When Harry1 Esmond passed through the crisis of that malady2, and returned to health again, he found that little Frank Esmond had also suffered and rallied after the disease, and the lady his mother was down with it, with a couple more of the household. “It was a Providence3, for which we all ought to be thankful,” Doctor Tusher said, “that my lady and her son were spared, while Death carried off the poor domestics of the house;” and rebuked5 Harry for asking, in his simple way, For which we ought to be thankful — that the servants were killed, or the gentlefolks were saved? Nor could young Esmond agree in the Doctor’s vehement6 protestations to my lady, when he visited her during her convalescence7, that the malady had not in the least impaired8 her charms, and had not been churl9 enough to injure the fair features of the Viscountess of Castlewood; whereas, in spite of these fine speeches, Harry thought that her ladyship’s beauty was very much injured by the small-pox. When the marks of the disease cleared away, they did not, it is true, leave furrows10 or scars on her face (except one, perhaps, on her forehead over her left eyebrow); but the delicacy11 of her rosy12 color and complexion13 was gone: her eyes had lost their brilliancy, her hair fell, and her face looked older. It was as if a coarse hand had rubbed off the delicate tints15 of that sweet picture, and brought it, as one has seen unskilful painting-cleaners do, to the dead color. Also, it must be owned, that for a year or two after the malady, her ladyship’s nose was swollen16 and redder.
There would be no need to mention these trivialities, but that they actually influenced many lives, as trifles will in the world, where a gnat17 often plays a greater part than an elephant, and a mole-hill, as we know in King William’s case, can upset an empire. When Tusher in his courtly way (at which Harry Esmond always chafed18 and spoke19 scornfully) vowed20 and protested that my lady’s face was none the worse — the lad broke out and said, “It IS worse and my mistress is not near so handsome as she was;” on which poor Lady Castlewood gave a rueful smile, and a look into a little Venice glass she had, which showed her, I suppose, that what the stupid boy said was only too true, for she turned away from the glass, and her eyes filled with tears.
The sight of these in Esmond’s heart always created a sort of rage of pity, and seeing them on the face of the lady whom he loved best, the young blunderer sank down on his knees, and besought21 her to pardon him, saying that he was a fool and an idiot, that he was a brute22 to make such a speech, he who had caused her malady; and Doctor Tusher told him that a bear he was indeed, and a bear he would remain, at which speech poor young Esmond was so dumbstricken that he did not even growl23.
“He is MY bear, and I will not have him baited, Doctor,” my lady said, patting her hand kindly24 on the boy’s head, as he was still kneeling at her feet. “How your hair has come off! And mine, too,” she added with another sigh.
“It is not for myself that I cared,” my lady said to Harry, when the parson had taken his leave; “but AM I very much changed? Alas25! I fear ’tis too true.”
“Madam, you have the dearest, and kindest, and sweetest face in the world, I think,” the lad said; and indeed he thought and thinks so.
“Will my lord think so when he comes back?” the lady asked with a sigh, and another look at her Venice glass. “Suppose he should think as you do, sir, that I am hideous26 — yes, you said hideous — he will cease to care for me. ’Tis all men care for in women, our little beauty. Why did he select me from among my sisters? ’Twas only for that. We reign27 but for a day or two: and be sure that Vashti knew Esther was coming.”
“Madam,” said Mr. Esmond, “Ahasuerus was the Grand Turk, and to change was the manner of his country, and according to his law.”
“You are all Grand Turks for that matter,” said my lady, “or would be if you could. Come, Frank, come, my child. You are well, praised be Heaven. YOUR locks are not thinned by this dreadful small-pox: nor your poor face scarred — is it, my angel?”
Frank began to shout and whimper at the idea of such a misfortune. From the very earliest time the young lord had been taught to admire his beauty by his mother: and esteemed28 it as highly as any reigning29 toast valued hers.
One day, as he himself was recovering from his fever and illness, a pang30 of something like shame shot across young Esmond’s breast, as he remembered that he had never once during his illness given a thought to the poor girl at the smithy, whose red cheeks but a month ago he had been so eager to see. Poor Nancy! her cheeks had shared the fate of roses, and were withered31 now. She had taken the illness on the same day with Esmond — she and her brother were both dead of the small-pox, and buried under the Castlewood yew-trees. There was no bright face looking now from the garden, or to cheer the old smith at his lonely fireside. Esmond would have liked to have kissed her in her shroud32 (like the lass in Mr. Prior’s pretty poem); but she rested many a foot below the ground, when Esmond after his malady first trod on it.
Doctor Tusher brought the news of this calamity33, about which Harry Esmond longed to ask, but did not like. He said almost the whole village had been stricken with the pestilence34; seventeen persons were dead of it, among them mentioning the names of poor Nancy and her little brother. He did not fail to say how thankful we survivors35 ought to be. It being this man’s business to flatter and make sermons, it must be owned he was most industrious36 in it, and was doing the one or the other all day.
