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THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND, ESQ.

A COLONEL IN THE SERVICE OF HER MAJESTY QUEEN ANNE

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF


By William Makepeace Thackeray



Boston, Estes and Lauriat, Publishers



TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE

WILLIAM BINGHAM, LORD ASHBURTON.


MY DEAR LORD,

The writer of a book which copies the manners and language of Queen
Anne's time, must not omit the Dedication to the Patron; and I ask
leave to inscribe this volume to your Lordship, for the sake of the
great kindness and friendship which I owe to you and yours.

My volume will reach you when the Author is on his voyage to a
country where your name is as well known as here.  Wherever I am, I
shall gratefully regard you; and shall not be the less welcomed in
America because I am,

Your obliged friend and servant,

W. M. THACKERAY.

LONDON, October 18, 1852.




PREFACE.

THE ESMONDS OF VIRGINIA.


The estate of Castlewood, in Virginia, which was given to our
ancestors by King Charles the First, as some return for the
sacrifices made in his Majesty's cause by the Esmond family, lies
in Westmoreland county, between the rivers Potomac and
Rappahannock, and was once as great as an English Principality,
though in the early times its revenues were but small.  Indeed, for
near eighty years after our forefathers possessed them, our
plantations were in the hands of factors, who enriched themselves
one after another, though a few scores of hogsheads of tobacco were
all the produce that, for long after the Restoration, our family
received from their Virginian estates.

My dear and honored father, Colonel Henry Esmond, whose history,
written by himself, is contained in the accompanying volume, came
to Virginia in the year 1718, built his house of Castlewood, and
here permanently settled.  After a long stormy life in England, he
passed the remainder of his many years in peace and honor in this
country; how beloved and respected by all his fellow-citizens, how
inexpressibly dear to his family, I need not say.  His whole life
was a benefit to all who were connected with him.  He gave the best
example, the best advice, the most bounteous hospitality to his
friends; the tenderest care to his dependants; and bestowed on
those of his immediate family such a blessing of fatherly love and
protection as can never be thought of, by us, at least, without
veneration and thankfulness; and my sons' children, whether
established here in our Republic, or at home in the always beloved
mother country, from which our late quarrel hath separated us, may
surely be proud to be descended from one who in all ways was so
truly noble.

My dear mother died in 1736, soon after our return from England,
whither my parents took me for my education; and where I made the
acquaintance of Mr. Warrington, whom my children never saw.  When
it pleased heaven, in the bloom of his youth, and after but a few
months of a most happy union, to remove him from me, I owed my
recovery from the grief which that calamity caused me, mainly to my
dearest father's tenderness, and then to the blessing vouchsafed to
me in the birth of my two beloved boys.  I know the fatal
differences which separated them in politics never disunited their
hearts; and as I can love them both, whether wearing the King's
colors or the Republic's, I am sure that they love me and one
another, and him above all, my father and theirs, the dearest
friend of their childhood, the noble gentleman who bred them from
their infancy in the practice and knowledge of Truth, and Love and
Honor.

My children will never forget the appearance and figure of their
revered grandfather; and I wish I possessed the art of drawing
(which my papa had in perfection), so that I could leave to our
descendants a portrait of one who was so good and so respected.  My
father was of a dark complexion, with a very great forehead and
dark hazel eyes, overhung by eyebrows which remained black long
after his hair was white.  His nose was aquiline, his smile
extraordinary sweet.  How well I remember it, and how little any
description I can write can recall his image!  He was of rather low
stature, not being above five feet seven inches in height; he used
to laugh at my sons, whom he called his crutches, and say they were
grown too tall for him to lean upon.  But small as he was, he had a
perfect grace and majesty of deportment, such as I have never seen
in this country, except perhaps in our friend Mr. Washington, and
commanded respect wherever he appeared.

In all bodily exercises he excelled, and showed an extraordinary
quickness and agility.  Of fencing he was especially fond, and made
my two boys proficient in that art; so much so, that when the
French came to this country with Monsieur Rochambeau, not one of
his officers was superior to my Henry, and he was not the equal of
my poor George, who had taken the King's side in our lamentable but
glorious war of independence.

Neither my father nor my mother ever wore powder in their hair;
both their heads were as white as silver, as I can remember them.
My dear mother possessed to the last an extraordinary brightness
and freshness of complexion; nor would people believe that she did
not wear rouge.  At sixty years of age she still looked young, and
was quite agile.  It was not until after that dreadful siege of our
house by the Indians, which left me a widow ere I was a mother,
that my dear mother's health broke.  She never recovered her terror
and anxiety of those days which ended so fatally for me, then a
bride scarce six months married, and died in my father's arms ere
my own year of widowhood was over.

From that day, until the last of his dear and honored life, it was
my delight and consolation to remain with him as his comforter and
companion; and from those little notes which my mother hath made
here and there in the volume in which my father describes his
adventures in Europe, I can well understand the extreme devotion
with which she regarded him--a devotion so passionate and exclusive
as to prevent her, I think, from loving any other person except
with an inferior regard; her whole thoughts being centred on this
one object of affection and worship.  I know that, before her, my
dear father did not show the love which he had for his daughter;
and in her last and most sacred moments, this dear and tender
parent owned to me her repentance that she had not loved me enough:
her jealousy even that my father should give his affection to any
but herself: and in the most fond and beautiful words of affection
and admonition, she bade me never to leave him, and to supply the
place which she was quitting.  With a clear conscience, and a heart
inexpressibly thankful, I think I can say that I fulfilled those
dying commands, and that until his last hour my dearest father
never had to complain that his daughter's love and fidelity failed
him.

And it is since I knew him entirely--for during my mother's life he
never quite opened himself to me--since I knew the value and
splendor of that affection which he bestowed upon me, that I have
come to understand and pardon what, I own, used to anger me in my
mother's lifetime, her jealousy respecting her husband's love.
'Twas a gift so precious, that no wonder she who had it was for
keeping it all, and could part with none of it, even to her
daughter.

Though I never heard my father use a rough word, 'twas extraordinary
with how much awe his people regarded him; and the servants on our
plantation, both those assigned from England and the purchased
negroes, obeyed him with an eagerness such as the most severe
taskmasters round about us could never get from their people.  He
was never familiar, though perfectly simple and natural; he was the
same with the meanest man as with the greatest, and as courteous to
a black slave-girl as to the Governor's wife. No one ever thought of
taking a liberty with him (except once a tipsy gentleman from York,
and I am bound to own that my papa never forgave him): he set the
humblest people at once on their ease with him, and brought down the
most arrogant by a grave satiric way, which made persons exceedingly
afraid of him.  His courtesy was not put on like a Sunday suit, and
laid by when the company went away; it was always the same; as he
was always dressed the same, whether for a dinner by ourselves or
for a great entertainment.  They say he liked to be the first in his
company; but what company was there in which he would not be first?
When I went to Europe for my education, and we passed a winter at
London with my half-brother, my Lord Castlewood and his second lady,
I saw at her Majesty's Court some of the most famous gentlemen of
those days; and I thought to myself none of these are better than my
papa; and the famous Lord Bolingbroke, who came to us from Dawley,
said as much, and that the men of that time were not like those of
his youth:--"Were your father, Madam," he said, "to go into the
woods, the Indians would elect him Sachem;" and his lordship was
pleased to call me Pocahontas.

I did not see our other relative, Bishop Tusher's lady, of whom so
much is said in my papa's memoirs--although my mamma went to visit
her in the country.  I have no pride (as I showed by complying with
my mother's request, and marrying a gentleman who was but the
younger son of a Suffolk Baronet), yet I own to A DECENT RESPECT
for my name, and wonder how one who ever bore it, should change it
for that of Mrs. THOMAS TUSHER.  I pass over as odious and unworthy
of credit those reports (which I heard in Europe and was then too
young to understand), how this person, having LEFT HER FAMILY and
fled to Paris, out of jealousy of the Pretender betrayed his
secrets to my Lord Stair, King George's Ambassador, and nearly
caused the Prince's death there; how she came to England and
married this Mr. Tusher, and became a great favorite of King George
the Second, by whom Mr. Tusher was made a Dean, and then a Bishop.
I did not see the lady, who chose to remain AT HER PALACE all the
time we were in London; but after visiting her, my poor mamma said
she had lost all her good looks, and warned me not to set too much
store by any such gifts which nature had bestowed upon me.  She
grew exceedingly stout; and I remember my brother's wife, Lady
Castlewood, saying--"No wonder she became a favorite, for the King
likes them old and ugly, as his father did before him."  On which
papa said--"All women were alike; that there was never one so
beautiful as that one; and that we could forgive her everything but
her beauty."  And hereupon my mamma looked vexed, and my Lord
Castlewood began to laugh; and I, of course, being a young
creature, could not understand what was the subject of their
conversation.

After the circumstances narrated in the third book of these
Memoirs, my father and mother both went abroad, being advised by
their friends to leave the country in consequence of the
transactions which are recounted at the close of the volume of the
Memoirs.  But my brother, hearing how the FUTURE BISHOP'S LADY had
quitted Castlewood and joined the Pretender at Paris, pursued him,
and would have killed him, Prince as he was, had not the Prince
managed to make his escape.  On his expedition to Scotland directly
after, Castlewood was so enraged against him that he asked leave to
serve as a volunteer, and join the Duke of Argyle's army in
Scotland, which the Pretender never had the courage to face; and
thenceforth my Lord was quite reconciled to the present reigning
family, from whom he hath even received promotion.

Mrs. Tusher was by this time as angry against the Pretender as any
of her relations could be, and used to boast, as I have heard, that
she not only brought back my Lord to the Church of England, but
procured the English peerage for him, which the JUNIOR BRANCH of
our family at present enjoys.  She was a great friend of Sir Robert
Walpole, and would not rest until her husband slept at Lambeth, my
papa used laughing to say.  However, the Bishop died of apoplexy
suddenly, and his wife erected a great monument over him; and the
pair sleep under that stone, with a canopy of marble clouds and
angels above them--the first Mrs. Tusher lying sixty miles off at
Castlewood.

But my papa's genius and education are both greater than any a
woman can be expected to have, and his adventures in Europe far
more exciting than his life in this country, which was passed in
the tranquil offices of love and duty; and I shall say no more by
way of introduction to his Memoirs, nor keep my children from the
perusal of a story which is much more interesting than that of
their affectionate old mother,

RACHEL ESMOND WARRINGTON.

CASTLEWOOD, VIRGINIA,

November 3, 1778.



CONTENTS.


BOOK I.

THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME OF HIS LEAVING
TRINITY COLLEGE, IN CAMBRIDGE.


CHAPTER

I. An Account of the Family of Esmond of Castlewood Hall

II. Relates how Francis, Fourth Viscount, arrives at Castlewood

III. Whither, in the time of Thomas, Third Viscount, I had preceded
      him as Page to Isabella

IV. I am placed under a Popish Priest and bred to that Religion.--
      Viscountess Castlewood

V. My Superiors are engaged in Plots for the Restoration of King
      James II

VI. The Issue of the Plots.--The Death of Thomas, Third Viscount of
      Castlewood; and the Imprisonment of his Viscountess

VII. I am left at Castlewood an Orphan, and find most kind
      Protectors there

VIII. After Good Fortune comes Evil

IX. I have the Small-pox, and prepare to leave Castlewood

X. I go to Cambridge, and do but little Good there

XI. I come home for a Holiday to Castlewood, and find a Skeleton in
      the House

XII. My Lord Mohun comes among us for no Good

XIII. My Lord leaves us and his Evil behind him

XIV. We ride after him to London


BOOK II.

CONTAINS MR. ESMOND'S MILITARY LIFE, AND OTHER MATTERS APPERTAINING
TO THE ESMOND FAMILY.


I. I am in Prison, and Visited, but not Consoled there

II. I come to the End of my Captivity, but not of my Trouble

III. I take the Queen's Pay in Quin's Regiment

IV. Recapitulations

V. I go on the Vigo Bay Expedition, taste Salt Water and smell
      Powder

VI. The 29th December

VII. I am made Welcome at Walcote

VIII. Family Talk

IX. I make the Campaign of 1704

X. An Old Story about a Fool and a Woman

XI. The famous Mr. Joseph Addison

XII. I get a Company in the Campaign of 1706

XIII. I meet an Old Acquaintance in Flanders, and find my Mother's
       Grave and my own Cradle there

XIV. The Campaign of 1707, 1708

XV. General Webb wins the Battle of Wynendael


BOOK III.

CONTAINING THE END OF MR. ESMOND'S ADVENTURES IN ENGLAND.


I. I come to an End of my Battles and Bruises

II. I go Home, and harp on the Old String

III. A Paper out of the "Spectator"

IV. Beatrix's New Suitor

V. Mohun appears for the Last Time in this History

VI. Poor Beatrix

VII. I visit Castlewood once more

VIII. I travel to France and bring Home a Portrait of Rigaud

IX. The Original of the Portrait comes to England

X. We entertain a very Distinguished Guest at Kensington

XI. Our Guest quits us as not being Hospitable enough

XII. A great Scheme, and who Balked it

XIII. August 1st, 1714




THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.




BOOK I

THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME OF HIS LEAVING
TRINITY COLLEGE, IN CAMBRIDGE.


The actors in the old tragedies, as we read, piped their iambics to
a tune, speaking from under a mask, and wearing stilts and a great
head-dress.  'Twas thought the dignity of the Tragic Muse required
these appurtenances, and that she was not to move except to a
measure and cadence.  So Queen Medea slew her children to a slow
music: and King Agamemnon perished in a dying fall (to use Mr.
Dryden's words): the Chorus standing by in a set attitude, and
rhythmically and decorously bewailing the fates of those great
crowned persons.  The Muse of History hath encumbered herself with
ceremony as well as her Sister of the Theatre.  She too wears the
mask and the cothurnus, and speaks to measure.  She too, in our
age, busies herself with the affairs only of kings; waiting on them
obsequiously and stately, as if she were but a mistress of court
ceremonies, and had nothing to do with the registering of the
affairs of the common people.  I have seen in his very old age and
decrepitude the old French King Lewis the Fourteenth, the type and
model of kinghood--who never moved but to measure, who lived and
died according to the laws of his Court-marshal, persisting in
enacting through life the part of Hero; and, divested of poetry,
this was but a little wrinkled old man, pock-marked, and with a
great periwig and red heels to make him look tall--a hero for a
book if you like, or for a brass statue or a painted ceiling, a god
in a Roman shape, but what more than a man for Madame Maintenon, or
the barber who shaved him, or Monsieur Fagon, his surgeon?  I
wonder shall History ever pull off her periwig and cease to be
court-ridden?  Shall we see something of France and England besides
Versailles and Windsor?  I saw Queen Anne at the latter place
tearing down the Park slopes, after her stag-hounds, and driving
her one-horse chaise--a hot, red-faced woman, not in the least
resembling that statue of her which turns its stone back upon St.
Paul's, and faces the coaches struggling up Ludgate Hill.  She was
neither better bred nor wiser than you and me, though we knelt to
hand her a letter or a wash-hand basin.  Why shall History go on
kneeling to the end of time?  I am for having her rise up off her
knees, and take a natural posture: not to be for ever performing
cringes and congees like a court-chamberlain, and shuffling
backwards out of doors in the presence of the sovereign.  In a
word, I would have History familiar rather than heroic: and think
that Mr. Hogarth and Mr. Fielding will give our children a much
better idea of the manners of the present age in England, than the
Court Gazette and the newspapers which we get thence.

There was a German officer of Webb's, with whom we used to joke,
and of whom a story (whereof I myself was the author) was got to be
believed in the army, that he was eldest son of the hereditary
Grand Bootjack of the Empire, and the heir to that honor of which
his ancestors had been very proud, having been kicked for twenty
generations by one imperial foot, as they drew the boot from the
other.  I have heard that the old Lord Castlewood, of part of whose
family these present volumes are a chronicle, though he came of
quite as good blood as the Stuarts whom he served (and who as
regards mere lineage are no better than a dozen English and
Scottish houses I could name), was prouder of his post about the
Court than of his ancestral honors, and valued his dignity (as Lord
of the Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset) so highly, that he
cheerfully ruined himself for the thankless and thriftless race who
bestowed it.  He pawned his plate for King Charles the First,
mortgaged his property for the same cause, and lost the greater
part of it by fines and sequestration: stood a siege of his castle
by Ireton, where his brother Thomas capitulated (afterward making
terms with the Commonwealth, for which the elder brother never
forgave him), and where his second brother Edward, who had embraced
the ecclesiastical profession, was slain on Castlewood Tower, being
engaged there both as preacher and artilleryman.  This resolute old
loyalist, who was with the King whilst his house was thus being
battered down, escaped abroad with his only son, then a boy, to
return and take a part in Worcester fight.  On that fatal field
Eustace Esmond was killed, and Castlewood fled from it once more
into exile, and henceforward, and after the Restoration, never was
away from the Court of the monarch (for whose return we offer
thanks in the Prayer-Book) who sold his country and who took bribes
of the French king.

What spectacle is more august than that of a great king in exile?
Who is more worthy of respect than a brave man in misfortune?  Mr.
Addison has painted such a figure in his noble piece of Cato.  But
suppose fugitive Cato fuddling himself at a tavern with a wench on
each knee, a dozen faithful and tipsy companions of defeat, and a
landlord calling out for his bill; and the dignity of misfortune is
straightway lost.  The Historical Muse turns away shamefaced from
the vulgar scene, and closes the door--on which the exile's unpaid
drink is scored up--upon him and his pots and his pipes, and the
tavern-chorus which he and his friends are singing.  Such a man as
Charles should have had an Ostade or Mieris to paint him.  Your
Knellers and Le Bruns only deal in clumsy and impossible allegories:
and it hath always seemed to me blasphemy to claim Olympus for
such a wine-drabbled divinity as that.

About the King's follower, the Viscount Castlewood--orphan of his
son, ruined by his fidelity, bearing many wounds and marks of
bravery, old and in exile--his kinsmen I suppose should be silent;
nor if this patriarch fell down in his cups, call fie upon him, and
fetch passers-by to laugh at his red face and white hairs.  What!
does a stream rush out of a mountain free and pure, to roll through
fair pastures, to feed and throw out bright tributaries, and to end
in a village gutter?  Lives that have noble commencements have
often no better endings; it is not without a kind of awe and
reverence that an observer should speculate upon such careers as he
traces the course of them.  I have seen too much of success in life
to take off my hat and huzzah to it as it passes in its gilt coach:
and would do my little part with my neighbors on foot, that they
should not gape with too much wonder, nor applaud too loudly.  Is
it the Lord Mayor going in state to mince-pies and the Mansion
House?  Is it poor Jack of Newgate's procession, with the sheriff
and javelin-men, conducting him on his last journey to Tyburn?  I
look into my heart and think that I sin as good as my Lord Mayor,
and know I am as bad as Tyburn Jack.  Give me a chain and red gown
and a pudding before me, and I could play the part of Alderman very
well, and sentence Jack after dinner.  Starve me, keep me from
books and honest people, educate me to love dice, gin, and
pleasure, and put me on Hounslow Heath, with a purse before me, and
I will take it.  "And I shall be deservedly hanged," say you,
wishing to put an end to this prosing.  I don't say No.  I can't
but accept the world as I find it, including a rope's end, as long
as it is in fashion.




CHAPTER I.

AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF ESMOND OF CASTLEWOOD HALL.


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, that fine
piece among others of Sir Antonio Van Dyck of George, second
Viscount, and that by Mr. Dobson of my lord the third Viscount,
just deceased, which it seems his lady and widow did not think fit
to carry away, when she sent for and carried off to her house at
Chelsey, near to London, the picture of herself by Sir Peter Lely,
in which her ladyship was represented as a huntress of Diana's
court.

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," 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 had come upon him as a Dea
certe, and 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 (an old tyrant whom Henry Esmond plagued
more than he hated), and the old gentlewoman looked significantly
towards the late lord's picture, as it now is in the family, noble
and severe-looking, with his hand on his sword, and his order on
his cloak, which he had from the Emperor during the war on the
Danube against the Turk.

Seeing the great and undeniable likeness between this portrait and
the lad, the new Viscountess, who had still hold of the boy's hand
as she looked at the picture, blushed and dropped the hand quickly,
and walked down the gallery, followed by Mrs. Worksop.

When the lady came back, Harry Esmond stood exactly in the same
spot, and with his hand as it had fallen when he dropped it on his
black coat.

Her heart melted, I suppose (indeed she hath since owned as much),
at the notion that she should do anything unkind to any mortal,
great or small; for, when she returned, she had sent away the
housekeeper upon an errand by the door at the farther end of the
gallery; and, coming back to the lad, with a look of infinite pity
and tenderness in her eyes, she took his hand again, placing her
other fair hand on his head, and saying some words to him, which
were so kind, and said in a voice so sweet, that the boy, who had
never looked upon so much beauty before, felt as if the touch of a
superior being or angel smote him down to the ground, and 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 in his
hand.  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, looking down at the
lad; "welcome, kinsman."

"He is saying his prayers to mamma," says the little girl, who came
up to her papa's knees; and my lord burst out into another great
laugh at this, and kinsman Henry 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 from the
protectors, whom heaven had sent to him, these touching words and
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 that morning 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 dependant; 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, you may be sure, a feast was got ready, and
guns were fired, and tenants and domestics huzzahed when his
carriage approached and rolled into the court-yard of the hall), no
one ever took any notice of young Henry Esmond, who sat unobserved
and alone in the Book-room, until the afternoon of that day, when
his new friends found him.

When my lord and lady were going away thence, the little girl,
still holding her kinsman by the hand, bade him to come too.  "Thou
wilt always forsake an old friend for a new one, Trix," says her
father to her 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, "but we were happiest of all
at Walcote Forest."  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 papa 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 every one seemed to be there.  How those trivial
incidents and words, the landscape and sunshine, and the group of
people smiling and talking, remain fixed on the memory!

As the sun was setting, the little heir was sent in the arms of his
nurse to bed, whither he went howling; but little Trix was promised
to sit to 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.

"D--n it," says my lord, "thou shalt sup with us, Harry, to-night!
Shan't refuse a lady, shall he, Trix?"--and they all wondered at
Harry's performance as a trencher-man, in which character the poor
boy acquitted himself very remarkably; for the truth is he had had
no dinner, nobody thinking of him in the bustle which the house was
in, during the preparations antecedent to the new lord's arrival.

"No dinner! poor dear child!" says my lady, heaping up his plate
with meat, and my lord, filling a bumper for him, bade him call a
health; on which Master Harry, crying "The King," tossed off the
wine.  My lord was ready to drink that, and most other toasts:
indeed only too ready.  He would not hear of Doctor Tusher (the
Vicar of Castlewood, who came to supper) going away when the
sweetmeats were brought: he had not had a chaplain long enough, he
said, to be tired of him: so his reverence kept my lord company for
some hours over a pipe and a punch-bowl; and went away home with
rather a reeling gait, and declaring a dozen of times, that his
lordship's affability surpassed every kindness he had ever had from
his lordship's gracious family.

As for young Esmond, when he 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.  He was up and watching long before
the house was astir, longing to see that fair lady and her
children--that kind protector and patron: 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.  He
told her at greater length 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, which had best be told more fully and explicitly than in
those brief replies which the lad made to his mistress's questions.




