Henry Esmond; The English Humourists; The Four Georges. William Makepeace Thackeray
that young person is perfectly unstained for me.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” says my lord, more and more laughing and tipsy. “Upon his honour, doctor—Nancy Sieve——”
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“Take Mistress Beatrix to bed,” my lady cried at this moment to Mrs. Tucker her woman, who came in with her ladyship's tea. “Put her into my room—no, into yours,” she added quickly. “Go, my child: go, I say: not a word!” And Beatrix, quite surprised at so sudden a tone of authority from one who was seldom accustomed to raise her voice, went out of the room with a scared countenance and waited even to burst out a-crying, until she got to the door with Mrs. Tucker.
For once her mother took little heed of her sobbing, and continued to speak eagerly—“My lord,” she said, “this young man—your dependant—told me just now in French—he was ashamed to speak in his own language—that he had been at the ale-house all day, where he has had that little wretch who is now ill of the small-pox on his knee. And he comes home reeking from that place—yes, reeking from it—and takes my boy into his lap without shame, and sits down by me, yes, by me. He may have killed Frank for what I know—killed our child. Why was he brought in to disgrace our house? Why is he here? Let him go—let him go, I say, to-night, and pollute the place no more.”
She had never once uttered a syllable of unkindness to Harry Esmond; and her cruel words smote the poor boy, so that he stood for some moments bewildered with grief and rage at the injustice of such a stab from such a hand. He turned quite white from red, which he had been.
“I cannot help my birth, madam,” he said, “nor my other misfortune. And as for your boy, if—if my coming nigh to him pollutes him now, it was not so always. Good night, my lord. Heaven bless you and yours for your goodness to me. I have tired her ladyship's kindness out, and I will go;” and, sinking down on his knee, Harry Esmond took the rough hand of his benefactor and kissed it.
“He wants to go to the ale-house—let him go,” cried my lady.
“I'm d——d if he shall,” said my lord. “I didn't think you could be so d——d ungrateful, Rachel.”
Her reply was to burst into a flood of tears, and to quit the room with a rapid glance at Harry Esmond. As my lord, not heeding them, and still in great good humour, raised up his young client from his kneeling posture (for a thousand kindnesses had caused the lad to revere my lord [pg 085] as a father), and put his broad hand on Harry Esmond's shoulder—
“She was always so,” my lord said; “the very notion of a woman drives her mad. I took to liquor on that very account, by Jove, for no other reason than that; for she can't be jealous of a beer-barrel or a bottle of rum, can she, doctor? D—— it, look at the maids—just look at the maids in the house” (my lord pronounced all the words together—just-look-at-the-maze-in-the-house: jever-see-such-maze?) “You wouldn't take a wife out of Castlewood now, would you, doctor?” and my lord burst out laughing.
The doctor, who had been looking at my Lord Castlewood from under his eyelids, said, “But joking apart, and, my lord, as a divine, I cannot treat the subject in a jocular light, nor, as a pastor of this congregation, look with anything but sorrow at the idea of so very young a sheep going astray.”
“Sir,” said young Esmond, bursting out indignantly, “she told me that you yourself were a horrid old man, and had offered to kiss her in the dairy.”
“For shame, Henry,” cried Doctor Tusher, turning as red as a turkey-cock, while my lord continued to roar with laughter. “If you listen to the falsehoods of an abandoned girl——”
“She is as honest as any woman in England, and as pure for me,” cried out Henry, “and as kind, and as good. For shame on you to malign her!”
“Far be it from me to do so,” cried the doctor. “Heaven grant I may be mistaken in the girl, and in you, sir, who have a truly precocious genius; but that is not the point at issue at present. It appears that the small-pox broke out in the little boy at the ‘Three Castles’; that it was on him when you visited the ale-house, for your own reasons; and that you sat with the child for some time, and immediately afterwards with my young lord.” The doctor raised his voice as he spoke, and looked towards my lady, who had now come back, looking very pale, with a handkerchief in her hand.
“This is all very true, sir,” said Lady Esmond, looking at the young man.
“'Tis to be feared that he may have brought the infection with him.”
“From the ale-house—yes,” said my lady.
“D—— it, I forgot when I collared you, boy,” cried my [pg 086] lord, stepping back. “Keep off, Harry, my boy; there's no good in running into the wolf's jaws, you know.”
My lady looked at him with some surprise, and instantly advancing to Henry Esmond, took his hand. “I beg your pardon, Henry,” she said; “I spoke very unkindly. I have no right to interfere with you—with your——”
My lord broke out into an oath. “Can't you leave the boy alone, my lady?” She looked a little red, and faintly pressed the lad's hand as she dropped it.
“There is no use, my lord,” she said; “Frank was on his knee as he was making pictures, and was running constantly from Henry to me. The evil is done, if any.”
“Not with me, damme,” cried my lord. “I've been smoking”—and he lighted his pipe again with a coal—“and it keeps off infection; and as the disease is in the village—plague take it—I would have you leave it. We'll go tomorrow to Walcote, my lady.”
“I have no fear,” said my lady; “I may have had it as an infant, it broke out in our house then; and when four of my sisters had it at home, two years before our marriage, I escaped it, and two of my dear sisters died.”
“I won't run the risk,” said my lord; “I'm as bold as any man, but I'll not bear that.”
“Take Beatrix with you and go,” said my lady. “For us the mischief is done; and Tucker can wait upon us, who has had the disease.”
“You take care to choose 'em ugly enough,” said my lord, at which her ladyship hung down her head and looked foolish: and my lord, calling away Tusher, bade him come to the oak parlour and have a pipe. The doctor made a low bow to her ladyship (of which salaams he was profuse), and walked off on his creaking square-toes after his patron.
When the lady and the young man were alone, there was a silence of some moments, during which he stood at the fire, looking rather vacantly at the dying embers, whilst her ladyship busied herself with her tambour-frame and needles.
“I am sorry,” she said, after a pause, in a hard, dry voice—“I repeat I am sorry that I showed myself so ungrateful for the safety of my son. It was not at all my wish that you should leave us, I am sure, unless you found pleasure elsewhere. But you must perceive, Mr. Esmond, that at your age, and with your tastes, it is impossible that you can [pg 087] continue to stay upon the intimate footing in which you have been in this family. You have wished to go to the University, and I think 'tis quite as well that you should be sent thither. I did not press this matter, thinking you a child, as you are, indeed, in years—quite a child; and I should never have thought of treating you otherwise until—until these circumstances came to light. And I shall beg my lord to dispatch you as quick as possible: and will go on with Frank's learning as well as I can (I owe my father thanks for a little grounding, and you, I'm sure, for much that you have taught me)—and—and I wish you a good night, Mr. Esmond.”
And with this she dropped a stately curtsy, and, taking her candle, went away through the tapestry door, which led to her apartments. Esmond stood by the fireplace, blankly staring after her. Indeed, he scarce seemed to see until she was gone; and then her image was impressed upon him, and remained for ever fixed upon his memory. He saw her retreating, the taper lighting up her marble face, her scarlet lip quivering, and her shining golden