And so Nancy was gone; and Harry Esmond blushed that he had not a single tear for her, and fell to composing an elegy37 in Latin verses over the rustic38 little beauty. He bade the dryads mourn and the river-nymphs deplore39 her. As her father followed the calling of Vulcan, he said that surely she was like a daughter of Venus, though Sievewright’s wife was an ugly shrew, as he remembered to have heard afterwards. He made a long face, but, in truth, felt scarcely more sorrowful than a mute at a funeral. These first passions of men and women are mostly abortive40; and are dead almost before they are born. Esmond could repeat, to his last day, some of the doggerel41 lines in which his muse42 bewailed his pretty lass; not without shame to remember how bad the verses were, and how good he thought them; how false the grief, and yet how he was rather proud of it. ’Tis an error, surely, to talk of the simplicity43 of youth. I think no persons are more hypocritical, and have a more affected44 behavior to one another, than the young. They deceive themselves and each other with artifices45 that do not impose upon men of the world; and so we get to understand truth better, and grow simpler as we grow older.
When my lady heard of the fate which had befallen poor Nancy, she said nothing so long as Tusher was by, but when he was gone, she took Harry Esmond’s hand and said —
“Harry, I beg your pardon for those cruel words I used on the night you were taken ill. I am shocked at the fate of the poor creature, and am sure that nothing had happened of that with which, in my anger, I charged you. And the very first day we go out, you must take me to the blacksmith, and we must see if there is anything I can do to console the poor old man. Poor man! to lose both his children! What should I do without mine?”
And this was, indeed, the very first walk which my lady took, leaning on Esmond’s arm, after her illness. But her visit brought no consolation46 to the old father; and he showed no softness, or desire to speak. “The Lord gave and took away,” he said; and he knew what His servant’s duty was. He wanted for nothing — less now than ever before, as there were fewer mouths to feed. He wished her ladyship and Master Esmond good morning — he had grown tall in his illness, and was but very little marked; and with this, and a surly bow, he went in from the smithy to the house, leaving my lady, somewhat silenced and shamefaced, at the door. He had a handsome stone put up for his two children, which may be seen in Castlewood churchyard to this very day; and before a year was out his own name was upon the stone. In the presence of Death, that sovereign ruler, a woman’s coquetry is seared; and her jealousy47 will hardly pass the boundaries of that grim kingdom. ’Tis entirely48 of the earth, that passion, and expires in the cold blue air, beyond our sphere.
At length, when the danger was quite over, it was announced that my lord and his daughter would return. Esmond well remembered the day. The lady his mistress was in a flurry of fear: before my lord came, she went into her room, and returned from it with reddened cheeks. Her fate was about to be decided49. Her beauty was gone — was her reign, too, over? A minute would say. My lord came riding over the bridge — he could be seen from the great window, clad in scarlet50, and mounted on his gray hackney — his little daughter ambled52 by him in a bright riding-dress of blue, on a shining chestnut53 horse. My lady leaned against the great mantel-piece, looking on, with one hand on her heart — she seemed only the more pale for those red marks on either cheek. She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and withdrew it, laughing hysterically54 — the cloth was quite red with the rouge55 when she took it away. She ran to her room again, and came back with pale cheeks and red eyes — her son in her hand — just as my lord entered, accompanied by young Esmond, who had gone out to meet his protector, and to hold his stirrup as he descended56 from horseback.
“What, Harry, boy!” my lord said, good-naturedly, “you look as gaunt as a greyhound. The small-pox hasn’t improved your beauty, and your side of the house hadn’t never too much of it — ho, ho!”
And he laughed, and sprang to the ground with no small agility57, looking handsome and red, within a jolly face and brown hair, like a Beef-eater; Esmond kneeling again, as soon as his patron had descended, performed his homage58, and then went to greet the little Beatrix, and help her from her horse.
“Fie! how yellow you look,” she said; “and there are one, two, red holes in your face;” which, indeed, was very true; Harry Esmond’s harsh countenance59 bearing, as long as it continued to be a human face, the marks of the disease.
My lord laughed again, in high good-humor.
“D—— it!” said he, with one of his usual oaths, “the little slut sees everything. She saw the Dowager’s paint t’other day, and asked her why she wore that red stuff — didn’t you, Trix? and the Tower; and St. James’s; and the play; and the Prince George, and the Princess Anne — didn’t you, Trix?”
“They are both very fat, and smelt60 of brandy,” the child said.
Papa roared with laughing.
“Brandy!” he said. “And how do you know, Miss Pert?”
“Because your lordship smells of it after supper, when I embrace you before you go to bed,” said the young lady, who, indeed, was as pert as her father said, and looked as beautiful a little gipsy as eyes ever gazed on.
