At first my lady was for dying like Mary, Queen of Scots (to whom she fancied she bore a resemblance in beauty), and, stroking her scraggy neck, said, “They will find Isabel of Castlewood is equal to her fate.” Her gentlewoman, Victoire, persuaded her that her prudent1 course was, as she could not fly, to receive the troops as though she suspected nothing, and that her chamber2 was the best place wherein to await them. So her black Japan casket, which Harry3 was to carry to the coach, was taken back to her ladyship’s chamber, whither the maid and mistress retired4. Victoire came out presently, bidding the page to say her ladyship was ill, confined to her bed with the rheumatism5.
By this time the soldiers had reached Castlewood. Harry Esmond saw them from the window of the tapestry6 parlor7; a couple of sentinels were posted at the gate — a half-dozen more walked towards the stable; and some others, preceded by their commander, and a man in black, a lawyer probably, were conducted by one of the servants to the stair leading up to the part of the house which my lord and lady inhabited.
So the Captain, a handsome kind man, and the lawyer, came through the ante-room to the tapestry parlor, and where now was nobody but young Harry Esmond, the page.
“Tell your mistress, little man,” says the Captain, kindly8, “that we must speak to her.”
“My mistress is ill a-bed,” said the page.
“What complaint has she?” asked the Captain.
The boy said, “The rheumatism!”
“Rheumatism! that’s a sad complaint,” continues the good-natured Captain; “and the coach is in the yard to fetch the Doctor, I suppose?”
“I don’t know,” says the boy.
“And how long has her ladyship been ill?”
“I don’t know,” says the boy.
“When did my lord go away?”
“Yesterday night.”
“With Father Holt?”
“With Mr. Holt.”
“And which way did they travel?” asks the lawyer.
“They travelled without me,” says the page.
“We must see Lady Castlewood.”
“I have orders that nobody goes in to her ladyship — she is sick,” says the page; but at this moment Victoire came out. “Hush!” says she; and, as if not knowing that any one was near, “What’s this noise?” says she. “Is this gentleman the Doctor?”
“Stuff! we must see Lady Castlewood,” says the lawyer, pushing by.
The curtains of her ladyship’s room were down, and the chamber dark, and she was in bed with a nightcap on her head, and propped9 up by her pillows, looking none the less ghastly because of the red which was still on her cheeks, and which she could not afford to forego.
“Is that the Doctor?” she said.
“There is no use with this deception10, madam,” Captain Westbury said (for so he was named). “My duty is to arrest the person of Thomas, Viscount Castlewood, a nonjuring peer — of Robert Tusher, Vicar of Castlewood — and Henry Holt, known under various other names and designations, a Jesuit priest, who officiated as chaplain here in the late king’s time, and is now at the head of the conspiracy11 which was about to break out in this country against the authority of their Majesties12 King William and Queen Mary — and my orders are to search the house for such papers or traces of the conspiracy as may be found here. Your ladyship will please give me your keys, and it will be as well for yourself that you should help us, in every way, in our search.”
“You see, sir, that I have the rheumatism, and cannot move,” said the lady, looking uncommonly13 ghastly as she sat up in her bed, where, however, she had had her cheeks painted, and a new cap put on, so that she might at least look her best when the officers came.
“I shall take leave to place a sentinel in the chamber, so that your ladyship, in case you should wish to rise, may have an arm to lean on,” Captain Westbury said. “Your woman will show me where I am to look;” and Madame Victoire, chattering14 in her half French and half English jargon15, opened while the Captain examined one drawer after another; but, as Harry Esmond thought, rather carelessly, with a smile on his face, as if he was only conducting the examination for form’s sake.
Before one of the cupboards Victoire flung herself down, stretching out her arms, and, with a piercing shriek16, cried, “Non, jamais, monsieur l’officier! Jamais! I will rather die than let you see this wardrobe.”
But Captain Westbury would open it, still with a smile on his face, which, when the box was opened, turned into a fair burst of laughter. It contained — not papers regarding the conspiracy — but my lady’s wigs17, washes, and rouge-pots, and Victoire said men were monsters, as the Captain went on with his perquisition. He tapped the back to see whether or no it was hollow, and as he thrust his hands into the cupboard, my lady from her bed called out, with a voice that did not sound like that of a very sick woman, “Is it your commission to insult ladies as well as to arrest gentlemen, Captain?”
