So it chanced upon this very day, when poor Harry Esmond had had the blacksmith’s son and the [v]peer’s son, alike upon his knee, little Beatrix, who would come to him willingly enough with her book and writing, had refused him, seeing the place occupied by her brother. Luckily for her, she had sat at the farther end of the room, away from him, playing with a spaniel dog which she had, and talking to Harry Esmond over her shoulder, as she pretended to caress the dog, saying that Fido would love her, and she would love Fido and nothing but Fido all her life.
When, then, the news was brought that the little boy at the blacksmith’s was ill with the smallpox, poor Harry Esmond felt a shock of alarm, not so much for himself as for his mistress’s son, whom he might have brought into peril. Beatrix, who had pouted sufficiently, her little brother being now gone to bed, was for taking her place on Esmond’s knee. But as she advanced toward him, he started back and placed the great chair on which he was sitting between him and her—saying in the French language to Lady Castlewood, “Madam, the child must not approach me. I must tell you that I was at the blacksmith’s to-day and had his little boy on my lap.”
“Where you took my son afterward,” Lady Castlewood said, very angry and turning red. “I thank you, sir, for giving him such company. Beatrix,” she said in English, “I forbid you to touch Harry Esmond. Come away, child; come to your room. And you, sir, had you not better go back to the alehouse?”
Her eyes, ordinarily so kind, darted flashes of anger as she spoke; and she tossed up her head (which hung down commonly) with the [v]mien of a princess.
“Heyday!” said my Lord, who was standing by the fireplace, “Rachel, what are you in a passion about? Though it does you good to get in a passion—you look very handsome!”
“It is, my Lord, because Mr. Harry Esmond, having nothing to do with his time here, and not having a taste for our company, has been to the blacksmith’s alehouse, where he has some friends.”
My Lord burst out with a laugh.
“Take Mistress Beatrix to bed,” my Lady cried at this moment to her woman, who came in with her Ladyship’s tea. “Put her into my room—no, into yours,” she added quickly. “Go, my child: go, I say; not a word.” And Beatrix, quite surprised at so sudden a tone of authority from one who was seldom accustomed to raise her voice, went out of the room with a scared face and waited even to burst out crying until she got upstairs.
For once, her mother took little heed of her. “My Lord,” she said, “this young man—your relative—told me just now in French—he was ashamed to speak in his own language—that he had been at the blacksmith’s all day, where he has had that little wretch who is now ill of the smallpox on his knee. And he comes home reeking from that place—yes, reeking from it—and takes my boy into his lap without shame, and sits down by me. He may have killed Frank for what I know—killed our child! Why was he brought in to disgrace our house? Why is he here? Let him go—let him go, I say, and [v]pollute the place no more!”
She had never before uttered a syllable of unkindness to Harry Esmond, and her cruel words smote the poor boy so that he stood for some moments bewildered with grief and rage at the injustice of such a stab from such a hand. He turned quite white from red, which he had been before.