“And now for my lady,” said my lord, going up the stairs, and passing under the tapestry61 curtain that hung before the drawing-room door. Esmond remembered that noble figure, handsomely arrayed in scarlet. Within the last few months he himself had grown from a boy to be a man, and with his figure his thoughts had shot up, and grown manly62.
My lady’s countenance, of which Harry Esmond was accustomed to watch the changes, and with a solicitous63 affection to note and interpret the signs of gladness or care, wore a sad and depressed64 look for many weeks after her lord’s return: during which it seemed as if, by caresses65 and entreaties66, she strove to win him back from some ill humor he had, and which he did not choose to throw off. In her eagerness to please him she practised a hundred of those arts which had formerly67 charmed him, but which seemed now to have lost their potency68. Her songs did not amuse him; and she hushed them and the children when in his presence. My lord sat silent at his dinner, drinking greatly, his lady opposite to him, looking furtively69 at his face, though also speechless. Her silence annoyed him as much as her speech; and he would peevishly70, and with an oath, ask her why she held her tongue and looked so glum71; or he would roughly check her when speaking, and bid her not talk nonsense. It seemed as if, since his return, nothing she could do or say could please him.
When a master and mistress are at strife72 in a house, the subordinates in the family take the one side or the other. Harry Esmond stood in so great fear of my lord, that he would run a league barefoot to do a message for him; but his attachment73 for Lady Esmond was such a passion of grateful regard, that to spare her a grief, or to do her a service, he would have given his life daily: and it was by the very depth and intensity75 of this regard that he began to divine how unhappy his adored lady’s life was, and that a secret care (for she never spoke of her anxieties) was weighing upon her.
Can any one, who has passed through the world and watched the nature of men and women there, doubt what had befallen her? I have seen, to be sure, some people carry down with them into old age the actual bloom of their youthful love, and I know that Mr. Thomas Parr lived to be a hundred and sixty years old. But, for all that, threescore and ten is the age of men, and few get beyond it; and ’tis certain that a man who marries for mere76 beaux yeux, as my lord did, considers this part of the contract at an end when the woman ceases to fulfil hers, and his love does not survive her beauty. I know ’tis often otherwise, I say; and can think (as most men in their own experience may) of many a house, where, lighted in early years, the sainted lamp of love hath never been extinguished; but so there is Mr. Parr, and so there is the great giant at the fair that is eight feet high — exceptions to men — and that poor lamp whereof I speak, that lights at first the nuptial77 chamber78, is extinguished by a hundred winds and draughts79 down the chimney, or sputters80 out for want of feeding. And then — and then it is Chloe, in the dark, stark81 awake, and Strephon snoring unheeding; or vice74 versa, ’tis poor Strephon that has married a heartless jilt, and awoke out of that absurd vision of conjugal82 felicity, which was to last for ever, and is over like any other dream. One and other has made his bed, and so must lie in it, until that final day when life ends, and they sleep separate.
About this time young Esmond, who had a knack83 of stringing verses, turned some of Ovid’s Epistles into rhymes, and brought them to his lady for her delectation. Those which treated of forsaken85 women touched her immensely, Harry remarked; and when Oenone called after Paris, and Medea bade Jason come back again, the lady of Castlewood sighed, and said she thought that part of the verses was the most pleasing. Indeed, she would have chopped up the Dean, her old father, in order to bring her husband back again. But her beautiful Jason was gone, as beautiful Jasons will go, and the poor enchantress had never a spell to keep him.
My lord was only sulky as long as his wife’s anxious face or behavior seemed to upbraid86 him. When she had got to master these, and to show an outwardly cheerful countenance and behavior, her husband’s good-humor returned partially87, and he swore and stormed no longer at dinner, but laughed sometimes, and yawned unrestrainedly; absenting himself often from home, inviting88 more company thither89, passing the greater part of his days in the hunting-field, or over the bottle as before; but with this difference, that the poor wife could no longer see now, as she had done formerly, the light of love kindled90 in his eyes. He was with her, but that flame was out: and that once welcome beacon91 no more shone there.
What were this lady’s feelings when forced to admit the truth whereof her foreboding glass had given her only too true warning, that within her beauty her reign had ended, and the days of her love were over? What does a seaman92 do in a storm if mast and rudder are carried away? He ships a jurymast, and steers93 as he best can with an oar14. What happens if your roof falls in a tempest? After the first stun94 of the calamity the sufferer starts up, gropes around to see that the children are safe, and puts them under a shed out of the rain. If the palace burns down, you take shelter in the barn. What man’s life is not overtaken by one or more of these tornadoes95 that send us out of the course, and fling us on rocks to shelter as best we may?