“These articles are only dangerous when worn by your ladyship,” the Captain said, with a low bow, and a mock grin of politeness. “I have found nothing which concerns the Government as yet — only the weapons with which beauty is authorized19 to kill,” says he, pointing to a wig18 with his sword-tip. “We must now proceed to search the rest of the house.”
“You are not going to leave that wretch20 in the room with me,” cried my lady, pointing to the soldier.
“What can I do, madam? Somebody you must have to smooth your pillow and bring your medicine — permit me —”
“Sir!” screamed out my lady.
“Madam, if you are too ill to leave the bed,” the Captain then said, rather sternly, “I must have in four of my men to lift you off in the sheet. I must examine this bed, in a word; papers may be hidden in a bed as elsewhere; we know that very well and . . .”
Here it was her ladyship’s turn to shriek, for the Captain, with his fist shaking the pillows and bolsters21, at last came to “burn” as they say in the play of forfeits22, and wrenching23 away one of the pillows, said, “Look! did not I tell you so? Here is a pillow stuffed with paper.”
“Some villain24 has betrayed us,” cried out my lady, sitting up in the bed, showing herself full dressed under her night-rail.
“And now your ladyship can move, I am sure; permit me to give you my hand to rise. You will have to travel for some distance, as far as Hexton Castle to-night. Will you have your coach? Your woman shall attend you if you like — and the japan-box?”
“Sir! you don’t strike a MAN when he is down,” said my lady, with some dignity: “can you not spare a woman?”
“Your ladyship must please to rise, and let me search the bed,” said the Captain; “there is no more time to lose in bandying talk.”
And, without more ado, the gaunt old woman got up. Harry Esmond recollected25 to the end of his life that figure, with the brocade dress and the white night-rail, and the gold-clocked red stockings, and white red-heeled shoes, sitting up in the bed, and stepping down from it. The trunks were ready packed for departure in her ante-room, and the horses ready harnessed in the stable: about all which the Captain seemed to know, by information got from some quarter or other; and whence Esmond could make a pretty shrewd guess in after-times, when Dr. Tusher complained that King William’s government had basely treated him for services done in that cause.
And here he may relate, though he was then too young to know all that was happening, what the papers contained, of which Captain Westbury had made a seizure26, and which papers had been transferred from the japan-box to the bed when the officers arrived.
There was a list of gentlemen of the county in Father Holt’s hand writing — Mr. Freeman’s (King James’s) friends — a similar paper being found among those of Sir John Fenwick and Mr. Coplestone, who suffered death for this conspiracy.
There was a patent conferring the title of Marquis of Esmond on my Lord Castlewood and the heirs-male of his body; his appointment as Lord-Lieutenant27 of the County, and Major-General.2
2 To have this rank of Marquis restored in the family had always been my Lady Viscountess’s ambition; and her old maiden28 aunt, Barbara Topham, the goldsmith’s daughter, dying about this time, and leaving all her property to Lady Castlewood, I have heard that her ladyship sent almost the whole of the money to King James, a proceeding29 which so irritated my Lord Castlewood that he actually went to the parish church, and was only appeased30 by the Marquis’s title which his exiled Majesty31 sent to him in return for the 15,000L. his faithful subject lent him.
There were various letters from the nobility and gentry32, some ardent33 and some doubtful, in the King’s service; and (very luckily for him) two letters concerning Colonel Francis Esmond: one from Father Holt, which said, “I have been to see this Colonel at his house at Walcote, near to Wells, where he resides since the King’s departure, and pressed him very eagerly in Mr. Freeman’s cause, showing him the great advantage he would have by trading with that merchant, offering him large premiums34 there as agreed between us. But he says no: he considers Mr. Freeman the head of the firm, will never trade against him or embark35 with any other trading company, but considers his duty was done when Mr. Freeman left England. This Colonel seems to care more for his wife and his beagles than for affairs. He asked me much about young H. E., ‘that bastard,’ as he called him; doubting my lord’s intentions respecting him. I reassured36 him on this head, stating what I knew of the lad, and our intentions respecting him, but with regard to Freeman he was inflexible37.”
