“Madam, you have the dearest, and kindest, and sweetest face in the world, I think,” the lad said; and indeed he thought so.
For Harry Esmond his benefactress’ sweet face had lost none of its charms. It had always the kindest of looks and smiles for him—and beauty of every sort. She would call him “Mr. Tutor,” and she herself, as well as the two children, went to school to him. Of the pupils the two young people were but lazy scholars, and my Lord’s son only learned what he liked, which was but little. Mistress Beatrix chattered French prettily, and sang sweetly, but this from her mother’s teaching, not Harry Esmond’s. But if the children were careless, ’twas a wonder how eagerly the mother learned from her young tutor—and taught him, too. She saw the [v]latent beauties and hidden graces in books; and the happiest hours of young Esmond’s life were those passed in the company of this kind mistress and her children.
These happy days were to end soon, however; and it was by Lady Castlewood’s own decree that they were brought to a conclusion. It happened about Christmas-tide, Harry Esmond being now past sixteen years of age. A messenger came from Winchester one day, bearer of the news that my Lady’s aunt was dead and had left her fortune of £2,000 among her six nieces. Many a time afterward Harry Esmond recalled the flushed face and eager look wherewith, after this intelligence, his kind lady regarded him. When my Lord heard of the news, he did not make any long face. “The money will come very handy to furnish the music-room and the [v]cellar,” he said, “which is getting low, and buy your Ladyship a coach and a couple of horses. Beatrix, you shall have a [v]spinet; and Frank, you shall have a little horse from Hexton fair; and Harry, you shall have five pounds to buy some books.” So spoke my Lord, who was generous with his own, and indeed with other folks’ money. “I wish your aunt would die once a year, Rachel; we could spend your money, and all your sisters’, too.”
“I have but one aunt—and—and I have another use for the money,” said my Lady, turning red.
“Another use, my dear; and what do you know about money?” cried my Lord.
“I intend it for Harry Esmond to go to college. Cousin Harry,” said my Lady, “you mustn’t stay any longer in this dull place, but make a name for yourself.”
“Is Harry going away? You don’t mean to say you will go away?” cried out Beatrix and Frank at one breath.
“But he will come back, and this will always be his home,” replied my Lady, with blue eyes looking a celestial kindness; “and his scholars will always love him, won’t they?”
“Rachel, you’re a good woman,” said my Lord. “I wish you joy, my kinsman,” he continued, giving Harry Esmond a hearty slap on the shoulder, “I won’t balk your luck. Go to Cambridge, boy.”
When Harry Esmond went away for Cambridge, little Frank ran alongside his horse as far as the bridge, and there Harry stopped for a moment and looked back at the house where the best part of his life had been passed. And Harry remembered, all his life after, how he saw his mistress at the window looking out on him, the little Beatrix’s chestnut curls resting at her mother’s side. Both waved a farewell to him, and little Frank sobbed to leave him.