Boys and girls from Thackeray - Kate Dickinson Sweetser
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Strong as Madame Esmond's belief appeared to be respecting her son's
safety, the house of Castlewood naturally remained sad and gloomy. To
look for George was hoping against hope. No authentic account of his
death had indeed arrived, and no one appeared who had seen him fall, but
hundreds more had been so stricken on that fatal day, with no eyes to
behold their last pangs, save those of the lurking enemy and the comrades
dying by their side. A fortnight after the defeat, when Harry was absent
on his quest, George's servant, Sady, reappeared, wounded and maimed, at
Castlewood. But he could give no coherent account of the battle, only of
his flight from the centre, where he was with the baggage. He had no news
of his master since the morning of the action. For many days Sady lurked
in the negro quarters away from the sight of Madame Esmond, whose anger
he did not dare to face. That lady's few neighbours spoke of her as
labouring under a delusion. So strong was it that there were times when
Harry and the other members of the little Castlewood family were almost
brought to share in it. No. George was not dead; George was a prisoner
among the Indians; George would come back and rule over Castlewood; as
sure, as sure as his Majesty would send a great force from home to
recover the tarnished glory of the British arms, and to drive the French
out of the Americas.
As for Mr. Washington, she would never, with her own good will, behold
him again. He had promised to guard George's life with his own, and where
was her boy.
So, if Harry wanted to meet his friend, he had to do so in secret. Madame
Esmond was exceedingly excited when she heard that the Colonel and her
son absolutely had met, and said to Harry, "How you can talk, sir, of
loving George, and then go and meet your Mr. Washington, I can't
understand."
So there was not only grief in the Castlewood House, but there was
disunion. As a result of the gloom, and of his grief for the loss of his
brother, Harry was again and again struck down by the fever, and all the
Jesuits' bark in America could not cure him. They had a tobacco-house and
some land about the new town of Richmond, and he went thither and there
mended a little, but still did not get quite well, and the physicians
strongly counselled a sea-voyage. Madame Esmond at one time had thoughts
of going with him, but, as she and Harry did not agree very well, though
they loved each other very heartily, 'twas determined that Harry should
see the world for himself.
Accordingly he took passage on the "Young Rachel," Virginian ship,
Edward Franks master. She proceeded to Bristol and moored as near as
possible to Trail's wharf, to which she was consigned. Mr. Trail, who
could survey his ship from his counting-house windows, straightway took
boat and came up her side, and gave the hand of welcome to Captain
Franks, congratulating the Captain upon the speedy and fortunate voyage
which he had made.
Franks was a pleasant man, who loved a joke. "We have," says he, "but
yonder ugly negro boy, who is fetching the trunks, and a passenger who
has the state cabin to himself."
Mr. Trail looked as if he would have preferred more mercies from Heaven.
"Confound you, Franks, and your luck! The 'Duke William,' which came in
last week, brought fourteen, and she is not half of our tonnage."
"And this passenger, who has the whole cabin, don't pay nothin',"
continued the Captain. "Swear now, it will do you good, Mr. Trail,
indeed it will. I have tried the medicine."
"A passenger take the whole cabin and not pay? Gracious mercy, are you a
fool, Captain Franks?"
"Ask the passenger himself, for here he comes." And as the master spoke,
a young man of some nineteen years of age came up the hatchway. He had a
cloak and a sword under his arm, and was dressed in deep mourning, and
called out, "Gumbo, you idiot, why don't you fetch the baggage out of the
cabin? Well, shipmate, our journey is ended. You will see all the little
folks to-night whom you have been talking about. Give my love to Polly,
and Betty, and little Tommy; not forgetting my duty to Mrs. Franks. I
thought, yesterday, the voyage would never be done, and now I am almost
sorry it is over. That little berth in my cabin looks very comfortable
now I am going to leave it."
Mr. Trail scowled at the young passenger who had paid no money for his
passage. He scarcely nodded his head to the stranger, when Captain
Franks said: "This here gentleman is Mr. Trail, sir, whose name you have
a-heerd of."
"It's pretty well known in Bristol, sir," says Mr. Trail, majestically.
"And this is Mr. Warrington, Madame Esmond Warrington's son, of
Castlewood," continued the Captain.
The British merchant's hat was instantly off his head, and the owner of
the beaver was making a prodigious number of bows, as if a crown-prince
were before him.
