Boys and girls from Thackeray - Kate Dickinson Sweetser
Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23
Boys and Girls from Thackeray
By Kate Dickinson Sweetser
Pictures by GEORGE ALFRED WILLIAMS
1907
PREFACE
William Makepeace Thackeray--the name is dear to all lovers of classic
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 Dickens and George Eliot.
K.D.S.
NEW YORK, 1907.
CONTENTS
HENRY ESMOND
THE VIRGINIANS
BECKY SHARP AT SCHOOL
CUFF'S FIGHT WITH "FIGS"
GEORGE OSBORNE--RAWDON CRAWLEY
CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME
ARTHUR PENDENNIS
CAROLINE
BOYS AND GIRLS _from_ THACKERAY
HENRY ESMOND
[Illustration: HENRY ESMOND AND THE CASTLEWOODS.]
When Francis, fourth Viscount Castlewood, came to his title, 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 attitude 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 gratitude, 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 passed 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 grass
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 gratitude 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 nobleman, 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.
His artless talk and answers very likely inclined this gentleman in his
favour, for next day Mr. Holt said Harry should ride behind him, and not
with the French lackey; and all along the journey put a thousand
questions to the child--as to his foster-brother and relations at Ealing;
what his old grandfather had taught him; what languages he knew; whether
he could read and write, and sing, and so forth. And Mr. Holt found that
Harry could read and write, and possessed the two languages of French and
English very well. The lad so pleased the gentleman by his talk that they
had him to dine with them at the inn, and encouraged him in his prattle;
and Monsieur Blaise, with whom he rode and dined the day before, waited
upon him now.
At length, on the third day, at evening, they came to a village on the
green with elms around it, and the people there all took off their hats,
and made curtsies to my Lord Viscount, who bowed to them all languidly;
and there was one portly person that wore a cassock and a broad-leafed
hat, who bowed lower than anyone, and with this one both my lord and Mr.
Holt had a few words.
"This, Harry, is Castlewood church," says Mr. Holt, "and this is the
pillar thereof, learned Dr. Tusher. Take off your hat, sirrah, and salute
Dr. Tusher!"
"Come up to supper, Doctor," says my lord; at which the Doctor made
another low bow, and the party moved on towards a grand house that was
before them, with many grey towers, and vanes on them, and windows
flaming in the sunshine, and they passed under an arch into a courtyard,
with a fountain in the centre, where many men came and held my lord's
stirrup as he descended, and paid great respect to Mr. Holt likewise.
Taking Harry by the hand as soon as they were both descended from their
horses, Mr. Holt led him across the court, to rooms on a level with the
ground, one of which Father Holt said was to be the boy's chamber, the
other on the other side of the passage being the Father's own. As soon
as the little man's face was washed, and the Father's own dress arranged,
Harry's guide took him once more to the door by which my lord had entered
the hall, and up a stair, and through an ante-room to my lady's
drawing-room--an apartment than which Harry thought he had never seen
anything more grand--no, not in the Tower of London, which he had just
visited. Indeed, the chamber was richly ornamented in the manner of Queen
Elizabeth's time, with great stained windows at either end, and hangings
of tapestry, which the sun shining through the coloured glass painted of
a thousand hues; and here in state, by the fire, sat a lady to whom the
priest took up Harry, who was indeed amazed by her appearance.
My Lady Viscountess's face was daubed with white and red up to the eyes,
to which the paint gave an unearthly glare. She had a tower of lace on
her head, under which was a bush of black curls--borrowed curls--so that
no wonder little Harry Esmond was scared when he was first presented to
her, the kind priest acting as master of the ceremonies at that solemn
introduction, and he stared at her with eyes almost as great as her own,
as he had stared at the player woman who acted the wicked tragedy-queen,
when the players came down to Ealing Fair. She sat in a great chair by
the fire-corner; in her lap was a spaniel-dog that barked furiously; on
a little table by her was her ladyship's snuff-box and her sugar-plum
box. She wore a dress of black velvet, and a petticoat of flame-coloured
brocade. She had as many rings on her fingers as the old woman of
Banbury Cross; and pretty, small feet which she was fond of showing,
with great gold clocks to her stockings, and white slippers with red
heels; and an odour of musk was shaken out of her garments whenever she
moved or quitted the room, leaning on her tortoise-shell stick, little
Fury, the dog, barking at her heels, and Mrs. Tusher, the parson's wife,
by her side.
