As they came up to the house at Walcote, the windows from within were
lighted up with friendly welcome; the supper-table was spread in the
oak-parlour; it seemed as if forgiveness and love were awaiting the
returning prodigal. Two or three familiar faces of domestics were on the
lookout at the porch—the old housekeeper was there, and young Lockwood
from Castlewood in my lord’s livery of tawny and blue. His dear mistress
pressed his arm as they passed into the hall. Her eyes beamed out on him
with affection indescribable. “Welcome,” was all she said: as she looked
up, putting back her fair curls and black hood. A sweet rosy smile blushed
on her face: Harry thought he had never seen her look so charming. Her
face was lighted with a joy that was brighter than beauty—she took a hand
of her son who was in the hall waiting his mother—she did not quit
Esmond’s arm.
“Welcome, Harry!” my young lord echoed after her. “Here, we are all come
to say so. Here’s old Pincot, hasn’t she grown handsome?” and Pincot, who
was older, and no handsomer than usual, made a curtsy to the captain, as
she called Esmond, and told my lord to “Have done, now.”
“And here’s Jack Lockwood. He’ll make a famous grenadier, Jack; and so
shall I; we’ll both ’list under you, cousin. As soon as I am seventeen, I
go to the army—every gentleman goes to the army. Look! who comes here—ho,
ho!” he burst into a laugh. “’Tis Mistress Trix, with a new ribbon; I knew
she would put one on as soon as she heard a captain was coming to supper.”
This laughing colloquy took place in the hall of Walcote House: in the
midst of which is a staircase that leads from an open gallery, where are
the doors of the sleeping-chambers: and from one of these, a wax candle in
her hand, and illuminating her, came Mistress Beatrix—the light falling
indeed upon the scarlet ribbon which she wore, and upon the most brilliant
white neck in the world.
Esmond had left a child and found a woman, grown beyond the common height;
and arrived at such a dazzling completeness of beauty, that his eyes might
well show surprise and delight at beholding her. In hers there was a
brightness so lustrous and melting, that I have seen a whole assembly
follow her as if by an attraction irresistible: and that night the great
duke was at the playhouse after Ramillies, every soul turned and looked
(she chanced to enter at the opposite side of the theatre at the same
moment) at her, and not at him. She was a brown beauty: that is, her eyes,
hair, and eyebrows and eyelashes, were dark: her hair curling with rich
undulations, and waving over her shoulders; but her complexion was as
dazzling white as snow in sunshine; except her cheeks, which were a bright
red, and her lips, which were of a still deeper crimson. Her mouth and
chin, they said, were too large and full, and so they might be for a
goddess in marble, but not for a woman whose eyes were fire, whose look
was love, whose voice was the sweetest low song, whose shape was perfect
symmetry, health, decision, activity, whose foot as it planted itself on
the ground, was firm but flexible, and whose motion, whether rapid or
slow, was always perfect grace—agile as a nymph, lofty as a queen—now
melting, now imperious, now sarcastic, there was no single movement of
hers but was beautiful. As he thinks of her, he who writes feels young
again, and remembers a paragon.
So she came holding her dress with one fair rounded arm, and her taper
before her, tripping down the stair to greet Esmond.
“She hath put on her scarlet stockings and white shoes,” says my lord,
still laughing. “Oh, my fine mistress! is this the way you set your cap at
the captain!” She approached, shining smiles upon Esmond, who could look
at nothing but her eyes. She advanced holding forward her head, as if she
would have him kiss her as he used to do when she was a child.
“Stop,” she said, “I am grown too big! Welcome, cousin Harry,” and she
made him an arch curtsy, sweeping down to the ground almost, with the most
gracious bend, looking up the while with the brightest eyes and sweetest
smile. Love seemed to radiate from her. Harry eyed her with such a rapture
as the first lover is described as having by Milton.
“_N’est-ce pas?_” says my lady, in a low, sweet voice, still hanging on
his arm.
