Henry Esmond; The English Humourists; The Four Georges

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  Chapter VIII. After Good Fortune Comes Evil

  Since my Lady Mary Wortley Montagu brought home the custom of inoculationfrom Turkey (a perilous practice many deem it, and only a useless rushinginto the jaws of danger), I think the severity of the small-pox, thatdreadful scourge of the world, has somewhat been abated in our part of it;and remembering in my time hundreds of the young and beautiful who havebeen carried to the grave, or have only risen from their pillowsfrightfully scarred and disfigured by this malady. Many a sweet face hathleft its roses on the bed, on which this dreadful and withering blight haslaid them. In my early days this pestilence would enter a village anddestroy half its inhabitants: at its approach it may well be imagined notonly the beautiful but the strongest were alarmed, and those fled whocould. One day in the year 1694 (I have good reason to remember it),Doctor Tusher ran into Castlewood House, with a face of consternation,saying that the malady had made its appearance at the blacksmith's housein the village, and that one of the maids there was down in the small-pox.

  The blacksmith, beside his forge and irons for horses, had an alehouse formen, which his wife kept, and his company sat on benches before the inndoor, looking at the smithy while they drank their beer. Now, there was apretty girl at this inn, the landlord's men called Nancy Sievewright, abouncing fresh-looking lass, whose face was as red as the hollyhocks overthe pales of the garden behind the inn. At this time Harry Esmond was alad of sixteen, and somehow in his walks and rambles it often happenedthat he fell in with Nancy Sievewright's bonny face; if he did not wantsomething done at the blacksmith's he would go and drink ale at the "ThreeCastles", or find some pretext for seeing this poor Nancy. Poor thing,Harry meant or imagined no harm; and she, no doubt, as little, but thetruth is they were always meeting--in the lanes, or by the brook, or at thegarden-palings, or about Castlewood: it was, "Lord, Mr. Henry!" and "Howdo you do, Nancy?" many and many a time in the week. 'Tis surprising themagnetic attraction which draws people together from ever so far. I blushas I think of poor Nancy now, in a red bodice and buxom purple cheeks anda canvas petticoat; and that I devised schemes, and set traps, and madespeeches in my heart, which I seldom had courage to say when in presenceof that humble enchantress, who knew nothing beyond milking a cow, andopened her black eyes with wonder when I made one of my fine speeches outof Waller or Ovid. Poor Nancy! from the mist of far-off years thine honestcountry face beams out; and I remember thy kind voice as if I had heard ityesterday.

  When Doctor Tusher brought the news that the small-pox was at the "ThreeCastles", whither a tramper, it was said, had brought the malady, HenryEsmond's first thought was of alarm for poor Nancy, and then of shame anddisquiet for the Castlewood family, lest he might have brought thisinfection; for the truth is that Mr. Harry had been sitting in a back roomfor an hour that day, where Nancy Sievewright was with a little brotherwho complained of headache, and was lying stupefied and crying, either ina chair by the corner of the fire, or in Nancy's lap, or on mine.

  Little Lady Beatrix screamed out at Dr. Tusher's news; and my lord criedout, "God bless me!" He was a brave man, and not afraid of death in anyshape but this. He was very proud of his pink complexion and fair hair--butthe idea of death by small-pox scared him beyond all other ends. "We willtake the children and ride away to-morrow to Walcote:" this was my lord'ssmall house, inherited from his mother, near to Winchester.

  "That is the best refuge in case the disease spreads," said Dr. Tusher."'Tis awful to think of it beginning at the alehouse. Half the people ofthe village have visited that to-day, or the blacksmith's, which is thesame thing. My clerk Simons lodges with them--I can never go into myreading-desk and have that fellow so near me. I won't have that man nearme."

  "If a parishioner dying in the small-pox sent to you, would you not go?"asked my lady, looking up from her frame of work, with her calm blue eyes.

  "By the Lord, _I_ wouldn't," said my lord.

  "We are not in a Popish country: and a sick man doth not absolutely needabsolution and confession," said the doctor. "'Tis true they are a comfortand a help to him when attainable, and to be administered with hope ofgood. But in a case where the life of a parish priest in the midst of hisflock is highly valuable to them, he is not called upon to risk it (andtherewith the lives, future prospects, and temporal, even spiritualwelfare of his own family) for the sake of a single person, who is notvery likely in a condition even to understand the religious messagewhereof the priest is the bringer--being uneducated, and likewise stupefiedor delirious by disease. If your ladyship or his lordship, my excellentgood friend and patron, were to take it----"

  "God forbid!" cried my lord.

  "Amen," continued Dr. Tusher. "Amen to that prayer, my very good lord! foryour sake I would lay my life down"--and, to judge from the alarmed look ofthe doctor's purple face, you would have thought that that sacrifice wasabout to be called for instantly.

