Boys and girls from Thackeray.
by Kate d.i.c.kinson Sweetser.
PREFACE
William Makepeace Thackeray--the name is dear to all lovers of cla.s.sic fiction, who have wandered in enchanted lands, following the fortunes of Colonel Newcome, Becky Sharp, Henry Esmond, and a host of other familiar characters created by the great novelist.
To an unusual degree, Thackeray dwells on the childhood and youth of the characters he depicts, lingering fondly and in details over the pranks and pastimes, the school and college days of his heroes and heroines, as though he wished to call especial attention to the interest of that portion of their career.
That Thackeray has so emphasised his sketches of juvenile life, warrants the presentation of those sketches in this volume and as complete stories, without the adult intrigue and plot with which they are surrounded in the novels from which they are taken. The object in so presenting them is twofold: namely, to create an interest in Thackeray"s work among young readers to whom he has heretofore been unknown, and to form a companion volume to those already given such a hearty welcome--Boys and Girls from d.i.c.kens and George Eliot.
K.D.S.
NEW YORK, 1907.
BOYS AND GIRLS _from_ THACKERAY
HENRY ESMOND
[Ill.u.s.tration: HENRY ESMOND AND THE CASTLEWOODS.]
When Francis, fourth Viscount Castlewood, came to his t.i.tle, and, presently after, to take possession of his house of Castlewood, County Hants, in the year 1691, almost the only tenant of the place besides the domestics was a lad of twelve years of age, of whom no one seemed to take any note until my Lady Viscountess lighted upon him, going over the house with the housekeeper on the day of her arrival. The boy was in the room known as the book-room, or yellow gallery, where the portraits of the family used to hang.
The new and fair lady of Castlewood found the sad, lonely little occupant of this gallery busy over his great book, which he laid down when he was aware that a stranger was at hand. And, knowing who that person must be, the lad stood up and bowed before her, performing a shy obeisance to the mistress of his house.
She stretched out her hand--indeed, when was it that that hand would not stretch out to do an act of kindness, or to protect grief and ill-fortune? "And this is our kinsman, I believe," she said; "and what is your name, kinsman?"
"My name is Henry Esmond," said the lad, looking up at her in a sort of delight and wonder, for she appeared the most charming object he had ever looked on. Her golden hair was shining in the gold of the sun; her complexion was of a dazzling bloom; her lips smiling and her eyes beaming with a kindness which made Harry Esmond"s heart to beat with surprise.
"His name is Henry Esmond, sure enough, my lady," says Mrs. Worksop, the housekeeper; and the new Viscountess, after walking down the gallery, came back to the lad, took his hand again, placing her other fair hand on his head, saying some words to him which were so kind, so sweet that the boy felt as if the touch of a superior being, or angel, smote him down to the ground, and he kissed the fair protecting hand as he knelt on one knee. To the very last hour of his life Esmond remembered the lady as she then spoke and looked: the rings on her fair hands, the very scent of her robe, the beam of her eyes lighting up with surprise and kindness, her lips blooming in a smile, the sun making a golden halo round her hair.
As the boy was yet in this att.i.tude of humility, enters behind him a portly gentleman, with a little girl of four years old. The gentleman burst into a great laugh at the lady and her adorer, with his little, queer figure, his sallow face, and long black hair. The lady blushed and seemed to deprecate his ridicule by a look of appeal to her husband, for it was my Lord Viscount who now arrived, and whom the lad knew, having once before seen him in the late lord"s lifetime.
"So this is the little priest!" says my lord, who knew for what calling the lad was intended, and adding: "Welcome, kinsman."
"He is saying his prayers to mamma," says the little girl, and my lord burst out into another great laugh at this, and kinsman Harry looked very silly. He invented a half-dozen of speeches in reply, but "twas months afterwards when he thought of this adventure; as it was, he had never a word in answer.
"_Le pauvre enfant, il n"a que nous_," says the lady, looking to her lord; and the boy, who understood her, though doubtless she thought otherwise, thanked her with all his heart for her kind speech.
"And he shan"t want for friends here," says my lord in a kind voice.