And another letter was from Colonel Esmond to his kinsman38, to say that one Captain Holton had been with him offering him large bribes39 to join, YOU KNOW WHO, and saying that the head of the house of Castlewood was deeply engaged in that quarter. But for his part he had broke his sword when the K. left the country, and would never again fight in that quarrel. The P. of O. was a man, at least, of a noble courage, and his duty, and, as he thought, every Englishman’s, was to keep the country quiet, and the French out of it: and, in fine, that he would have nothing to do with the scheme.
Of the existence of these two letters and the contents of the pillow, Colonel Frank Esmond, who became Viscount Castlewood, told Henry Esmond afterwards, when the letters were shown to his lordship, who congratulated himself, as he had good reason, that he had not joined in the scheme which proved so fatal to many concerned in it. But, naturally, the lad knew little about these circumstances when they happened under his eyes: only being aware that his patron and his mistress were in some trouble, which had caused the flight of the one and the apprehension40 of the other by the officers of King William.
The seizure of the papers effected, the gentlemen did not pursue their further search through Castlewood House very rigorously. They examined Mr. Holt’s room, being led thither41 by his pupil, who showed, as the Father had bidden him, the place where the key of his chamber lay, opened the door for the gentlemen, and conducted them into the room.
When the gentlemen came to the half-burned papers in the brazier, they examined them eagerly enough, and their young guide was a little amused at their perplexity.
“What are these?” says one.
“They’re written in a foreign language,” says the lawyer. “What are you laughing at, little whelp?” adds he, turning round as he saw the boy smile.
“Mr. Holt said they were sermons,” Harry said, “and bade me to burn them;” which indeed was true of those papers.
“Sermons indeed — it’s treason, I would lay a wager,” cries the lawyer.
“Egad! it’s Greek to me,” says Captain Westbury. “Can you read it, little boy?”
“Yes, sir, a little,” Harry said.
“Then read, and read in English, sir, on your peril,” said the lawyer. And Harry began to translate:—
“Hath not one of your own writers said, ‘The children of Adam are now laboring42 as much as he himself ever did, about the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, shaking the boughs43 thereof, and seeking the fruit, being for the most part unmindful of the tree of life.’ Oh blind generation! ’tis this tree of knowledge to which the serpent has led you”— and here the boy was obliged to stop, the rest of the page being charred44 by the fire: and asked of the lawyer —“Shall I go on, sir?”
The lawyer said —“This boy is deeper than he seems: who knows that he is not laughing at us?”
“Let’s have in Dick the Scholar,” cried Captain Westbury, laughing: and he called to a trooper out of the window —“Ho, Dick, come in here and construe45.”
A thick-set soldier, with a square good-humored face, came in at the summons, saluting46 his officer.
“Tell us what is this, Dick,” says the lawyer.
“My name is Steele, sir,” says the soldier. “I may be Dick for my friends, but I don’t name gentlemen of your cloth amongst them.”
“Well then, Steele.”
“Mr. Steele, sir, if you please. When you address a gentleman of his Majesty’s Horse Guards, be pleased not to be so familiar.”
“I didn’t know, sir,” said the lawyer.
“How should you? I take it you are not accustomed to meet with gentlemen,” says the trooper.
“Hold thy prate47, and read that bit of paper,” says Westbury.
“’Tis Latin,” says Dick, glancing at it, and again saluting his officer, “and from a sermon of Mr. Cudworth’s,” and he translated the words pretty much as Henry Esmond had rendered them.
“What a young scholar you are,” says the Captain to the boy.
“Depend on’t, he knows more than he tells,” says the lawyer. “I think we will pack him off in the coach with old Jezebel.”
“For construing48 a bit of Latin?” said the Captain, very good-naturedly.
“I would as lief go there as anywhere,” Harry Esmond said, simply, “for there is nobody to care for me.”
There must have been something touching49 in the child’s voice, or in this description of his solitude50 — for the Captain looked at him very good-naturedly, and the trooper, called Steele, put his hand kindly on the lad’s head, and said some words in the Latin tongue.
“What does he say?” says the lawyer.