When Lady Castlewood found that her great ship had gone down, she began as best she might after she had rallied from the effects of the loss, to put out small ventures of happiness; and hope for little gains and returns, as a merchant on ‘Change, indocilis pauperiem pati, having lost his thousands, embarks96 a few guineas upon the next ship. She laid out her all upon her children, indulging them beyond all measure, as was inevitable97 with one of her kindness of disposition98; giving all her thoughts to their welfare — learning, that she might teach them; and improving her own many natural gifts and feminine accomplishments99, that she might impart them to her young ones. To be doing good for some one else, is the life of most good women. They are exuberant100 of kindness, as it were, and must impart it to some one. She made herself a good scholar of French, Italian, and Latin, having been grounded in these by her father in her youth; hiding these gifts from her husband out of fear, perhaps, that they should offend him, for my lord was no bookman — pish’d and psha’d at the notion of learned ladies, and would have been angry that his wife could construe101 out of a Latin book of which he could scarce understand two words. Young Esmond was usher4, or house tutor, under her or over her, as it might happen. During my lord’s many absences, these school-days would go on uninterruptedly: the mother and daughter learning with surprising quickness; the latter by fits and starts only, and as suited her wayward humor. As for the little lord, it must be owned that he took after his father in the matter of learning — liked marbles and play, and the great horse and the little one which his father brought him, and on which he took him out a-hunting, a great deal better than Corderius and Lily; marshalled the village boys, and had a little court of them, already flogging them, and domineering over them with a fine imperious spirit, that made his father laugh when he beheld102 it, and his mother fondly warn him. The cook had a son, the woodman had two, the big lad at the porter’s lodge103 took his cuffs104 and his orders. Doctor Tusher said he was a young nobleman of gallant105 spirit; and Harry Esmond, who was his tutor, and eight years his little lordship’s senior, had hard work sometimes to keep his own temper, and hold his authority over his rebellious106 little chief and kinsman107.
In a couple of years after that calamity had befallen which had robbed Lady Castlewood of a little — a very little — of her beauty, and her careless husband’s heart (if the truth must be told, my lady had found not only that her reign was over, but that her successor was appointed, a Princess of a noble house in Drury Lane somewhere, who was installed and visited by my lord at the town eight miles off — pudet haec opprobria dicere nobis)— a great change had taken place in her mind, which, by struggles only known to herself, at least never mentioned to any one, and unsuspected by the person who caused the pain she endured — had been schooled into such a condition as she could not very likely have imagined possible a score of months since, before her misfortunes had begun.
She had oldened in that time as people do who suffer silently great mental pain; and learned much that she had never suspected before. She was taught by that bitter teacher Misfortune. A child the mother of other children, but two years back her lord was a god to her; his words her law; his smile her sunshine; his lazy commonplaces listened to eagerly, as if they were words of wisdom — all his wishes and freaks obeyed with a servile devotion. She had been my lord’s chief slave and blind worshipper. Some women bear farther than this, and submit not only to neglect but to unfaithfulness too — but here this lady’s allegiance had failed her. Her spirit rebelled, and disowned any more obedience108. First she had to bear in secret the passion of losing the adored object; then to get further initiation109, and to find this worshipped being was but a clumsy idol110: then to admit the silent truth, that it was she was superior, and not the monarch111 her master: that she had thoughts which his brains could never master, and was the better of the two; quite separate from my lord although tied to him, and bound, as almost all people (save a very happy few), to work all her life alone. My lord sat in his chair, laughing his laugh, cracking his joke, his face flushing with wine — my lady in her place over against him — he never suspecting that his superior was there, in the calm resigned lady, cold of manner, with downcast eyes. When he was merry in his cups, he would make jokes about her coldness, and, “D—— it, now my lady is gone, we will have t’other bottle,” he would say. He was frank enough in telling his thoughts, such as they were. There was little mystery about my lord’s words or actions. His Fair Rosamond did not live in a Labyrinth112, like the lady of Mr. Addison’s opera, but paraded with painted cheeks and a tipsy retinue113 in the country town. Had she a mind to be revenged, Lady Castlewood could have found the way to her rival’s house easily enough; and, if she had come with bowl and dagger114, would have been routed off the ground by the enemy with a volley of Billingsgate, which the fair person always kept by her.
Meanwhile, it has been said, that for Harry Esmond his benefactress’s sweet face had lost none of its charms. It had always the kindest of looks and smiles for him — smiles, not so gay and artless perhaps as those which Lady Castlewood had formerly worn, when, a child herself, playing with her children, her husband’s pleasure and authority were all she thought of; but out of her griefs and cares, as will happen I think when these trials fall upon a kindly heart, and are not too unbearable115, grew up a number of thoughts and excellences116 which had never come into existence, had not her sorrow and misfortunes engendered117 them. Sure, occasion is the father of most that is good in us. As you have seen the awkward fingers and clumsy tools of a prisoner cut and fashion the most delicate little pieces of carved work; or achieve the most prodigious118 underground labors119, and cut through walls of masonry120, and saw iron bars and fetters121; ’tis misfortune that awakens122 ingenuity123, or fortitude124, or endurance, in hearts where these qualities had never come to life but for the circumstance which gave them a being.