"Shall he, little Trix?"
The little girl, whose name was Beatrix, and whom her papa called by this diminutive, looked at Henry Esmond solemnly with a pair of large eyes, and then a smile shone over her face, which was as beautiful as that of a cherub, and she came up and put out a little hand to him. A keen and delightful pang of grat.i.tude, happiness, affection filled the orphan child"s heart as he received these tokens of friendliness and kindness.
But an hour since, he had felt quite alone in the world; when he heard the great peal of bells from Castlewood church ringing to welcome the arrival of the new lord and lady it had rung only terror and anxiety to him, for he knew not how the new owner would deal with him; and those to whom he formerly looked for protection were forgotten or dead. Pride and doubt, too, had kept him within doors, when the Vicar and the people of the village, and the servants of the house, had gone out to welcome my Lord Castlewood--for Henry Esmond was no servant, though a dependent; no relative, though he bore the name and inherited the blood of the house; and in the midst of the noise and acclamations attending the arrival of the new lord, for whom a feast was got ready, and guns were fired, and tenants and domestics huzzahed when his carriage rolled into the court-yard of the Hall, no one took any notice of young Henry Esmond, who sat alone in the book-room until his new friends found him.
When my lord and lady were going away from the book-room, the little girl, still holding him by the hand, bade him come too.
"Thou wilt always forsake an old friend for a new one, Trix," says her father good-naturedly, and went into the gallery, giving an arm to his lady. They pa.s.sed thence through the music-gallery, long since dismantled, and Queen Elizabeth"s rooms, in the clock-tower, and out into the terrace, where was a fine prospect of sunset and the great darkling woods with a cloud of rooks returning, and the plain and river with Castlewood village beyond, and purple hills beautiful to look at; and the little heir of Castlewood, a child of two years old, was already here on the terrace in his nurse"s arms, from whom he ran across the gra.s.s instantly he perceived his mother, and came to her.
"If thou canst not be happy here," says my lord, looking round at the scene, "thou art hard to please, Rachel."
"I am happy where you are," she said, lovingly; and then my lord began to describe what was before them to his wife, and what indeed little Harry knew better than he--viz., the history of the house: how by yonder gate the page ran away with the heiress of Castlewood, by which the estate came into the present family; how the Roundheads attacked the clock-tower, which my lord"s father was slain in defending. "I was but two years old then," says he, "but take forty-six from ninety, and how old shall I be, kinsman Harry?"
"Thirty," says his wife, with a laugh.
"A great deal too old for you, Rachel," answers my lord, looking fondly down at her. Indeed she seemed to be a girl, and was at that time scarce twenty years old.
"You know, Frank, I will do anything to please you," says she, "and I promise you I will grow older every day."
"You mustn"t call papa Frank; you must call him "my lord," now," says Miss Beatrix, with a toss of her little head; at which the mother smiled, and the good-natured father laughed, and the little trotting boy laughed, not knowing why--but because he was happy, no doubt--as everyone seemed to be there.
Presently, however, as the sun was setting, the little heir was sent howling to bed, while the more fortunate little Trix was promised to sit up for supper that night--"and you will come too, kinsman, won"t you?" she said.
Harry Esmond blushed: "I--I have supper with Mrs. Worksop," says he.
But the new Viscount Castlewood refused to hear of that, and said, "Thou shalt sup with us, Harry, to-night! Shan"t refuse a lady, shall he, Trix?"--and Harry enjoyed the unexpected pleasure of an evening meal with the new lord of Castlewood and his gracious family.
Later, when Harry got to his little chamber, it was with a heart full of surprise and grat.i.tude towards the new friends whom this happy day had brought him. The next morning he was up and watching long before the house was astir, longing to see that fair lady and her children again; and only fearful lest their welcome of the past night should in any way be withdrawn or altered. But presently little Beatrix came out into the garden, and her mother followed, who greeted Harry as kindly as before and listened while he told her the histories of the house, which he had been taught in the old lord"s time, and to which she listened with great interest; and then he told her, with respect to the night before, that he understood French and thanked her for her protection.