CHAPTER II.

RELATES HOW FRANCIS, FOURTH VISCOUNT, ARRIVES AT CASTLEWOOD.


'Tis known that the name of Esmond and the estate of Castlewood,
com. Hants, came into possession of the present family through
Dorothea, daughter and heiress of Edward, Earl and Marquis Esmond,
and Lord of Castlewood, which lady married, 23 Eliz., Henry Poyns,
gent.; the said Henry being then a page in the household of her
father.  Francis, son and heir of the above Henry and Dorothea, who
took the maternal name which the family hath borne subsequently,
was made Knight and Baronet by King James the First; and being of a
military disposition, remained long in Germany with the Elector-Palatine, in whose service Sir Francis incurred both expense and
danger, lending large sums of money to that unfortunate Prince; and
receiving many wounds in the battles against the Imperialists, in
which Sir Francis engaged.

On his return home Sir Francis was rewarded for his services and
many sacrifices, by his late Majesty James the First, who
graciously conferred upon this tried servant the post of Warden of
the Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset, which high and
confidential office he filled in that king's and his unhappy
successor's reign.

His age, and many wounds and infirmities, obliged Sir Francis to
perform much of his duty by deputy: and his son, Sir George Esmond,
knight and banneret, first as his father's lieutenant, and
afterwards as inheritor of his father's title and dignity,
performed this office during almost the whole of the reign of King
Charles the First, and his two sons who succeeded him.

Sir George Esmond married, rather beneath the rank that a person of
his name and honor might aspire to, the daughter of Thos. Topham,
of the city of London, alderman and goldsmith, who, taking the
Parliamentary side in the troubles then commencing, disappointed
Sir George of the property which he expected at the demise of his
father-in-law, who devised his money to his second daughter,
Barbara, a spinster.

Sir George Esmond, on his part, was conspicuous for his attachment
and loyalty to the Royal cause and person: and the King being at
Oxford in 1642, Sir George, with the consent of his father, then
very aged and infirm, and residing at his house of Castlewood,
melted the whole of the family plate for his Majesty's service.

For this, and other sacrifices and merits, his Majesty, by patent
under the Privy Seal, dated Oxford, Jan., 1643, was pleased to
advance Sir Francis Esmond to the dignity of Viscount Castlewood,
of Shandon, in Ireland: and the Viscount's estate being much
impoverished by loans to the King, which in those troublesome times
his Majesty could not repay, a grant of land in the plantations of
Virginia was given to the Lord Viscount.; part of which land is in
possession of descendants of his family to the present day.

The first Viscount Castlewood died full of years, and within a few
months after he had been advanced to his honors.  He was succeeded
by his eldest son, the before-named George; and left issue besides,
Thomas, a colonel in the King's army, who afterwards joined the
Usurper's Government; and Francis, in holy orders, who was slain
whilst defending the House of Castlewood against the Parliament,
anno 1647.

George Lord Castlewood (the second Viscount), of King Charles the
First's time, had no male issue save his one son, Eustace Esmond,
who was killed, with half of the Castlewood men beside him, at
Worcester fight.  The lands about Castlewood were sold and
apportioned to the Commonwealth men; Castlewood being concerned in
almost all of the plots against the Protector, after the death of
the King, and up to King Charles the Second's restoration.  My lord
followed that king's Court about in its exile, having ruined
himself in its service.  He had but one daughter, who was of no
great comfort to her father; for misfortune had not taught those
exiles sobriety of life; and it is said that the Duke of York and
his brother the King both quarrelled about Isabel Esmond.  She was
maid of honor to the Queen Henrietta Maria; she early joined the
Roman Church; her father, a weak man, following her not long after
at Breda.

On the death of Eustace Esmond at Worcester, Thomas Esmond, nephew
to my Lord Castlewood, and then a stripling, became heir to the
title.  His father had taken the Parliament side in the quarrels,
and so had been estranged from the chief of his house; and my Lord
Castlewood was at first so much enraged to think that his title
(albeit little more than an empty one now) should pass to a
rascally Roundhead, that he would have married again, and indeed
proposed to do so to a vintner's daughter at Bruges, to whom his
lordship owed a score for lodging when the King was there, but for
fear of the laughter of the Court, and the anger of his daughter,
of whom he stood in awe; for she was in temper as imperious and
violent as my lord, who was much enfeebled by wounds and drinking,
was weak.

Lord Castlewood would have had a match between his daughter Isabel
and her cousin, the son of that Francis Esmond who was killed at
Castlewood siege.  And the lady, it was said, took a fancy to the
young man, who was her junior by several years (which circumstance
she did not consider to be a fault in him); but having paid his
court, and being admitted to the intimacy of the house, he suddenly
flung up his suit, when it seemed to be pretty prosperous, without
giving a pretext for his behavior.  His friends rallied him at what
they laughingly chose to call his infidelity; Jack Churchill, Frank
Esmond's lieutenant in the Royal Regiment of Foot-guards, getting
the company which Esmond vacated, when he left the Court and went
to Tangier in a rage at discovering that his promotion depended on
the complaisance of his elderly affianced bride.  He and Churchill,
who had been condiscipuli at St. Paul's School, had words about
this matter; and Frank Esmond said to him with an oath, "Jack, your
sister may be so-and-so, but by Jove my wife shan't!" and swords
were drawn, and blood drawn too, until friends separated them on
this quarrel.  Few men were so jealous about the point of honor in
those days; and gentlemen of good birth and lineage thought a royal
blot was an ornament to their family coat.  Frank Esmond retired in
the sulks, first to Tangier, whence he returned after two years'
service, settling on a small property he had of his mother, near to
Winchester, and became a country gentleman, and kept a pack of
beagles, and never came to Court again in King Charles's time.  But
his uncle Castlewood was never reconciled to him; nor, for some
time afterwards, his cousin whom he had refused.

By places, pensions, bounties from France, and gifts from the King,
whilst his daughter was in favor, Lord Castlewood, who had spent in
the Royal service his youth and fortune, did not retrieve the
latter quite, and never cared to visit Castlewood, or repair it,
since the death of his son, but managed to keep a good house, and
figure at Court, and to save a considerable sum of ready money.

And now, his heir and nephew, Thomas Esmond, began to bid for his
uncle's favor.  Thomas had served with the Emperor, and with the
Dutch, when King Charles was compelled to lend troops to the
States; and against them, when his Majesty made an alliance with
the French King.  In these campaigns Thomas Esmond was more
remarked for duelling, brawling, vice, and play, than for any
conspicuous gallantry in the field, and came back to England, like
many another English gentleman who has travelled, with a character
by no means improved by his foreign experience.  He had dissipated
his small paternal inheritance of a younger brother's portion, and,
as truth must be told, was no better than a hanger-on of
ordinaries, and a brawler about Alsatia and the Friars, when he
bethought him of a means of mending his fortune.

His cousin was now of more than middle age, and had nobody's word
but her own for the beauty which she said she once possessed.  She
was lean, and yellow, and long in the tooth; all the red and white
in all the toy-shops in London could not make a beauty of her--Mr.
Killigrew called her the Sybil, the death's-head put up at the
King's feast as a memento mori, &c.--in fine, a woman who might be
easy of conquest, but whom only a very bold man would think of
conquering.  This bold man was Thomas Esmond.  He had a fancy to my
Lord Castlewood's savings, the amount of which rumor had very much
exaggerated.  Madame Isabel was said to have Royal jewels of great
value; whereas poor Tom Esmond's last coat but one was in pawn.

My lord had at this time a fine house in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, nigh
to the Duke's Theatre and the Portugal ambassador's chapel.  Tom
Esmond, who had frequented the one as long as he had money to spend
among the actresses, now came to the church as assiduously.  He
looked so lean and shabby, that he passed without difficulty for a
repentant sinner; and so, becoming converted, you may be sure took
his uncle's priest for a director.

This charitable father reconciled him with the old lord, his uncle,
who a short time before would not speak to him, as Tom passed under
my lord's coach window, his lordship going in state to his place at
Court, while his nephew slunk by with his battered hat and feather,
and the point of his rapier sticking out of the scabbard--to his
twopenny ordinary in Bell Yard.

Thomas Esmond, after this reconciliation with his uncle, very soon
began to grow sleek, and to show signs of the benefits of good
living and clean linen.  He fasted rigorously twice a week, to be
sure; but he made amends on the other days: and, to show how great
his appetite was, Mr. Wycherley said, he ended by swallowing that
fly-blown rank old morsel his cousin.  There were endless jokes and
lampoons about this marriage at Court: but Tom rode thither in his
uncle's coach now, called him father, and having won could afford
to laugh.  This marriage took place very shortly before King
Charles died: whom the Viscount of Castlewood speedily followed.

The issue of this marriage was one son, whom the parents watched
with an intense eagerness and care; but who, in spite of nurses and
physicians, had only a brief existence.  His tainted blood did not
run very long in his poor feeble little body.  Symptoms of evil
broke out early on him; and, part from flattery, part superstition,
nothing would satisfy my lord and lady, especially the latter, but
having the poor little cripple touched by his Majesty at his
church.  They were ready to cry out miracle at first (the doctors
and quack-salvers being constantly in attendance on the child, and
experimenting on his poor little body with every conceivable
nostrum) but though there seemed, from some reason, a notable
amelioration in the infant's health after his Majesty touched him,
in a few weeks afterward the poor thing died--causing the
lampooners of the Court to say, that the King, in expelling evil
out of the infant of Tom Esmond and Isabella his wife, expelled the
life out of it, which was nothing but corruption.

The mother's natural pang at losing this poor little child must
have been increased when she thought of her rival Frank Esmond's
wife, who was a favorite of the whole Court, where my poor Lady
Castlewood was neglected, and who had one child, a daughter,
flourishing and beautiful, and was about to become a mother once
more.

The Court, as I have heard, only laughed the more because the poor
lady, who had pretty well passed the age when ladies are accustomed
to have children, nevertheless determined not to give hope up, and
even when she came to live at Castlewood, was constantly sending
over to Hexton for the doctor, and announcing to her friends the
arrival of an heir.  This absurdity of hers was one amongst many
others which the wags used to play upon.  Indeed, to the last days
of her life, my Lady Viscountess had the comfort of fancying
herself beautiful, and persisted in blooming up to the very midst
of winter, painting roses on her cheeks long after their natural
season, and attiring herself like summer though her head was
covered with snow.

Gentlemen who were about the Court of King Charles, and King James,
have told the present writer a number of stories about this queer
old lady, with which it's not necessary that posterity should be
entertained.  She is said to have had great powers of invective
and, if she fought with all her rivals in King James's favor, 'tis
certain she must have had a vast number of quarrels on her hands.
She was a woman of an intrepid spirit, and, it appears, pursued and
rather fatigued his Majesty with her rights and her wrongs.  Some
say that the cause of her leaving Court was jealousy of Frank
Esmond's wife: others, that she was forced to retreat after a great
battle which took place at Whitehall, between her ladyship and Lady
Dorchester, Tom Killigrew's daughter, whom the King delighted to
honor, and in which that ill-favored Esther got the better of our
elderly Vashti.  But her ladyship, for her part, always averred
that it was her husband's quarrel, and not her own, which
occasioned the banishment of the two into the country; and the
cruel ingratitude of the Sovereign in giving away, out of the
family, that place of Warden of the Butteries and Groom of the
King's Posset, which the two last Lords Castlewood had held so
honorably, and which was now conferred upon a fellow of yesterday,
and a hanger-on of that odious Dorchester creature, my Lord
Bergamot;* "I never," said my lady, could have come to see his
Majesty's posset carried by any other hand than an Esmond.  I
should have dashed the salver out of Lord Bergamot's hand, had I
met him."  And those who knew her ladyship are aware that she was a
person quite capable of performing this feat, had she not wisely
kept out of the way.

/*
     * Lionel Tipton, created Baron Bergamot, ann. 1686,
     Gentleman Usher of the Back Stairs, and afterwards appointed
     Warden of the Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset (on
     the decease of George, second Viscount Castlewood),
     accompanied his Majesty to St. Germain's, where he died
     without issue.  No Groom of the Posset was appointed by the
     Prince of Orange, nor hath there been such an officer in any
     succeeding reign.
*/

Holding the purse-strings in her own control, to which, indeed, she
liked to bring most persons who came near her, Lady Castlewood
could command her husband's obedience, and so broke up her
establishment at London; she had removed from Lincoln's-Inn-Fields
to Chelsey, to a pretty new house she bought there; and brought her
establishment, her maids, lap-dogs, and gentlewomen, her priest,
and his lordship her husband, to Castlewood Hall, that she had
never seen since she quitted it as a child with her father during
the troubles of King Charles the First's reign.  The walls were
still open in the old house as they had been left by the shot of
the Commonwealthmen.  A part of the mansion was restored and
furbished up with the plate, hangings, and furniture brought from
the house in London.  My lady meant to have a triumphal entry into
Castlewood village, and expected the people to cheer as she drove
over the Green in her great coach, my lord beside her, her
gentlewomen, lap-dogs, and cockatoos on the opposite seat, six
horses to her carriage, and servants armed and mounted following it
and preceding it.  But 'twas in the height of the No-Popery cry;
the folks in the village and the neighboring town were scared by
the sight of her ladyship's painted face and eyelids, as she bobbed
her head out of the coach window, meaning, no doubt, to be very
gracious; and one old woman said, "Lady Isabel! lord-a-mercy, it's
Lady Jezebel!" a name by which the enemies of the right honorable
Viscountess were afterwards in the habit of designating her.  The
country was then in a great No-Popery fervor; her ladyship's known
conversion, and her husband's, the priest in her train, and the
service performed at the chapel of Castlewood (though the chapel
had been built for that worship before any other was heard of in
the country, and though the service was performed in the most quiet
manner), got her no favor at first in the county or village.  By
far the greater part of the estate of Castlewood had been
confiscated, and been parcelled out to Commonwealthmen.  One or two
of these old Cromwellian soldiers were still alive in the village,
and looked grimly at first upon my Lady Viscountess, when she came
to dwell there.

She appeared at the Hexton Assembly, bringing her lord after her,
scaring the country folks with the splendor of her diamonds, which
she always wore in public.  They said she wore them in private,
too, and slept with them round her neck; though the writer can
pledge his word that this was a calumny.  "If she were to take them
off," my Lady Sark said, "Tom Esmond, her husband, would run away
with them and pawn them."  'Twas another calumny.  My Lady Sark was
also an exile from Court, and there had been war between the two
ladies before.

The village people began to be reconciled presently to their lady,
who was generous and kind, though fantastic and haughty, in her
ways; and whose praises Dr. Tusher, the Vicar, sounded loudly
amongst his flock.  As for my lord, he gave no great trouble, being
considered scarce more than an appendage to my lady, who, as
daughter of the old lords of Castlewood, and possessor of vast
wealth, as the country folks said (though indeed nine-tenths of it
existed but in rumor), was looked upon as the real queen of the
Castle, and mistress of all it contained.




CHAPTER III.

WHITHER IN THE TIME OF THOMAS, THIRD VISCOUNT, I HAD PRECEDED HIM
AS PAGE TO ISABELLA.


Coming up to London again some short time after this retreat, the
Lord Castlewood despatched a retainer of his to a little Cottage in
the village of Ealing, near to London, where 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 this country.  With this old man lived a little
lad, who went by the name of Henry Thomas.  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 say, "Angel! she
belongs to the Babylonish scarlet woman."  Bon Papa was always
talking of the scarlet woman.  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 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 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.  Besides blows, he got ill names from
her, which need not be set down here, for the sake of old Mr.
Pastoureau, who was still kind sometimes.  The unhappiness of those
days is long forgiven, though they cast a shade of melancholy over
the child's youth, which will accompany him, no doubt, to the end
of his days: as those tender twigs are bent the trees grow
afterward; and he, at least, who has suffered as a child, and is
not quite perverted in that early school of unhappiness, learns to
be gentle and long-suffering with little children.

Harry 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 noverca, or unjust stepmother, who had
neglected him for her own two children, gave him supper enough the
night before he went away, and plenty in the morning.  She did not
beat him once, and 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 old Mr.
Pastoureau, as he gave the child his blessing, scowled over his
shoulder at the strange gentleman, and grumbled out something about
Babylon and the scarlet lady.  He was grown quite old, like a child
almost.  Mrs. Pastoureau used to wipe his nose as she did to the
children.  She was a great, big, handsome young woman; but, though
she pretended to cry, Harry thought 'twas only a sham, and sprung
quite delighted upon the horse upon which the lackey helped him.

He 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 chiefly among French people:
and being called the Little Frenchman by other boys on Ealing
Green.  He soon learnt to speak English perfectly, and to forget
some of his French: children forget easily.  Some earlier and
fainter recollections the child had of a different country; and a
town with tall white houses: and a ship.  But these were quite
indistinct in the boy's mind, as indeed the memory of Ealing soon
became, at least of much that he suffered there.

The lackey before whom he rode was very lively and voluble, 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 parrain--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 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 nobleman, a grand languid nobleman in a great cap and
flowered morning-gown, sucking oranges.  He patted Harry on the
head and gave him an orange.

"C'est bien ca," he said to the priest after eying the child, and
the gentleman in black shrugged his shoulders.

"Let Blaise 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 will remember to his life's end the delights of those days.  He
was taken to see a play by Monsieur Blaise, 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 booksellers' shops thereon, looking
like a street, and the Tower of London, with the Armor, 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, namely, my Lord Viscount and the other gentleman; Monsieur
Blaise and Harry on a pillion behind them, and two or three men
with pistols leading the baggage-horses.  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 was compassionated by
Mr. Holt, the gentleman who travelled with my lord, and who gave
the child a little bed in his chamber.

His artless talk and answers very likely inclined this gentleman in
the boy's favor, for next day Mr. Holt said Harry should ride
behind him, and not with the French lacky; 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; and when he asked Harry about singing, the lad
broke out with a hymn to the tune of Dr. Martin Luther, which set
Mr. Holt a-laughing; and even caused his grand parrain in the laced
hat and periwig to laugh too when Holt told him what the child was
singing.  For it appeared that Dr. Martin Luther's hymns were not
sung in the churches Mr. Holt preached at.

"You must never sing that song any more: do you hear, little
mannikin?" says my Lord Viscount, holding up a finger.

"But we will try and teach you a better, Harry," Mr. Holt said; and
the child answered, for he was a docile child, and of an
affectionate nature, "That he loved pretty songs, and would try and
learn anything the gentleman would tell him."  That day he so
pleased the gentlemen 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.

"'Tis well, 'tis well!" said Blaise, that night (in his own
language) when they lay again at an inn.  "We are a little lord
here; we are a little lord now: we shall see what we are when we
come to Castlewood, where my lady is."

"When shall we come to Castlewood, Monsieur Blaise?" says Harry.

"Parbleu! my lord does not press himself," Blaise says, with a
grin; and, indeed, it seemed as if his lordship was not in a great
hurry, for he spent three days on that journey which Harry Esmond
hath often since ridden in a dozen hours.  For the last two of the
days Harry rode with the priest, who was so kind to him, that the
child had grown to be quite fond and familiar with him by the
journey's end, and had scarce a thought in his little heart which
by that time he had not confided to his new friend.

At length, on the third day, at evening, they came to a village
standing on a green with elms round it, very pretty to look at; 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 any one--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 Doctor 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 gray towers and vanes on them, and
windows flaming in the sunshine; and a great army of rooks,
wheeling over their heads, made for the woods behind the house, as
Harry saw; and Mr. Holt told him that they lived at Castlewood too.

They came to the house, and passed under an arch into a court-yard,
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.  And the child thought that the servants looked at him
curiously, and smiled to one another--and he recalled what Blaise
had said to him when they were in London, and Harry had spoken
about his godpapa, when the Frenchman said, "Parbleu, one sees well
that my lord is your godfather;" words whereof the poor lad did not
know the meaning then, though he apprehended the truth in a very
short time afterwards, and learned it, and thought of it with no
small feeling of shame.

Taking Harry by the hand as soon as they were both descended from
their horses, Mr. Holt led him across the court, and under a low
door 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; and 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 colored glass painted of a thousand lines; 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-colored 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
pantofles with red heels; and an odor of musk was shook out of her
garments whenever she moved or quitted the room, leaning on her
tortoise-shell stick, little Fury barking at her heels.

Mrs. Tusher, the parson's wife, was with my lady.  She had been
waiting-woman to her ladyship in the late lord's time, and, having
her soul in that business, took naturally to it when the
Viscountess of Castlewood returned to inhabit her father's house.

"I present to your ladyship your kinsman and little page of honor,
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--the fair
priestess of Castlewood."

"Where I have lived and hope to die, sir," says Madame Tusher,
giving a hard glance at the brat, and then at my lady.

Upon her the boy's whole attention was for a time directed.  He
could not keep his great eyes off 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.

"Where I'm attached, I'm attached, Madame--and I'd die rather than
not say so."

"Je meurs ou je m'attache," Mr. Holt said with a polite grin.  "The
ivy says so in the picture, and clings to the oak like a fond
parasite as it is."

"Parricide, sir!" cries Mrs. Tusher.

"Hush, Tusher--you are always bickering with Father Holt," cried my
lady.  "Come and kiss my hand, child;" and the oak held out a
BRANCH to little Harry Esmond, who 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 crying 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 to
whom this artless flattery was bestowed: for having gone down on
his knee (as Father Holt had directed him, and the mode then was)
and performed his obeisance, she said, "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."

The lady seemed to have the greatest reverence for Mr. Holt, and to
be more afraid of him than of anything else in the world.  If she
was ever so angry, a word or look from Father Holt made her calm:
indeed he had a vast power of subjecting those who came near him;
and, among the rest, his new pupil gave himself up with an entire
confidence and attachment to the good Father, and became his
willing slave almost from the first moment he saw him.

He 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 Doctor 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 the 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, and
stands, 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,
that he now looks on thousands of miles away across the great
ocean--in a new Castlewood, by another stream, that bears, like the
new country of wandering AEneas, the fond names of the land of his
youth.

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 looking to the north, and
communicating 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 most 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
parlors, above them the long music-gallery, and before which
stretched the garden-terrace, where, however, 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 the wooded height beyond, that is
called Cromwell's Battery to this day.

Young Harry Esmond 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 neighboring 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, in whose society
it was curious to contrast the difference of behavior between
Father Holt, the director of the family, and Doctor Tusher, the
rector of the parish--Mr. Holt moving amongst the very highest as
quite their equal, and as commanding them all; while poor Doctor
Tusher, whose position was indeed a difficult one, having been
chaplain once to the Hall, and still to the Protestant servants
there, seemed more like an usher than an equal, and always rose to
go away after the first course.

Also there came in these times to Father Holt many private
visitors, whom, after a little, Henry Esmond had little difficulty
in recognizing as ecclesiastics of the Father's persuasion,
whatever their dresses (and they adopted all) might be.  These were
closeted with the Father constantly, and often came and rode away
without paying their devoirs to my lord and lady--to the lady and
lord rather--his lordship being little more than a cipher in the
house, and entirely under his domineering partner.  A little
fowling, a little hunting, a great deal of sleep, and a long dine
at cards and table, carried through one day after another with his
lordship.  When meetings took place in this second year, which
often would happen with closed doors, the page found my lord's
sheet of paper scribbled over with dogs and horses, and 'twas said
he had much ado to keep himself awake at these councils: the
Countess ruling over them, and he acting as little more than her
secretary.