"Gracious powers, Mr. Warrington! This is a delight, indeed! What a
crowning mercy that your voyage should have been so prosperous! You have
my boat to go on shore. Let me cordially and respectfully welcome you to
England! Let me shake your hand as the son of my benefactress and
patroness, Mrs. Esmond Warrington, whose name is known and honoured on
Bristol 'Change, I warrant you. Isn't it, Franks?"
"There's no sweeter tobacco comes from Virginia," says Mr. Franks,
drawing a great brass tobacco-box from his pocket, and thrusting a quid
into his jolly mouth. "You don't know what a comfort it is, sir; you'll
take to it, bless you, as you grow older. Won't he, Mr. Trail? I wish you
had ten shiploads of it instead of one. You might have ten shiploads;
I've told Madame Esmond so; I've rode over her plantation; she treats me
like a lord when I go to the house. She is a real-born lady, she is; and
might have a thousand hogsheads as easy as her hundreds, if there were
but hands enough."
"I have lately engaged in the Guinea trade, and could supply her ladyship
with any number of healthy young negroes before next fall," said Mr.
Trail, obsequiously.
"We are averse to the purchase of negroes from Africa," said the young
gentleman, coldly. "My grandfather and my mother have always objected to
it, and I do not like to think of selling or buying the poor wretches."
"It is for their good, my dear young sir! We purchased the poor creatures
only for their benefit; let me talk this matter over with you at my own
house. I can introduce you to a happy home, a Christian family, and a
British merchant's honest fare. Can't I, Captain Franks?"
"Can't say," growled the Captain. "Never asked me to take bite or sup at
your table. Asked me to psalm-singing once, and to hear Mr. Ward preach:
don't care for them sort of entertainments."
Not choosing to take any notice of this remark, Mr. Trail continued in
his low tone: "Business is business, my dear young sir, and I know 'tis
only my duty, the duty of all of us, to cultivate the fruits of the earth
in their season. As the heir of Lady Esmond's estate--for I speak, I
believe, to the heir of the great property?"
The young gentleman made a bow.
"I would urge upon you, at the very earliest moment, the duty of
increasing the ample means with which Heaven has blessed you. As an
honest factor, I could not do otherwise: as a prudent man, should I
scruple to speak of what will tend to your profit and mine? No, my dear
Mr. George."
"My name is not George; my name is Henry," said the young man as he
turned his head away, and his eyes filled with tears.
"Gracious powers! what do you mean, sir? Did you not say you were my
lady's heir, and is not George Esmond Warrington, Esq.--?"
"Hold your tongue, you fool!" cried Mr. Franks, striking the merchant a
tough blow on his sleek sides, as the young lad turned away. "Don't you
see the young gentleman a-swabbing his eyes, and note his black clothes?"
"What do you mean, Captain Franks, by laying your hand on your owners?
Mr. George is the heir; I know the Colonel's will well enough."
"Mr. George is there," said the Captain, pointing with his thumb
to the deck.
"Where?" cries the factor.
"Mr. George is there!" reiterated the Captain, again lifting up his
finger towards the topmast, or the sky beyond. "He is dead a year, sir,
come next 9th of July. He would go out with General Braddock on that
dreadful business to the Belle Riviere. He and a thousand more never came
back again. Every man of them was murdered as he fell. You know the
Indian way, Mr. Trail?" And here the Captain passed his hand rapidly
round his head.
"Horrible! ain't it, sir? Horrible! He was a fine young man, the very
picture of this one; only his hair was black, which is now hanging in a
bloody Indian wigwam. He was often and often on board of the 'Young
Rachel,' and would have his chests of books broke open on deck before
they landed. He was a shy and silent young gent, not like this one, which
was the merriest, wildest young fellow, full of his songs and fun. He
took on dreadful at the news; went to his bed, had that fever which lays
so many of 'em by the heels along that swampy Potomac, but he's got
better on the voyage: the voyage makes everyone better; and, in course,
the young gentleman can't be forever a-crying after a brother who dies
and leaves him a great fortune. Ever since we sighted Ireland he has been
quite gay and happy, only he would go off at times when he was most
merry, saying, 'I wish my dearest Georgie could enjoy this here sight
along with me,' and when you mentioned t'other's name, you see, he
couldn't stand it." And the honest Captain's own eyes filled with tears,
as he turned and looked towards the object of his compassion.