Esmond turned round with a start and a blush, as he met his mistress’s
clear eyes. He had forgotten her, wrapt in admiration of the _filia
pulcrior_.
“Right foot forward, toe turned out, so: now drop the curtsy, and show the
red stockings, Trix. They’ve silver clocks, Harry. The dowager sent ’em.
She went to put ’em on,” cries my lord.
“Hush, you stupid child!” says miss, smothering her brother with kisses;
and then she must come and kiss her mamma, looking all the while at Harry,
over his mistress’s shoulder. And if she did not kiss him, she gave him
both her hands, and then took one of his in both hands, and said, “Oh,
Harry, we’re so, _so_ glad you’re come!”
“There are woodcocks for supper,” says my lord: “huzzay! It was such a
hungry sermon.”
“And it is the 29th of December; and our Harry has come home.”
“Huzzay, old Pincot!” again says my lord; and my dear lady’s lips looked
as if they were trembling with a prayer. She would have Harry lead in
Beatrix to the supper-room, going herself with my young lord viscount; and
to this party came Tom Tusher directly, whom four at least out of the
company of five wished away. Away he went, however, as soon as the
sweetmeats were put down, and then, by the great crackling fire, his
mistress or Beatrix, with her blushing graces, filling his glass for him,
Harry told the story of his campaign, and passed the most delightful night
his life had ever known. The sun was up long ere he was, so deep, sweet,
and refreshing was his slumber. He woke as if angels had been watching at
his bed all night. I dare say one that was as pure and loving as an angel
had blest his sleep with her prayers.
Next morning the chaplain read prayers to the little household at Walcote,
as the custom was; Esmond thought Mistress Beatrix did not listen to
Tusher’s exhortation much: her eyes were wandering everywhere during the
service, at least whenever he looked up he met them. Perhaps he also was
not very attentive to his reverence the chaplain. “This might have been my
life,” he was thinking; “this might have been my duty from now till old
age. Well, were it not a pleasant one to be with these dear friends and
part from ’em no more? Until—until the destined lover comes and takes away
pretty Beatrix”—and the best part of Tom Tusher’s exposition, which may
have been very learned and eloquent, was quite lost to poor Harry by this
vision of the destined lover, who put the preacher out.
All the while of the prayers, Beatrix knelt a little way before Harry
Esmond. The red stockings were changed for a pair of grey, and black
shoes, in which her feet looked to the full as pretty. All the roses of
spring could not vie with the brightness of her complexion; Esmond thought
he had never seen anything like the sunny lustre of her eyes. My lady
viscountess looked fatigued, as if with watching, and her face was pale.
Miss Beatrix remarked these signs of indisposition in her mother, and
deplored them. “I am an old woman,” says my lady, with a kind smile; “I
cannot hope to look as young as you do, my dear.”
“She’ll never look as good as you do if she lives till she’s a hundred,”
says my lord, taking his mother by the waist, and kissing her hand.
“Do I look very wicked, cousin?” says Beatrix, turning full round on
Esmond, with her pretty face so close under his chin, that the soft
perfumed hair touched it. She laid her finger-tips on his sleeve as she
spoke; and he put his other hand over hers.
“I’m like your looking-glass,” says he, “and that can’t flatter you.”
“He means that you are always looking at him, my dear,” says her mother,
archly. Beatrix ran away from Esmond at this, and flew to her mamma, whom
she kissed, stopping my lady’s mouth with her pretty hand.
“And Harry is very good to look at,” says my lady, with her fond eyes
regarding the young man.
“If ’tis good to see a happy face,” says he, “you see that.” My lady said
“Amen”, with a sigh; and Harry thought the memory of her dead lord rose up
and rebuked her back again into sadness; for her face lost the smile, and
resumed its look of melancholy.
“Why, Harry, how fine we look in our scarlet and silver, and our black
periwig,” cries my lord. “Mother, I am tired of my own hair. When shall I
have a peruke? Where did you get your steenkirk, Harry?”