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 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
Harry Esmond thought that to belong to the Jesuits was the greatest
prize of life and 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 was present throughout all the world, and 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 neighbor, came from school for his holiday,
and said how he, too, was to be bred up for an English priest, and
would get what he called an exhibition from his school, and then a
college scholarship and fellowship, 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.




CHAPTER IV.

I AM PLACED UNDER A POPISH PRIEST AND BRED TO THAT RELIGION.--VISCOUNTESS CASTLEWOOD.


Had time enough been given, and his childish inclinations been
properly nurtured, Harry Esmond had been a Jesuit priest ere he was
a dozen years older, and might have finished his days a martyr in
China or a victim on Tower Hill: for, in the few months they spent
together at Castlewood, Mr. Holt obtained an entire mastery over
the boy's intellect and affections; and had brought him to think,
as indeed Father Holt thought with all his heart too, that no life
was so noble, no death so desirable, as that which many brethren of
his famous order were ready to undergo.  By love, by a brightness
of wit and good-humor that charmed all, by an authority which he
knew how to assume, by a mystery and silence about him which
increased the child's reverence for him, he won Harry's absolute
fealty, and would have kept it, doubtless, if schemes greater and
more important than a poor little boy's admission into orders had
not called him away.

After being at home for a few months in tranquillity (if theirs
might be called tranquillity, which was, in truth, a constant
bickering), my lord and lady left the country for London, taking
their director with them: and his little pupil scarce ever shed
more bitter tears in his life than he did for nights after the
first parting with his dear friend, as he lay in the lonely chamber
next to that which the Father used to occupy.  He and a few
domestics were left as the only tenants of the great house: and,
though Harry sedulously did all the tasks which the Father set him,
he had many hours unoccupied, and read in the library, and
bewildered his little brains with the great books he found there.

After a while, the little lad grew accustomed to the loneliness of
the place; and in after days remembered this part of his life as a
period not unhappy.  When the family was at London the whole of the
establishment travelled thither with the exception of the porter--who was, moreover, brewer, gardener, and woodman--and his wife and
children.  These had their lodging in the gate-house hard by, with
a door into the court; and a window looking out on the green was
the Chaplain's room; and next to this a small chamber where Father
Holt had his books, and Harry Esmond his sleeping closet.  The side
of the house facing the east had escaped the guns of the
Cromwellians, whose battery was on the height facing the western
court; so that this eastern end bore few marks of demolition, save
in the chapel, where the painted windows surviving Edward the Sixth
had been broke by the Commonwealthmen.  In Father Holt's time
little Harry Esmond acted as his familiar and faithful little
servitor; beating his clothes, folding his vestments, fetching his
water from the well long before daylight, ready to run anywhere for
the service of his beloved priest.  When the Father was away, he
locked his private chamber; but the room where the books were was
left to little Harry, who, but for the society of this gentleman,
was little less solitary when Lord Castlewood was at home.

The French wit saith that a hero is none to his valet-de-chambre,
and it required less quick eyes than my lady's little page was
naturally endowed with, to see that she had many qualities by no
means heroic, however much Mrs. Tusher might flatter and coax her.
When Father Holt was not by, who exercised an entire authority over
the pair, my lord and my lady quarrelled and abused each other so
as to make the servants laugh, and to frighten the little page on
duty.  The poor boy trembled before his mistress, who called him by
a hundred ugly names, who made nothing of boxing his ears, and
tilting the silver basin in his face which it was his business to
present to her after dinner.  She hath repaired, by subsequent
kindness to him, these severities, which it must be owned made his
childhood very unhappy.  She was but unhappy herself at this time,
poor soul! and I suppose made her dependants lead her own sad life.
I think my lord was as much afraid of her as her page was, and the
only person of the household who mastered her was Mr. Holt.  Harry
was only too glad when the Father dined at table, and to slink away
and prattle with him afterwards, or read with him, or walk with
him.  Luckily my Lady Viscountess did not rise till noon.  Heaven
help the poor waiting-woman who had charge of her toilet!  I have
often seen the poor wretch come out with red eyes from the closet
where those long and mysterious rites of her ladyship's dress were
performed, and the backgammon-box locked up with a rap on Mrs.
Tusher's fingers when she played ill, or the game was going the
wrong way.

Blessed be the king who introduced cards, and the kind inventors of
piquet and cribbage, for they employed six hours at least of her
ladyship's day, during which her family was pretty easy.  Without
this occupation my lady frequently declared she should die.  Her
dependants one after another relieved guard--'twas rather a
dangerous post to play with her ladyship--and took the cards turn
about.  Mr. Holt would sit with her at piquet during hours
together, at which time she behaved herself properly; and as for
Dr. Tusher, I believe he would have left a parishioner's dying bed,
if summoned to play a rubber with his patroness at Castlewood.
Sometimes, when they were pretty comfortable together, my lord took
a hand.  Besides these my lady had her faithful poor Tusher, and
one, two, three gentlewomen whom Harry Esmond could recollect in
his time.  They could not bear that genteel service very long; one
after another tried and failed at it.  These and the housekeeper,
and little Harry Esmond, had a table of their own.  Poor ladies
their life was far harder than the page's.  He was sound asleep,
tucked up in his little bed, whilst they were sitting by her
ladyship reading her to sleep, with the "News Letter" or the "Grand
Cyrus."  My lady used to have boxes of new plays from London, and
Harry was forbidden, under the pain of a whipping, to look into
them.  I am afraid he deserved the penalty pretty often, and got it
sometimes.  Father Holt applied it twice or thrice, when he caught
the young scapegrace with a delightful wicked comedy of Mr.
Shadwell's or Mr. Wycherley's under his pillow.

These, when he took any, were my lord's favorite reading.  But he
was averse to much study, and, as his little page fancied, to much
occupation of any sort.

It always seemed to young Harry Esmond that my lord treated him
with more kindness when his lady was not present, and Lord
Castlewood would take the lad sometimes on his little journeys a-hunting or a-birding; he loved to play at cards and tric-trac with
him, which games the boy learned to pleasure his lord: and was
growing to like him better daily, showing a special pleasure if
Father Holt gave a good report of him, patting him on the head, and
promising that he would provide for the boy.  However, in my lady's
presence, my lord showed no such marks of kindness, and affected to
treat the lad roughly, and rebuked him sharply for little faults,
for which he in a manner asked pardon of young Esmond when they
were private, saying if he did not speak roughly, she would, and
his tongue was not such a bad one as his lady's--a point whereof
the boy, young as he was, was very well assured.

Great public events were happening all this while, of which the
simple young page took little count.  But one day, riding into the
neighboring town on the step of my lady's coach, his lordship and
she and Father Holt being inside, a great mob of people came
hooting and jeering round the coach, bawling out "The Bishops for
ever!" "Down with the Pope!" "No Popery! no Popery! Jezebel,
Jezebel!" so that my lord began to laugh, my lady's eyes to roll
with anger, for she was as bold as a lioness, and feared nobody;
whilst Mr. Holt, as Esmond saw from his place on the step, sank
back with rather an alarmed face, crying out to her ladyship, "For
God's sake, madam, do not speak or look out of window; sit still."
But she did not obey this prudent injunction of the Father; she
thrust her head out of the coach window, and screamed out to the
coachman, "Flog your way through them, the brutes, James, and use
your whip!"

The mob answered with a roaring jeer of laughter, and fresh cries
of "Jezebel! Jezebel!"  My lord only laughed the more: he was a
languid gentleman: nothing seemed to excite him commonly, though I
have seen him cheer and halloo the hounds very briskly, and his
face (which was generally very yellow and calm) grow quite red and
cheerful during a burst over the Downs after a hare, and laugh, and
swear, and huzzah at a cockfight, of which sport he was very fond.
And now, when the mob began to hoot his lady, he laughed with
something of a mischievous look, as though he expected sport, and
thought that she and they were a match.

James the coachman was more afraid of his mistress than the mob,
probably, for he whipped on his horses as he was bidden, and the
post-boy that rode with the first pair (my lady always rode with
her coach-and-six,) gave a cut of his thong over the shoulders of
one fellow who put his hand out towards the leading horse's rein.

It was a market-day, and the country-people were all assembled with
their baskets of poultry, eggs, and such things; the postilion had
no sooner lashed the man who would have taken hold of his horse,
but a great cabbage came whirling like a bombshell into the
carriage, at which my lord laughed more, for it knocked my lady's
fan out of her hand, and plumped into Father Holt's stomach.  Then
came a shower of carrots and potatoes.

"For Heaven's sake be still!" says Mr. Holt; "we are not ten paces
from the 'Bell' archway, where they can shut the gates on us, and
keep out this canaille."

The little page was outside the coach on the step, and a fellow in
the crowd aimed a potato at him, and hit him in the eye, at which
the poor little wretch set up a shout; the man laughed, a great big
saddler's apprentice of the town.  "Ah! you d--- little yelling
Popish bastard," he said, and stooped to pick up another; the crowd
had gathered quite between the horses and the inn door by this
time, and the coach was brought to a dead stand-still.  My lord
jumped as briskly as a boy out of the door on his side of the
coach, squeezing little Harry behind it; had hold of the potato-thrower's collar in an instant, and the next moment the brute's
heels were in the air, and he fell on the stones with a thump.

"You hulking coward!" says he; "you pack of screaming blackguards!
how dare you attack children, and insult women?  Fling another shot
at that carriage, you sneaking pigskin cobbler, and by the Lord
I'll send my rapier through you!"

Some of the mob cried, "Huzzah, my lord!" for they knew him, and
the saddler's man was a known bruiser, near twice as big as my lord
Viscount.

"Make way there," says he (he spoke in a high shrill voice, but
with a great air of authority).  "Make way, and let her ladyship's
carriage pass."  The men that were between the coach and the gate
of the "Bell" actually did make way, and the horses went in, my
lord walking after them with his hat on his head.

As he was going in at the gate, through which the coach had just
rolled, another cry begins, of "No Popery--no Papists!"  My lord
turns round and faces them once more.

"God save the King!" says he at the highest pitch of his voice.
"Who dares abuse the King's religion?  You, you d--d psalm-singing
cobbler, as sure as I'm a magistrate of this county I'll commit
you!"  The fellow shrank back, and my lord retreated with all the
honors of the day.  But when the little flurry caused by the scene
was over, and the flush passed off his face, he relapsed into his
usual languor, trifled with his little dog, and yawned when my lady
spoke to him.

This mob was one of many thousands that were going about the
country at that time, huzzahing for the acquittal of the seven
bishops who had been tried just then, and about whom little Harry
Esmond at that time knew scarce anything.  It was Assizes at
Hexton, and there was a great meeting of the gentry at the "Bell;"
and my lord's people had their new liveries on, and Harry a little
suit of blue and silver, which he wore upon occasions of state; and
the gentlefolks came round and talked to my lord: and a judge in a
red gown, who seemed a very great personage, especially
complimented him and my lady, who was mighty grand.  Harry
remembers her train borne up by her gentlewoman.  There was an
assembly and ball at the great room at the "Bell," and other young
gentlemen of the county families looked on as he did.  One of them
jeered him for his black eye, which was swelled by the potato, and
another called him a bastard, on which he and Harry fell to
fisticuffs.  My lord's cousin, Colonel Esmond of Walcote, was
there, and separated the two lads--a great tall gentleman, with a
handsome good-natured face.  The boy did not know how nearly in
after-life he should be allied to Colonel Esmond, and how much
kindness he should have to owe him.

There was little love between the two families.  My lady used not
to spare Colonel Esmond in talking of him, for reasons which have
been hinted already; but about which, at his tender age, Henry
Esmond could be expected to know nothing.

Very soon afterwards, my lord and lady went to London with Mr.
Holt, leaving, however, the page behind them.  The little man had
the great house of Castlewood to himself; or between him and the
housekeeper, Mrs. Worksop, an old lady who was a kinswoman of the
family in some distant way, and a Protestant, but a staunch Tory
and king's-man, as all the Esmonds were.  He used to go to school
to Dr. Tusher when he was at home, though the Doctor was much
occupied too.  There was a great stir and commotion everywhere,
even in the little quiet village of Castlewood, whither a party of
people came from the town, who would have broken Castlewood Chapel
windows, but the village people turned out, and even old
Sieveright, the republican blacksmith, along with them: for my
lady, though she was a Papist, and had many odd ways, was kind to
the tenantry, and there was always a plenty of beef, and blankets,
and medicine for the poor at Castlewood Hall.

A kingdom was changing hands whilst my lord and lady were away.
King James was flying, the Dutchmen were coming; awful stories
about them and the Prince of Orange used old Mrs. Worksop to tell
to the idle little page.

He liked the solitude of the great house very well; he had all the
play-books to read, and no Father Holt to whip him, and a hundred
childish pursuits and pastimes, without doors and within, which
made this time very pleasant.




CHAPTER V.

MY SUPERIORS ARE ENGAGED IN PLOTS FOR THE RESTORATION OF KING JAMES II.


Not having been able to sleep, for thinking of some lines for eels
which he had placed the night before, the lad was lying in his
little bed, waiting for the hour when the gate would be open, and
he and his comrade, John Lockwood, the porter's son, might go to
the pond and see what fortune had brought them.  At daybreak John
was to awaken him, but his own eagerness for the sport had served
as a reveillez long since--so long, that it seemed to him as if the
day never would come.

It might have been four o'clock when he heard the door of the
opposite chamber, the Chaplain's room, open, and the voice of a man
coughing in the passage.  Harry jumped up, thinking for certain it
was a robber, or hoping perhaps for a ghost, and, flinging open his
own door, saw before him the Chaplain's door open, and a light
inside, and a figure standing in the doorway, in the midst of a
great smoke which issued from the room.

"Who's there?" cried out the boy, who was of a good spirit.

"Silentium!" whispered the other; "'tis I, my boy!" and, holding
his hand out, Harry had no difficulty in recognizing his master and
friend, Father Holt.  A curtain was over the window of the
Chaplain's room that looked to the court, and Harry saw that the
smoke came from a great flame of papers which were burning in a
brazier when he entered the Chaplain's room.  After giving a hasty
greeting and blessing to the lad, who was charmed to see his tutor,
the Father continued the burning of his papers, drawing them from a
cupboard over the mantel-piece wall, which Harry had never seen
before.

Father Holt laughed, seeing the lad's attention fixed at once on
this hole.  "That is right, Harry," he said; "faithful little
famuli, see all and say nothing.  You are faithful, I know."

"I know I would go to the stake for you," said Harry.

"I don't want your head," said the Father, patting it kindly; all
you have to do is to hold your tongue.  Let us burn these papers,
and say nothing to anybody.  Should you like to read them?"

Harry Esmond blushed, and held down his head; he HAD looked as the
fact was, and without thinking, at the paper before him; and though
he had seen it, could not understand a word of it, the letters
being quite clear enough, but quite without meaning.  They burned
the papers, beating down the ashes in a brazier, so that scarce any
traces of them remained.

Harry had been accustomed to see Father Holt in more dresses than
one; it not being safe, or worth the danger, for Popish
ecclesiastics to wear their proper dress; and he was, in
consequence, in no wise astonished that the priest should now
appear before him in a riding-dress, with large buff leather boots,
and a feather to his hat, plain, but such as gentlemen wore.

"You know the secret of the cupboard," said he, laughing, "and must
be prepared for other mysteries;" and he opened--but not a secret
cupboard this time--only a wardrobe, which he usually kept locked,
and from which he now took out two or three dresses and perruques
of different colors, and a couple of swords of a pretty make
(Father Holt was an expert practitioner with the small-sword, and
every day, whilst he was at home, he and his pupil practised this
exercise, in which the lad became a very great proficient), a
military coat and cloak, and a farmer's smock, and placed them in
the large hole over the mantel-piece from which the papers had been
taken.

"If they miss the cupboard," he said, "they will not find these; if
they find them, they'll tell no tales, except that Father Holt wore
more suits of clothes than one.  All Jesuits do.  You know what
deceivers we are, Harry."

Harry was alarmed at the notion that his friend was about to leave
him; but "No," the priest said, "I may very likely come back with
my lord in a few days.  We are to be tolerated; we are not to be
persecuted.  But they may take a fancy to pay a visit at Castlewood
ere our return; and, as gentlemen of my cloth are suspected, they
might choose to examine my papers, which concern nobody--at least
not them."  And to this day, whether the papers in cipher related
to politics, or to the affairs of that mysterious society whereof
Father Holt was a member, his pupil, Harry Esmond, remains in
entire ignorance.

The rest of his goods, his small wardrobe, &c. Holt left untouched
on his shelves and in his cupboard, taking down--with a laugh,
however--and flinging into the brazier, where he only half burned
them, some theological treatises which he had been writing against
the English divines.  "And now," said he, "Henry, my son, you may
testify, with a safe conscience, that you saw me burning Latin
sermons the last time I was here before I went away to London; and
it will be daybreak directly, and I must be away before Lockwood is
stirring."

"Will not Lockwood let you out, sir?" Esmond asked.  Holt laughed;
he was never more gay or good-humored than when in the midst of
action or danger.

"Lockwood knows nothing of my being here, mind you," he said; "nor
would you, you little wretch! had you slept better.  You must
forget that I have been here; and now farewell.  Close the door,
and go to your own room, and don't come out till--stay, why should
you not know one secret more?  I know you will never betray me."

In the Chaplain's room were two windows; the one looking into the
court facing westwards to the fountain; the other, a small casement
strongly barred, and looking on to the green in front of the Hall.
This window was too high to reach from the ground; but, mounting on
a buffet which stood beneath it, Father Holt showed me how, by
pressing on the base of the window, the whole framework of lead,
glass, and iron stanchions descended into a cavity worked below,
from which it could be drawn and restored to its usual place from
without; a broken pane being purposely open to admit the hand which
was to work upon the spring of the machine.

"When I am gone," Father Holt said, "you may push away the buffet,
so that no one may fancy that an exit has been made that way; lock
the door; place the key--where shall we put the key?--under
'Chrysostom' on the book-shelf; and if any ask for it, say I keep
it there, and told you where to find it, if you had need to go to
my room.  The descent is easy down the wall into the ditch; and so,
once more farewell, until I see thee again, my dear son."  And with
this the intrepid Father mounted the buffet with great agility and
briskness, stepped across the window, lifting up the bars and
framework again from the other side, and only leaving room for
Harry Esmond to stand on tiptoe and kiss his hand before the
casement closed, the bars fixing as firmly as ever, seemingly, in
the stone arch overhead.  When Father Holt next arrived at
Castlewood, it was by the public gate on horseback; and he never so
much as alluded to the existence of the private issue to Harry,
except when he had need of a private messenger from within, for
which end, no doubt, he had instructed his young pupil in the means
of quitting the Hall.

Esmond, young as he was, would have died sooner than betray his
friend and master, as Mr. Holt well knew; for he had tried the boy
more than once, putting temptations in his way, to see whether he
would yield to them and confess afterwards, or whether he would
resist them, as he did sometimes, or whether he would lie, which he
never did.  Holt instructing the boy on this point, however, that
if to keep silence is not to lie, as it certainly is not, yet
silence is, after all, equivalent to a negation--and therefore a
downright No, in the interest of justice or your friend, and in
reply to a question that may be prejudicial to either, is not
criminal, but, on the contrary, praiseworthy; and as lawful a way
as the other of eluding a wrongful demand.  For instance (says he),
suppose a good citizen, who had seen his Majesty take refuge there,
had been asked, "Is King Charles up that oak-tree?" his duty would
have been not to say, Yes--so that the Cromwellians should seize
the king and murder him like his father--but No; his Majesty being
private in the tree, and therefore not to be seen there by loyal
eyes: all which instruction, in religion and morals, as well as in
the rudiments of the tongues and sciences, the boy took eagerly and
with gratitude from his tutor.  When, then, Holt was gone, and told
Harry not to see him, it was as if he had never been.  And he had
this answer pat when he came to be questioned a few days after.

The Prince of Orange was then at Salisbury, as young Esmond learned
from seeing Doctor Tusher in his best cassock (though the roads
were muddy, and he never was known to wear his silk, only his stuff
one, a-horseback), with a great orange cockade in his broad-leafed
hat, and Nahum, his clerk, ornamented with a like decoration.  The
Doctor was walking up and down in front of his parsonage, when
little Esmond saw him, and heard him say he was going to pay his
duty to his Highness the Prince, as he mounted his pad and rode
away with Nahum behind.  The village people had orange cockades
too, and his friend the blacksmith's laughing daughter pinned one
into Harry's old hat, which he tore out indignantly when they bade
him to cry "God save the Prince of Orange and the Protestant
religion!" but the people only laughed, for they liked the boy in
the village, where his solitary condition moved the general pity,
and where he found friendly welcomes and faces in many houses.
Father Holt had many friends there too, for he not only would fight
the blacksmith at theology, never losing his temper, but laughing
the whole time in his pleasant way; but he cured him of an ague
with quinquina, and was always ready with a kind word for any man
that asked it, so that they said in the village 'twas a pity the
two were Papists.

The Director and the Vicar of Castlewood agreed very well; indeed,
the former was a perfectly-bred gentleman, and it was the latter's
business to agree with everybody.  Doctor Tusher and the lady's-maid, his spouse, had a boy who was about the age of little Esmond;
and there was such a friendship between the lads, as propinquity
and tolerable kindness and good-humor on either side would be
pretty sure to occasion.  Tom Tusher was sent off early, however,
to a school in London, whither his father took him and a volume of
sermons, in the first year of the reign of King James; and Tom
returned but once, a year afterwards, to Castlewood for many years
of his scholastic and collegiate life.  Thus there was less danger
to Tom of a perversion of his faith by the Director, who scarce
ever saw him, than there was to Harry, who constantly was in the
Vicar's company; but as long as Harry's religion was his Majesty's,
and my lord's, and my lady's, the Doctor said gravely, it should
not be for him to disturb or disquiet him: it was far from him to
say that his Majesty's Church was not a branch of the Catholic
Church; upon which Father Holt used, according to his custom, to
laugh, and say that the Holy Church throughout all the world, and
the noble Army of Martyrs, were very much obliged to the Doctor.

It was while Dr. Tusher was away at Salisbury that there came a
troop of dragoons with orange scarfs, and quartered in Castlewood,
and some of them came up to the Hall, where they took possession,
robbing nothing however beyond the hen-house and the beer-cellar:
and only insisting upon going through the house and looking for
papers.  The first room they asked to look at was Father Holt's
room, of which Harry Esmond brought the key, and they opened the
drawers and the cupboards, and tossed over the papers and clothes--but found nothing except his books and clothes, and the vestments
in a box by themselves, with which the dragoons made merry, to
Harry Esmond's horror.  And to the questions which the gentleman
put to Harry, he replied that Father Holt was a very kind man to
him, and a very learned man, and Harry supposed would tell him none
of his secrets if he had any.  He was about eleven years old at
this time, and looked as innocent as boys of his age.