  To love children, and be gentle with them, was an instinct, rather than amerit, in Henry Esmond, so much so, that he thought almost with a sort ofshame of his liking for them, and of the softness into which it betrayedhim; 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, andtelling stories to the little Frank Esmond, who had occupied the sameplace for an hour after dinner, and was never tired of Henry's tales, andhis pictures of soldiers and horses. As luck would have it, Beatrix hadnot on that evening taken her usual place, which generally she was gladenough 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 hadbeen there before her; insomuch that Lady Castlewood was obliged not toshow her love for her son in the presence of the little girl, and embraceone or the other alone. She would turn pale and red with rage if shecaught signs of intelligence or affection between Frank and his mother;would sit apart, and not speak for a whole night, if she thought the boyhad a better fruit or a larger cake than hers; would fling away a ribbonif he had one; and from the earliest age, sitting up in her little chairby the great fireplace opposite to the corner where Lady Castlewoodcommonly sat at her embroidery, would utter infantine sarcasms about thefavour shown to her brother. These, if spoken in the presence of LordCastlewood, tickled and amused his humour; he would pretend to love Frankbest, and dandle and kiss him, and roar with laughter at Beatrix'sjealousy. But the truth is, my lord did not often witness these scenes,nor very much trouble the quiet fireside at which his lady passed manylong evenings. My lord was hunting all day when the season admitted; hefrequented all the cockfights and fairs in the country, and would ridetwenty miles to see a main fought, or two clowns break their heads at acudgelling match; and he liked better to sit in his parlour drinking aleand punch with Jack and Tom, than in his wife's drawing-room: whither, ifhe came, he brought only too often bloodshot eyes, a hiccuping voice, anda reeling gait. The management of the house and the property, the care ofthe few tenants and the village poor, and the accounts of the estate, werein the hands of his lady and her young secretary, Harry Esmond. My lordtook charge of the stables, the kennel, and the cellar--and he filled thisand emptied it too.

  So it chanced that upon this very day, when poor Harry Esmond had had theblacksmith'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 herwriting, 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 andstarts, she would take a great affection), and talking at Harry Esmondover her shoulder, as she pretended to caress the dog, saying, that Fidowould love her, and she would love Fido, and nothing but Fido, all herlife.

  When, then, the news was brought that the little boy at the "ThreeCastles" was ill with the small-pox, poor Harry Esmond felt a shock ofalarm, not so much for himself as for his mistress's son, whom he mighthave br
ought into peril. Beatrix, who had pouted sufficiently (and whowhenever a stranger appeared began, from infancy almost, to play offlittle 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 wasvery obsequious to her, she did not like him, because he had thick bootsand dirty hands (the pert young miss said), and because she hated learningthe catechism.

  But as she advanced towards Esmond from the corner where she had beensulking, he started back and placed the great chair on which he wassitting between him and her--saying in the French language to LadyCastlewood, with whom the young lad had read much, and whom he hadperfected in this tongue--"Madam, the child must not approach me; I musttell you that I was at the blacksmith's to-day, and had his little boyupon my lap."

  "Where you took my son afterwards," Lady Castlewood said, very angry, andturning red. "I thank you, sir, for giving him such company. Beatrix," shesaid in English, "I forbid you to touch Mr. Esmond. Come away, child--cometo 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 alehouse?" Hereyes, ordinarily so kind, darted flashes of anger as she spoke; and shetossed 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 wasin the position to which he generally came by that hour of theevening--"Hey-day! Rachel, what are you in a passion about? Ladies oughtnever to be in a passion. Ought they, Doctor Tusher? though it does goodto see Rachel in a passion--Damme, Lady Castlewood, you look dev'lishhandsome in a passion."

  "It is, my lord, because Mr. Henry Esmond, having nothing to do with histime here, and not having a taste for our company, has been to thealehouse, where he has _some friends_."

  My lord burst out with a laugh and an oath--"You young sly-boots, you'vebeen at Nancy Sievewright. D---- the young hypocrite, who'd have thought itin 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 andmortification, "the honour of that young person is perfectly unstained forme."

  "Oh, of course, of course," says my lord, more and more laughing andtipsy. "Upon his _honour_, doctor--Nancy Sieve----"

  "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 myroom--no, into yours," she added quickly. "Go, my child: go, I say: not aword!" And Beatrix, quite surprised at so sudden a tone of authority fromone who was seldom accustomed to raise her voice, went out of the roomwith a scared countenance and waited even to burst out a-crying, until shegot to the door with Mrs. Tucker.

  For once her mother took little heed of her sobbing, and continued tospeak eagerly--"My lord," she said, "this young man--your dependant--told mejust now in French--he was ashamed to speak in his own language--that he hadbeen at the ale-house all day, where he has had that little wretch who isnow ill of the small-pox on his knee. And he comes home reeking from thatplace--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 Iknow--killed our child. Why was he brought in to disgrace our house? Why ishe here? Let him go--let him go, I say, to-night, and pollute the place nomore."