“’Twas after Jason left her, no doubt,” Lady Castlewood once said with one of her smiles to young Esmond (who was reading to her a version of certain lines out of Euripides), “that Medea became a learned woman and a great enchantress.”
“And she could conjure125 the stars out of heaven,” the young tutor added, “but she could not bring Jason back again.”
“What do you mean?” asked my lady, very angry.
“Indeed I mean nothing,” said the other, “save what I’ve read in books. What should I know about such matters? I have seen no woman save you and little Beatrix, and the parson’s wife and my late mistress, and your ladyship’s woman here.”
“The men who wrote your books,” says my lady, “your Horaces, and Ovids, and Virgils, as far as I know of them, all thought ill of us, as all the heroes they wrote about used us basely. We were bred to be slaves always; and even of our own times, as you are still the only lawgivers, I think our sermons seem to say that the best woman is she who bears her master’s chains most gracefully126. ’Tis a pity there are no nunneries permitted by our church: Beatrix and I would fly to one, and end our days in peace there away from you.”
“And is there no slavery in a convent?” says Esmond.
“At least if women are slaves there, no one sees them,” answered the lady. “They don’t work in street gangs with the public to jeer127 them: and if they suffer, suffer in private. Here comes my lord home from hunting. Take away the books. My lord does not love to see them. Lessons are over for today, Mr. Tutor.” And with a curtsy and a smile she would end this sort of colloquy128.
Indeed “Mr. Tutor,” as my lady called Esmond, had now business enough on his hands in Castlewood house. He had three pupils, his lady and her two children, at whose lessons she would always be present; besides writing my lord’s letters, and arranging his accompts for him — when these could be got from Esmond’s indolent patron.
Of the pupils the two young people were but lazy scholars, and as my lady would admit no discipline such as was then in use, my lord’s son only learned what he liked, which was but little, and never to his life’s end could be got to construe more than six lines of Virgil. Mistress Beatrix chattered129 French prettily130, from a very early age; and sang sweetly, but this was from her mother’s teaching — not Harry Esmond’s, who could scarce distinguish between “Green Sleeves” and “Lillibullero;” although he had no greater delight in life than to hear the ladies sing. He sees them now (will he ever forget them?) as they used to sit together of the summer evenings — the two golden heads over the page — the child’s little hand, and the mother’s beating the time, with their voices rising and falling in unison131.
But if the children were careless, ’twas a wonder how eagerly the mother learnt from her young tutor — and taught him too. The happiest instinctive132 faculty133 was this lady’s — a faculty for discerning latent beauties and hidden graces of books, especially books of poetry, as in a walk she would spy out field-flowers and make posies of them, such as no other hand could. She was a critic, not by reason but by feeling; the sweetest commentator134 of those books they read together; and the happiest hours of young Esmond’s life, perhaps, were those passed in the company of this kind mistress and her children.
These happy days were to end soon, however; and it was by the Lady Castlewood’s own decree that they were brought to a conclusion. It happened about Christmas-time, Harry Esmond being now past sixteen years of age, that his old comrade, adversary135, and friend, Tom Tusher, returned from his school in London, a fair, well-grown, and sturdy lad, who was about to enter college, with an exhibition from his school, and a prospect136 of after promotion137 in the church. Tom Tusher’s talk was of nothing but Cambridge now; and the boys, who were good friends, examined each other eagerly about their progress in books. Tom had learned some Greek and Hebrew, besides Latin, in which he was pretty well skilled, and also had given himself to mathematical studies under his father’s guidance, who was a proficient138 in those sciences, of which Esmond knew nothing; nor could he write Latin so well as Tom, though he could talk it better, having been taught by his dear friend the Jesuit Father, for whose memory the lad ever retained the warmest affection, reading his books, keeping his swords clean in the little crypt where the Father had shown them to Esmond on the night of his visit; and often of a night sitting in the chaplain’s room, which he inhabited, over his books, his verses, and rubbish, with which the lad occupied himself, he would look up at the window, thinking he wished it might open and let in the good Father. He had come and passed away like a dream; but for the swords and books Harry might almost think the Father was an imagination of his mind — and for two letters which had come to him, one from abroad, full of advice and affection, another soon after he had been confirmed by the Bishop139 of Hexton, in which Father Holt deplored140 his falling away. But Harry Esmond felt so confident now of his being in the right, and of his own powers as a casuist, that he thought he was able to face the Father himself in argument, and possibly convert him.