The family were away more than six months, and when they returned
they were in the deepest state of dejection, for King James had
been banished, the Prince of Orange was on the throne, and the
direst persecutions of those of the Catholic faith were apprehended
by my lady, who said she did not believe that there was a word of
truth in the promises of toleration that Dutch monster made, or in
a single word the perjured wretch said.  My lord and lady were in a
manner prisoners in their own house; so her ladyship gave the
little page to know, who was by this time growing of an age to
understand what was passing about him, and something of the
characters of the people he lived with.

"We are prisoners," says she; "in everything but chains, we are
prisoners.  Let them come, let them consign me to dungeons, or
strike off my head from this poor little throat" (and she clasped
it in her long fingers).  "The blood of the Esmonds will always
flow freely for their kings.  We are not like the Churchills--the
Judases, who kiss their master and betray him.  We know how to
suffer, how even to forgive in the royal cause" (no doubt it was to
that fatal business of losing the place of Groom of the Posset to
which her ladyship alluded, as she did half a dozen times in the
day).  "Let the tyrant of Orange bring his rack and his odious
Dutch tortures--the beast! the wretch!  I spit upon him and defy
him.  Cheerfully will I lay this head upon the block; cheerfully
will I accompany my lord to the scaffold: we will cry 'God save
King James!' with our dying breath, and smile in the face of the
executioner."  And she told her page, a hundred times at least, of
the particulars of the last interview which she had with his
Majesty.

"I flung myself before my liege's feet," she said, "at Salisbury.
I devoted myself--my husband--my house, to his cause.  Perhaps he
remembered old times, when Isabella Esmond was young and fair;
perhaps he recalled the day when 'twas not I that knelt--at least
he spoke to me with a voice that reminded ME of days gone by.
'Egad!' said his Majesty, 'you should go to the Prince of Orange;
if you want anything.'  'No, sire,' I replied, 'I would not kneel
to a Usurper; the Esmond that would have served your Majesty will
never be groom to a traitor's posset.'  The royal exile smiled,
even in the midst of his misfortune; he deigned to raise me with
words of consolation.  The Viscount, my husband, himself, could not
be angry at the august salute with which he honored me!"

The public misfortune had the effect of making my lord and his lady
better friends than they ever had been since their courtship.  My
lord Viscount had shown both loyalty and spirit, when these were
rare qualities in the dispirited party about the King; and the
praise he got elevated him not a little in his wife's good opinion,
and perhaps in his own.  He wakened up from the listless and supine
life which he had been leading; was always riding to and fro in
consultation with this friend or that of the King's; the page of
course knowing little of his doings, but remarking only his greater
cheerfulness and altered demeanor.

Father Holt came to the Hall constantly, but officiated no longer
openly as chaplain; he was always fetching and carrying: strangers,
military and ecclesiastic (Harry knew the latter, though they came
in all sorts of disguises), were continually arriving and
departing.  My lord made long absences and sudden reappearances,
using sometimes the means of exit which Father Holt had employed,
though how often the little window in the Chaplain's room let in or
let out my lord and his friends, Harry could not tell.  He stoutly
kept his promise to the Father of not prying, and if at midnight
from his little room he heard noises of persons stirring in the
next chamber, he turned round to the wall, and hid his curiosity
under his pillow until it fell asleep.  Of course he could not help
remarking that the priest's journeys were constant, and
understanding by a hundred signs that some active though secret
business employed him: what this was may pretty well be guessed by
what soon happened to my lord.

No garrison or watch was put into Castlewood when my lord came
back, but a Guard was in the village; and one or other of them was
always on the Green keeping a look-out on our great gate, and those
who went out and in.  Lockwood said that at night especially every
person who came in or went out was watched by the outlying
sentries.  'Twas lucky that we had a gate which their Worships knew
nothing about.  My lord and Father Holt must have made constant
journeys at night: once or twice little Harry acted as their
messenger and discreet little aide-de-camp.  He remembers he was
bidden to go into the village with his fishing-rod, enter certain
houses, ask for a drink of water, and tell the good man, "There
would be a horse-market at Newbury next Thursday," and so carry the
same message on to the next house on his list.

He did not know what the message meant at the time, nor what was
happening: which may as well, however, for clearness' sake, be
explained here.  The Prince of Orange being gone to Ireland, where
the King was ready to meet him with a great army, it was determined
that a great rising of his Majesty's party should take place in
this country; and my lord was to head the force in our county.  Of
late he had taken a greater lead in affairs than before, having the
indefatigable Mr. Holt at his elbow, and my Lady Viscountess
strongly urging him on; and my Lord Sark being in the Tower a
prisoner, and Sir Wilmot Crawley, of Queen's Crawley, having gone
over to the Prince of Orange's side--my lord became the most
considerable person in our part of the county for the affairs of
the King.

It was arranged that the regiment of Scots Grays and Dragoons, then
quartered at Newbury, should declare for the King on a certain day,
when likewise the gentry affected to his Majesty's cause were to
come in with their tenants and adherents to Newbury, march upon the
Dutch troops at Reading under Ginckel; and, these overthrown, and
their indomitable little master away in Ireland, 'twas thought that
our side might move on London itself, and a confident victory was
predicted for the King.

As these great matters were in agitation, my lord lost his listless
manner and seemed to gain health; my lady did not scold him, Mr.
Holt came to and fro, busy always; and little Harry longed to have
been a few inches taller, that he might draw a sword in this good
cause.

One day, it must have been about the month of July, 1690, my lord,
in a great horseman's coat, under which Harry could see the shining
of a steel breastplate he had on, called little Harry to him, put
the hair off the child's forehead, and kissed him, and bade God
bless him in such an affectionate way as he never had used before.
Father Holt blessed him too, and then they took leave of my Lady
Viscountess, who came from her apartment with a pocket-handkerchief
to her eyes, and her gentlewoman and Mrs. Tusher supporting her.
"You are going to--to ride," says she.  "Oh, that I might come too--but in my situation I am forbidden horse exercise."

"We kiss my Lady Marchioness's hand," says Mr. Holt.

"My lord, God speed you!" she said, stepping up and embracing my
lord in a grand manner.  "Mr. Holt, I ask your blessing:" and she
knelt down for that, whilst Mrs. Tusher tossed her head up.

Mr. Holt gave the same benediction to the little page, who went
down and held my lord's stirrups for him to mount; there were two
servants waiting there too--and they rode out of Castlewood gate.

As they crossed the bridge, Harry could see an officer in scarlet
ride up touching his hat, and address my lord.

The party stopped, and came to some parley or discussion, which
presently ended, my lord putting his horse into a canter after
taking off his hat and making a bow to the officer, who rode
alongside him step for step: the trooper accompanying him falling
back, and riding with my lord's two men.  They cantered over the
Green, and behind the elms (my lord waving his hand, Harry
thought), and so they disappeared.  That evening we had a great
panic, the cow-boy coming at milking-time riding one of our horses,
which he had found grazing at the outer park-wall.

All night my Lady Viscountess was in a very quiet and subdued mood.
She scarce found fault with anybody; she played at cards for six
hours; little page Esmond went to sleep.  He prayed for my lord and
the good cause before closing his eyes.

It was quite in the gray of the morning when the porter's bell
rang, and old Lockwood, waking up, let in one of my lord's
servants, who had gone with him in the morning, and who returned
with a melancholy story.  The officer who rode up to my lord had,
it appeared, said to him, that it was his duty to inform his
lordship that he was not under arrest, but under surveillance, and
to request him not to ride abroad that day.

My lord replied that riding was good for his health, that if the
Captain chose to accompany him he was welcome; and it was then that
he made a bow, and they cantered away together.

When he came on to Wansey Down, my lord all of a sudden pulled up,
and the party came to a halt at the cross-way.

"Sir," says he to the officer, "we are four to two; will you be so
kind as to take that road, and leave me go mine?"

"Your road is mine, my lord," says the officer.

"Then--" says my lord; but he had no time to say more, for the
officer, drawing a pistol, snapped it at his lordship; as at the
same moment Father Holt, drawing a pistol, shot the officer through
the head.  It was done, and the man dead in an instant of time.
The orderly, gazing at the officer, looked seared for a moment, and
galloped away for his life.

"Fire! fire!" cries out Father Holt, sending another shot after the
trooper, but the two servants were too much surprised to use their
pieces, and my lord calling to them to hold their hands, the fellow
got away.

"Mr. Holt, qui pensait a tout," says Blaise, "gets off his horse,
examines the pockets of the dead officer for papers, gives his
money to us two, and says, 'The wine is drawn, M. le Marquis,'--why
did he say Marquis to M. le Vicomte?--'we must drink it.'

"The poor gentleman's horse was a better one than that I rode,"
Blaise continues; "Mr. Holt bids me get on him, and so I gave a cut
to Whitefoot, and she trotted home.  We rode on towards Newbury; we
heard firing towards midday: at two o'clock a horseman comes up to
us as we were giving our cattle water at an inn--and says, 'All is
done!  The Ecossais declared an hour too soon--General Ginckel was
down upon them.'  The whole thing was at an end.

"'And we've shot an officer on duty, and let his orderly escape,'
says my lord.

"'Blaise,' says Mr. Holt, writing two lines on his table-book, one
for my lady and one for you, Master Harry; 'you must go back to
Castlewood, and deliver these,' and behold me."

And he gave Harry the two papers.  He read that to himself, which
only said, "Burn the papers in the cupboard, burn this.  You know
nothing about anything."  Harry read this, ran up stairs to his
mistress's apartment, where her gentlewoman slept near to the door,
made her bring a light and wake my lady, into whose hands he gave
the paper.  She was a wonderful object to look at in her night
attire, nor had Harry ever seen the like.

As soon as she had the paper in her hand, Harry stepped back to the
Chaplain's room, opened the secret cupboard over the fireplace,
burned all the papers in it, and, as he had seen the priest do
before, took down one of his reverence's manuscript sermons, and
half burnt that in the brazier.  By the time the papers were quite
destroyed it was daylight.  Harry ran back to his mistress again.
Her gentlewoman ushered him again into her ladyship's chamber; she
told him (from behind her nuptial curtains) to bid the coach be got
ready, and that she would ride away anon.

But the mysteries of her ladyship's toilet were as awfully long on
this day as on any other, and, long after the coach was ready, my
lady was still attiring herself.  And just as the Viscountess
stepped forth from her room, ready for departure, young John
Lockwood comes running up from the village with news that a lawyer,
three officers, and twenty or four-and-twenty soldiers, were
marching thence upon the house.  John had but two minutes the start
of them, and, ere he had well told his story, the troop rode into
our court-yard.




CHAPTER VI.

THE ISSUE OF THE PLOTS.--THE DEATH OF THOMAS, THIRD VISCOUNT OF
CASTLEWOOD; AND THE IMPRISONMENT OF HIS VISCOUNTESS.


At first my lady was for dying like Mary, Queen of Scots (to whom
she fancied she bore a resemblance in beauty), and, stroking her
scraggy neck, said, "They will find Isabel of Castlewood is equal
to her fate."  Her gentlewoman, Victoire, persuaded her that her
prudent course was, as she could not fly, to receive the troops as
though she suspected nothing, and that her chamber was the best
place wherein to await them.  So her black Japan casket, which
Harry was to carry to the coach, was taken back to her ladyship's
chamber, whither the maid and mistress retired.  Victoire came out
presently, bidding the page to say her ladyship was ill, confined
to her bed with the rheumatism.

By this time the soldiers had reached Castlewood.  Harry Esmond saw
them from the window of the tapestry parlor; a couple of sentinels
were posted at the gate--a half-dozen more walked towards the
stable; and some others, preceded by their commander, and a man in
black, a lawyer probably, were conducted by one of the servants to
the stair leading up to the part of the house which my lord and
lady inhabited.

So the Captain, a handsome kind man, and the lawyer, came through
the ante-room to the tapestry parlor, and where now was nobody but
young Harry Esmond, the page.

"Tell your mistress, little man," says the Captain, kindly, "that
we must speak to her."

"My mistress is ill a-bed," said the page.

"What complaint has she?" asked the Captain.

The boy said, "The rheumatism!"

"Rheumatism! that's a sad complaint," continues the good-natured
Captain; "and the coach is in the yard to fetch the Doctor, I
suppose?"

"I don't know," says the boy.

"And how long has her ladyship been ill?"

"I don't know," says the boy.

"When did my lord go away?"

"Yesterday night."

"With Father Holt?"

"With Mr. Holt."

"And which way did they travel?" asks the lawyer.

"They travelled without me," says the page.

"We must see Lady Castlewood."

"I have orders that nobody goes in to her ladyship--she is sick,"
says the page; but at this moment Victoire came out.  "Hush!" says
she; and, as if not knowing that any one was near, "What's this
noise?" says she.  "Is this gentleman the Doctor?"

"Stuff! we must see Lady Castlewood," says the lawyer, pushing by.

The curtains of her ladyship's room were down, and the chamber
dark, and she was in bed with a nightcap on her head, and propped
up by her pillows, looking none the less ghastly because of the red
which was still on her cheeks, and which she could not afford to
forego.

"Is that the Doctor?" she said.

"There is no use with this deception, madam," Captain Westbury said
(for so he was named).  "My duty is to arrest the person of Thomas,
Viscount Castlewood, a nonjuring peer--of Robert Tusher, Vicar of
Castlewood--and Henry Holt, known under various other names and
designations, a Jesuit priest, who officiated as chaplain here in
the late king's time, and is now at the head of the conspiracy
which was about to break out in this country against the authority
of their Majesties King William and Queen Mary--and my orders are
to search the house for such papers or traces of the conspiracy as
may be found here.  Your ladyship will please give me your keys,
and it will be as well for yourself that you should help us, in
every way, in our search."

"You see, sir, that I have the rheumatism, and cannot move," said
the lady, looking uncommonly ghastly as she sat up in her bed,
where, however, she had had her cheeks painted, and a new cap put
on, so that she might at least look her best when the officers
came.

"I shall take leave to place a sentinel in the chamber, so that
your ladyship, in case you should wish to rise, may have an arm to
lean on," Captain Westbury said.  "Your woman will show me where I
am to look;" and Madame Victoire, chattering in her half French and
half English jargon, opened while the Captain examined one drawer
after another; but, as Harry Esmond thought, rather carelessly,
with a smile on his face, as if he was only conducting the
examination for form's sake.

Before one of the cupboards Victoire flung herself down, stretching
out her arms, and, with a piercing shriek, cried, "Non, jamais,
monsieur l'officier!  Jamais!  I will rather die than let you see
this wardrobe."

But Captain Westbury would open it, still with a smile on his face,
which, when the box was opened, turned into a fair burst of
laughter.  It contained--not papers regarding the conspiracy--but
my lady's wigs, washes, and rouge-pots, and Victoire said men were
monsters, as the Captain went on with his perquisition.  He tapped
the back to see whether or no it was hollow, and as he thrust his
hands into the cupboard, my lady from her bed called out, with a
voice that did not sound like that of a very sick woman, "Is it
your commission to insult ladies as well as to arrest gentlemen,
Captain?"

"These articles are only dangerous when worn by your ladyship," the
Captain said, with a low bow, and a mock grin of politeness.  "I
have found nothing which concerns the Government as yet--only the
weapons with which beauty is authorized to kill," says he, pointing
to a wig with his sword-tip.  "We must now proceed to search the
rest of the house."

"You are not going to leave that wretch in the room with me," cried
my lady, pointing to the soldier.

"What can I do, madam?  Somebody you must have to smooth your
pillow and bring your medicine--permit me--"

"Sir!" screamed out my lady.

"Madam, if you are too ill to leave the bed," the Captain then
said, rather sternly, "I must have in four of my men to lift you
off in the sheet.  I must examine this bed, in a word; papers may
be hidden in a bed as elsewhere; we know that very well and * * *."

Here it was her ladyship's turn to shriek, for the Captain, with
his fist shaking the pillows and bolsters, at last came to "burn"
as they say in the play of forfeits, and wrenching away one of the
pillows, said, "Look! did not I tell you so?  Here is a pillow
stuffed with paper."

"Some villain has betrayed us," cried out my lady, sitting up in
the bed, showing herself full dressed under her night-rail.

"And now your ladyship can move, I am sure; permit me to give you
my hand to rise.  You will have to travel for some distance, as far
as Hexton Castle to-night.  Will you have your coach?  Your woman
shall attend you if you like--and the japan-box?"

"Sir! you don't strike a MAN when he is down," said my lady, with
some dignity: "can you not spare a woman?"

"Your ladyship must please to rise, and let me search the bed,"
said the Captain; "there is no more time to lose in bandying talk."

And, without more ado, the gaunt old woman got up.  Harry Esmond
recollected to the end of his life that figure, with the brocade
dress and the white night-rail, and the gold-clocked red stockings,
and white red-heeled shoes, sitting up in the bed, and stepping
down from it.  The trunks were ready packed for departure in her
ante-room, and the horses ready harnessed in the stable: about all
which the Captain seemed to know, by information got from some
quarter or other; and whence Esmond could make a pretty shrewd
guess in after-times, when Dr. Tusher complained that King
William's government had basely treated him for services done in
that cause.

And here he may relate, though he was then too young to know all
that was happening, what the papers contained, of which Captain
Westbury had made a seizure, and which papers had been transferred
from the japan-box to the bed when the officers arrived.

There was a list of gentlemen of the county in Father Holt's hand
writing--Mr. Freeman's (King James's) friends--a similar paper
being found among those of Sir John Fenwick and Mr. Coplestone, who
suffered death for this conspiracy.

There was a patent conferring the title of Marquis of Esmond on my
Lord Castlewood and the heirs-male of his body; his appointment as
Lord-Lieutenant of the County, and Major-General.*

/*
     * To have this rank of Marquis restored in the family had
     always been my Lady Viscountess's ambition; and her old
     maiden aunt, Barbara Topham, the goldsmith's daughter, dying
     about this time, and leaving all her property to Lady
     Castlewood, I have heard that her ladyship sent almost the
     whole of the money to King James, a proceeding which so
     irritated my Lord Castlewood that he actually went to the
     parish church, and was only appeased by the Marquis's title
     which his exiled Majesty sent to him in return for the
     15,000L. his faithful subject lent him.
*/

There were various letters from the nobility and gentry, some
ardent and some doubtful, in the King's service; and (very luckily
for him) two letters concerning Colonel Francis Esmond: one from
Father Holt, which said, "I have been to see this Colonel at his
house at Walcote, near to Wells, where he resides since the King's
departure, and pressed him very eagerly in Mr. Freeman's cause,
showing him the great advantage he would have by trading with that
merchant, offering him large premiums there as agreed between us.
But he says no: he considers Mr. Freeman the head of the firm, will
never trade against him or embark with any other trading company,
but considers his duty was done when Mr. Freeman left England.
This Colonel seems to care more for his wife and his beagles than
for affairs.  He asked me much about young H. E., 'that bastard,'
as he called him; doubting my lord's intentions respecting him.  I
reassured him on this head, stating what I knew of the lad, and our
intentions respecting him, but with regard to Freeman he was
inflexible."

And another letter was from Colonel Esmond to his kinsman, to say
that one Captain Holton had been with him offering him large bribes
to join, YOU KNOW WHO, and saying that the head of the house of
Castlewood was deeply engaged in that quarter.  But for his part he
had broke his sword when the K. left the country, and would never
again fight in that quarrel.  The P. of O. was a man, at least, of
a noble courage, and his duty, and, as he thought, every
Englishman's, was to keep the country quiet, and the French out of
it: and, in fine, that he would have nothing to do with the scheme.

Of the existence of these two letters and the contents of the
pillow, Colonel Frank Esmond, who became Viscount Castlewood, told
Henry Esmond afterwards, when the letters were shown to his
lordship, who congratulated himself, as he had good reason, that he
had not joined in the scheme which proved so fatal to many
concerned in it.  But, naturally, the lad knew little about these
circumstances when they happened under his eyes: only being aware
that his patron and his mistress were in some trouble, which had
caused the flight of the one and the apprehension of the other by
the officers of King William.

The seizure of the papers effected, the gentlemen did not pursue
their further search through Castlewood House very rigorously.
They examined Mr. Holt's room, being led thither by his pupil, who
showed, as the Father had bidden him, the place where the key of
his chamber lay, opened the door for the gentlemen, and conducted
them into the room.

When the gentlemen came to the half-burned papers in the brazier,
they examined them eagerly enough, and their young guide was a
little amused at their perplexity.

"What are these?" says one.

"They're written in a foreign language," says the lawyer.  "What
are you laughing at, little whelp?" adds he, turning round as he
saw the boy smile.

"Mr. Holt said they were sermons," Harry said, "and bade me to burn
them;" which indeed was true of those papers.

"Sermons indeed--it's treason, I would lay a wager," cries the
lawyer.

"Egad! it's Greek to me," says Captain Westbury.  "Can you read it,
little boy?"

"Yes, sir, a little," Harry said.

"Then read, and read in English, sir, on your peril," said the
lawyer.  And Harry began to translate:--

"Hath not one of your own writers said, 'The children of Adam are
now laboring as much as he himself ever did, about the tree of the
knowledge of good and evil, shaking the boughs thereof, and seeking
the fruit, being for the most part unmindful of the tree of life.'
Oh blind generation! 'tis this tree of knowledge to which the
serpent has led you"--and here the boy was obliged to stop, the
rest of the page being charred by the fire: and asked of the
lawyer--"Shall I go on, sir?"

The lawyer said--"This boy is deeper than he seems: who knows that
he is not laughing at us?"

"Let's have in Dick the Scholar," cried Captain Westbury, laughing:
and he called to a trooper out of the window--"Ho, Dick, come in
here and construe."

A thick-set soldier, with a square good-humored face, came in at
the summons, saluting his officer.

"Tell us what is this, Dick," says the lawyer.

"My name is Steele, sir," says the soldier.  "I may be Dick for my
friends, but I don't name gentlemen of your cloth amongst them."

"Well then, Steele."

"Mr. Steele, sir, if you please.  When you address a gentleman of
his Majesty's Horse Guards, be pleased not to be so familiar."

"I didn't know, sir," said the lawyer.

"How should you?  I take it you are not accustomed to meet with
gentlemen," says the trooper.

"Hold thy prate, and read that bit of paper," says Westbury.

"'Tis Latin," says Dick, glancing at it, and again saluting his
officer, "and from a sermon of Mr. Cudworth's," and he translated
the words pretty much as Henry Esmond had rendered them.

"What a young scholar you are," says the Captain to the boy.

"Depend on't, he knows more than he tells," says the lawyer.  "I
think we will pack him off in the coach with old Jezebel."

"For construing a bit of Latin?" said the Captain, very good-naturedly.

"I would as lief go there as anywhere," Harry Esmond said, simply,
"for there is nobody to care for me."

There must have been something touching in the child's voice, or in
this description of his solitude--for the Captain looked at him
very good-naturedly, and the trooper, called Steele, put his hand
kindly on the lad's head, and said some words in the Latin tongue.

"What does he say?" says the lawyer.

"Faith, ask Dick himself," cried Captain Westbury.

"I said I was not ignorant of misfortune myself, and had learned to
succor the miserable, and that's not YOUR trade, Mr. Sheepskin,"
said the trooper.