"Do you?" says she, with a blush; "then, sir, you shall teach me and Beatrix."
And she asked him many more questions regarding himself, to which she received brief replies, the substance of which was afterward amplified into certain facts concerning the past of the orphan boy, which it is well to note here and now.
It seemed that in former days, in a little cottage in the village of Ealing, near to London, for some time had dwelt an old French refugee, by name Mr. Pastoureau, one of those whom the persecution of the Huguenots by the French king had brought over to England. With this old man lived a little lad, who went by the name of Henry Thomas, but who was no other than Henry Esmond. He remembered to have lived in another place a short time before, near to London, too, amongst looms and spinning wheels, and a great deal of psalm-singing and church-going, and a whole colony of Frenchmen.
There he had a dear, dear friend, who died, and whom he called Aunt.
She used to visit him in his dreams sometimes; and her face, though it was homely, was a thousand times dearer to him than that of Mrs.
Pastoureau, Bon Papa Pastoureau"s new wife, who came to live with him after aunt went away. And there, at Spittlefields, as it used to be called, lived Uncle George, who was a weaver, too, but used to tell Harry that he was a little gentleman, and that his father was a captain, and his mother an angel.
When he said so, Bon Papa used to look up from the loom, where he was embroidering beautiful silk flowers, and shake his head. He had a little room where he always used to preach and sing hymns out of his great old nose. Little Harry did not like the preaching; he liked better the fine stories which aunt used to tell him. Bon Papa"s new wife never told him pretty stories; she quarrelled with Uncle George, and he went away.
After this, Harry"s Bon Papa, and his wife and two children of her own that she had brought with her, came to live at Ealing. The new wife gave her children the best of everything, and Harry many a whipping, he knew not why. So he was very glad when a gentleman dressed in black, on horseback, with a mounted servant behind him, came to fetch him away from Ealing. The unjust stepmother gave him plenty to eat before he went away, and did not beat him once, but told the children to keep their hands off him. One was a girl, and Harry never could bear to strike a girl; and the other was a boy, whom he could easily have beat, but he always cried out, when Mrs. Pastoureau came sailing to the rescue with arms like a flail.
She only washed Harry"s face the day he went away; nor ever so much as once boxed his ears. She whimpered rather when the gentleman in black came for the boy, and pretended to cry; but Harry thought it was only a sham, and sprung quite delighted upon the horse upon which the lackey helped him. This lackey was a Frenchman; his name was Blaise. The child could talk to him in his own language perfectly well. He knew it better than English, indeed, having lived hitherto among French people, and being called the Little Frenchman by other boys on Ealing Green.
The lackey was very talkative and informed the boy that the gentleman riding before him was my lord"s chaplain, Father Holt; that he was now to be called Master Harry Esmond; that my Lord Viscount Castlewood was his patron; that he was to live at the great house of Castlewood, in the province of ----shire, where he would see Madame the Viscountess, who was a grand lady, and that he was to be educated for the priesthood. And so, seated on a cloth before Blaise"s saddle, Harry Esmond was brought to London, and to a fine square called Covent Garden, near to which his patron lodged.
Mr. Holt, the priest, took the child by the hand and brought him to this grand languid n.o.bleman, who sat in a great cap and flowered morning-gown, sucking oranges. He patted Harry on the head and gave him an orange, and directed Blaise to take him out for a holiday; and out for a holiday the boy and the valet went. Harry went jumping along; he was glad enough to go.
He remembered to his life"s end the delights of those days. He was taken to see a play, in a house a thousand times greater and finer than the booth at Ealing Fair; and on the next happy day they took water on the river, and Harry saw London Bridge, with the houses and book: sellers"
shops on it, looking like a street, and the tower of London, with the Armour, and the great lions and bears in the moat--all under company of Monsieur Blaise.
Presently, of an early morning, all the party set forth for the country, and all along the road the Frenchman told little Harry stories of brigands, which made the child"s hair stand on end, and terrified him; so that at the great gloomy inn on the road where they lay, he besought to be allowed to sleep in a room with one of the servants, and Father Holt took pity on him and gave the child a little bed in his chamber.