Mr. Trail assumed a sad expression befitting the tragic compliment with
which he prepared to greet the young Virginian; but the latter answered
him very curtly, declining his offers of hospitality, and only stayed in
Mr. Trail's house long enough to drink a glass of wine and to take up a
sum of money of which he stood in need. But he and Captain Franks parted
on the very warmest terms, and all the little crew of the "Young Rachel"
cheered from the ship's side as their passenger left it.
Again and again Harry Warrington and his brother had pored over the
English map, and determined upon the course which they should take upon
arriving at Home. All Americans of English ancestry who love their mother
country have rehearsed their English travels, and visited in fancy the
spots with which their hopes, their parents' fond stories, their friends'
descriptions, have rendered them familiar. There are few things to me
more affecting in the history of the quarrel which divided the two great
nations than the recurrence of that word Home, as used by the younger
towards the elder country. Harry Warrington had his chart laid out.
Before London, and its glorious temples of St. Paul's and St. Peter's;
its grim Tower, where the brave and loyal had shed their blood, from
Wallace down to Balmerino and Kilmarnock, pitied by gentle hearts; before
the awful window at Whitehall, whence the martyr Charles had issued, to
kneel once more, and then ascended to Heaven; before playhouses, parks,
and palaces, wondrous resorts of wit, pleasure and splendour; before
Shakespeare's resting-place under the tall spire which rises by Avon,
amidst the sweet Warwickshire pastures; before Derby, and Falkirk, and
Culloden, where the cause of honour and loyalty had fallen, it might be
to rise no more: before all these points in their pilgrimage there was
one which the young Virginian brothers held even more sacred, and that
was the home of their family, that old Castlewood in Hampshire, about
which their parents had talked so fondly. From Bristol to Bath, from Bath
to Salisbury, to Winchester, to Hexton, to Home; they knew the way, and
had mapped the journey many and many a time.
We must fancy our American traveller to be a handsome young fellow, whose
suit of sables only makes him look the more interesting. The plump
landlady looked kindly after the young gentleman as he passed through the
inn-hall from his post-chaise, and the obsequious chamberlain bowed him
upstairs to the "Rose" or the "Dolphin." The trim chambermaid dropped her
best curtsey for his fee, and Gumbo, in the inn-kitchen, where the
townsfolk drank their mug of ale by the great fire, bragged of his young
master's splendid house in Virginia, and of the immense wealth to which
he was heir. The post-chaise whirled the traveller through the most
delightful home scenery his eyes had ever lighted on. If English
landscape is pleasant to the American of the present day, who must needs
contrast the rich woods and growing pastures and picturesque ancient
villages of the old country with the rough aspect of his own, how much
pleasanter must Harry Warrington's course have been, whose journeys had
lain through swamps and forest solitudes from one Virginian ordinary to
another log-house at the end of the day's route, and who now lighted
suddenly upon the busy, happy, splendid scene of English summer? And the
high-road, a hundred years ago, was not that grass-grown desert of the
present time. It was alive with constant travel and traffic: the country
towns and inns swarmed with life and gaiety. The ponderous waggon, with
its bells and plodding team; the light post-coach that achieved the
journey from the "White Hart," Salisbury, to the "Swan with Two Necks,"
London, in two days; the strings of pack-horses that had not yet left the
road; my lord's gilt post-chaise and six, with the outriders galloping on
ahead; the country squire's great coach and heavy Flanders mares; the
farmers trotting to market, or the parson jolting to the cathedral town
on Dumpling, his wife behind on the pillion--all these crowding sights
and brisk people greeted the young traveller on his summer journey.
Hodge, the farmer's boy, took off his hat, and Polly, the milk-maid,
bobbed a curtsey, as the chaise whirled over the pleasant village-green,
and the white-headed children lifted their chubby faces and cheered. The
church-spires glistened with gold, the cottage-gables glared in sunshine,
the great elms murmured in summer, or cast purple shadows over the
grass. Young Warrington never had had such a glorious day, or witnessed a
scene so delightful. To be nineteen years of age, with high health, high
spirits, and a full purse, to be making your first journey, and rolling
through the country in a post-chaise at nine miles an hour--Oh, happy
youth! almost it makes one young to think of him!
And there let us leave him at Castlewood Inn, on ground hallowed by the
footsteps of his ancestors. There he stands, with new scenes, new
friends, new experiences ahead, rich in hope, in expectation, and in the
enthusiasm of youth--youth that comes but once, and is so fleet of foot!