"You had better leave Dick the Scholar alone, Mr. Corbet," the
Captain said.  And Harry Esmond, always touched by a kind face and
kind word, felt very grateful to this good-natured champion.

The horses were by this time harnessed to the coach; and the
Countess and Victoire came down and were put into the vehicle.
This woman, who quarrelled with Harry Esmond all day, was melted at
parting with him, and called him "dear angel," and "poor infant,"
and a hundred other names.

The Viscountess, giving him her lean hand to kiss, bade him always
be faithful to the house of Esmond.  "If evil should happen to my
lord," says she, "his SUCCESSOR, I trust, will be found, and give
you protection.  Situated as I am, they will not dare wreak their
vengeance on me NOW."  And she kissed a medal she wore with great
fervor, and Henry Esmond knew not in the least what her meaning
was; but hath since learned that, old as she was, she was for ever
expecting, by the good offices of saints and relics, to have an
heir to the title of Esmond.

Harry Esmond was too young to have been introduced into the secrets
of politics in which his patrons were implicated; for they put but
few questions to the boy (who was little of stature, and looked
much younger than his age), and such questions as they put he
answered cautiously enough, and professing even more ignorance than
he had, for which his examiners willingly enough gave him credit.
He did not say a word about the window or the cupboard over the
fireplace; and these secrets quite escaped the eyes of the
searchers.

So then my lady was consigned to her coach, and sent off to Hexton,
with her woman and the man of law to bear her company, a couple of
troopers riding on either side of the coach.  And Harry was left
behind at the Hall, belonging as it were to nobody, and quite alone
in the world.  The captain and a guard of men remained in
possession there; and the soldiers, who were very good-natured and
kind, ate my lord's mutton and drank his wine, and made themselves
comfortable, as they well might do in such pleasant quarters.

The captains had their dinner served in my lord's tapestry parlor,
and poor little Harry thought his duty was to wait upon Captain
Westbury's chair, as his custom had been to serve his lord when he
sat there.

After the departure of the Countess, Dick the Scholar took Harry
Esmond under his special protection, and would examine him in his
humanities and talk to him both of French and Latin, in which
tongues the lad found, and his new friend was willing enough to
acknowledge, that he was even more proficient than Scholar Dick.
Hearing that he had learned them from a Jesuit, in the praise of
whom and whose goodness Harry was never tired of speaking, Dick,
rather to the boy's surprise, who began to have an early
shrewdness, like many children bred up alone, showed a great deal
of theological science, and knowledge of the points at issue
between the two churches; so that he and Harry would have hours of
controversy together, in which the boy was certainly worsted by the
arguments of this singular trooper.  "I am no common soldier," Dick
would say, and indeed it was easy to see by his learning, breeding,
and many accomplishments, that he was not.  I am of one of the most
ancient families in the empire; I have had my education at a famous
school, and a famous university; I learned my first rudiments of
Latin near to Smithfield, in London, where the martyrs were roasted."

"You hanged as many of ours," interposed Harry; "and, for the
matter of persecution, Father Holt told me that a young gentleman
of Edinburgh, eighteen years of age, student at the college there,
was hanged for heresy only last year, though he recanted, and
solemnly asked pardon for his errors."

"Faith! there has been too much persecution on both sides: but
'twas you taught us."

"Nay, 'twas the Pagans began it," cried the lad, and began to
instance a number of saints of the Church, from the proto-martyr
downwards--"this one's fire went out under him: that one's oil
cooled in the caldron: at a third holy head the executioner chopped
three times and it would not come off.  Show us martyrs in YOUR
church for whom such miracles have been done."

"Nay," says the trooper gravely, "the miracles of the first three
centuries belong to my Church as well as yours, Master Papist," and
then added, with something of a smile upon his countenance, and a
queer look at Harry--"And yet, my little catechiser, I have
sometimes thought about those miracles, that there was not much
good in them, since the victim's head always finished by coming off
at the third or fourth chop, and the caldron, if it did not boil
one day, boiled the next.  Howbeit, in our times, the Church has
lost that questionable advantage of respites.  There never was a
shower to put out Ridley's fire, nor an angel to turn the edge of
Campion's axe.  The rack tore the limbs of Southwell the Jesuit and
Sympson the Protestant alike.  For faith, everywhere multitudes die
willingly enough.  I have read in Monsieur Rycaut's 'History of the
Turks,' of thousands of Mahomet's followers rushing upon death in
battle as upon certain Paradise; and in the great Mogul's dominions
people fling themselves by hundreds under the cars of the idols
annually, and the widows burn themselves on their husbands' bodies,
as 'tis well known.  'Tis not the dying for a faith that's so hard,
Master Harry--every man of every nation has done that--'tis the
living up to it that is difficult, as I know to my cost," he added
with a sigh.  "And ah!" he added, "my poor lad, I am not strong
enough to convince thee by my life--though to die for my religion
would give me the greatest of joys--but I had a dear friend in
Magdalen College in Oxford; I wish Joe Addison were here to
convince thee, as he quickly could--for I think he's a match for
the whole College of Jesuits; and what's more, in his life too.  In
that very sermon of Dr. Cudworth's which your priest was quoting
from, and which suffered martydom in the brazier,"--Dick added with
a smile, "I had a thought of wearing the black coat (but was
ashamed of my life, you see, and took to this sorry red one); I
have often thought of Joe Addison--Dr. Cudworth says, 'A good
conscience is the best looking-glass of heaven'--and there's
serenity in my friend's face which always reflects it--I wish you
could see him, Harry."

"Did he do you a great deal of good?" asked the lad, simply.

"He might have done," said the other--"at least he taught me to see
and approve better things.  'Tis my own fault, deteriora sequi."

"You seem very good," the boy said.

"I'm not what I seem, alas!" answered the trooper--and indeed, as
it turned out, poor Dick told the truth--for that very night, at
supper in the hall, where the gentlemen of the troop took their
repasts, and passed most part of their days dicing and smoking of
tobacco, and singing and cursing, over the Castlewood ale--Harry
Esmond found Dick the Scholar in a woful state of drunkenness.  He
hiccupped out a sermon and his laughing companions bade him sing a
hymn, on which Dick, swearing he would run the scoundrel through
the body who insulted his religion, made for his sword, which was
hanging on the wall, and fell down flat on the floor under it,
saying to Harry, who ran forward to help him, "Ah, little Papist, I
wish Joseph Addison was here!"

Though the troopers of the King's Life-Guards were all gentlemen,
yet the rest of the gentlemen seemed ignorant and vulgar boors to
Harry Esmond, with the exception of this good-natured Corporal
Steele the Scholar, and Captain Westbury and Lieutenant Trant, who
were always kind to the lad.  They remained for some weeks or
months encamped in Castlewood, and Harry learned from them, from
time to time, how the lady at Hexton Castle was treated, and the
particulars of her confinement there.  'Tis known that King William
was disposed to deal very leniently with the gentry who remained
faithful to the old King's cause; and no prince usurping a crown,
as his enemies said he did, (righteously taking it, as I think
now,) ever caused less blood to be shed.  As for women-conspirators,
he kept spies on the least dangerous, and locked up the others.
Lady Castlewood had the best rooms in Hexton Castle, and the
gaoler's garden to walk in; and though she repeatedly desired to be
led out to execution, like Mary Queen of Scots, there never was any
thought of taking her painted old head off, or any desire to do
aught but keep her person in security.

And it appeared she found that some were friends in her misfortune,
whom she had, in her prosperity, considered as her worst enemies.
Colonel Francis Esmond, my lord's cousin and her ladyship's, who
had married the Dean of Winchester's daughter, and, since King
James's departure out of England, had lived not very far away from
Hexton town, hearing of his kinswoman's strait, and being friends
with Colonel Brice, commanding for King William in Hexton, and with
the Church dignitaries there, came to visit her ladyship in prison,
offering to his uncle's daughter any friendly services which lay in
his power.  And he brought his lady and little daughter to see the
prisoner, to the latter of whom, a child of great beauty and many
winning ways, the old Viscountess took not a little liking,
although between her ladyship and the child's mother there was
little more love than formerly.  There are some injuries which
women never forgive one another; and Madam Francis Esmond, in
marrying her cousin, had done one of those irretrievable wrongs to
Lady Castlewood.  But as she was now humiliated, and in misfortune,
Madam Francis could allow a truce to her enmity, and could be kind
for a while, at least, to her husband's discarded mistress.  So the
little Beatrix, her daughter, was permitted often to go and visit
the imprisoned Viscountess, who, in so far as the child and its
father were concerned, got to abate in her anger towards that
branch of the Castlewood family.  And the letters of Colonel Esmond
coming to light, as has been said, and his conduct being known to
the King's council, the Colonel was put in a better position with
the existing government than he had ever before been; any
suspicions regarding his loyalty were entirely done away; and so he
was enabled to be of more service to his kinswoman than he could
otherwise have been.

And now there befell an event by which this lady recovered her
liberty, and the house of Castlewood got a new owner, and
fatherless little Harry Esmond a new and most kind protector and
friend.  Whatever that secret was which Harry was to hear from my
lord, the boy never heard it; for that night when Father Holt
arrived, and carried my lord away with him, was the last on which
Harry ever saw his patron.  What happened to my lord may be briefly
told here.  Having found the horses at the place where they were
lying, my lord and Father Holt rode together to Chatteris, where
they had temporary refuge with one of the Father's penitents in
that city; but the pursuit being hot for them, and the reward for
the apprehension of one or the other considerable, it was deemed
advisable that they should separate; and the priest betook himself
to other places of retreat known to him, whilst my lord passed over
from Bristol into Ireland, in which kingdom King James had a court
and an army.  My lord was but a small addition to this; bringing,
indeed, only his sword and the few pieces in his pocket; but the
King received him with some kindness and distinction in spite of
his poor plight, confirmed him in his new title of Marquis, gave
him a regiment, and promised him further promotion.  But titles or
promotion were not to benefit him now.  My lord was wounded at the
fatal battle of the Boyne, flying from which field (long after his
master had set him an example) he lay for a while concealed in the
marshy country near to the town of Trim, and more from catarrh and
fever caught in the bogs than from the steel of the enemy in the
battle, sank and died.  May the earth lie light upon Thomas of
Castlewood!  He who writes this must speak in charity, though this
lord did him and his two grievous wrongs: for one of these he would
have made amends, perhaps, had life been spared him; but the other
lay beyond his power to repair, though 'tis to be hoped that a
greater Power than a priest has absolved him of it.  He got the
comfort of this absolution, too, such as it was: a priest of Trim
writing a letter to my lady to inform her of this calamity.

But in those days letters were slow of travelling, and our priest's
took two months or more on its journey from Ireland to England:
where, when it did arrive, it did not find my lady at her own
house; she was at the King's house of Hexton Castle when the letter
came to Castlewood, but it was opened for all that by the officer
in command there.

Harry Esmond well remembered the receipt of this letter, which
Lockwood brought in as Captain Westbury and Lieutenant Trant were
on the green playing at bowls, young Esmond looking on at the
sport, or reading his book in the arbor.

"Here's news for Frank Esmond," says Captain Westbury; "Harry, did
you ever see Colonel Esmond?"  And Captain Westbury looked very
hard at the boy as he spoke.

Harry said he had seen him but once when he was at Hexton, at the
ball there.

"And did he say anything?"

"He said what I don't care to repeat," Harry answered.  For he was
now twelve years of age: he knew what his birth was, and the
disgrace of it; and he felt no love towards the man who had most
likely stained his mother's honor and his own.

"Did you love my Lord Castlewood?"

"I wait until I know my mother, sir, to say," the boy answered, his
eyes filling with tears.

"Something has happened to Lord Castlewood," Captain Westbury said
in a very grave tone--"something which must happen to us all.  He
is dead of a wound received at the Boyne, fighting for King James."

"I am glad my lord fought for the right cause," the boy said.

"It was better to meet death on the field like a man, than face it
on Tower-hill, as some of them may," continued Mr. Westbury.  "I
hope he has made some testament, or provided for thee somehow.
This letter says he recommends unicum filium suum dilectissimum to
his lady.  I hope he has left you more than that."

Harry did not know, he said.  He was in the hands of Heaven and
Fate; but more lonely now, as it seemed to him, than he had been
all the rest of his life; and that night, as he lay in his little
room which he still occupied, the boy thought with many a pang of
shame and grief of his strange and solitary condition: how he had a
father and no father; a nameless mother that had been brought to
ruin, perhaps, by that very father whom Harry could only
acknowledge in secret and with a blush, and whom he could neither
love nor revere.  And he sickened to think how Father Holt, a
stranger, and two or three soldiers, his acquaintances of the last
six weeks, were the only friends he had in the great wide world,
where he was now quite alone.  The soul of the boy was full of
love, and he longed as he lay in the darkness there for some one
upon whom he could bestow it.  He remembers, and must to his dying
day, the thoughts and tears of that long night, the hours tolling
through it.  Who was he, and what?  Why here rather than elsewhere?
I have a mind, he thought, to go to that priest at Trim, and find
out what my father said to him on his death-bed confession.  Is
there any child in the whole world so unprotected as I am?  Shall I
get up and quit this place, and run to Ireland?  With these
thoughts and tears the lad passed that night away until he wept
himself to sleep.

The next day, the gentlemen of the guard, who had heard what had
befallen him, were more than usually kind to the child, especially
his friend Scholar Dick, who told him about his own father's death,
which had happened when Dick was a child at Dublin, not quite five
years of age.  "That was the first sensation of grief," Dick said,
"I ever knew.  I remember I went into the room where his body lay,
and my mother sat weeping beside it.  I had my battledore in my
hand, and fell a-beating the coffin, and calling Papa; on which my
mother caught me in her arms, and told me in a flood of tears Papa
could not hear me, and would play with me no more, for they were
going to put him under ground, whence he could never come to us
again.  And this," said Dick kindly, "has made me pity all children
ever since; and caused me to love thee, my poor fatherless,
motherless lad.  And, if ever thou wantest a friend, thou shalt
have one in Richard Steele."

Harry Esmond thanked him, and was grateful.  But what could
Corporal Steele do for him? take him to ride a spare horse, and be
servant to the troop?  Though there might be a bar in Harry
Esmond's shield, it was a noble one.  The counsel of the two
friends was, that little Harry should stay where he was, and abide
his fortune: so Esmond stayed on at Castlewood, awaiting with no
small anxiety the fate, whatever it was, which was over him.




CHAPTER VII.

I AM LEFT AT CASTLEWOOD AN ORPHAN, AND FIND MOST KIND PROTECTORS
THERE.


During the stay of the soldiers in Castlewood, honest Dick the
Scholar was the constant companion of the lonely little orphan lad
Harry Esmond: and they read together, and they played bowls
together, and when the other troopers or their officers, who were
free-spoken over their cups, (as was the way of that day, when
neither men nor women were over-nice,) talked unbecomingly of their
amours and gallantries before the child, Dick, who very likely was
setting the whole company laughing, would stop their jokes with a
maxima debetur pueris reverentia, and once offered to lug out
against another trooper called Hulking Tom, who wanted to ask Harry
Esmond a ribald question.

Also, Dick seeing that the child had, as he said, a sensibility
above his years, and a great and praiseworthy discretion, confided
to Harry his love for a vintner's daughter, near to the Tollyard,
Westminster, whom Dick addressed as Saccharissa in many verses of
his composition, and without whom he said it would be impossible
that he could continue to live.  He vowed this a thousand times in
a day, though Harry smiled to see the love-lorn swain had his
health and appetite as well as the most heart-whole trooper in the
regiment: and he swore Harry to secrecy too, which vow the lad
religiously kept, until he found that officers and privates were
all taken into Dick's confidence, and had the benefit of his
verses.  And it must be owned likewise that, while Dick was sighing
after Saccharissa in London, he had consolations in the country;
for there came a wench out of Castlewood village who had washed his
linen, and who cried sadly when she heard he was gone: and without
paying her bill too, which Harry Esmond took upon himself to
discharge by giving the girl a silver pocket-piece, which Scholar
Dick had presented to him, when, with many embraces and prayers for
his prosperity, Dick parted from him, the garrison of Castlewood
being ordered away.  Dick the Scholar said he would never forget
his young friend, nor indeed did he: and Harry was sorry when the
kind soldiers vacated Castlewood, looking forward with no small
anxiety (for care and solitude had made him thoughtful beyond his
years) to his fate when the new lord and lady of the house came to
live there.  He had lived to be past twelve years old now; and had
never had a friend, save this wild trooper, perhaps, and Father
Holt; and had a fond and affectionate heart, tender to weakness,
that would fain attach itself to somebody, and did not seem at rest
until it had found a friend who would take charge of it.

The instinct which led Henry Esmond to admire and love the gracious
person, the fair apparition of whose beauty and kindness had so
moved him when he first beheld her, became soon a devoted affection
and passion of gratitude, which entirely filled his young heart,
that as yet, except in the case of dear Father Holt, had had very
little kindness for which to be thankful.  O Dea certe, thought he,
remembering the lines out of the AEneas which Mr. Holt had taught
him.  There seemed, as the boy thought, in every look or gesture of
this fair creature, an angelical softness and bright pity--in
motion or repose she seemed gracious alike; the tone of her voice,
though she uttered words ever so trivial, gave him a pleasure that
amounted almost to anguish.  It cannot be called love, that a lad
of twelve years of age, little more than a menial, felt for an
exalted lady, his mistress: but it was worship.  To catch her
glance, to divine her errand and run on it before she had spoken
it; to watch, follow, adore her; became the business of his life.
Meanwhile, as is the way often, his idol had idols of her own, and
never thought of or suspected the admiration of her little pigmy
adorer.

My lady had on her side her three idols: first and foremost, Jove
and supreme ruler, was her lord, Harry's patron, the good Viscount
of Castlewood.  All wishes of his were laws with her.  If he had a
headache, she was ill.  If he frowned, she trembled.  If he joked,
she smiled and was charmed.  If he went a-hunting, she was always
at the window to see him ride away, her little son crowing on her
arm, or on the watch till his return.  She made dishes for his
dinner: spiced wine for him: made the toast for his tankard at
breakfast: hushed the house when he slept in his chair, and watched
for a look when he woke.  If my lord was not a little proud of his
beauty, my lady adored it.  She clung to his arm as he paced the
terrace, her two fair little hands clasped round his great one; her
eyes were never tired of looking in his face and wondering at its
perfection.  Her little son was his son, and had his father's look
and curly brown hair.  Her daughter Beatrix was his daughter, and
had his eyes--were there ever such beautiful eyes in the world?
All the house was arranged so as to bring him ease and give him
pleasure.  She liked the small gentry round about to come and pay
him court, never caring for admiration for herself; those who
wanted to be well with the lady must admire him.  Not regarding her
dress, she would wear a gown to rags, because he had once liked it:
and, if he brought her a brooch or a ribbon, would prefer it to all
the most costly articles of her wardrobe.

My lord went to London every year for six weeks, and the family
being too poor to appear at Court with any figure, he went alone.
It was not until he was out of sight that her face showed any
sorrow: and what a joy when he came back!  What preparation before
his return!  The fond creature had his arm-chair at the chimney-side--delighting to put the children in it, and look at them there.
Nobody took his place at the table; but his silver tankard stood
there as when my lord was present.

A pretty sight it was to see, during my lord's absence, or on those
many mornings when sleep or headache kept him a-bed, this fair
young lady of Castlewood, her little daughter at her knee, and her
domestics gathered round her, reading the Morning Prayer of the
English Church.  Esmond long remembered how she looked and spoke,
kneeling reverently before the sacred book, the sun shining upon
her golden hair until it made a halo round about her.  A dozen of
the servants of the house kneeled in a line opposite their
mistress; for a while Harry Esmond kept apart from these mysteries,
but Doctor Tusher showing him that the prayers read were those of
the Church of all ages, and the boy's own inclination prompting him
to be always as near as he might to his mistress, and to think all
things she did right, from listening to the prayers in the ante-chamber, he came presently to kneel down with the rest of the
household in the parlor; and before a couple of years my lady had
made a thorough convert.  Indeed, the boy loved his catechiser so
much that he would have subscribed to anything she bade him, and
was never tired of listening to her fond discourse and simple
comments upon the book, which she read to him in a voice of which
it was difficult to resist the sweet persuasion and tender
appealing kindness.  This friendly controversy, and the intimacy
which it occasioned, bound the lad more fondly than ever to his
mistress.  The happiest period of all his life was this; and the
young mother, with her daughter and son, and the orphan lad whom
she protected, read and worked and played, and were children
together.  If the lady looked forward--as what fond woman does
not?--towards the future, she had no plans from which Harry Esmond
was left out; and a thousand and a thousand times, in his
passionate and impetuous way, he vowed that no power should
separate him from his mistress; and only asked for some chance to
happen by which he might show his fidelity to her.  Now, at the
close of his life, as he sits and recalls in tranquillity the happy
and busy scenes of it, he can think, not ungratefully, that he has
been faithful to that early vow.  Such a life is so simple that
years may be chronicled in a few lines.  But few men's life-voyages
are destined to be all prosperous; and this calm of which we are
speaking was soon to come to an end.

As Esmond grew, and observed for himself, he found of necessity
much to read and think of outside that fond circle of kinsfolk who
had admitted him to join hand with them.  He read more books than
they cared to study with him; was alone in the midst of them many a
time, and passed nights over labors, futile perhaps, but in which
they could not join him.  His dear mistress divined his thoughts
with her usual jealous watchfulness of affection: began to forebode
a time when he would escape from his home-nest; and, at his eager
protestations to the contrary, would only sigh and shake her head.
Before those fatal decrees in life are executed, there are always
secret previsions and warning omens.  When everything yet seems
calm, we are aware that the storm is coming.  Ere the happy days
were over, two at least of that home-party felt that they were
drawing to a close; and were uneasy, and on the look-out for the
cloud which was to obscure their calm.

'Twas easy for Harry to see, however much his lady persisted in
obedience and admiration for her husband, that my lord tired of his
quiet life, and grew weary, and then testy, at those gentle bonds
with which his wife would have held him.  As they say the Grand
Lama of Thibet is very much fatigued by his character of divinity,
and yawns on his altar as his bonzes kneel and worship him, many a
home-god grows heartily sick of the reverence with which his
family-devotees pursue him, and sighs for freedom and for his old
life, and to be off the pedestal on which his dependants would have
him sit for ever, whilst they adore him, and ply him with flowers,
and hymns, and incense, and flattery;--so, after a few years of his
marriage my honest Lord Castlewood began to tire; all the high-flown raptures and devotional ceremonies with which his wife, his
chief priestess, treated him, first sent him to sleep, and then
drove him out of doors; for the truth must be told, that my lord
was a jolly gentleman, with very little of the august or divine in
his nature, though his fond wife persisted in revering it--and,
besides, he had to pay a penalty for this love, which persons of
his disposition seldom like to defray: and, in a word, if he had a
loving wife, had a very jealous and exacting one.  Then he wearied
of this jealousy; then he broke away from it; then came, no doubt,
complaints and recriminations; then, perhaps, promises of amendment
not fulfilled; then upbraidings not the more pleasant because they
were silent, and only sad looks and tearful eyes conveyed them.
Then, perhaps, the pair reached that other stage which is not
uncommon in married life, when the woman perceives that the god of
the honeymoon is a god no more; only a mortal like the rest of us--and so she looks into her heart, and lo! vacuae sedes et inania
arcana.  And now, supposing our lady to have a fine genius and a
brilliant wit of her own, and the magic spell and infatuation
removed from her which had led her to worship as a god a very
ordinary mortal--and what follows?  They live together, and they
dine together, and they say "my dear" and "my love" as heretofore;
but the man is himself, and the woman herself: that dream of love
is over as everything else is over in life; as flowers and fury,
and griefs and pleasures, are over.