“It’s some of my lady dowager’s lace,” says Harry; “she gave me this and a
number of other fine things.”
“My lady dowager isn’t such a bad woman,” my lord continued.
“She’s not so—so red as she’s painted,” says Miss Beatrix.
Her brother broke into a laugh. “I’ll tell her you said so; by the lord,
Trix, I will,” he cries out.
“She’ll know that you hadn’t the wit to say it, my lord,” says Miss
Beatrix.
“We won’t quarrel the first day Harry’s here, will we, mother?” said the
young lord. “We’ll see if we can get on to the new year without a fight.
Have some of this Christmas pie? and here comes the tankard; no, it’s
Pincot with the tea.”
“Will the captain choose a dish?” asks Mistress Beatrix.
“I say, Harry,” my lord goes on, “I’ll show thee my horses after
breakfast; and we’ll go a bird-netting to-night, and on Monday there’s a
cock-match at Winchester—do you love cock-fighting, Harry?—between the
gentlemen of Sussex and the gentlemen of Hampshire, at ten pound the
battle, and fifty pound the odd battle to show one-and-twenty cocks.”
“And what will you do, Beatrix, to amuse our kinsman?” asks my lady.
“I’ll listen to him,” says Beatrix; “I am sure he has a hundred things to
tell us. And I’m jealous already of the Spanish ladies. Was that a
beautiful nun at Cadiz that you rescued from the soldiers? Your man talked
of it last night in the kitchen, and Mrs. Betty told me this morning as
she combed my hair. And he says you must be in love, for you sat on deck
all night, and scribbled verses all day in your table-book.” Harry thought
if he had wanted a subject for verses yesterday, to-day he had found one:
and not all the Lindamiras and Ardelias of the poets were half so
beautiful as this young creature; but he did not say so, though some one
did for him.
This was his dear lady who, after the meal was over, and the young people
were gone, began talking of her children with Mr. Esmond, and of the
characters of one and the other, and of her hopes and fears for both of
them. “’Tis not while they are at home,” she said, “and in their mother’s
nest, I fear for them—’tis when they are gone into the world, whither I
shall not be able to follow them. Beatrix will begin her service next
year. You may have heard a rumour about—about my Lord Blandford. They were
both children; and it is but idle talk. I know my kinswoman would never
let him make such a poor marriage as our Beatrix would be. There’s scarce
a princess in Europe that she thinks is good enough for him or for her
ambition.”
“There’s not a princess in Europe to compare with her,” says Esmond.
“In beauty? No, perhaps not,” answered my lady. “She is most beautiful,
isn’t she? ’Tis not a mother’s partiality that deceives me. I marked you
yesterday when she came down the stair: and read it in your face. We look
when you don’t fancy us looking, and see better than you think, dear
Harry: and just now when they spoke about your poems—you writ pretty lines
when you were but a boy—you thought Beatrix was a pretty subject for
verse, did not you, Harry?” (The gentleman could only blush for a reply.)
“And so she is—nor are you the first her pretty face has captivated. ’Tis
quickly done. Such a pair of bright eyes as hers learn their power very
soon, and use it very early.” And, looking at him keenly with hers, the
fair widow left him.
And so it is—a pair of bright eyes with a dozen glances suffice to subdue
a man; to enslave him, and inflame him; to make him even forget; they
dazzle him so that the past becomes straightway dim to him; and he so
prizes them that he would give all his life to possess ’em. What is the
fond love of dearest friends compared to this treasure? Is memory as
strong as expectancy? fruition, as hunger? gratitude, as desire? I have
looked at royal diamonds in the jewel-rooms in Europe, and thought how
wars have been made about ’em: Mogul sovereigns deposed and strangled for
them, or ransomed with them: millions expended to buy them; and daring
lives lost in digging out the little shining toys that I value no more
than the button in my hat. And so there are other glittering baubles (of
rare water too) for which men have been set to kill and quarrel ever since
mankind began; and which last but for a score of years, when their sparkle
is over. Where are those jewels now that beamed under Cleopatra’s
forehead, or shone in the sockets of Helen?