"I present to your ladyship your kinsman and little page of honour,
Master Henry Esmond," Mr. Holt said, bowing lowly, with a sort of comical
humility. "Make a pretty bow to my lady, Monsieur; and then another
little bow, not so low, to Madame Tusher."
Upon my lady the boy's whole attention was for a time directed. He could
not keep his great eyes from her. Since the Empress of Ealing, he had
seen nothing so awful.
"Does my appearance please you, little page?" asked the lady.
"He would be very hard to please if it didn't," cried Madame Tusher.
"Have done, you silly Maria," said Lady Castlewood, adding, "Come and
kiss my hand, child"; and little Harry Esmond took and dutifully kissed
the lean old hand, upon the gnarled knuckles of which there glittered a
hundred rings.
"To kiss that hand would make many a pretty fellow happy!" cried Mrs.
Tusher; on which my lady cried out, "Go, you foolish Tusher!" and tapping
her with her great fan, Tusher ran forward to seize her hand and kiss it.
Fury arose and barked furiously at Tusher; and Father Holt looked on at
this queer scene, with arch, grave glances.
The awe exhibited by the little boy perhaps pleased the lady on whom this
artless flattery was bestowed, for, having gone down on his knee (as
Father Holt had directed him, and the fashion then was) and performed his
obeisance, she asked, "Page Esmond, my groom of the chamber will inform
you what your duties are, when you wait upon my lord and me; and good
Father Holt will instruct you as becomes a gentleman of our name. You
will pay him obedience in everything, and I pray you may grow to be as
learned and as good as your tutor."
Harry then put his small hand into the Father's as he walked away from
his first presentation to his mistress, and asked many questions in his
artless, childish way. "Who is that other woman?" he asked. "She is fat
and round; she is more pretty than my Lady Castlewood."
"She is Madame Tusher, the parson's wife of Castlewood. She has a son of
your age, but bigger than you."
"Why does she like so to kiss my lady's hand? It is not good to kiss."
"Tastes are different, little man. Madame Tusher is attached to my lady,
having been her waiting-woman before she was married, in the old lord's
time. She married Dr. Tusher, the chaplain. The English household divines
often marry the waiting-women."
"You will not marry the French woman, will you? I saw her laughing with
Blaise in the buttery."
"I belong to a church that is older and better than the English church,"
Mr. Holt said (making a sign, whereof Esmond did not then understand the
meaning, across his breast and forehead); "in our church the clergy do
not marry. You will understand these things better soon."
"Was not Saint Peter the head of your church?--Dr. Rabbits of Ealing
told us so."
The Father said, "Yes, he was."
"But Saint Peter was married, for we heard only last Sunday that his
wife's mother lay sick of a fever." On which the Father again laughed,
and said he would understand this too better soon, and talked of other
things, and took away Harry Esmond, and showed him the great old house
which he had come to inhabit.
It stood on a rising green hill, with woods behind it, in which were
rooks' nests, where the birds at morning and returning home at evening
made a great cawing. At the foot of a hill was a river, with a steep
ancient bridge crossing it; and beyond that a large pleasant green flat,
where the village of Castlewood stood, with the church in the midst, the
parsonage hard by it, the inn with the blacksmith's forge beside it, and
the sign of the "Three Castles" on the elm. The London road stretched
away towards the rising sun, and to the west were swelling hills and
peaks, behind which many a time Harry Esmond saw the same sun setting in
after years.
The Hall of Castlewood was built with two courts, whereof one only, the
fountain-court, was now inhabited, the other having been battered down in
the Cromwellian wars. In the fountain-court, still in good repair, was
the great hall, near to the kitchen and butteries. A dozen of
living-rooms looked to the north, and communicated with the little chapel
that faced eastwards, and the buildings stretching from that to the main
gate, and with the hall (which looked to the west) into the court, now
dismantled. This court had been the more magnificent of the two until the
Protector's cannon tore down one side of it before the place was taken
and stormed. The besiegers entered at the terrace under the clock-tower,
slaying every man of the garrison, and at their head, my lord's brother,
Francis Esmond.