To work upon the faith of her young pupil, Esmond’s kind mistress sent to the library of her father the Dean, who had been distinguished141 in the disputes of the late king’s reign; and, an old soldier now, had hung up his weapons of controversy142. These he took down from his shelves willingly for young Esmond, whom he benefited by his own personal advice and instruction. It did not require much persuasion143 to induce the boy to worship with his beloved mistress. And the good old nonjuring Dean flattered himself with a conversion144 which, in truth, was owing to a much gentler and fairer persuader.
Under her ladyship’s kind eyes (my lord’s being sealed in sleep pretty generally), Esmond read many volumes of the works of the famous British Divines of the last age, and was familiar with Wake and Sherlock, with Stillingfleet and Patrick. His mistress never tired to listen or to read, to pursue the texts with fond comments, to urge those points which her fancy dwelt on most, or her reason deemed most important. Since the death of her father the Dean, this lady hath admitted a certain latitude145 of theological reading which her orthodox father would never have allowed; his favorite writers appealing more to reason and antiquity146 than to the passions or imaginations of their readers, so that the works of Bishop Taylor, nay147, those of Mr. Baxter and Mr. Law, have in reality found more favor with my Lady Castlewood than the severer volumes of our great English schoolmen.
In later life, at the University, Esmond reopened the controversy, and pursued it in a very different manner, when his patrons had determined148 for him that he was to embrace the ecclesiastical life. But though his mistress’s heart was in this calling, his own never was much. After that first fervor149 of simple devotion, which his beloved Jesuit priest had inspired in him, speculative150 theology took but little hold upon the young man’s mind. When his early credulity was disturbed, and his saints and virgins151 taken out of his worship, to rank little higher than the divinities of Olympus, his belief became acquiescence152 rather than ardor153; and he made his mind up to assume the cassock and bands, as another man does to wear a breastplate and jack-boots, or to mount a merchant’s desk, for a livelihood154, and from obedience and necessity, rather than from choice. There were scores of such men in Mr. Esmond’s time at the universities, who were going to the church with no better calling than his.
When Thomas Tusher was gone, a feeling of no small depression and disquiet155 fell upon young Esmond, of which, though he did not complain, his kind mistress must have divined the cause: for soon after she showed not only that she understood the reason of Harry’s melancholy156, but could provide a remedy for it. Her habit was thus to watch, unobservedly, those to whom duty or affection bound her, and to prevent their designs, or to fulfil them, when she had the power. It was this lady’s disposition to think kindnesses, and devise silent bounties157 and to scheme benevolence158, for those about her. We take such goodness, for the most part, as if it was our due; the Marys who bring ointment159 for our feet get but little thanks. Some of us never feel this devotion at all, or are moved by it to gratitude160 or acknowledgment; others only recall it years after, when the days are past in which those sweet kindnesses were spent on us, and we offer back our return for the debt by a poor tardy161 payment of tears. Then forgotten tones of love recur162 to us, and kind glances shine out of the past — oh so bright and clear!— oh so longed after!— because they are out of reach; as holiday music from withinside a prison wall — or sunshine seen through the bars; more prized because unattainable — more bright because of the contrast of present darkness and solitude163, whence there is no escape.
All the notice, then, which Lady Castlewood seemed to take of Harry Esmond’s melancholy, upon Tom Tusher’s departure, was, by a gayety unusual to her, to attempt to dispel164 his gloom. She made his three scholars (herself being the chief one) more cheerful than ever they had been before, and more docile165, too, all of them learning and reading much more than they had been accustomed to do. “For who knows,” said the lady, “what may happen, and whether we may be able to keep such a learned tutor long?”
Frank Esmond said he for his part did not want to learn any more, and cousin Harry might shut up his book whenever he liked, if he would come out a-fishing; and little Beatrix declared she would send for Tom Tusher, and HE would be glad enough to come to Castlewood, if Harry chose to go away.
At last comes a messenger from Winchester one day, bearer of a letter, with a great black seal, from the Dean there, to say that his sister was dead, and had left her fortune of 2,000L. among her six nieces, the Dean’s daughters; and many a time since has Harry Esmond recalled the flushed face and eager look wherewith, after this intelligence, his kind lady regarded him. She did not pretend to any grief about the deceased relative, from whom she and her family had been many years parted.
When my lord heard of the news, he also did not make any very long face. “The money will come very handy to furnish the music-room and the cellar, which is getting low, and buy your ladyship a coach and a couple of horses that will do indifferent to ride or for the coach. And, Beatrix, you shall have a spinnet: and, Frank, you shall have a little horse from Hexton Fair; and, Harry, you shall have five pounds to buy some books,” said my lord, who was generous with his own, and indeed with other folk’s money. “I wish your aunt would die once a year, Rachel; we could spend your money, and all your sisters’, too.”