“Faith, ask Dick himself,” cried Captain Westbury.
“I said I was not ignorant of misfortune myself, and had learned to succor51 the miserable52, and that’s not YOUR trade, Mr. Sheepskin,” said the trooper.
“You had better leave Dick the Scholar alone, Mr. Corbet,” the Captain said. And Harry Esmond, always touched by a kind face and kind word, felt very grateful to this good-natured champion.
The horses were by this time harnessed to the coach; and the Countess and Victoire came down and were put into the vehicle. This woman, who quarrelled with Harry Esmond all day, was melted at parting with him, and called him “dear angel,” and “poor infant,” and a hundred other names.
The Viscountess, giving him her lean hand to kiss, bade him always be faithful to the house of Esmond. “If evil should happen to my lord,” says she, “his SUCCESSOR, I trust, will be found, and give you protection. Situated53 as I am, they will not dare wreak54 their vengeance55 on me NOW.” And she kissed a medal she wore with great fervor56, and Henry Esmond knew not in the least what her meaning was; but hath since learned that, old as she was, she was for ever expecting, by the good offices of saints and relics57, to have an heir to the title of Esmond.
Harry Esmond was too young to have been introduced into the secrets of politics in which his patrons were implicated58; for they put but few questions to the boy (who was little of stature59, and looked much younger than his age), and such questions as they put he answered cautiously enough, and professing60 even more ignorance than he had, for which his examiners willingly enough gave him credit. He did not say a word about the window or the cupboard over the fireplace; and these secrets quite escaped the eyes of the searchers.
So then my lady was consigned61 to her coach, and sent off to Hexton, with her woman and the man of law to bear her company, a couple of troopers riding on either side of the coach. And Harry was left behind at the Hall, belonging as it were to nobody, and quite alone in the world. The captain and a guard of men remained in possession there; and the soldiers, who were very good-natured and kind, ate my lord’s mutton and drank his wine, and made themselves comfortable, as they well might do in such pleasant quarters.
The captains had their dinner served in my lord’s tapestry parlor, and poor little Harry thought his duty was to wait upon Captain Westbury’s chair, as his custom had been to serve his lord when he sat there.
After the departure of the Countess, Dick the Scholar took Harry Esmond under his special protection, and would examine him in his humanities and talk to him both of French and Latin, in which tongues the lad found, and his new friend was willing enough to acknowledge, that he was even more proficient62 than Scholar Dick. Hearing that he had learned them from a Jesuit, in the praise of whom and whose goodness Harry was never tired of speaking, Dick, rather to the boy’s surprise, who began to have an early shrewdness, like many children bred up alone, showed a great deal of theological science, and knowledge of the points at issue between the two churches; so that he and Harry would have hours of controversy63 together, in which the boy was certainly worsted by the arguments of this singular trooper. “I am no common soldier,” Dick would say, and indeed it was easy to see by his learning, breeding, and many accomplishments64, that he was not. “I am of one of the most ancient families in the empire; I have had my education at a famous school, and a famous university; I learned my first rudiments65 of Latin near to Smithfield, in London, where the martyrs66 were roasted.”
“You hanged as many of ours,” interposed Harry; “and, for the matter of persecution67, Father Holt told me that a young gentleman of Edinburgh, eighteen years of age, student at the college there, was hanged for heresy68 only last year, though he recanted, and solemnly asked pardon for his errors.”
“Faith! there has been too much persecution on both sides: but ’twas you taught us.”
“Nay, ’twas the Pagans began it,” cried the lad, and began to instance a number of saints of the Church, from the proto-martyr downwards69 —“this one’s fire went out under him: that one’s oil cooled in the caldron: at a third holy head the executioner chopped three times and it would not come off. Show us martyrs in YOUR church for whom such miracles have been done.”
