Part 8 (1/2)
”We are not in a popish country; and a sick man doth not absolutely need absolution and confession,” said the Doctor. ”'Tis true they are a comfort and a help to him when attainable, and to be administered with hope of good. But in a case where the life of a parish priest in the midst of his flock is highly valuable to them, he is not called upon to risk it (and therewith the lives, future prospects, and temporal, even spiritual welfare of his own family) for the sake of a single person, who is not very likely in a condition even to understand the religious message whereof the priest is the bringer--being uneducated, and likewise stupefied or delirious by disease. If your ladys.h.i.+p or his lords.h.i.+p, my excellent good friend and patron, were to take it ...”
”G.o.d forbid!” cried my lord.
”Amen,” continued Dr. Tusher. ”Amen to that prayer, my very good lord!
for your sake I would lay my life down”--and, to judge from the alarmed look of the Doctor's purple face, you would have thought that that sacrifice was about to be called for instantly.
To love children, and be gentle with them, was an instinct, rather than a merit, in Henry Esmond; so much so, that he thought almost with a sort of shame of his liking for them, and of the softness into which it betrayed him; and on this day the poor fellow had not only had his young friend, the milkmaid's brother, on his knee, but had been drawing pictures and telling stories to the little Frank Castlewood, who had occupied the same place for an hour after dinner, and was never tired of Henry's tales, and his pictures of soldiers and horses. As luck would have it, Beatrix had not on that evening taken her usual place, which generally she was glad enough to have, upon her tutor's lap. For Beatrix, from the earliest time, was jealous of every caress which was given to her little brother Frank. She would fling away even from the maternal arms, if she saw Frank had been there before her; insomuch that Lady Esmond was obliged not to show her love for her son in the presence of the little girl, and embraced one or the other alone. She would turn pale and red with rage if she caught signs of intelligence or affection between Frank and his mother: would sit apart, and not speak for a whole night, if she thought the boy had a better fruit or a larger cake than hers; would fling away a ribbon if he had one; and from the earliest age, sitting up in her little chair by the great fireplace opposite to the corner where Lady Castlewood commonly sat at her embroidery, would utter infantine sarcasms about the favor shown to her brother. These, if spoken in the presence of Lord Castlewood, tickled and amused his humor; he would pretend to love Frank best, and dandle and kiss him, and roar with laughter at Beatrix's jealousy. But the truth is, my lord did not often witness these scenes, nor very much trouble the quiet fireside at which his lady pa.s.sed many long evenings. My lord was hunting all day when the season admitted; he frequented all the c.o.c.k-fights and fairs in the country, and would ride twenty miles to see a main fought, or two clowns break their heads at a cudgelling-match; and he liked better to sit in his parlor drinking ale and punch with Jack and Tom, than in his wife's drawing-room: whither, if he came, he brought only too often bloodshot eyes, a hiccupping voice, and a reeling gait. The management of the house, and the property, the care of the few tenants and the village poor, and the accounts of the estate, were in the hands of his lady and her young secretary, Harry Esmond. My lord took charge of the stables, the kennel, and the cellar--and he filled this and emptied it too.
So it chanced that upon this very day, when poor Harry Esmond had had the blacksmith's son, and the peer's son, alike upon his knee, little Beatrix, who would come to her tutor willingly enough with her book and her writing, had refused him, seeing the place occupied by her brother, and, luckily for her, had sat at the further end of the room, away from him, playing with a spaniel dog which she had, (and for which, by fits and starts, she would take a great affection,) and talking at Harry Esmond over her shoulder, as she pretended to caress the dog, saying that Fido would love her, and she would love Fido, and nothing but Fido all her life.
When, then, the news was brought that the little boy at the ”Three Castles” was ill with the small-pox, poor Harry Esmond felt a shock of alarm, not so much for himself as for his mistress's son, whom he might have brought into peril. Beatrix, who had pouted sufficiently, (and who, whenever a stranger appeared, began, from infancy almost, to play off little graces to catch his attention,) her brother being now gone to bed, was for taking her place upon Esmond's knee: for, though the Doctor was very obsequious to her, she did not like him, because he had thick boots and dirty hands (the pert young miss said), and because she hated learning the catechism.
But as she advanced towards Esmond from the corner where she had been sulking, he started back and placed the great chair on which he was sitting between him and her--saying in the French language to Lady Castlewood, with whom the young lad had read much, and whom he had perfected in this tongue--”Madam, the child must not approach me; I must tell you that I was at the blacksmith's to-day, and had his little boy upon my lap.”
”Where you took my son afterwards,” Lady Castlewood said, very angry, and turning red. ”I thank you, sir, for giving him such company.
Beatrix,” she said in English, ”I forbid you to touch Mr. Esmond. Come away, child--come to your room. Come to your room--I wish your Reverence good-night--and you, sir, had you not better go back to your friends at the ale-house?” her eyes, ordinarily so kind, darted flashes of anger as she spoke; and she tossed up her head (which hung down commonly) with the mien of a princess.
”Hey-day!” says my lord, who was standing by the fireplace--indeed he was in the position to which he generally came by that hour of the evening--”Hey-day! Rachel, what are you in a pa.s.sion about? Ladies ought never to be in a pa.s.sion. Ought they, Doctor Tusher? though it does good to see Rachel in a pa.s.sion--Damme, Lady Castlewood, you look dev'lish handsome in a pa.s.sion.”
”It is, my lord, because Mr. Henry Esmond, having nothing to do with his time here, and not having a taste for our company, has been to the ale-house, where he has SOME FRIENDS.”
My lord burst out, with a laugh and an oath--”You young slyboots, you've been at Nancy Sievewright. D--- the young hypocrite, who'd have thought it in him? I say, Tusher, he's been after--”
”Enough, my lord,” said my lady, ”don't insult me with this talk.”
”Upon my word,” said poor Harry, ready to cry with shame and mortification, ”the honor of that young person is perfectly unstained for me.”
”Oh, of course, of course,” says my lord, more and more laughing and tipsy. ”Upon his HONOR, Doctor--Nancy Sieve-- ...”
”Take Mistress Beatrix to bed,” my lady cried at this moment to Mrs.
Tucker her woman, who came in with her ladys.h.i.+p'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 ladys.h.i.+p'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-humor, raised up his young client from his kneeling posture (for a thousand kindnesses had caused the lad to revere my lord 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 p.r.o.nounced 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.