"Who nursed
you, Charles?"
"What, when I was a baby? How can I tell? Yes, by-the-by, it was my
mother nursed me--so I was told."
"And your mother was a Le Compton. This poor boy was nursed by a
servant. Oh, she has some good qualities, and is certainly devoted to
us--to this day her face brightens at sight of me--but she is
essentially vulgar; and do you remember, Charles, I wished to wean him
early; but I was overruled, and the poor child drew his nature from
that woman for nearly eighteen months; it is a thing unheard of
nowadays."
"Well, but surely it is from our parents we draw our nature."
"No; I think it is from our nurses. If Compton or Alec ever turn out
like Reginald, blame nobody but their nurse, and that is Me."
Sir Charles smiled faintly at this piece of feminine logic, and asked
her what he should do.
She said she was quite unable to advise. Mr. Rolfe was coming to see
them soon; perhaps he might be able to suggest something.
Sir Charles said he would consult him; but he was clear on one
thing--the boy must be sent from Huntercombe, and so separated from all
his present acquaintances.
Mr. Rolfe came, and the distressed father opened his heart to him in
strict confidence respecting Reginald.
Rolfe listened and sympathized, and knit his brow, and asked time to
consider what he had heard, and also to study the boy for himself.
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