“Nay,” says the trooper gravely, “the miracles of the first three centuries belong to my Church as well as yours, Master Papist,” and then added, with something of a smile upon his countenance70, and a queer look at Harry —“And yet, my little catechiser, I have sometimes thought about those miracles, that there was not much good in them, since the victim’s head always finished by coming off at the third or fourth chop, and the caldron, if it did not boil one day, boiled the next. Howbeit, in our times, the Church has lost that questionable71 advantage of respites72. There never was a shower to put out Ridley’s fire, nor an angel to turn the edge of Campion’s axe73. The rack tore the limbs of Southwell the Jesuit and Sympson the Protestant alike. For faith, everywhere multitudes die willingly enough. I have read in Monsieur Rycaut’s ‘History of the Turks,’ of thousands of Mahomet’s followers74 rushing upon death in battle as upon certain Paradise; and in the great Mogul’s dominions75 people fling themselves by hundreds under the cars of the idols76 annually77, and the widows burn themselves on their husbands’ bodies, as ’tis well known. ’Tis not the dying for a faith that’s so hard, Master Harry — every man of every nation has done that —’tis the living up to it that is difficult, as I know to my cost,” he added with a sigh. “And ah!” he added, “my poor lad, I am not strong enough to convince thee by my life — though to die for my religion would give me the greatest of joys — but I had a dear friend in Magdalen College in Oxford78; I wish Joe Addison were here to convince thee, as he quickly could — for I think he’s a match for the whole College of Jesuits; and what’s more, in his life too. In that very sermon of Dr. Cudworth’s which your priest was quoting from, and which suffered martydom in the brazier,”— Dick added with a smile, “I had a thought of wearing the black coat (but was ashamed of my life, you see, and took to this sorry red one); I have often thought of Joe Addison — Dr. Cudworth says, ‘A good conscience is the best looking-glass of heaven’— and there’s serenity79 in my friend’s face which always reflects it — I wish you could see him, Harry.”
“Did he do you a great deal of good?” asked the lad, simply.
“He might have done,” said the other —“at least he taught me to see and approve better things. ’Tis my own fault, deteriora sequi.”
“You seem very good,” the boy said.
“I’m not what I seem, alas80!” answered the trooper — and indeed, as it turned out, poor Dick told the truth — for that very night, at supper in the hall, where the gentlemen of the troop took their repasts, and passed most part of their days dicing81 and smoking of tobacco, and singing and cursing, over the Castlewood ale — Harry Esmond found Dick the Scholar in a woful state of drunkenness. He hiccupped out a sermon and his laughing companions bade him sing a hymn82, on which Dick, swearing he would run the scoundrel through the body who insulted his religion, made for his sword, which was hanging on the wall, and fell down flat on the floor under it, saying to Harry, who ran forward to help him, “Ah, little Papist, I wish Joseph Addison was here!”
Though the troopers of the King’s Life-Guards were all gentlemen, yet the rest of the gentlemen seemed ignorant and vulgar boors83 to Harry Esmond, with the exception of this good-natured Corporal Steele the Scholar, and Captain Westbury and Lieutenant Trant, who were always kind to the lad. They remained for some weeks or months encamped in Castlewood, and Harry learned from them, from time to time, how the lady at Hexton Castle was treated, and the particulars of her confinement84 there. ’Tis known that King William was disposed to deal very leniently85 with the gentry who remained faithful to the old King’s cause; and no prince usurping86 a crown, as his enemies said he did, (righteously taking it, as I think now,) ever caused less blood to be shed. As for women-conspirators, he kept spies on the least dangerous, and locked up the others. Lady Castlewood had the best rooms in Hexton Castle, and the gaoler’s garden to walk in; and though she repeatedly desired to be led out to execution, like Mary Queen of Scots, there never was any thought of taking her painted old head off, or any desire to do aught but keep her person in security.
And it appeared she found that some were friends in her misfortune, whom she had, in her prosperity, considered as her worst enemies. Colonel Francis Esmond, my lord’s cousin and her ladyship’s, who had married the Dean of Winchester’s daughter, and, since King James’s departure out of England, had lived not very far away from Hexton town, hearing of his kinswoman’s strait, and being friends with Colonel Brice, commanding for King William in Hexton, and with the Church dignitaries there, came to visit her ladyship in prison, offering to his uncle’s daughter any friendly services which lay in his power. And he brought his lady and little daughter to see the prisoner, to the latter of whom, a child of great beauty and many winning ways, the old Viscountess took not a little liking87, although between her ladyship and the child’s mother there was little more love than formerly88. There are some injuries which women never forgive one another; and Madam Francis Esmond, in marrying her cousin, had done one of those irretrievable wrongs to Lady Castlewood. But as she was now humiliated89, and in misfortune, Madam Francis could allow a truce90 to her enmity, and could be kind for a while, at least, to her husband’s discarded mistress. So the little Beatrix, her daughter, was permitted often to go and visit the imprisoned91 Viscountess, who, in so far as the child and its father were concerned, got to abate92 in her anger towards that branch of the Castlewood family. And the letters of Colonel Esmond coming to light, as has been said, and his conduct being known to the King’s council, the Colonel was put in a better position with the existing government than he had ever before been; any suspicions regarding his loyalty93 were entirely94 done away; and so he was enabled to be of more service to his kinswoman than he could otherwise have been.