The Restoration did not bring enough money to the Lord Castlewood to
restore this ruined part of his house, where were the morning parlours,
and above them the long music-gallery. Before this stretched the
garden-terrace, where the flowers grew again which the boots of the
Roundheads had trodden in their assault, and which was restored without
much cost, and only a little care, by both ladies who succeeded the
second viscount in the government of this mansion. Round the
terrace-garden was a low wall with a wicket leading to a wooded height
beyond, that is called Cromwell's Battery to this day.
Young Harry Esmond soon learned the domestic part of his duty, which
was easy enough, from the groom of her ladyship's chamber: serving the
Countess, as the custom commonly was in his boyhood, as page, waiting
at her chair, bringing her scented water and the silver basin after
dinner--sitting on her carriage-step on state occasions, or on public
days introducing her company to her. This was chiefly of the Catholic
gentry, of whom there were a pretty many in the country and
neighbouring city, and who rode not seldom to Castlewood to partake of
the hospitalities there. In the second year of their residence, the
company seemed especially to increase. My lord and my lady were seldom
without visitors.
Also there came in these times to Father Holt many private visitors,
whom, after a little, Henry Esmond had no difficulty in recognising as
priests of the Father's order, whatever their dresses (and they
adopted all sorts) might be. They were closeted with the Father
constantly, and often came and rode away without paying their respects
to my lord and lady.
Father Holt began speedily to be so much occupied with these meetings as
rather to neglect the education of the little lad who so gladly put
himself under the kind priest's orders. At first they read much and
regularly, both in Latin and French; the Father not neglecting in
anything to impress his faith upon his pupil, but not forcing him
violently, and treating him with a delicacy and kindness which surprised
and attached the child, always more easily won by these methods than by
any severe exercise of authority. And his delight in their walks was to
tell Harry of the glories of his order, of the Jesuits, an order founded
by Ignatius Loyola, whose members were intimately associated with
intrigues of church and state. He told Harry of its martyrs and heroes,
of its brethren converting the heathen by myriads, traversing the desert,
facing the stake, ruling the courts and councils, or braving the tortures
of kings; so that Henry Esmond thought that to belong to the Jesuits was
the bravest end of ambition; the greatest career here, and in heaven the
surest reward; and began to long for the day, not only when he should
enter into the one church and receive his first communion, but when he
might join that wonderful brotherhood, which numbered the wisest, the
bravest, the highest born, the most eloquent of men among its members.
Father Holt bade him keep his views secret, and to hide them as a great
treasure which would escape him if it was revealed; and, proud of this
confidence and secret vested in him, the lad became fondly attached to
the master who initiated him into a mystery so wonderful and awful. And
when little Tom Tusher, his neighbour, came from school for his holiday,
and said how he, too; like Harry, was to be bred up for an English
priest, and would get a college scholarship and fellowship from his
school, and then a good living--it tasked young Harry Esmond's powers of
reticence not to say to his young companion, "Church! priesthood! fat
living! My dear Tommy, do you call yours a church and a priesthood? What
is a fat living compared to converting a hundred thousand heathens by a
single sermon? What is a scholarship at Trinity by the side of a crown of
martyrdom, with angels awaiting you as your head is taken off? Could your
master at school sail over the Thames on his gown? Have you statues in
your church that can bleed, speak, walk, and cry? My good Tommy, in dear
Father Holt's church these things take place every day. You know Saint
Philip of the Willows appeared to Lord Castlewood, and caused him to turn
to the one true church. No saints ever come to you." And Harry Esmond,
because of his promise to Father Holt, hiding away these treasures of
faith from T. Tusher, delivered himself of them nevertheless simply to
Father Holt; who stroked his head, smiled at him with his inscrutable
look, and told him that he did well to meditate on these great things,
and not to talk of them except under direction.