Reginald was a sharp boy; he could do anything; fasten him to a
book for twenty minutes, he would learn as much as most boys in an
hour; but there was no keeping him to it, unless you strapped him or
nailed him, for he had the will of a mule, and the suppleness of an eel
to carry out his will. And then his tastes--low as his features were
refined; he was a sort of moral dung-fork; picked up all the slang of
the stable and scattered it in the dining-room and drawing-room; and
once or twice he stole out of his comfortable room at night, and slept
in a gypsy's tent with his arm round a gypsy boy, unsullied from his
cradle by soap.
At last Sir Charles could no longer reply to his wife at night as he
had done for this ten years past. He was obliged to confess that there
was one cloud upon his happiness. "Dear Reginald grieves me, and makes
me dread the future; for if the child is father to the man, there is a
bitter disappointment in store for us. He is like no other boy; he is
like no human creature I ever saw. At his age, and long after, I was a
fool; I was a fool till I knew you; but surely I was a gentleman. I
cannot see myself again--in my first-born."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
LADY BASSETT was paralyzed for a minute or two by this speech. At last
she replied by asking a question--rather a curious one.
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