Very likely the Lady Castlewood had ceased to adore her husband
herself long before she got off her knees, or would allow her
household to discontinue worshipping him.  To do him justice, my
lord never exacted this subservience: he laughed and joked and
drank his bottle, and swore when he was angry, much too familiarly
for any one pretending to sublimity; and did his best to destroy
the ceremonial with which his wife chose to surround him.  And it
required no great conceit on young Esmond's part to see that his
own brains were better than his patron's, who, indeed, never
assumed any airs of superiority over the lad, or over any dependant
of his, save when he was displeased, in which case he would express
his mind in oaths very freely; and who, on the contrary, perhaps,
spoiled "Parson Harry," as he called young Esmond, by constantly
praising his parts and admiring his boyish stock of learning.

It may seem ungracious in one who has received a hundred favors
from his patron to speak in any but a reverential manner of his
elders; but the present writer has had descendants of his own, whom
he has brought up with as little as possible of the servility at
present exacted by parents from children (under which mask of duty
there often lurks indifference, contempt, or rebellion): and as he
would have his grandsons believe or represent him to be not an inch
taller than Nature has made him: so, with regard to his past
acquaintances, he would speak without anger, but with truth, as far
as he knows it, neither extenuating nor setting down aught in
malice.

So long, then, as the world moved according to Lord Castlewood's
wishes, he was good-humored enough; of a temper naturally sprightly
and easy, liking to joke, especially with his inferiors, and
charmed to receive the tribute of their laughter.  All exercises of
the body he could perform to perfection--shooting at a mark and
flying, breaking horses, riding at the ring, pitching the quoit,
playing at all games with great skill.  And not only did he do
these things well, but he thought he did them to perfection; hence
he was often tricked about horses, which he pretended to know
better than any jockey; was made to play at ball and billiards by
sharpers who took his money, and came back from London wofully
poorer each time than he went, as the state of his affairs
testified when the sudden accident came by which his career was
brought to an end.

He was fond of the parade of dress, and passed as many hours daily
at his toilette as an elderly coquette.  A tenth part of his day
was spent in the brushing of his teeth and the oiling of his hair,
which was curling and brown, and which he did not like to conceal
under a periwig, such as almost everybody of that time wore.  (We
have the liberty of our hair back now, but powder and pomatum along
with it.  When, I wonder, will these monstrous poll-taxes of our
age be withdrawn, and men allowed to carry their colors, black,
red, or gray, as Nature made them?)  And as he liked her to be well
dressed, his lady spared no pains in that matter to please him;
indeed, she would dress her head or cut it off if he had bidden her.

It was a wonder to young Esmond, serving as page to my lord and
lady, to hear, day after day, to such company as came, the same
boisterous stories told by my lord, at which his lady never failed
to smile or hold down her head, and Doctor Tusher to burst out
laughing at the proper point, or cry, "Fie, my lord, remember my
cloth!" but with such a faint show of resistance, that it only
provoked my lord further.  Lord Castlewood's stories rose by
degrees, and became stronger after the ale at dinner and the bottle
afterwards; my lady always taking flight after the very first glass
to Church and King, and leaving the gentlemen to drink the rest of
the toasts by themselves.

And, as Harry Esmond was her page, he also was called from duty at
this time.  "My lord has lived in the army and with soldiers," she
would say to the lad, "amongst whom great license is allowed.  You
have had a different nurture, and I trust these things will change
as you grow older; not that any fault attaches to my lord, who is
one of the best and most religious men in this kingdom."  And very
likely she believed so.  'Tis strange what a man may do, and a
woman yet think him an angel.

And as Esmond has taken truth for his motto, it must be owned, even
with regard to that other angel, his mistress, that she had a fault
of character which flawed her perfections.  With the other sex
perfectly tolerant and kindly, of her own she was invariably
jealous; and a proof that she had this vice is, that though she
would acknowledge a thousand faults that she had not, to this which
she had she could never be got to own.  But if there came a woman
with even a semblance of beauty to Castlewood, she was so sure to
find out some wrong in her, that my lord, laughing in his jolly
way, would often joke with her concerning her foible.  Comely
servant-maids might come for hire, but none were taken at
Castlewood.  The housekeeper was old; my lady's own waiting-woman
squinted, and was marked with the small-pox; the housemaids and
scullion were ordinary country wenches, to whom Lady Castlewood was
kind, as her nature made her to everybody almost; but as soon as
ever she had to do with a pretty woman, she was cold, retiring, and
haughty.  The country ladies found this fault in her; and though
the men all admired her, their wives and daughters complained of
her coldness and aims, and said that Castlewood was pleasanter in
Lady Jezebel's time (as the dowager was called) than at present.
Some few were of my mistress's side.  Old Lady Blenkinsop Jointure,
who had been at court in King James the First's time, always took
her side; and so did old Mistress Crookshank, Bishop Crookshank's
daughter, of Hexton, who, with some more of their like, pronounced
my lady an angel: but the pretty women were not of this mind; and
the opinion of the country was that my lord was tied to his wife's
apron-strings, and that she ruled over him.

The second fight which Harry Esmond had, was at fourteen years of
age, with Bryan Hawkshaw, Sir John Hawkshaw's son, of Bramblebrook,
who, advancing this opinion, that my lady was jealous and henpecked
my lord, put Harry in such a fury, that Harry fell on him and with
such rage, that the other boy, who was two years older and by far
bigger than he, had by far the worst of the assault, until it was
interrupted by Doctor Tusher walking out of the dinner-room.

Bryan Hawkshaw got up bleeding at the nose, having, indeed, been
surprised, as many a stronger man might have been, by the fury of
the assault upon him.

"You little bastard beggar!" he said, "I'll murder you for this!"

And indeed he was big enough.

"Bastard or not," said the other, grinding his teeth, "I have a
couple of swords, and if you like to meet me, as a man, on the
terrace to-night--"

And here the Doctor coming up, the colloquy of the young champions
ended.  Very likely, big as he was, Hawkshaw did not care to
continue a fight with such a ferocious opponent as this had been.




CHAPTER VIII.

AFTER GOOD FORTUNE COMES EVIL.


Since my Lady Mary Wortley Montagu brought home the custom of
inoculation from Turkey (a perilous practice many deem it, and only
a useless rushing into the jaws of danger), I think the severity of
the small-pox, that dreadful scourge of the world, has somewhat
been abated in our part of it; and remember in my time hundreds of
the young and beautiful who have been carried to the grave, or have
only risen from their pillows frightfully scarred and disfigured by
this malady.  Many a sweet face hath left its roses on the bed on
which this dreadful and withering blight has laid them.  In my
early days, this pestilence would enter a village and destroy half
its inhabitants: at its approach, it may well be imagined, not only
the beautiful but the strongest were alarmed, and those fled who
could.  One day in the year 1694 (I have good reason to remember
it), Doctor Tusher ran into Castlewood House, with a face of
consternation, saying that the malady had made its appearance at
the blacksmith's house in the village, and that one of the maids
there was down in the small-pox.

The blacksmith, besides his forge and irons for horses, had an ale-house for men, which his wife kept, and his company sat on benches
before the inn-door, looking at the smithy while they drank their
beer.  Now, there was a pretty girl at this inn, the landlord's men
called Nancy Sievewright, a bouncing, fresh-looking lass, whose
face was as red as the hollyhocks over the pales of the garden
behind the inn.  At this time Harry Esmond was a lad of sixteen,
and somehow in his walks and rambles it often happened that he fell
in with Nancy Sievewright's bonny face; if he did not want
something done at the blacksmith's he would go and drink ale at the
"Three Castles," or find some pretext for seeing this poor Nancy.
Poor thing, Harry meant or imagined no harm; and she, no doubt, as
little, but the truth is they were always meeting--in the lanes, or
by the brook, or at the garden-palings, or about Castlewood: it
was, "Lord, Mr. Henry!" and "how do you do, Nancy?" many and many a
time in the week.  'Tis surprising the magnetic attraction which
draws people together from ever so far.  I blush as I think of poor
Nancy now, in a red bodice and buxom purple cheeks and a canvas
petticoat; and that I devised schemes, and set traps, and made
speeches in my heart, which I seldom had courage to say when in
presence of that humble enchantress, who knew nothing beyond
milking a cow, and opened her black eyes with wonder when I made
one of my fine speeches out of Waller or Ovid.  Poor Nancy! from
the midst of far-off years thine honest country face beams out; and
I remember thy kind voice as if I had heard it yesterday.

When Doctor Tusher brought the news that the small-pox was at the
"Three Castles," whither a tramper, it was said, had brought the
malady, Henry Esmond's first thought was of alarm for poor Nancy,
and then of shame and disquiet for the Castlewood family, lest he
might have brought this infection; for the truth is that Mr. Harry
had been sitting in a back room for an hour that day, where Nancy
Sievewright was with a little brother who complained of headache,
and was lying stupefied and crying, either in a chair by the corner
of the fire, or in Nancy's lap, or on mine.

Little Lady Beatrix screamed out at Dr. Tusher's news; and my lord
cried out, "God bless me!"  He was a brave man, and not afraid of
death in any shape but this.  He was very proud of his pink
complexion and fair hair--but the idea of death by small-pox scared
him beyond all other ends.  "We will take the children and ride
away to-morrow to Walcote:" this was my lord's small house,
inherited from his mother, near to Winchester.

"That is the best refuge in case the disease spreads," said Dr.
Tusher.  "'Tis awful to think of it beginning at the ale-house;
half the people of the village have visited that to-day, or the
blacksmith's, which is the same thing.  My clerk Nahum lodges with
them--I can never go into my reading-desk and have that fellow so
near me.  I WON'T have that man near me."

"If a parishioner dying in the small-pox sent to you, would you not
go?" asked my lady, looking up from her frame of work, with her
calm blue eyes.

"By the Lord, I wouldn't," said my lord.

"We are not in a popish country; and a sick man doth not absolutely
need absolution and confession," said the Doctor.  "'Tis true they
are a comfort and a help to him when attainable, and to be
administered with hope of good.  But in a case where the life of a
parish priest in the midst of his flock is highly valuable to them,
he is not called upon to risk it (and therewith the lives, future
prospects, and temporal, even spiritual welfare of his own family)
for the sake of a single person, who is not very likely in a
condition even to understand the religious message whereof the
priest is the bringer--being uneducated, and likewise stupefied or
delirious by disease.  If your ladyship or his lordship, my
excellent good friend and patron, were to take it . . ."

"God forbid!" cried my lord.

"Amen," continued Dr. Tusher.  "Amen to that prayer, my very good
lord! for your sake I would lay my life down"--and, to judge from
the alarmed look of the Doctor's purple face, you would have
thought that that sacrifice was about to be called for instantly.

To love children, and be gentle with them, was an instinct, rather
than a merit, in Henry Esmond; so much so, that he thought almost
with a sort of shame of his liking for them, and of the softness
into which it betrayed him; and on this day the poor fellow had not
only had his young friend, the milkmaid's brother, on his knee, but
had been drawing pictures and telling stories to the little Frank
Castlewood, who had occupied the same place for an hour after
dinner, and was never tired of Henry's tales, and his pictures of
soldiers and horses.  As luck would have it, Beatrix had not on
that evening taken her usual place, which generally she was glad
enough to have, upon her tutor's lap.  For Beatrix, from the
earliest time, was jealous of every caress which was given to her
little brother Frank.  She would fling away even from the maternal
arms, if she saw Frank had been there before her; insomuch that
Lady Esmond was obliged not to show her love for her son in the
presence of the little girl, and embraced one or the other alone.
She would turn pale and red with rage if she caught signs of
intelligence or affection between Frank and his mother: would sit
apart, and not speak for a whole night, if she thought the boy had
a better fruit or a larger cake than hers; would fling away a
ribbon if he had one; and from the earliest age, sitting up in her
little chair by the great fireplace opposite to the corner where
Lady Castlewood commonly sat at her embroidery, would utter
infantine sarcasms about the favor shown to her brother.  These, if
spoken in the presence of Lord Castlewood, tickled and amused his
humor; he would pretend to love Frank best, and dandle and kiss
him, and roar with laughter at Beatrix's jealousy.  But the truth
is, my lord did not often witness these scenes, nor very much
trouble the quiet fireside at which his lady passed many long
evenings.  My lord was hunting all day when the season admitted; he
frequented all the cock-fights and fairs in the country, and would
ride twenty miles to see a main fought, or two clowns break their
heads at a cudgelling-match; and he liked better to sit in his
parlor drinking ale and punch with Jack and Tom, than in his wife's
drawing-room: whither, if he came, he brought only too often
bloodshot eyes, a hiccupping voice, and a reeling gait.  The
management of the house, and the property, the care of the few
tenants and the village poor, and the accounts of the estate, were
in the hands of his lady and her young secretary, Harry Esmond.  My
lord took charge of the stables, the kennel, and the cellar--and he
filled this and emptied it too.

So it chanced that upon this very day, when poor Harry Esmond had
had the blacksmith's son, and the peer's son, alike upon his knee,
little Beatrix, who would come to her tutor willingly enough with
her book and her writing, had refused him, seeing the place
occupied by her brother, and, luckily for her, had sat at the
further end of the room, away from him, playing with a spaniel dog
which she had, (and for which, by fits and starts, she would take a
great affection,) and talking at Harry Esmond over her shoulder, as
she pretended to caress the dog, saying that Fido would love her,
and she would love Fido, and nothing but Fido all her life.

When, then, the news was brought that the little boy at the "Three
Castles" was ill with the small-pox, poor Harry Esmond felt a shock
of alarm, not so much for himself as for his mistress's son, whom
he might have brought into peril.  Beatrix, who had pouted
sufficiently, (and who, whenever a stranger appeared, began, from
infancy almost, to play off little graces to catch his attention,)
her brother being now gone to bed, was for taking her place upon
Esmond's knee: for, though the Doctor was very obsequious to her,
she did not like him, because he had thick boots and dirty hands
(the pert young miss said), and because she hated learning the
catechism.

But as she advanced towards Esmond from the corner where she had
been sulking, he started back and placed the great chair on which
he was sitting between him and her--saying in the French language
to Lady Castlewood, with whom the young lad had read much, and whom
he had perfected in this tongue--Madam, the child must not approach
me; I must tell you that I was at the blacksmith's to-day, and had
his little boy upon my lap."

"Where you took my son afterwards," Lady Castlewood said, very
angry, and turning red.  "I thank you, sir, for giving him such
company.  Beatrix," she said in English, "I forbid you to touch Mr.
Esmond.  Come away, child--come to your room.  Come to your room--I
wish your Reverence good-night--and you, sir, had you not better go
back to your friends at the ale-house?" her eyes, ordinarily so
kind, darted flashes of anger as she spoke; and she tossed up her
head (which hung down commonly) with the mien of a princess.

"Hey-day!" says my lord, who was standing by the fireplace--indeed
he was in the position to which he generally came by that hour of
the evening--"Hey-day!  Rachel, what are you in a passion about?
Ladies ought never to be in a passion.  Ought they, Doctor Tusher?
though it does good to see Rachel in a passion--Damme, Lady
Castlewood, you look dev'lish handsome in a passion."

"It is, my lord, because Mr. Henry Esmond, having nothing to do
with his time here, and not having a taste for our company, has
been to the ale-house, where he has SOME FRIENDS."

My lord burst out, with a laugh and an oath--"You young slyboots,
you've been at Nancy Sievewright.  D--- the young hypocrite, who'd
have thought it in him?  I say, Tusher, he's been after--"

"Enough, my lord," said my lady, "don't insult me with this talk."

"Upon my word," said poor Harry, ready to cry with shame and
mortification, "the honor of that young person is perfectly
unstained for me."

"Oh, of course, of course," says my lord, more and more laughing
and tipsy.  "Upon his HONOR, Doctor--Nancy Sieve-- . . ."

"Take Mistress Beatrix to bed," my lady cried at this moment to
Mrs. Tucker her woman, who came in with her ladyship's tea.  "Put
her into my room--no, into yours," she added quickly.  "Go, my
child: go, I say: not a word!"  And Beatrix, quite surprised at so
sudden a tone of authority from one who was seldom accustomed to
raise her voice, went out of the room with a scared countenance,
and waited even to burst out a-crying until she got to the door
with Mrs. Tucker.

For once her mother took little heed of her sobbing, and continued
to speak eagerly--"My lord," she said, "this young man--your
dependant--told me just now in French--he was ashamed to speak in
his own language--that he had been at the ale-house all day, where
he has had that little wretch who is now ill of the small-pox on
his knee.  And he comes home reeking from that place--yes, reeking
from it--and takes my boy into his lap without shame, and sits down
by me, yes, by ME.  He may have killed Frank for what I know--killed our child.  Why was he brought in to disgrace our house?
Why is he here?  Let him go--let him go, I say, to-night, and
pollute the place no more."

She had never once uttered a syllable of unkindness to Harry
Esmond; and her cruel words smote the poor boy, so that he stood
for some moments bewildered with grief and rage at the injustice of
such a stab from such a hand.  He turned quite white from red,
which he had been.

"I cannot help my birth, madam," he said, "nor my other misfortune.
And as for your boy, if--if my coming nigh to him pollutes him now,
it was not so always.  Good-night, my lord.  Heaven bless you and
yours for your goodness to me.  I have tired her ladyship's
kindness out, and I will go;" and, sinking down on his knee, Harry
Esmond took the rough hand of his benefactor and kissed it.

"He wants to go to the ale-house--let him go," cried my lady.

"I'm d--d if he shall," said my lord.  "I didn't think you could be
so d--d ungrateful, Rachel."

Her reply was to burst into a flood of tears, and to quit the room
with a rapid glance at Harry Esmond,--as my lord, not heeding them,
and still in great good-humor, raised up his young client from his
kneeling posture (for a thousand kindnesses had caused the lad to
revere my lord as a father), and put his broad hand on Harry
Esmond's shoulder.

"She was always so," my lord said; "the very notion of a woman
drives her mad.  I took to liquor on that very account, by Jove,
for no other reason than that; for she can't be jealous of a beer-barrel or a bottle of rum, can she, Doctor?  D--- it, look at the
maids--just look at the maids in the house" (my lord pronounced all
the words together--just-look-at-the-maze-in-the-house: jever-see-such-maze?)  "You wouldn't take a wife out of Castlewood now, would
you, Doctor?" and my lord burst out laughing.

The Doctor, who had been looking at my Lord Castlewood from under
his eyelids, said, "But joking apart, and, my lord, as a divine, I
cannot treat the subject in a jocular light, nor, as a pastor of
this congregation, look with anything but sorrow at the idea of so
very young a sheep going astray."

"Sir," said young Esmond, bursting out indignantly, "she told me
that you yourself were a horrid old man, and had offered to kiss
her in the dairy."

"For shame, Henry," cried Doctor Tusher, turning as red as a
turkey-cock, while my lord continued to roar with laughter.  "If
you listen to the falsehoods of an abandoned girl--"

"She is as honest as any woman in England, and as pure for me,"
cried out Henry, "and, as kind, and as good.  For shame on you to
malign her!"

"Far be it from me to do so," cried the Doctor.  "Heaven grant I
may be mistaken in the girl, and in you, sir, who have a truly
PRECOCIOUS genius; but that is not the point at issue at present.
It appears that the small-pox broke out in the little boy at the
'Three Castles;' that it was on him when you visited the ale-house,
for your OWN reasons; and that you sat with the child for some
time, and immediately afterwards with my young lord."  The Doctor
raised his voice as he spoke, and looked towards my lady, who had
now come back, looking very pale, with a handkerchief in her hand.

"This is all very true, sir," said Lady Esmond, looking at the
young man.

"'Tis to be feared that he may have brought the infection with him."

"From the ale-house--yes," said my lady.

"D--- it, I forgot when I collared you, boy," cried my lord,
stepping back.  "Keep off, Harry my boy; there's no good in running
into the wolf's jaws, you know."

My lady looked at him with some surprise, and instantly advancing
to Henry Esmond, took his hand.  "I beg your pardon, Henry," she
said; "I spoke very unkindly.  I have no right to interfere with
you--with your--"

My lord broke out into an oath.  "Can't you leave the boy alone, my
lady?"  She looked a little red, and faintly pressed the lad's hand
as she dropped it.

"There is no use, my lord," she said; "Frank was on his knee as he
was making pictures, and was running constantly from Henry to me.
The evil is done, if any."

"Not with me, damme," cried my lord.  "I've been smoking,"--and he
lighted his pipe again with a coal--"and it keeps off infection;
and as the disease is in the village--plague take it--I would have
you leave it.  We'll go to-morrow to Walcote, my lady."

"I have no fear," said my lady; "I may have had it as an infant: it
broke out in our house then; and when four of my sisters had it at
home, two years before our marriage, I escaped it, and two of my
dear sisters died."

"I won't run the risk," said my lord; "I'm as bold as any man, but
I'll not bear that."

"Take Beatrix with you and go," said my lady.  "For us the mischief
is done; and Tucker can wait upon us, who has had the disease."

"You take care to choose 'em ugly enough," said my lord, at which
her ladyship hung down her head and looked foolish: and my lord,
calling away Tusher, bade him come to the oak parlor and have a
pipe.  The Doctor made a low bow to her ladyship (of which salaams
he was profuse), and walked off on his creaking square-toes after
his patron.

When the lady and the young man were alone, there was a silence of
some moments, during which he stood at the fire, looking rather
vacantly at the dying embers, whilst her ladyship busied herself
with the tambour-frame and needles.

"I am sorry," she said, after a pause, in a hard, dry voice,--"I
REPEAT I am sorry that I showed myself so ungrateful for the safety
of my son.  It was not at all my wish that you should leave us, I
am sure, unless you found pleasure elsewhere.  But you must
perceive, Mr. Esmond, that at your age, and with your tastes, it is
impossible that you can continue to stay upon the intimate footing
in which you have been in this family.  You have wished to go to
the University, and I think 'tis quite as well that you should be
sent thither.  I did not press this matter, thinking you a child,
as you are, indeed, in years--quite a child; and I should never
have thought of treating you otherwise until--until these
CIRCUMSTANCES came to light.  And I shall beg my lord to despatch
you as quick as possible: and will go on with Frank's learning as
well as I can, (I owe my father thanks for a little grounding, and
you, I'm sure, for much that you have taught me,)--and--and I wish
you a good-night, Mr. Esmond."