And now there befell an event by which this lady recovered her liberty, and the house of Castlewood got a new owner, and fatherless little Harry Esmond a new and most kind protector and friend. Whatever that secret was which Harry was to hear from my lord, the boy never heard it; for that night when Father Holt arrived, and carried my lord away with him, was the last on which Harry ever saw his patron. What happened to my lord may be briefly95 told here. Having found the horses at the place where they were lying, my lord and Father Holt rode together to Chatteris, where they had temporary refuge with one of the Father’s penitents96 in that city; but the pursuit being hot for them, and the reward for the apprehension of one or the other considerable, it was deemed advisable that they should separate; and the priest betook himself to other places of retreat known to him, whilst my lord passed over from Bristol into Ireland, in which kingdom King James had a court and an army. My lord was but a small addition to this; bringing, indeed, only his sword and the few pieces in his pocket; but the King received him with some kindness and distinction in spite of his poor plight97, confirmed him in his new title of Marquis, gave him a regiment98, and promised him further promotion99. But titles or promotion were not to benefit him now. My lord was wounded at the fatal battle of the Boyne, flying from which field (long after his master had set him an example) he lay for a while concealed100 in the marshy101 country near to the town of Trim, and more from catarrh and fever caught in the bogs102 than from the steel of the enemy in the battle, sank and died. May the earth lie light upon Thomas of Castlewood! He who writes this must speak in charity, though this lord did him and his two grievous wrongs: for one of these he would have made amends103, perhaps, had life been spared him; but the other lay beyond his power to repair, though ’tis to be hoped that a greater Power than a priest has absolved104 him of it. He got the comfort of this absolution, too, such as it was: a priest of Trim writing a letter to my lady to inform her of this calamity105.
But in those days letters were slow of travelling, and our priest’s took two months or more on its journey from Ireland to England: where, when it did arrive, it did not find my lady at her own house; she was at the King’s house of Hexton Castle when the letter came to Castlewood, but it was opened for all that by the officer in command there.
Harry Esmond well remembered the receipt of this letter, which Lockwood brought in as Captain Westbury and Lieutenant Trant were on the green playing at bowls, young Esmond looking on at the sport, or reading his book in the arbor106.
“Here’s news for Frank Esmond,” says Captain Westbury; “Harry, did you ever see Colonel Esmond?” And Captain Westbury looked very hard at the boy as he spoke107.
Harry said he had seen him but once when he was at Hexton, at the ball there.
“And did he say anything?”
“He said what I don’t care to repeat,” Harry answered. For he was now twelve years of age: he knew what his birth was, and the disgrace of it; and he felt no love towards the man who had most likely stained his mother’s honor and his own.
“Did you love my Lord Castlewood?”
“I wait until I know my mother, sir, to say,” the boy answered, his eyes filling with tears.
“Something has happened to Lord Castlewood,” Captain Westbury said in a very grave tone —“something which must happen to us all. He is dead of a wound received at the Boyne, fighting for King James.”
“I am glad my lord fought for the right cause,” the boy said.
“It was better to meet death on the field like a man, than face it on Tower-hill, as some of them may,” continued Mr. Westbury. “I hope he has made some testament108, or provided for thee somehow. This letter says he recommends unicum filium suum dilectissimum to his lady. I hope he has left you more than that.”
