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HENRY ESMOND
By WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY IN the days when the Stuart was playing his losing game for England's crown a sallow-faced, precocious boy was growing up, half loved, half neglected, in Castlewood House, knowing all the, secrets of its hidden chambers, where cavalier and priest could hide for a lifetime. Harry was reputed the illegitimate son of Thomas Esmond, Lord Castlewood, whose childless wife, herself an Esmond, had been a beauty and king's favorite once. After Viscount Castlewood had died, fighting for King James at Boyne Water, and King William's men had taken his lady prisoner, hiding in her bed, painted and powdered, resplendent in her brocade gown and gold-clocked red stockings-by her side the japan box holding the papers of the Royalists-another kinsman, Francis Esmond, had taken possession of the old house. "0 dea certe," little Harry Esmond said in his heart, when Rachel, the new Lady Castlewood, in her lovely girlhood, met him in the yellow gallery and there stirred in him the beginnings of a lifetime's devotion to her, to her beautiful children, Beatrix and Frank, and to his jovial new patron, Francis, Lord Castlewood. As a loved kinsman now, Harry had grown to manhood, when suddenly the smallpox, ravaging the neighborhood, destroyed for a time Lady Castlewood's beauty, and her gay husband's heart turned to lesser loves, though he still cared enough to be wildly jealous when Lord Mohun, a London blood, made love to her. The two men fought, and Francis, foully murdered by Mohun, on his death-bed made a written statement that he had long known from the priest who heard Thomas, Lord Castlewood's, dying confession that Harry Esmond had a right to the name he bore and was head of the house of Castlewood. This paper, stained with the blood of his dear master, Harry burned, and vowed -thanking Heaven that he had been enabled to make the righteous decision-that his mistress should never know sorrow through him, and that little Frank should become Lord Castlewood in his father's stead. Fate dealt hardly just now with Harry Esmond, for as he lay wounded and in prison as a result of his part in the duel, his dear lady, visiting him, chose to believe that he might have prevented her husband's death. Perhaps because she felt in her heart a tenderer love for him than she dared confess, she forbade him her home and even her friendship. The living of the parish church of Castlewood, long since promised him, was given elsewhere, and Esmond would have been penniless and friendless had not the old dowager, his father's widow, who had long cherished pique against the younger and fairer Lady Castlewood, summoned him to her new house at Chelsey. As he kissed her withered hand and saluted her as Marchioness, something in his assured bearing made her guess that he knew he was her husband's true son and chief of the house. Half frightened, she drew from him the story of his renunciation, and when he told her that his father's son would not aggravate the wrong his father had done her, and asked only for her kindness, her worldly old heart was touched. Henceforth he was "Son Esmond" to her, and when her influence at court had procured him an ensign's commission she was proud of him in his laced scarlet coat. Esmond served with some distinction under Marlborough abroad and was wounded at Blenheim, but the best thing his campaigning brought him was a chance encounter in St. Gudule's Church at Brussels with Father Holt, the tutor of his boyhood, who told him his mother's story. She had been of that very town, and a most tender, faithful creature. His father had deserted her, married her secretly, and again deserted her, and she had taken her broken heart to that convent. Esmond knelt by her grave, took a flower from the little hillock, and as he listened to the choir chanting from the chapel, realized afresh that love and humility were all that counted in life. One great happiness had come to Esmond before this-he had seen his dear lady, her face sweet and sad in her widow's hood, in Winchester Cathedral, and when their eyes had met the time of estrangement was passed. Knowing now how her heart had followed him, he dreamed that they might be happy together, but she saw more clearly. When, in their house at Walcotte, Beatrix, the sixteen-year-old maid of honor, with a scarlet ribbon upon the whitest neck in the world, came to meet him, he forgot her mother. No other woman of her day was like her for beauty and wit, and for ten years he was her slave, kneeling with his heart in his hand for the young lady to take, while she looked far higher than the nameless and fortuneless colonel. "Yes," she said, "I solemnly vow I want a good husband. My face is my fortune. Who'll come? Buy! Buy!" While marquises and lords were coming, eager for her, Esmond bore the torments of a hopeless passion, and his dear mistress suffered with him. At last a suitor worthy of the prize appeared-the Duke of Hamilton-much Beatrix's senior, wealthy, and second to none in the kingdom. Esmond had to accept his fate. The wedding gift he made her was a splendid string of diamonds his father's widow had given him. As she accepted it with a cry of delight, her bridegroom-elect, with a darkening face, told her he did not choose the Duchess of Hamil ton should accept presents from gentlemen who had no right to the names they bore. Her mother, to whom the old dowager on her death-bed had maliciously told Harry's story, answered for her: "Henry Esmond is his father's lawful son and true heir. We are the recipients of his bounty, and he is the head of a house as old as your Grace's own." And Beatrix, from whom it had all been kept a secret, whispered to him, "Why did not I know you before!" On the eve of marriage the duke died in a duel. Beatrix mourned him honestly, but Esmond dared hope for himself, and planned a bold move to win her love. All the Esmonds were heart and soul for the Stuart cause. Frank, the young viscount, who was fighting abroad, closely resembled the exiled chevalier. The two came together to Lady Castlewood's London house, the prince impersonating the viscount, and Frank, his valet, and were received with great joy Stuart partisans came to the house by stealth and the plot spread like leaven. The maid of honor contrived an interview between the prince and Queen Anne, his sister, whose health was failing, and all hoped that she would proclaim him her successor. Then Beatrix's friends began to fear for her, as the prince, who had no respect for women, was infatuated with her and she listened to him. Against her will they sent her to Castlewood. Suddenly the queen was reported dying, and the prince could not be found. Beatrix had found means to tell him her whereabouts. Henry Esmond and Frank rode all night to Castle-wood. Entering by the secret window, they found the prince and told him they came to avenge their dishonor. Taking from their old hiding-place the papers proving his birth and title, Esmond burned them before the prince, with the words: "I draw my sword and break it, and renounce you. Had you completed the wrong you designed us, I would have driven it through your heart." Frank, breaking his own sword, echoed him: "I go with my cousin. I'm for the Elector of Hanover. It's your Majesty's fault. You might have been king if you hadn't come dangling after Trix!" The talk was scarce over when Beatrix entered the room. She turned pale at the sight of her kinsmen, and looked at Esmond as if she could have killed him on the spot. It did not pain him, for the love of ten years was dead. As they rode back to London, the herald was proclaiming, "George, by the grace of God, king." Queen Anne had died that night. The chevalier escaped secretly to France, where Beatrix joined him. Frank married a foreign countess, and Esmond's mistress was left alone. At last, as beautiful in her autumn as maidens in their spring, she listened to him and consented to become his wife. In their Virginia plantation they built a new Castlewood, and found there an Indian summer of serene happiness. |