The second day after Esmond’s coming to Walcote, Tom Tusher had leave to
take a holiday, and went off in his very best gown and bands to court the
young woman whom his reverence desired to marry, and who was not a
viscount’s widow, as it turned out, but a brewer’s relict at Southampton,
with a couple of thousand pounds to her fortune: for honest Tom’s heart
was under such excellent control, that Venus herself without a portion
would never have caused it to flutter. So he rode away on his heavy-paced
gelding to pursue his jog-trot loves, leaving Esmond to the society of his
dear mistress and her daughter, and with his young lord for a companion,
who was charmed not only to see an old friend, but to have the tutor and
his Latin books put out of the way.
The boy talked of things and people, and not a little about himself, in
his frank artless way. ’Twas easy to see that he and his sister had the
better of their fond mother, for the first place in whose affections,
though they fought constantly, and though the kind lady persisted that she
loved both equally, ’twas not difficult to understand that Frank was his
mother’s darling and favourite. He ruled the whole household (always
excepting rebellious Beatrix) not less now than when he was a child
marshalling the village boys in playing at soldiers, and caning them
lustily too, like the sturdiest corporal. As for Tom Tusher, his reverence
treated the young lord with that politeness and deference which he always
showed for a great man, whatever his age or his stature was. Indeed, with
respect to this young one, it was impossible not to love him, so frank and
winning were his manners, his beauty, his gaiety, the ring of his
laughter, and the delightful tone of his voice. Wherever he went, he
charmed and domineered. I think his old grandfather, the dean, and the
grim old housekeeper, Mrs. Pincot, were as much his slaves as his mother
was: and as for Esmond, he found himself presently submitting to a certain
fascination the boy had, and slaving it like the rest of the family. The
pleasure which he had in Frank’s mere company and converse exceeded that
which he ever enjoyed in the society of any other man, however delightful
in talk, or famous for wit. His presence brought sunshine into a room, his
laugh, his prattle, his noble beauty and brightness of look cheered and
charmed indescribably. At the least tale of sorrow, his hands were in his
purse, and he was eager with sympathy and bounty. The way in which women
loved and petted him, when, a year or two afterwards, he came upon the
world, yet a mere boy, and the follies which they did for him (as indeed
he for them), recalled the career of Rochester, and outdid the successes
of Grammont. His very creditors loved him; and the hardest usurers, and
some of the rigid prudes of the other sex too, could deny him nothing. He
was no more witty than another man, but what he said, he said and looked
as no man else could say or look it. I have seen the women at the comedy
at Bruxelles crowd round him in the lobby: and as he sat on the stage more
people looked at him than at the actors, and watched him; and I remember
at Ramillies, when he was hit and fell, a great big red-haired Scotch
sergeant flung his halbert down, burst out a-crying like a woman, seizing
him up as if he had been an infant, and carrying him out of the fire. This
brother and sister were the most beautiful couple ever seen; though after
he winged away from the maternal nest this pair were seldom together.
Sitting at dinner two days after Esmond’s arrival (it was the last day of
the year), and so happy a one to Harry Esmond, that to enjoy it was quite
worth all the previous pain which he had endured and forgot: my young
lord, filling a bumper, and bidding Harry take another, drank to his
sister, saluting her under the title of “marchioness”.
“Marchioness!” says Harry, not without a pang of wonder, for he was
curious and jealous already.
“Nonsense, my lord,” says Beatrix, with a toss of her head. My lady
viscountess looked up for a moment at Esmond, and cast her eyes down.
“The Marchioness of Blandford,” says Frank, “don’t you know—hath not Rouge
Dragon told you?” (My lord used to call the dowager at Chelsey by this and
other names.) “Blandford has a lock of her hair: the duchess found him on
his knees to Mistress ’Trix, and boxed his ears, and said Dr. Hare should
whip him.”