“I have but one aunt — and — and I have another use for the money, my lord,” says my lady, turning very red.
“Another use, my dear; and what do you know about money?” cries my lord. “And what the devil is there that I don’t give you which you want!”
“I intend to give this money — can’t you fancy how, my lord?”
My lord swore one of his large oaths that he did not know in the least what she meant.
“I intend it for Harry Esmond to go to college. Cousin Harry,” says my lady, “you mustn’t stay longer in this dull place, but make a name to yourself, and for us too, Harry.”
“D— n it, Harry’s well enough here,” says my lord, for a moment looking rather sulky.
“Is Harry going away? You don’t mean to say you will go away?” cry out Frank and Beatrix at one breath.
“But he will come back: and this will always be his home,” cries my lady, with blue eyes looking a celestial166 kindness: “and his scholars will always love him; won’t they?”
“By G-d, Rachel, you’re a good woman!” says my lord, seizing my lady’s hand, at which she blushed very much, and shrank back, putting her children before her. “I wish you joy, my kinsman,” he continued, giving Harry Esmond a hearty167 slap on the shoulder. “I won’t balk168 your luck. Go to Cambridge, boy, and when Tusher dies you shall have the living here, if you are not better provided by that time. We’ll furnish the dining-room and buy the horses another year. I’ll give thee a nag169 out of the stable: take any one except my hack51 and the bay gelding and the coach-horses; and God speed thee, my boy!”
“Have the sorrel, Harry; ’tis a good one. Father says ’tis the best in the stable,” says little Frank, clapping his hands, and jumping up. “Let’s come and see him in the stable.” And the other, in his delight and eagerness, was for leaving the room that instant to arrange about his journey.
The Lady Castlewood looked after him with sad penetrating170 glances. “He wishes to be gone already, my lord,” said she to her husband.
The young man hung back abashed171. “Indeed, I would stay for ever, if your ladyship bade me,” he said.
“And thou wouldst be a fool for thy pains, kinsman,” said my lord. “Tut, tut, man. Go and see the world. Sow thy wild oats; and take the best luck that Fate sends thee. I wish I were a boy again, that I might go to college, and taste the Trumpington ale.”
“Ours, indeed, is but a dull home,” cries my lady, with a little of sadness and, maybe, of satire172, in her voice: “an old glum house, half ruined, and the rest only half furnished; a woman and two children are but poor company for men that are accustomed to better. We are only fit to be your worship’s handmaids, and your pleasures must of necessity lie elsewhere than at home.”
“Curse me, Rachel, if I know now whether thou art in earnest or not,” said my lord.
“In earnest, my lord!” says she, still clinging by one of her children. “Is there much subject here for joke?” And she made him a grand curtsy, and, giving a stately look to Harry Esmond, which seemed to say, “Remember; you understand me, though he does not,” she left the room with her children.
“Since she found out that confounded Hexton business,” my lord said —“and be hanged to them that told her!— she has not been the same woman. She, who used to be as humble173 as a milkmaid, is as proud as a princess,” says my lord. “Take my counsel, Harry Esmond, and keep clear of women. Since I have had anything to do with the jades174, they have given me nothing but disgust. I had a wife at Tangier, with whom, as she couldn’t speak a word of my language, you’d have thought I might lead a quiet life. But she tried to poison me, because she was jealous of a Jew girl. There was your aunt, for aunt she is — aunt Jezebel, a pretty life your father led with HER! and here’s my lady. When I saw her on a pillion, riding behind the Dean her father, she looked and was such a baby, that a sixpenny doll might have pleased her. And now you see what she is — hands off, highty-tighty, high and mighty175, an empress couldn’t be grander. Pass us the tankard, Harry my boy. A mug of beer and a toast at morn, says my host. A toast and a mug of beer at noon, says my dear. D— n it, Polly loves a mug of ale, too, and laced with brandy, by Jove!” Indeed, I suppose they drank it together; for my lord was often thick in his speech at mid-day dinner; and at night at supper, speechless altogether.
Harry Esmond’s departure resolved upon, it seemed as if the Lady Castlewood, too, rejoiced to lose him; for more than once, when the lad, ashamed perhaps at his own secret eagerness to go away (at any rate stricken with sadness at the idea of leaving those from whom he had received so many proofs of love and kindness inestimable), tried to express to his mistress his sense of gratitude to her, and his sorrow at quitting those who had so sheltered and tended a nameless and houseless orphan176, Lady Castlewood cut short his protests of love and his lamentations, and would hear of no grief, but only look forward to Harry’s fame and prospects177 in life. “Our little legacy178 will keep you for four years like a gentleman. Heaven’s Providence, your own genius, industry, honor, must do the rest for you. Castlewood will always be a home for you; and these children, whom you have taught and loved, will not forget to love you. And, Harry,” said she (and this was the only time when she spoke with a tear in her eye, or a tremor179 in her voice), “it may happen in the course of nature that I shall be called away from them: and their father — and — and they will need true friends and protectors. Promise me that you will be true to them — as — as I think I have been to you — and a mother’s fond prayer and blessing180 go with you.”