Harry did not know, he said. He was in the hands of Heaven and Fate; but more lonely now, as it seemed to him, than he had been all the rest of his life; and that night, as he lay in his little room which he still occupied, the boy thought with many a pang109 of shame and grief of his strange and solitary110 condition: how he had a father and no father; a nameless mother that had been brought to ruin, perhaps, by that very father whom Harry could only acknowledge in secret and with a blush, and whom he could neither love nor revere111. And he sickened to think how Father Holt, a stranger, and two or three soldiers, his acquaintances of the last six weeks, were the only friends he had in the great wide world, where he was now quite alone. The soul of the boy was full of love, and he longed as he lay in the darkness there for some one upon whom he could bestow112 it. He remembers, and must to his dying day, the thoughts and tears of that long night, the hours tolling113 through it. Who was he, and what? Why here rather than elsewhere? I have a mind, he thought, to go to that priest at Trim, and find out what my father said to him on his death-bed confession114. Is there any child in the whole world so unprotected as I am? Shall I get up and quit this place, and run to Ireland? With these thoughts and tears the lad passed that night away until he wept himself to sleep.
The next day, the gentlemen of the guard, who had heard what had befallen him, were more than usually kind to the child, especially his friend Scholar Dick, who told him about his own father’s death, which had happened when Dick was a child at Dublin, not quite five years of age. “That was the first sensation of grief,” Dick said, “I ever knew. I remember I went into the room where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping beside it. I had my battledore in my hand, and fell a-beating the coffin115, and calling Papa; on which my mother caught me in her arms, and told me in a flood of tears Papa could not hear me, and would play with me no more, for they were going to put him under ground, whence he could never come to us again. And this,” said Dick kindly, “has made me pity all children ever since; and caused me to love thee, my poor fatherless, motherless lad. And, if ever thou wantest a friend, thou shalt have one in Richard Steele.”
Harry Esmond thanked him, and was grateful. But what could Corporal Steele do for him? take him to ride a spare horse, and be servant to the troop? Though there might be a bar in Harry Esmond’s shield, it was a noble one. The counsel of the two friends was, that little Harry should stay where he was, and abide116 his fortune: so Esmond stayed on at Castlewood, awaiting with no small anxiety the fate, whatever it was, which was over him.
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prudent
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chamber
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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retired
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rheumatism
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tapestry
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7
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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8
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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9
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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11
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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12
majesties
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| n.雄伟( majesty的名词复数 )；庄严；陛下；王权 | |
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13
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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14
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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15
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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16
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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17
wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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18
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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19
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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20
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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21
bolsters
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| n.长枕( bolster的名词复数 )；垫子；衬垫；支持物v.支持( bolster的第三人称单数 )；支撑；给予必要的支持；援助 | |
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22
forfeits
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| 罚物游戏 | |
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23
wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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24
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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25
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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27
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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28
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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29
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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30
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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31
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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32
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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33
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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34
premiums
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| n.费用( premium的名词复数 )；保险费；额外费用；（商品定价、贷款利息等以外的）加价 | |
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35
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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36
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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37
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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38
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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39
bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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40
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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41
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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42
laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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43
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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44
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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45
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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46
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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47
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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48
construing
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的现在分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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49
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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50
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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51
succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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52
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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53
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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54
wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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55
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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56
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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57
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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58
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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59
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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60
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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61
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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62
proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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63
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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64
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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65
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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66
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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67
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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68
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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69
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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70
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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71
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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72
respites
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| v.延期（respite的第三人称单数形式） | |
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73
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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74
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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75
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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76
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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77
annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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78
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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79
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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80
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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81
dicing
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| n.掷骰子，（皮革上的）菱形装饰v.将…切成小方块，切成丁（ dice的现在分词 ） | |
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82
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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83
boors
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| n.农民( boor的名词复数 )；乡下佬；没礼貌的人；粗野的人 | |
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84
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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85
leniently
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| 温和地，仁慈地 | |
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86
usurping
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的现在分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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87
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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88
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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89
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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90
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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91
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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93
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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94
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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95
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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96
penitents
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| n.后悔者( penitent的名词复数 )；忏悔者 | |
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97
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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98
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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99
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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100
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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101
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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102
bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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103
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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104
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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105
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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106
arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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107
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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108
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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109
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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110
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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111
revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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112
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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113
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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114
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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115
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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116
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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