  She had never once uttered a syllable of unkindness to Harry Esmond; andher cruel words smote the poor boy, so that he stood for some momentsbewildered with grief and rage at the injustice of such a stab from such ahand. He turned quite white from red, which he had been.

  "I cannot help my birth, madam," he said, "nor my other misfortune. And asfor your boy, if--if my coming nigh to him pollutes him now, it was not soalways. Good night, my lord. Heaven bless you and yours for your goodnessto 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 hisbenefactor 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----dungrateful, Rachel."

  Her reply was to burst into a flood of tears, and to quit the room with arapid glance at Harry Esmond. As my lord, not heeding them, and still ingreat good humour, raised up his young client from his kneeling posture(for a thousand kindnesses had caused the lad to revere my lord as afather), and put his broad hand on Harry Esmond's shoulder--

  "She was always so," my lord said; "the very notion of a woman drives hermad. I took to liquor on that very account, by Jove, for no other reasonthan 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 thehouse" (my lord pronounced all the wordstogether--just-look-at-the-maze-in-the-house: jever-see-such-maze?) "Youwouldn't take a wife out of Castlewood now, would you, doctor?" and mylord burst out laughing.

  The doctor, who had been looking at my Lord Castlewood from under hiseyelids, said, "But joking apart, and, my lord, as a divine, I cannottreat the subject in a jocular light, nor, as a pastor of thiscongregation, look with anything but sorrow at the idea of so very young asheep going astray."

  "Sir," said young Esmond, bursting out indignantly, "she told me that youyourself 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 thefalsehoods of an abandoned girl----"

  "She is as honest as any woman in England, and as pure for me," cried outHenry, "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 bemistaken 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 thesmall-pox broke out in the little boy at the 'Three Castles'; that it wason him when you visited the ale-house, for your _own_ reasons; and thatyou sat with the child for some time, and immediately afterwards with myyoung lord." The doctor raised his voice as he spoke, and looked towardsmy lady, who had now come back, looking very pale, with a handkerchief inher 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 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 HenryEsmond, took his hand. "I beg your pardon, Henry," she said; "I spoke veryunkindly. 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 droppedit.

  "There is no use, my lord," she said; "Frank was on his knee as he wasmaking pictures, and was running constantly from Henry to me. The evil isdone, if any."

  "Not with me, damme," cried my lord. "I've been smoking"--and he lightedhis pipe again with a coal--"and it keeps off infection; and as the diseaseis in the village--plague take it--I would have you leave it. We'll gotomorrow to Walcote, my lady."

  "I have no fear," said my lady; "I may have had it as an infant, it brokeout in our house then; and when four of my sisters had it at home, twoyears 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'llnot bear that."

  "Take Beatrix with you and go," said my lady. "For us the mischief isdone; and Tucker can wait upon us, who has had the disease."

  "You take care to choose 'em ugly enough," said my lord, at which herladyship hung down her head and looked foolish: and my lord, calling awayTusher, bade him come to the oak parlour and have a pipe. The doctor madea low bow to her ladyship (of which sala
ams he was profuse), and walkedoff on his creaking square-toes after his patron.

  When the lady and the young man were alone, there was a silence of somemoments, during which he stood at the fire, looking rather vacantly at thedying embers, whilst her ladyship busied herself with her tambour-frameand needles.

  "I am sorry," she said, after a pause, in a hard, dry voice,--"I _repeat_ Iam sorry that I showed myself so ungrateful for the safety of my son. Itwas not at all my wish that you should leave us, I am sure, unless youfound pleasure elsewhere. But you must perceive, Mr. Esmond, that at yourage, and with your tastes, it is impossible that you can continue to stayupon the intimate footing in which you have been in this family. You havewished to go to the University, and I think 'tis quite as well that youshould 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 havethought of treating you otherwise until--until these _circumstances_ cameto 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 fatherthanks for a little grounding, and you, I'm sure, for much that you havetaught me),--and--and I wish you a good night, Mr. Esmond."

  And with this she dropped a stately curtsy, and, taking her candle, wentaway through the tapestry door, which led to her apartments. Esmond stoodby the fireplace, blankly staring after her. Indeed, he scarce seemed tosee until she was gone; and then her image was impressed upon him, andremained for ever fixed upon his memory. He saw her retreating, the taperlighting up her marble face, her scarlet lip quivering, and her shininggolden hair. He went to his own room, and to bed, where he tried to read,as his custom was; but he never knew what he was reading until afterwardshe remembered the appearance of the letters of the book (it was inMontaigne's _Essays_), and the events of the day passed before him--thatis, of the last hour of the day; for as for the morning, and the poormilkmaid yonder, he never so much as once thought. And he could not get tosleep until daylight, and woke with a violent headache, and quiteunrefreshed.

  He had brought the contagion with him from the "Three Castles" sureenough, and was presently laid up with the small-pox, which spared theHall no more than it did the cottage.