the boy. He isn’t safe to be about the place with notions like that in his head. I’m very sorry for his poor old grandmother; but he’ll come to a bad end soon, and I don’t want him to come to it here.”
“Oh, I shall give him the sack,” said Harry; “but I’m sorry for him, because it’s the trash he’s been reading that has put this stuff into his head.”
After dinner, Harry sent for Master Dick, and, when the young gentleman came in, showed him the letter, and asked him what he meant by writing such wickedness to our nursemaid.
The boy never changed colour a moment. He looked straight at Harry, and said, “Did she show it to you, sir?”
“She showed it to Mrs. Beckett,” said Harry.
“Then it was very unladylike of her,” said the boy, “and she’s a mean sneak. No man likes his love-letters to be shown about.”