And still more glad would he have been had he known that the near future
was to verify his mother's belief; to restore to him the twin-brother now
mourned as dead. And glad are we, in looking beyond this story of boyhood
days, to find that though in the Revolutionary War the subjects of this
sketch fought on different sides in the quarrel, they came out peacefully
at its conclusion, as brothers should, their love never having materially
diminished, however angrily the contest divided them.
The colonel in scarlet and the general in blue and buff hang side by side
in the wainscoted parlour of the Warringtons in England, and the
portraits are known by the name of "The Virginians."
BECKY SHARP AT SCHOOL
[Illustration: BECKY SHARP LEAVING CHISWICK.]
While the last century was in its teens, and on one sunshiny morning in
June, there drove up to the great iron gate of Miss Pinkerton's Academy
for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large family coach, with two fat
horses in blazing harness, driven by a fat coachman in a three-cornered
hat and wig, at the rate of four miles an hour. A black servant, who
reposed on the box beside the fat coachman, uncurled his bandy legs as
soon as the equipage drew up opposite Miss Pinkerton's shining brass
plate; and as he pulled the bell at least a score of young heads were
seen peering out of the narrow windows of the stately old brick house.
Nay, the acute observer might have recognised the little red nose of
good-natured Miss Jemima Pinkerton herself, rising over some
geranium-pots in the window of that lady's own drawing-room. "It is Mrs.
Sedley's coach, sister," said Miss Jemima. "Sambo, the black servant, has
just rung the bell; and the coachman has a new red waistcoat."
"Have you completed all the necessary preparations incident to Miss
Sedley's departure, Miss Jemima?" asked Miss Pinkerton, that majestic
lady, the friend of the famous literary man, Dr. Johnson, the author of
the great Dixonary of the English language, called commonly the great
Lexicographer.
"The girls were up at four this morning, packing her trunks, sister,"
replied Miss Jemima; "we have made her a bow-pot."
"Say a bouquet, sister Jemima, 'tis more genteel."
"Well, a booky as big almost as a hay-stack; I have put up two bottles of
the gillyflower-water for Mrs. Sedley, and the receipt for making it, in
Amelia's box."
"And I trust, Miss Jemima, you have made a copy of Miss Sedley's account.
This is it, is it? Very good--ninety-three pounds, four shillings. Be
kind enough to address it to John Sedley, Esquire, and to seal this
billet which I have written to his lady."
In Miss Jemima's eyes an autograph letter of her sister, Miss Pinkerton,
was an object of as deep veneration as would have been a letter from a
sovereign. Only when her pupils quitted the establishment, or when they
were about to be married, and once, when poor Miss Birch died of the
scarlet fever, was Miss Pinkerton known to write personally to the
parents of her pupils; and it was Jemima's opinion that if anything
could have consoled Mrs. Birch for her daughter's loss, it would have
been that pious and eloquent composition in which Miss Pinkerton
announced the event.
In the present instance Miss Pinkerton's "billet" was to the
following effect:
* * * * *
THE MALL, CHISWICK, June 15, 18--.
_Madam_: After her six years' residence at the Mall, I have the honour
and happiness of presenting Miss Amelia Sedley to her parents, as a young
lady not unworthy to occupy a fitting position in their polished and
refined circle. Those virtues which characterise the young English
gentlewoman; those accomplishments which become her birth and station,
will not be found wanting in the amiable Miss Sedley, whose industry and
obedience have endeared her to her instructors, and whose delightful
sweetness of temper has charmed her aged and her youthful companions.
In music, dancing, in orthography, in every variety of embroidery and
needle-work, she will be found to have realised her friends' fondest
wishes. In geography there is still much to be desired; and a careful and
undeviating use of the back-board, for four hours daily during the next
three years is recommended as necessary to the acquirement of that
dignified deportment and carriage so requisite for every young lady of
fashion.
In the principles of religion and morality, Miss Sedley will be found
worthy of an establishment which has been honoured by the presence of
The Great Lexicographer, and the patronage of the admirable Mrs.
Chapone. In leaving them all, Miss Amelia carries with her the hearts
of her companions, and the affectionate regards of her mistress, who has
the honour to subscribe herself, Madam, your most obliged humble
servant,
BARBARA PINKERTON.
P.S.--Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley. It is particularly requested
that Miss Sharp's stay in Russell Square may not exceed ten days.
The family of distinction with whom she is engaged as governess desire
to avail themselves of her services as soon as possible.