And with this she dropped a stately curtsy, and, taking her candle,
went away through the tapestry door, which led to her apartments.
Esmond stood by the fireplace, blankly staring after her.  Indeed,
he scarce seemed to see until she was gone; and then her image was
impressed upon him, and remained for ever fixed upon his memory.
He saw her retreating, the taper lighting up her marble face, her
scarlet lip quivering, and her shining golden hair.  He went to his
own room, and to bed, where he tried to read, as his custom was;
but he never knew what he was reading until afterwards he
remembered the appearance of the letters of the book (it was in
Montaigne's Essays), and the events of the day passed before him--that is, of the last hour of the day; for as for the morning, and
the poor milkmaid yonder, he never so much as once thought.  And he
could not get to sleep until daylight, and woke with a violent
headache, and quite unrefreshed.

He had brought the contagion with him from the "Three Castles" sure
enough, and was presently laid up with the smallpox, which spared
the hall no more than it did the cottage.




CHAPTER IX.

I HAVE THE SMALL-POX, AND PREPARE TO LEAVE CASTLEWOOD.


When Harry Esmond passed through the crisis of that malady, and
returned to health again, he found that little Frank Esmond had
also suffered and rallied after the disease, and the lady his
mother was down with it, with a couple more of the household.  "It
was a Providence, for which we all ought to be thankful," Doctor
Tusher said, "that my lady and her son were spared, while Death
carried off the poor domestics of the house;" and rebuked Harry for
asking, in his simple way, For which we ought to be thankful--that
the servants were killed, or the gentlefolks were saved?  Nor could
young Esmond agree in the Doctor's vehement protestations to my
lady, when he visited her during her convalescence, that the malady
had not in the least impaired her charms, and had not been churl
enough to injure the fair features of the Viscountess of
Castlewood; whereas, in spite of these fine speeches, Harry thought
that her ladyship's beauty was very much injured by the small-pox.
When the marks of the disease cleared away, they did not, it is
true, leave furrows or scars on her face (except one, perhaps, on
her forehead over her left eyebrow); but the delicacy of her rosy
color and complexion was gone: her eyes had lost their brilliancy,
her hair fell, and her face looked older.  It was as if a coarse
hand had rubbed off the delicate tints of that sweet picture, and
brought it, as one has seen unskilful painting-cleaners do, to the
dead color.  Also, it must be owned, that for a year or two after
the malady, her ladyship's nose was swollen and redder.

There would be no need to mention these trivialities, but that they
actually influenced many lives, as trifles will in the world, where
a gnat often plays a greater part than an elephant, and a mole-hill, as we know in King William's case, can upset an empire.  When
Tusher in his courtly way (at which Harry Esmond always chafed and
spoke scornfully) vowed and protested that my lady's face was none
the worse--the lad broke out and said, "It IS worse and my mistress
is not near so handsome as she was;" on which poor Lady Castlewood
gave a rueful smile, and a look into a little Venice glass she had,
which showed her, I suppose, that what the stupid boy said was only
too true, for she turned away from the glass, and her eyes filled
with tears.

The sight of these in Esmond's heart always created a sort of rage
of pity, and seeing them on the face of the lady whom he loved
best, the young blunderer sank down on his knees, and besought her
to pardon him, saying that he was a fool and an idiot, that he was
a brute to make such a speech, he who had caused her malady; and
Doctor Tusher told him that a bear he was indeed, and a bear he
would remain, at which speech poor young Esmond was so dumbstricken
that he did not even growl.

"He is MY bear, and I will not have him baited, Doctor," my lady
said, patting her hand kindly on the boy's head, as he was still
kneeling at her feet.  "How your hair has come off!  And mine,
too," she added with another sigh.

"It is not for myself that I cared," my lady said to Harry, when
the parson had taken his leave; "but AM I very much changed?  Alas!
I fear 'tis too true."

"Madam, you have the dearest, and kindest, and sweetest face in the
world, I think," the lad said; and indeed he thought and thinks so.

"Will my lord think so when he comes back?" the lady asked with a
sigh, and another look at her Venice glass.  "Suppose he should
think as you do, sir, that I am hideous--yes, you said hideous--he
will cease to care for me.  'Tis all men care for in women, our
little beauty.  Why did he select me from among my sisters?  'Twas
only for that.  We reign but for a day or two: and be sure that
Vashti knew Esther was coming."

"Madam," said Mr. Esmond, "Ahasuerus was the Grand Turk, and to
change was the manner of his country, and according to his law."

"You are all Grand Turks for that matter," said my lady, "or would
be if you could.  Come, Frank, come, my child.  You are well,
praised be Heaven.  YOUR locks are not thinned by this dreadful
small-pox: nor your poor face scarred--is it, my angel?"

Frank began to shout and whimper at the idea of such a misfortune.
From the very earliest time the young lord had been taught to
admire his beauty by his mother: and esteemed it as highly as any
reigning toast valued hers.

One day, as he himself was recovering from his fever and illness, a
pang of something like shame shot across young Esmond's breast, as
he remembered that he had never once during his illness given a
thought to the poor girl at the smithy, whose red cheeks but a
month ago he had been so eager to see.  Poor Nancy! her cheeks had
shared the fate of roses, and were withered now.  She had taken the
illness on the same day with Esmond--she and her brother were both
dead of the small-pox, and buried under the Castlewood yew-trees.
There was no bright face looking now from the garden, or to cheer
the old smith at his lonely fireside.  Esmond would have liked to
have kissed her in her shroud (like the lass in Mr. Prior's pretty
poem); but she rested many a foot below the ground, when Esmond
after his malady first trod on it.

Doctor Tusher brought the news of this calamity, about which Harry
Esmond longed to ask, but did not like.  He said almost the whole
village had been stricken with the pestilence; seventeen persons
were dead of it, among them mentioning the names of poor Nancy and
her little brother.  He did not fail to say how thankful we
survivors ought to be.  It being this man's business to flatter and
make sermons, it must be owned he was most industrious in it, and
was doing the one or the other all day.

And so Nancy was gone; and Harry Esmond blushed that he had not a
single tear for her, and fell to composing an elegy in Latin verses
over the rustic little beauty.  He bade the dryads mourn and the
river-nymphs deplore her.  As her father followed the calling of
Vulcan, he said that surely she was like a daughter of Venus,
though Sievewright's wife was an ugly shrew, as he remembered to
have heard afterwards.  He made a long face, but, in truth, felt
scarcely more sorrowful than a mute at a funeral.  These first
passions of men and women are mostly abortive; and are dead almost
before they are born.  Esmond could repeat, to his last day, some
of the doggerel lines in which his muse bewailed his pretty lass;
not without shame to remember how bad the verses were, and how good
he thought them; how false the grief, and yet how he was rather
proud of it.  'Tis an error, surely, to talk of the simplicity of
youth.  I think no persons are more hypocritical, and have a more
affected behavior to one another, than the young.  They deceive
themselves and each other with artifices that do not impose upon
men of the world; and so we get to understand truth better, and
grow simpler as we grow older.

When my lady heard of the fate which had befallen poor Nancy, she
said nothing so long as Tusher was by, but when he was gone, she
took Harry Esmond's hand and said--

"Harry, I beg your pardon for those cruel words I used on the night
you were taken ill.  I am shocked at the fate of the poor creature,
and am sure that nothing had happened of that with which, in my
anger, I charged you.  And the very first day we go out, you must
take me to the blacksmith, and we must see if there is anything I
can do to console the poor old man.  Poor man! to lose both his
children!  What should I do without mine?"

And this was, indeed, the very first walk which my lady took,
leaning on Esmond's arm, after her illness.  But her visit brought
no consolation to the old father; and he showed no softness, or
desire to speak.  "The Lord gave and took away," he said; and he
knew what His servant's duty was.  He wanted for nothing--less now
than ever before, as there were fewer mouths to feed.  He wished
her ladyship and Master Esmond good morning--he had grown tall in
his illness, and was but very little marked; and with this, and a
surly bow, he went in from the smithy to the house, leaving my
lady, somewhat silenced and shamefaced, at the door.  He had a
handsome stone put up for his two children, which may be seen in
Castlewood churchyard to this very day; and before a year was out
his own name was upon the stone.  In the presence of Death, that
sovereign ruler, a woman's coquetry is seared; and her jealousy
will hardly pass the boundaries of that grim kingdom.  'Tis
entirely of the earth, that passion, and expires in the cold blue
air, beyond our sphere.

At length, when the danger was quite over, it was announced that my
lord and his daughter would return.  Esmond well remembered the
day.  The lady his mistress was in a flurry of fear: before my lord
came, she went into her room, and returned from it with reddened
cheeks.  Her fate was about to be decided.  Her beauty was gone--was her reign, too, over?  A minute would say.  My lord came riding
over the bridge--he could be seen from the great window, clad in
scarlet, and mounted on his gray hackney--his little daughter
ambled by him in a bright riding-dress of blue, on a shining
chestnut horse.  My lady leaned against the great mantel-piece,
looking on, with one hand on her heart--she seemed only the more
pale for those red marks on either cheek.  She put her handkerchief
to her eyes, and withdrew it, laughing hysterically--the cloth was
quite red with the rouge when she took it away.  She ran to her
room again, and came back with pale cheeks and red eyes--her son in
her hand--just as my lord entered, accompanied by young Esmond, who
had gone out to meet his protector, and to hold his stirrup as he
descended from horseback.

"What, Harry, boy!" my lord said, good-naturedly, "you look as
gaunt as a greyhound.  The small-pox hasn't improved your beauty,
and your side of the house hadn't never too much of it--ho, ho!"

And he laughed, and sprang to the ground with no small agility,
looking handsome and red, within a jolly face and brown hair, like
a Beef-eater; Esmond kneeling again, as soon as his patron had
descended, performed his homage, and then went to greet the little
Beatrix, and help her from her horse.

"Fie! how yellow you look," she said; "and there are one, two, red
holes in your face;" which, indeed, was very true; Harry Esmond's
harsh countenance bearing, as long as it continued to be a human
face, the marks of the disease.

My lord laughed again, in high good-humor.

"D--- it!" said he, with one of his usual oaths, "the little slut
sees everything.  She saw the Dowager's paint t'other day, and
asked her why she wore that red stuff--didn't you, Trix? and the
Tower; and St. James's; and the play; and the Prince George, and
the Princess Anne--didn't you, Trix?"

"They are both very fat, and smelt of brandy," the child said.

Papa roared with laughing.

"Brandy!" he said.  "And how do you know, Miss Pert?"

"Because your lordship smells of it after supper, when I embrace
you before you go to bed," said the young lady, who, indeed, was as
pert as her father said, and looked as beautiful a little gipsy as
eyes ever gazed on.

"And now for my lady," said my lord, going up the stairs, and
passing under the tapestry curtain that hung before the drawing-room door.  Esmond remembered that noble figure, handsomely arrayed
in scarlet.  Within the last few months he himself had grown from a
boy to be a man, and with his figure his thoughts had shot up, and
grown manly.

My lady's countenance, of which Harry Esmond was accustomed to
watch the changes, and with a solicitous affection to note and
interpret the signs of gladness or care, wore a sad and depressed
look for many weeks after her lord's return: during which it seemed
as if, by caresses and entreaties, she strove to win him back from
some ill humor he had, and which he did not choose to throw off.
In her eagerness to please him she practised a hundred of those
arts which had formerly charmed him, but which seemed now to have
lost their potency.  Her songs did not amuse him; and she hushed
them and the children when in his presence.  My lord sat silent at
his dinner, drinking greatly, his lady opposite to him, looking
furtively at his face, though also speechless.  Her silence annoyed
him as much as her speech; and he would peevishly, and with an
oath, ask her why she held her tongue and looked so glum; or he
would roughly check her when speaking, and bid her not talk
nonsense.  It seemed as if, since his return, nothing she could do
or say could please him.

When a master and mistress are at strife in a house, the
subordinates in the family take the one side or the other.  Harry
Esmond stood in so great fear of my lord, that he would run a
league barefoot to do a message for him; but his attachment for
Lady Esmond was such a passion of grateful regard, that to spare
her a grief, or to do her a service, he would have given his life
daily: and it was by the very depth and intensity of this regard
that he began to divine how unhappy his adored lady's life was, and
that a secret care (for she never spoke of her anxieties) was
weighing upon her.

Can any one, who has passed through the world and watched the
nature of men and women there, doubt what had befallen her?  I have
seen, to be sure, some people carry down with them into old age the
actual bloom of their youthful love, and I know that Mr. Thomas
Parr lived to be a hundred and sixty years old.  But, for all that,
threescore and ten is the age of men, and few get beyond it; and
'tis certain that a man who marries for mere beaux yeux, as my lord
did, considers this part of the contract at an end when the woman
ceases to fulfil hers, and his love does not survive her beauty.  I
know 'tis often otherwise, I say; and can think (as most men in
their own experience may) of many a house, where, lighted in early
years, the sainted lamp of love hath never been extinguished; but
so there is Mr. Parr, and so there is the great giant at the fair
that is eight feet high--exceptions to men--and that poor lamp
whereof I speak, that lights at first the nuptial chamber, is
extinguished by a hundred winds and draughts down the chimney, or
sputters out for want of feeding.  And then--and then it is Chloe,
in the dark, stark awake, and Strephon snoring unheeding; or vice
versa, 'tis poor Strephon that has married a heartless jilt, and
awoke out of that absurd vision of conjugal felicity, which was to
last for ever, and is over like any other dream.  One and other has
made his bed, and so must lie in it, until that final day when life
ends, and they sleep separate.

About this time young Esmond, who had a knack of stringing verses,
turned some of Ovid's Epistles into rhymes, and brought them to his
lady for her delectation.  Those which treated of forsaken women
touched her immensely, Harry remarked; and when Oenone called after
Paris, and Medea bade Jason come back again, the lady of Castlewood
sighed, and said she thought that part of the verses was the most
pleasing.  Indeed, she would have chopped up the Dean, her old
father, in order to bring her husband back again.  But her
beautiful Jason was gone, as beautiful Jasons will go, and the poor
enchantress had never a spell to keep him.

My lord was only sulky as long as his wife's anxious face or
behavior seemed to upbraid him.  When she had got to master these,
and to show an outwardly cheerful countenance and behavior, her
husband's good-humor returned partially, and he swore and stormed
no longer at dinner, but laughed sometimes, and yawned
unrestrainedly; absenting himself often from home, inviting more
company thither, passing the greater part of his days in the
hunting-field, or over the bottle as before; but with this
difference, that the poor wife could no longer see now, as she had
done formerly, the light of love kindled in his eyes.  He was with
her, but that flame was out: and that once welcome beacon no more
shone there.

What were this lady's feelings when forced to admit the truth
whereof her foreboding glass had given her only too true warning,
that within her beauty her reign had ended, and the days of her
love were over?  What does a seaman do in a storm if mast and
rudder are carried away?  He ships a jurymast, and steers as he
best can with an oar.  What happens if your roof falls in a
tempest?  After the first stun of the calamity the sufferer starts
up, gropes around to see that the children are safe, and puts them
under a shed out of the rain.  If the palace burns down, you take
shelter in the barn.  What man's life is not overtaken by one or
more of these tornadoes that send us out of the course, and fling
us on rocks to shelter as best we may?

When Lady Castlewood found that her great ship had gone down, she
began as best she might after she had rallied from the effects of
the loss, to put out small ventures of happiness; and hope for
little gains and returns, as a merchant on 'Change, indocilis
pauperiem pati, having lost his thousands, embarks a few guineas
upon the next ship.  She laid out her all upon her children,
indulging them beyond all measure, as was inevitable with one of
her kindness of disposition; giving all her thoughts to their
welfare--learning, that she might teach them; and improving her own
many natural gifts and feminine accomplishments, that she might
impart them to her young ones.  To be doing good for some one else,
is the life of most good women.  They are exuberant of kindness, as
it were, and must impart it to some one.  She made herself a good
scholar of French, Italian, and Latin, having been grounded in
these by her father in her youth; hiding these gifts from her
husband out of fear, perhaps, that they should offend him, for my
lord was no bookman--pish'd and psha'd at the notion of learned
ladies, and would have been angry that his wife could construe out
of a Latin book of which he could scarce understand two words.
Young Esmond was usher, or house tutor, under her or over her, as
it might happen.  During my lord's many absences, these school-days
would go on uninterruptedly: the mother and daughter learning with
surprising quickness; the latter by fits and starts only, and as
suited her wayward humor.  As for the little lord, it must be owned
that he took after his father in the matter of learning--liked
marbles and play, and the great horse and the little one which his
father brought him, and on which he took him out a-hunting, a great
deal better than Corderius and Lily; marshalled the village boys,
and had a little court of them, already flogging them, and
domineering over them with a fine imperious spirit, that made his
father laugh when he beheld it, and his mother fondly warn him.
The cook had a son, the woodman had two, the big lad at the
porter's lodge took his cuffs and his orders.  Doctor Tusher said
he was a young nobleman of gallant spirit; and Harry Esmond, who
was his tutor, and eight years his little lordship's senior, had
hard work sometimes to keep his own temper, and hold his authority
over his rebellious little chief and kinsman.

In a couple of years after that calamity had befallen which had
robbed Lady Castlewood of a little--a very little--of her beauty,
and her careless husband's heart (if the truth must be told, my
lady had found not only that her reign was over, but that her
successor was appointed, a Princess of a noble house in Drury Lane
somewhere, who was installed and visited by my lord at the town
eight miles off--pudet haec opprobria dicere nobis)--a great change
had taken place in her mind, which, by struggles only known to
herself, at least never mentioned to any one, and unsuspected by
the person who caused the pain she endured--had been schooled into
such a condition as she could not very likely have imagined
possible a score of months since, before her misfortunes had begun.

She had oldened in that time as people do who suffer silently great
mental pain; and learned much that she had never suspected before.
She was taught by that bitter teacher Misfortune.  A child the
mother of other children, but two years back her lord was a god to
her; his words her law; his smile her sunshine; his lazy
commonplaces listened to eagerly, as if they were words of wisdom--all his wishes and freaks obeyed with a servile devotion.  She had
been my lord's chief slave and blind worshipper.  Some women bear
farther than this, and submit not only to neglect but to
unfaithfulness too--but here this lady's allegiance had failed her.
Her spirit rebelled, and disowned any more obedience.  First she
had to bear in secret the passion of losing the adored object; then
to get further initiation, and to find this worshipped being was
but a clumsy idol: then to admit the silent truth, that it was she
was superior, and not the monarch her master: that she had thoughts
which his brains could never master, and was the better of the two;
quite separate from my lord although tied to him, and bound, as
almost all people (save a very happy few), to work all her life
alone.  My lord sat in his chair, laughing his laugh, cracking his
joke, his face flushing with wine--my lady in her place over
against him--he never suspecting that his superior was there, in
the calm resigned lady, cold of manner, with downcast eyes.  When
he was merry in his cups, he would make jokes about her coldness,
and, "D--- it, now my lady is gone, we will have t'other bottle,"
he would say.  He was frank enough in telling his thoughts, such as
they were.  There was little mystery about my lord's words or
actions.  His Fair Rosamond did not live in a Labyrinth, like the
lady of Mr. Addison's opera, but paraded with painted cheeks and a
tipsy retinue in the country town.  Had she a mind to be revenged,
Lady Castlewood could have found the way to her rival's house
easily enough; and, if she had come with bowl and dagger, would
have been routed off the ground by the enemy with a volley of
Billingsgate, which the fair person always kept by her.

Meanwhile, it has been said, that for Harry Esmond his benefactress's
sweet face had lost none of its charms.  It had always the kindest
of looks and smiles for him--smiles, not so gay and artless perhaps
as those which Lady Castlewood had formerly worn, when, a child
herself, playing with her children, her husband's pleasure and
authority were all she thought of; but out of her griefs and cares,
as will happen I think when these trials fall upon a kindly heart,
and are not too unbearable, grew up a number of thoughts and
excellences which had never come into existence, had not her sorrow
and misfortunes engendered them. Sure, occasion is the father of
most that is good in us.  As you have seen the awkward fingers and
clumsy tools of a prisoner cut and fashion the most delicate little
pieces of carved work; or achieve the most prodigious underground
labors, and cut through walls of masonry, and saw iron bars and
fetters; 'tis misfortune that awakens ingenuity, or fortitude, or
endurance, in hearts where these qualities had never come to life
but for the circumstance which gave them a being.

"'Twas after Jason left her, no doubt," Lady Castlewood once said
with one of her smiles to young Esmond (who was reading to her a
version of certain lines out of Euripides), "that Medea became a
learned woman and a great enchantress."

"And she could conjure the stars out of heaven," the young tutor
added, "but she could not bring Jason back again."

"What do you mean?" asked my lady, very angry.

"Indeed I mean nothing," said the other, "save what I've read in
books.  What should I know about such matters?  I have seen no
woman save you and little Beatrix, and the parson's wife and my
late mistress, and your ladyship's woman here."

"The men who wrote your books," says my lady, "your Horaces, and
Ovids, and Virgils, as far as I know of them, all thought ill of
us, as all the heroes they wrote about used us basely.  We were
bred to be slaves always; and even of our own times, as you are
still the only lawgivers, I think our sermons seem to say that the
best woman is she who bears her master's chains most gracefully.
'Tis a pity there are no nunneries permitted by our church: Beatrix
and I would fly to one, and end our days in peace there away from
you."

"And is there no slavery in a convent?" says Esmond.

"At least if women are slaves there, no one sees them," answered
the lady.  "They don't work in street gangs with the public to jeer
them: and if they suffer, suffer in private.  Here comes my lord
home from hunting.  Take away the books.  My lord does not love to
see them.  Lessons are over for to-day, Mr. Tutor."  And with a
curtsy and a smile she would end this sort of colloquy.

Indeed "Mr. Tutor," as my lady called Esmond, had now business
enough on his hands in Castlewood house.  He had three pupils, his
lady and her two children, at whose lessons she would always be
present; besides writing my lord's letters, and arranging his
accompts for him--when these could be got from Esmond's indolent
patron.

Of the pupils the two young people were but lazy scholars, and as
my lady would admit no discipline such as was then in use, my
lord's son only learned what he liked, which was but little, and
never to his life's end could be got to construe more than six
lines of Virgil.  Mistress Beatrix chattered French prettily, from
a very early age; and sang sweetly, but this was from her mother's
teaching--not Harry Esmond's, who could scarce distinguish between
"Green Sleeves" and "Lillibullero;" although he had no greater
delight in life than to hear the ladies sing.  He sees them now
(will he ever forget them?) as they used to sit together of the
summer evenings--the two golden heads over the page--the child's
little hand, and the mother's beating the time, with their voices
rising and falling in unison.

