“If my coming nigh your boy pollutes him,” he said, “it was not so always. Good-night, my Lord. Heaven bless you and yours for your goodness to me. I have tired her Ladyship’s kindness out, and I will go.”
“He wants to go to the alehouse—let him go!” cried my Lady.
“I’ll be hanged if he shall,” said my Lord. “I didn’t think you could be so cruel, Rachel!”
Her reply was to burst into a flood of tears, and to quit the room with a rapid glance at Harry Esmond, as my Lord put his broad hand on Harry’s shoulder.
In a little while my Lady came back, looking very pale, with a handkerchief in her hand. Instantly advancing to Harry Esmond, she took his hand. “I beg your pardon, Harry,” she said. “I spoke very unkindly.”
My Lord broke out: “There may be no harm done. Leave the boy alone.” She looked a little red, and pressed the lad’s hand as she dropped it.
“There is no use, my Lord,” she said. “Frank was on his knee as he was making pictures and was running constantly from Harry to me. The evil is done, if any.”
“Not with me,” cried my Lord. “I’ve been smoking.” And he lighted his pipe again with a coal. “As the disease is in the village—plague take it!—I would have you leave it. We’ll go to-morrow to Walcote.”
“I have no fear,” said my Lady. “I may have had it as an infant.”
“I won’t run the risk,” said my Lord. “I’m as bold as any man, but I’ll not bear that.”