“So help me God, madam, I will,” said Harry Esmond, falling on his knees, and kissing the hand of his dearest mistress. “If you will have me stay now, I will. What matters whether or no I make my way in life, or whether a poor bastard181 dies as unknown as he is now? ’Tis enough that I have your love and kindness surely; and to make you happy is duty enough for me.”
“Happy!” says she; “but indeed I ought to be, with my children, and —”
“Not happy!” cried Esmond (for he knew what her life was, though he and his mistress never spoke a word concerning it). “If not happiness, it may be ease. Let me stay and work for you — let me stay and be your servant.”
“Indeed, you are best away,” said my lady, laughing, as she put her hand on the boy’s head for a moment. “You shall stay in no such dull place. You shall go to college and distinguish yourself as becomes your name. That is how you shall please me best; and — and if my children want you, or I want you, you shall come to us; and I know we may count on you.”
“May heaven forsake84 me if you may not!” Harry said, getting up from his knee.
“And my knight182 longs for a dragon this instant that he may fight,” said my lady, laughing; which speech made Harry Esmond start, and turn red; for indeed the very thought was in his mind, that he would like that some chance should immediately happen whereby he might show his devotion. And it pleased him to think that his lady had called him “her knight,” and often and often he recalled this to his mind, and prayed that he might be her true knight, too.
My lady’s bed-chamber window looked out over the country, and you could see from it the purple hills beyond Castlewood village, the green common betwixt that and the Hall, and the old bridge which crossed over the river. When Harry Esmond went away for Cambridge, little Frank ran alongside his horse as far as the bridge, and there Harry stopped for a moment, and looked back at the house where the best part of his life had been passed. It lay before him with its gray familiar towers, a pinnacle183 or two shining in the sun, the buttresses184 and terrace walls casting great blue shades on the grass. And Harry remembered, all his life after, how he saw his mistress at the window looking out on him in a white robe, the little Beatrix’s chestnut curls resting at her mother’s side. Both waved a farewell to him, and little Frank sobbed185 to leave him. Yes, he WOULD be his lady’s true knight, he vowed in his heart; he waved her an adieu with his hat. The village people had Good-by to say to him too. All knew that Master Harry was going to college, and most of them had a kind word and a look of farewell. I do not stop to say what adventures he began to imagine, or what career to devise for himself before he had ridden three miles from home. He had not read Monsieur Galland’s ingenious Arabian tales as yet; but be sure that there are other folks who build castles in the air, and have fine hopes, and kick them down too, besides honest Alnaschar.
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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gnat
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| v.对小事斤斤计较，琐事 | |
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chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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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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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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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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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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sputters
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| n.喷溅声( sputter的名词复数 )；劈啪声；急语；咕哝v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的第三人称单数 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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84
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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86
upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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87
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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88
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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89
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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90
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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91
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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92
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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93
steers
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| n.阉公牛，肉用公牛( steer的名词复数 )v.驾驶( steer的第三人称单数 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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94
stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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95
tornadoes
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| n.龙卷风，旋风( tornado的名词复数 ) | |
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96
embarks
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| 乘船( embark的第三人称单数 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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97
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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98
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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99
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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100
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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101
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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102
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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103
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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104
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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105
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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106
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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107
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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108
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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109
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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110
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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111
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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112
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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113
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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114
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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115
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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116
excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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117
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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119
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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120
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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121
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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122
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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123
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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124
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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125
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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126
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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127
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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128
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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129
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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130
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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131
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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132
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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133
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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134
commentator
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| n.注释者，解说者；实况广播评论员 | |
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135
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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136
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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137
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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138
proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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139
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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140
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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142
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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143
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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144
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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145
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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146
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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147
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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148
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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149
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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150
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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151
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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152
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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153
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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154
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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155
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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156
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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157
bounties
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| （由政府提供的）奖金( bounty的名词复数 )； 赏金； 慷慨； 大方 | |
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158
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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159
ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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160
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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161
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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162
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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163
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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164
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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165
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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166
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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167
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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168
balk
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| n.大方木料；v.妨碍；不愿前进或从事某事 | |
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169
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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170
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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171
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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173
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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174
jades
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| n.玉，翡翠（jade的复数形式）v.（使）疲（jade的第三人称单数形式） | |
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175
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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176
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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177
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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178
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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179
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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180
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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181
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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182
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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183
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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184
buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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185
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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