* * * * *
This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to write her own name and
Miss Sedley's in the fly-leaf of a Johnson's Dictionary, the interesting
work which she invariably presented to her scholars on their departure
from the Mall. On the cover was inserted a copy of "Lines addressed to a
young lady on quitting Miss Pinkerton's school, at the Mall; by the late
revered Dr. Samuel Johnson." In fact, the Lexicographer's name was always
on the lips of this majestic woman, and a visit he had paid to her was
the cause of her reputation and her fortune.
Being commanded by her elder sister to get The Dixonary from the
cupboard, Miss Jemima had extracted two copies of the book from the
receptacle in question. When Miss Pinkerton had finished the
inscription in the first, Jemima, with rather a dubious and timid air
handed her the second.
"For whom is this, Miss Jemima?" said Miss Pinkerton, with awful
coldness.
"For Becky Sharp," answered Jemima, trembling very much, and blushing
over her withered face and neck, as she turned her back on her sister.
"For Becky Sharp. She's going, too."
"MISS JEMIMA!" exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the largest capitals. "Are
you in your senses? Replace the Dixonary in the closet, and never venture
to take such a liberty in future."
"Well, sister, it's only two and nine-pence, and poor Becky will be
miserable if she don't get one."
"Send Miss Sedley instantly to me," was Miss Pinkerton's only answer.
And, venturing not to say another word, poor Jemima trotted off,
exceedingly flurried and nervous, while the two pupils, Miss Sedley and
Miss Sharp, were making final preparation for their departure for Miss
Sedley's home.
Now, Miss Sedley's papa was a merchant in London, and a man of some
wealth, whereas Miss Sharp was only an articled pupil, for whom Miss
Pinkerton had done, as she thought, quite enough, without conferring
upon her at parting the high honour of the dixonary. Miss Sharp's father
had been an artist, and in former years had given lessons in drawing at
Miss Pinkerton's school. He was a clever man, a pleasant companion, a
careless student, with a great propensity for running into debt, and a
partiality for the tavern. As it was with the utmost difficulty that he
could keep himself, and as he owed money for a mile round Soho, where he
lived, he thought to better his circumstances by marrying a young woman
of the French nation, who was by profession an opera-girl, who had had
some education somewhere, and her daughter Rebecca spoke French with
purity and a Parisian accent. It was in those days rather a rare
accomplishment, and led to her engagement with the orthodox Miss
Pinkerton. For, her mother being dead, her father, finding himself
fatally ill, as a consequence of his bad habits, wrote a manly and
pathetic letter to Miss Pinkerton, recommending the orphan child to her
protection, and so descended to the grave, after two bailiffs had
quarrelled over his corpse. Rebecca was seventeen when she came to
Chiswick, and was bound over as an articled pupil; her duties being to
talk French, as we have seen; and her privileges to live cost free, and
with a few guineas a year, to gather scraps of knowledge from the
professors who attended the school.
She was small, and slight in person; pale, sandy-haired, and with eyes
almost habitually cast down. When they looked up, they were very large,
odd, and attractive. By the side of many tall and bouncing young ladies
in the establishment Rebecca Sharp looked like a child. But she had the
dismal precocity of poverty. Many a dun had she talked to, and turned
away from her father's door; many a tradesman had she coaxed and wheedled
into good-humour, and into the granting of one meal more. She had sat
commonly with her father, who was very proud of her wit, and heard the
talk of many of his wild companions, often but ill-suited for a girl to
hear; but she had never been a girl, she said; she had been a woman since
she was eight years old.
Miss Jemima, however, believed her to be the most innocent creature in
the world, so admirably did Rebecca play the part of a child on the
occasions when her father brought her to Chiswick as a young girl, and
only a year before her father's death, and when she was sixteen years
old, Miss Pinkerton majestically and with a little speech made her a
present of a doll, which was, by the way, the confiscated property of
Miss Swindle, discovered surreptitiously nursing it in school-hours. How
the father and daughter laughed as they trudged home together after the
evening party, and how Miss Pinkerton would have raged had she seen the
caricature of herself which the little mimic, Rebecca, managed to make
out of the doll. Becky used to go through dialogues with it; it formed
the delight of the circle of young painters who frequented the studio,
who used regularly to ask Rebecca if Miss Pinkerton was at home. Once
Rebecca had the honour to pass a few days at Chiswick, after which she
brought back another doll which she called Miss Jemmy; for, though that
honest creature had made and given her jelly and cake enough for three
children, and a seven-shillings piece at parting, the girl's sense of
ridicule was far stronger than her gratitude; and she sacrificed Miss
Jemmy as pitilessly as her sister.