“I wish Mr. Tusher would whip you too,” says Beatrix.
My lady only said: “I hope you will tell none of these silly stories
elsewhere than at home, Francis.”
“’Tis true, on my word,” continues Frank: “look at Harry scowling, mother,
and see how Beatrix blushes as red as the silver-clocked stockings.”
“I think we had best leave the gentlemen to their wine and their talk,”
says Mistress Beatrix, rising up with the air of a young queen, tossing
her rustling, flowing draperies about her, and quitting the room, followed
by her mother.
Lady Castlewood again looked at Esmond, as she stooped down and kissed
Frank. “Do not tell those silly stories, child,” she said: “do not drink
much wine, sir; Harry never loved to drink wine.” And she went away, too,
in her black robes, looking back on the young man with her fair, fond
face.
“Egad! it’s true,” says Frank, sipping his wine with the air of a lord.
“What think you of this Lisbon—real Collares? ’Tis better than your heady
port: we got it out of one of the Spanish ships that came from Vigo last
year: my mother bought it at Southampton, as the ship was lying there—the
_Rose_, Captain Hawkins.”
“Why, I came home in that ship,” says Harry.
“And it brought home a good fellow and good wine,” says my lord. “I say,
Harry, I wish thou hadst not that cursed bar sinister.”
“And why not the bar sinister?” asks the other.
“Suppose I go to the army and am killed—every gentleman goes to the
army—who is to take care of the women? ’Trix will never stop at home;
mother’s in love with you,—yes, I think mother’s in love with you. She was
always praising you, and always talking about you; and when she went to
Southampton, to see the ship, I found her out. But you see it is
impossible: we are of the oldest blood in England; we came in with the
Conqueror; we were only baronets,—but what then? we were forced into that.
James the First forced our great-grandfather. We are above titles; we old
English gentry don’t want ’em; the queen can make a duke any day. Look at
Blandford’s father, Duke Churchill, and Duchess Jennings, what were they,
Harry? Damn it, sir, what are they, to turn up their noses at us? Where
were they, when our ancestor rode with King Henry at Agincourt, and filled
up the French king’s cup after Poictiers? ’Fore George, sir, why shouldn’t
Blandford marry Beatrix? By G——! he _shall_ marry Beatrix, or tell me the
reason why. We’ll marry with the best blood of England, and none but the
best blood of England. You are an Esmond, and you can’t help your birth,
my boy. Let’s have another bottle. What! no more? I’ve drunk three parts
of this myself. I had many a night with my father; you stood to him like a
man, Harry. You backed your blood; you can’t help your misfortune, you
know,—no man can help that.”
The elder said he would go in to his mistress’s tea-table. The young lad,
with a heightened colour and voice, began singing a snatch of a song, and
marched out of the room. Esmond heard him presently calling his dogs about
him, and cheering and talking to them; and by a hundred of his looks and
gestures, tricks of voice and gait, was reminded of the dead lord, Frank’s
father.
And so, the Sylvester Night passed away; the family parted long before
midnight, Lady Castlewood remembering, no doubt, former New-Year’s Eves,
when healths were drunk, and laughter went round in the company of him to
whom years, past, and present, and future, were to be as one; and so cared
not to sit with her children and hear the cathedral bells ringing the
birth of the year 1703. Esmond heard the chimes as he sat in his own
chamber, ruminating by the blazing fire there, and listened to the last
notes of them, looking out from his window towards the city, and the great
grey towers of the cathedral lying under the frosty sky, with the keen
stars shining above.
The sight of these brilliant orbs no doubt made him think of other
luminaries. “And so her eyes have already done execution,” thought
Esmond—“on whom?—who can tell me?” Luckily his kinsman was by, and Esmond
knew he would have no difficulty in finding out Mistress Beatrix’s history
from the simple talk of the boy.