But if the children were careless, 'twas a wonder how eagerly the
mother learnt from her young tutor--and taught him too.  The
happiest instinctive faculty was this lady's--a faculty for
discerning latent beauties and hidden graces of books, especially
books of poetry, as in a walk she would spy out field-flowers and
make posies of them, such as no other hand could.  She was a
critic, not by reason but by feeling; the sweetest commentator of
those books they read together; and the happiest hours of young
Esmond's life, perhaps, 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 the Lady
Castlewood's own decree that they were brought to a conclusion.  It
happened about Christmas-time, Harry Esmond being now past sixteen
years of age, that his old comrade, adversary, and friend, Tom
Tusher, returned from his school in London, a fair, well-grown, and
sturdy lad, who was about to enter college, with an exhibition from
his school, and a prospect of after promotion in the church.  Tom
Tusher's talk was of nothing but Cambridge now; and the boys, who
were good friends, examined each other eagerly about their progress
in books.  Tom had learned some Greek and Hebrew, besides Latin, in
which he was pretty well skilled, and also had given himself to
mathematical studies under his father's guidance, who was a
proficient in those sciences, of which Esmond knew nothing; nor
could he write Latin so well as Tom, though he could talk it
better, having been taught by his dear friend the Jesuit Father,
for whose memory the lad ever retained the warmest affection,
reading his books, keeping his swords clean in the little crypt
where the Father had shown them to Esmond on the night of his
visit; and often of a night sitting in the chaplain's room, which
he inhabited, over his books, his verses, and rubbish, with which
the lad occupied himself, he would look up at the window, thinking
he wished it might open and let in the good Father.  He had come
and passed away like a dream; but for the swords and books Harry
might almost think the Father was an imagination of his mind--and
for two letters which had come to him, one from abroad, full of
advice and affection, another soon after he had been confirmed by
the Bishop of Hexton, in which Father Holt deplored his falling
away.  But Harry Esmond felt so confident now of his being in the
right, and of his own powers as a casuist, that he thought he was
able to face the Father himself in argument, and possibly convert
him.

To work upon the faith of her young pupil, Esmond's kind mistress
sent to the library of her father the Dean, who had been
distinguished in the disputes of the late king's reign; and, an old
soldier now, had hung up his weapons of controversy.  These he took
down from his shelves willingly for young Esmond, whom he benefited
by his own personal advice and instruction.  It did not require
much persuasion to induce the boy to worship with his beloved
mistress.  And the good old nonjuring Dean flattered himself with a
conversion which, in truth, was owing to a much gentler and fairer
persuader.

Under her ladyship's kind eyes (my lord's being sealed in sleep
pretty generally), Esmond read many volumes of the works of the
famous British Divines of the last age, and was familiar with Wake
and Sherlock, with Stillingfleet and Patrick.  His mistress never
tired to listen or to read, to pursue the texts with fond comments,
to urge those points which her fancy dwelt on most, or her reason
deemed most important.  Since the death of her father the Dean,
this lady hath admitted a certain latitude of theological reading
which her orthodox father would never have allowed; his favorite
writers appealing more to reason and antiquity than to the passions
or imaginations of their readers, so that the works of Bishop
Taylor, nay, those of Mr. Baxter and Mr. Law, have in reality found
more favor with my Lady Castlewood than the severer volumes of our
great English schoolmen.

In later life, at the University, Esmond reopened the controversy,
and pursued it in a very different manner, when his patrons had
determined for him that he was to embrace the ecclesiastical life.
But though his mistress's heart was in this calling, his own never
was much.  After that first fervor of simple devotion, which his
beloved Jesuit priest had inspired in him, speculative theology
took but little hold upon the young man's mind.  When his early
credulity was disturbed, and his saints and virgins taken out of
his worship, to rank little higher than the divinities of Olympus,
his belief became acquiescence rather than ardor; and he made his
mind up to assume the cassock and bands, as another man does to
wear a breastplate and jack-boots, or to mount a merchant's desk,
for a livelihood, and from obedience and necessity, rather than
from choice.  There were scores of such men in Mr. Esmond's time at
the universities, who were going to the church with no better
calling than his.

When Thomas Tusher was gone, a feeling of no small depression and
disquiet fell upon young Esmond, of which, though he did not
complain, his kind mistress must have divined the cause: for soon
after she showed not only that she understood the reason of Harry's
melancholy, but could provide a remedy for it.  Her habit was thus
to watch, unobservedly, those to whom duty or affection bound her,
and to prevent their designs, or to fulfil them, when she had the
power.  It was this lady's disposition to think kindnesses, and
devise silent bounties and to scheme benevolence, for those about
her.  We take such goodness, for the most part, as if it was our
due; the Marys who bring ointment for our feet get but little
thanks.  Some of us never feel this devotion at all, or are moved
by it to gratitude or acknowledgment; others only recall it years
after, when the days are past in which those sweet kindnesses were
spent on us, and we offer back our return for the debt by a poor
tardy payment of tears.  Then forgotten tones of love recur to us,
and kind glances shine out of the past--oh so bright and clear!--oh
so longed after!--because they are out of reach; as holiday music
from withinside a prison wall--or sunshine seen through the bars;
more prized because unattainable--more bright because of the
contrast of present darkness and solitude, whence there is no
escape.

All the notice, then, which Lady Castlewood seemed to take of Harry
Esmond's melancholy, upon Tom Tusher's departure, was, by a gayety
unusual to her, to attempt to dispel his gloom.  She made his three
scholars (herself being the chief one) more cheerful than ever they
had been before, and more docile, too, all of them learning and
reading much more than they had been accustomed to do.  "For who
knows," said the lady, "what may happen, and whether we may be able
to keep such a learned tutor long?"

Frank Esmond said he for his part did not want to learn any more,
and cousin Harry might shut up his book whenever he liked, if he
would come out a-fishing; and little Beatrix declared she would
send for Tom Tusher, and HE would be glad enough to come to
Castlewood, if Harry chose to go away.

At last comes a messenger from Winchester one day, bearer of a
letter, with a great black seal, from the Dean there, to say that
his sister was dead, and had left her fortune of 2,000L. among her
six nieces, the Dean's daughters; and many a time since has Harry
Esmond recalled the flushed face and eager look wherewith, after
this intelligence, his kind lady regarded him.  She did not pretend
to any grief about the deceased relative, from whom she and her
family had been many years parted.

When my lord heard of the news, he also did not make any very long
face.  "The money will come very handy to furnish the music-room
and the cellar, which is getting low, and buy your ladyship a coach
and a couple of horses that will do indifferent to ride or for the
coach.  And, Beatrix, you shall have a spinnet: and, Frank, you
shall have a little horse from Hexton Fair; and, Harry, you shall
have five pounds to buy some books," said my lord, who was generous
with his own, and indeed with other folk's 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, my
lord," says my lady, turning very red.

"Another use, my dear; and what do you know about money?" cries my
lord.  "And what the devil is there that I don't give you which you
want!"

"I intend to give this money--can't you fancy how, my lord?"

My lord swore one of his large oaths that he did not know in the
least what she meant.

"I intend it for Harry Esmond to go to college.  Cousin Harry,"
says my lady, "you mustn't stay longer in this dull place, but make
a name to yourself, and for us too, Harry."

"D--n it, Harry's well enough here," says my lord, for a moment
looking rather sulky.

"Is Harry going away?  You don't mean to say you will go away?" cry
out Frank and Beatrix at one breath.

"But he will come back: and this will always be his home," cries my
lady, with blue eyes looking a celestial kindness: "and his
scholars will always love him; won't they?"

"By G-d, Rachel, you're a good woman!" says my lord, seizing my
lady's hand, at which she blushed very much, and shrank back,
putting her children before her.  "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, and when Tusher dies
you shall have the living here, if you are not better provided by
that time.  We'll furnish the dining-room and buy the horses
another year.  I'll give thee a nag out of the stable: take any one
except my hack and the bay gelding and the coach-horses; and God
speed thee, my boy!"

"Have the sorrel, Harry; 'tis a good one.  Father says 'tis the
best in the stable," says little Frank, clapping his hands, and
jumping up.  "Let's come and see him in the stable."  And the
other, in his delight and eagerness, was for leaving the room that
instant to arrange about his journey.

The Lady Castlewood looked after him with sad penetrating glances.
"He wishes to be gone already, my lord," said she to her husband.

The young man hung back abashed.  "Indeed, I would stay for ever,
if your ladyship bade me," he said.

"And thou wouldst be a fool for thy pains, kinsman," said my lord.
"Tut, tut, man.  Go and see the world.  Sow thy wild oats; and take
the best luck that Fate sends thee.  I wish I were a boy again,
that I might go to college, and taste the Trumpington ale."

"Ours, indeed, is but a dull home," cries my lady, with a little of
sadness and, maybe, of satire, in her voice: "an old glum house,
half ruined, and the rest only half furnished; a woman and two
children are but poor company for men that are accustomed to
better.  We are only fit to be your worship's handmaids, and your
pleasures must of necessity lie elsewhere than at home."

"Curse me, Rachel, if I know now whether thou art in earnest or
not," said my lord.

"In earnest, my lord!" says she, still clinging by one of her
children.  "Is there much subject here for joke?"  And she made him
a grand curtsy, and, giving a stately look to Harry Esmond, which
seemed to say, "Remember; you understand me, though he does not,"
she left the room with her children.

"Since she found out that confounded Hexton business," my lord
said--"and be hanged to them that told her!--she has not been the
same woman.  She, who used to be as humble as a milkmaid, is as
proud as a princess," says my lord.  "Take my counsel, Harry
Esmond, and keep clear of women.  Since I have had anything to do
with the jades, they have given me nothing but disgust.  I had a
wife at Tangier, with whom, as she couldn't speak a word of my
language, you'd have thought I might lead a quiet life.  But she
tried to poison me, because she was jealous of a Jew girl.  There
was your aunt, for aunt she is--aunt Jezebel, a pretty life your
father led with HER! and here's my lady.  When I saw her on a
pillion, riding behind the Dean her father, she looked and was such
a baby, that a sixpenny doll might have pleased her.  And now you
see what she is--hands off, highty-tighty, high and mighty, an
empress couldn't be grander.  Pass us the tankard, Harry my boy.  A
mug of beer and a toast at morn, says my host.  A toast and a mug
of beer at noon, says my dear.  D--n it, Polly loves a mug of ale,
too, and laced with brandy, by Jove!"  Indeed, I suppose they drank
it together; for my lord was often thick in his speech at mid-day
dinner; and at night at supper, speechless altogether.

Harry Esmond's departure resolved upon, it seemed as if the Lady
Castlewood, too, rejoiced to lose him; for more than once, when the
lad, ashamed perhaps at his own secret eagerness to go away (at any
rate stricken with sadness at the idea of leaving those from whom
he had received so many proofs of love and kindness inestimable),
tried to express to his mistress his sense of gratitude to her, and
his sorrow at quitting those who had so sheltered and tended a
nameless and houseless orphan, Lady Castlewood cut short his
protests of love and his lamentations, and would hear of no grief,
but only look forward to Harry's fame and prospects in life.  "Our
little legacy will keep you for four years like a gentleman.
Heaven's Providence, your own genius, industry, honor, must do the
rest for you.  Castlewood will always be a home for you; and these
children, whom you have taught and loved, will not forget to love
you.  And, Harry," said she (and this was the only time when she
spoke with a tear in her eye, or a tremor in her voice), "it may
happen in the course of nature that I shall be called away from
them: and their father--and--and they will need true friends and
protectors.  Promise me that you will be true to them--as--as I
think I have been to you--and a mother's fond prayer and blessing
go with you."

"So help me God, madam, I will," said Harry Esmond, falling on his
knees, and kissing the hand of his dearest mistress.  "If you will
have me stay now, I will.  What matters whether or no I make my way
in life, or whether a poor bastard dies as unknown as he is now?
'Tis enough that I have your love and kindness surely; and to make
you happy is duty enough for me."

"Happy!" says she; "but indeed I ought to be, with my children,
and--"

"Not happy!" cried Esmond (for he knew what her life was, though he
and his mistress never spoke a word concerning it).  "If not
happiness, it may be ease.  Let me stay and work for you--let me
stay and be your servant."

"Indeed, you are best away," said my lady, laughing, as she put her
hand on the boy's head for a moment.  "You shall stay in no such
dull place.  You shall go to college and distinguish yourself as
becomes your name.  That is how you shall please me best; and--and
if my children want you, or I want you, you shall come to us; and I
know we may count on you."

"May heaven forsake me if you may not!" Harry said, getting up from
his knee.

"And my knight longs for a dragon this instant that he may fight,"
said my lady, laughing; which speech made Harry Esmond start, and
turn red; for indeed the very thought was in his mind, that he
would like that some chance should immediately happen whereby he
might show his devotion.  And it pleased him to think that his lady
had called him "her knight," and often and often he recalled this
to his mind, and prayed that he might be her true knight, too.

My lady's bed-chamber window looked out over the country, and you
could see from it the purple hills beyond Castlewood village, the
green common betwixt that and the Hall, and the old bridge which
crossed over the river.  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.  It lay before him
with its gray familiar towers, a pinnacle or two shining in the
sun, the buttresses and terrace walls casting great blue shades on
the grass.  And Harry remembered, all his life after, how he saw
his mistress at the window looking out on him in a white robe, 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.
Yes, he WOULD be his lady's true knight, he vowed in his heart; he
waved her an adieu with his hat.  The village people had Good-by to
say to him too.  All knew that Master Harry was going to college,
and most of them had a kind word and a look of farewell.  I do not
stop to say what adventures he began to imagine, or what career to
devise for himself before he had ridden three miles from home.  He
had not read Monsieur Galland's ingenious Arabian tales as yet; but
be sure that there are other folks who build castles in the air,
and have fine hopes, and kick them down too, besides honest Alnaschar.




CHAPTER X.

I GO TO CAMBRIDGE, AND DO BUT LITTLE GOOD THERE.


Mr lord, who said he should like to revisit the old haunts of his
youth, kindly accompanied Harry Esmond in his first journey to
Cambridge.  Their road lay through London, where my Lord Viscount
would also have Harry stay a few days to show him the pleasures of
the town before he entered upon his university studies, and whilst
here Harry's patron conducted the young man to my Lady Dowager's
house at Chelsey near London: the kind lady at Castlewood having
specially ordered that the young gentleman and the old should pay a
respectful visit in that quarter.

Her ladyship the Viscountess Dowager occupied a handsome new house
in Chelsey, with a garden behind it, and facing the river, always a
bright and animated sight with its swarms of sailors, barges, and
wherries.  Harry laughed at recognizing in the parlor the well-remembered old piece of Sir Peter Lely, wherein his father's widow
was represented as a virgin huntress, armed with a gilt bow-and-arrow, and encumbered only with that small quantity of drapery
which it would seem the virgins in King Charles's day were
accustomed to wear.

My Lady Dowager had left off this peculiar habit of huntress when
she married.  But though she was now considerably past sixty years
of age, I believe she thought that airy nymph of the picture could
still be easily recognized in the venerable personage who gave an
audience to Harry and his patron.

She received the young man with even more favor than she showed to
the elder, for she chose to carry on the conversation in French, in
which my Lord Castlewood was no great proficient, and expressed her
satisfaction at finding that Mr. Esmond could speak fluently in
that language.  "'Twas the only one fit for polite conversation,"
she condescended to say, "and suitable to persons of high breeding."

My lord laughed afterwards, as the gentlemen went away, at his
kinswoman's behavior.  He said he remembered the time when she
could speak English fast enough, and joked in his jolly way at the
loss he had had of such a lovely wife as that.

My Lady Viscountess deigned to ask his lordship news of his wife
and children; she had heard that Lady Castlewood had had the small-pox; she hoped she was not so VERY much disfigured as people said.

At this remark about his wife's malady, my Lord Viscount winced and
turned red; but the Dowager, in speaking of the disfigurement of
the young lady, turned to her looking-glass and examined her old
wrinkled countenance in it with such a grin of satisfaction, that
it was all her guests could do to refrain from laughing in her
ancient face.

She asked Harry what his profession was to be; and my lord, saying
that the lad was to take orders, and have the living of Castlewood
when old Dr. Tusher vacated it, she did not seem to show any
particular anger at the notion of Harry's becoming a Church of
England clergyman, nay, was rather glad than otherwise, that the
youth should be so provided for.  She bade Mr. Esmond not to forget
to pay her a visit whenever he passed through London, and carried
her graciousness so far as to send a purse with twenty guineas for
him, to the tavern at which my lord put up (the "Greyhound," in
Charing Cross); and, along with this welcome gift for her kinsman,
she sent a little doll for a present to my lord's little daughter
Beatrix, who was growing beyond the age of dolls by this time, and
was as tall almost as her venerable relative.

After seeing the town, and going to the plays, my Lord Castlewood
and Esmond rode together to Cambridge, spending two pleasant days
upon the journey.  Those rapid new coaches were not established, as
yet, that performed the whole journey between London and the
University in a single day; however, the road was pleasant and
short enough to Harry Esmond, and he always gratefully remembered
that happy holiday which his kind patron gave him.

Mr. Esmond was entered a pensioner of Trinity College in Cambridge,
to which famous college my lord had also in his youth belonged.
Dr. Montague was master at this time, and received my Lord Viscount
with great politeness: so did Mr. Bridge, who was appointed to be
Harry's tutor.  Tom Tusher, who was of Emanuel College, and was by
this time a junior soph, came to wait upon my lord, and to take
Harry under his protection; and comfortable rooms being provided
for him in the great court close by the gate, and near to the
famous Mr. Newton's lodgings, Harry's patron took leave of him with
many kind words and blessings, and an admonition to him to behave
better at the University than my lord himself had ever done.

'Tis needless in these memoirs to go at any length into the
particulars of Harry Esmond's college career.  It was like that of
a hundred young gentlemen of that day.  But he had the ill fortune
to be older by a couple of years than most of his fellow-students;
and by his previous solitary mode of bringing up, the circumstances
of his life, and the peculiar thoughtfulness and melancholy that
had naturally engendered, he was, in a great measure, cut off from
the society of comrades who were much younger and higher-spirited
than he.  His tutor, who had bowed down to the ground, as he walked
my lord over the college grass-plats, changed his behavior as soon
as the nobleman's back was turned, and was--at least Harry thought
so--harsh and overbearing.  When the lads used to assemble in their
greges in hall, Harry found himself alone in the midst of that
little flock of boys; they raised a great laugh at him when he was
set on to read Latin, which he did with the foreign pronunciation
taught to him by his old master, the Jesuit, than which he knew no
other.  Mr. Bridge, the tutor, made him the object of clumsy jokes,
in which he was fond of indulging.  The young man's spirit was
chafed, and his vanity mortified; and he found himself, for some
time, as lonely in this place as ever he had been at Castlewood,
whither he longed to return.  His birth was a source of shame to
him, and he fancied a hundred slights and sneers from young and
old, who, no doubt, had treated him better had he met them himself
more frankly.  And as he looks back, in calmer days, upon this
period of his life, which he thought so unhappy, he can see that
his own pride and vanity caused no small part of the mortifications
which he attributed to other's ill will.  The world deals good-naturedly with good-natured people, and I never knew a sulky
misanthropist who quarrelled with it, but it was he, and not it,
that was in the wrong.  Tom Tusher gave Harry plenty of good advice
on this subject, for Tom had both good sense and good humor; but
Mr. Harry chose to treat his senior with a great deal of
superfluous disdain and absurd scorn, and would by no means part
from his darling injuries, in which, very likely, no man believed
but himself.  As for honest Doctor Bridge, the tutor found, after a
few trials of wit with the pupil, that the young man was an ugly
subject for wit, and that the laugh was often turned against him.
This did not make tutor and pupil any better friends; but had, so
far, an advantage for Esmond, that Mr. Bridge was induced to leave
him alone; and so long as he kept his chapels, and did the college
exercises required of him, Bridge was content not to see Harry's
glum face in his class, and to leave him to read and sulk for
himself in his own chamber.

A poem or two in Latin and English, which were pronounced to have
some merit, and a Latin oration, (for Mr. Esmond could write that
language better than pronounce it,) got him a little reputation
both with the authorities of the University and amongst the young
men, with whom he began to pass for more than he was worth.  A few
victories over their common enemy, Mr. Bridge, made them incline
towards him, and look upon him as the champion of their order
against the seniors.  Such of the lads as he took into his
confidence found him not so gloomy and haughty as his appearance
led them to believe; and Don Dismallo, as he was called, became
presently a person of some little importance in his college, and
was, as he believes, set down by the seniors there as rather a
dangerous character.

Don Dismallo was a staunch young Jacobite, like the rest of his
family; gave himself many absurd airs of loyalty; used to invite
young friends to Burgundy, and give the King's health on King
James's birthday; wore black on the day of his abdication; fasted
on the anniversary of King William's coronation; and performed a
thousand absurd antics, of which he smiles now to think.

These follies caused many remonstrances on Tom Tusher's part, who
was always a friend to the powers that be, as Esmond was always in
opposition to them.  Tom was a Whig, while Esmond was a Tory.  Tom
never missed a lecture, and capped the proctor with the profoundest
of bows.  No wonder he sighed over Harry's insubordinate courses,
and was angry when the others laughed at him.  But that Harry was
known to have my Lord Viscount's protection, Tom no doubt would
have broken with him altogether.  But honest Tom never gave up a
comrade as long as he was the friend of a great man.  This was not
out of scheming on Tom's part, but a natural inclination towards
the great.  'Twas no hypocrisy in him to flatter, but the bent of
his mind, which was always perfectly good-humored, obliging, and
servile.

Harry had very liberal allowances, for his dear mistress of
Castlewood not only regularly supplied him, but the Dowager of
Chelsey made her donation annual, and received Esmond at her house
near London every Christmas; but, in spite of these benefactions,
Esmond was constantly poor; whilst 'twas a wonder with how small a
stipend from his father Tom Tusher contrived to make a good figure.
'Tis true that Harry both spent, gave, and lent his money very
freely, which Thomas never did.  I think he was like the famous
Duke of Marlborough in this instance, who, getting a present of
fifty pieces, when a young man, from some foolish woman who fell in
love with his good looks, showed the money to Cadogan in a drawer
scores of years after, where it had lain ever since he had sold his
beardless honor to procure it.  I do not mean to say that Tom ever
let out his good looks so profitably, for nature had not endowed
him with any particular charms of person, and he ever was a pattern
of moral behavior, losing no opportunity of giving the very best
advice to his younger comrade; with which article, to do him
justice, he parted very freely.  Not but that he was a merry
fellow, too, in his way; he loved a joke, if by good fortune he
understood it, and took his share generously of a bottle if another
paid for it, and especially if there was a young lord in company to
drink it.  In these cases there was not a harder drinker in the
University than Mr. Tusher could be; and it was edifying to behold
him, fresh shaved and with smug face, singing out "Amen!" at early
chapel in the morning.  In his reading, poor Harry permitted
himself to go a-gadding after all the Nine Muses, and so very
likely had but little favor from any one of them; whereas Tom
Tusher, who had no more turn for poetry than a ploughboy,
nevertheless, by a dogged perseverance and obsequiousness in
courting the divine Calliope, got himself a prize, and some credit
in the University, and a fellowship at his college, as a reward for
his scholarship.  In this time of Mr. Esmond's life, he got the
little reading which he ever could boast of, and passed a good part
of his days greedily devouring all the books on which he could lay
hand.  In this desultory way the works of most of the English,
French, and Italian poets came under his eyes, and he had a
smattering of the Spanish tongue likewise, besides the ancient
languages, of which, at least of Latin, he was a tolerable master.

Then, about midway in his University career, he fell to reading for
the profession to which worldly prudence rather than inclination
called him, and was perfectly bewildered in theological
controversy.  In the course of his reading (which was neither
pursued with that seriousness or that devout mind which such a
study requires) the youth found himself at the end of one month a
Papist, and was about to proclaim his faith; the next month a
Protestant, with Chillingworth; and the third a sceptic, with
Hobbes and Bayle.  Whereas honest Tom Tusher never permitted his
mind to stray out of the prescribed University path, accepted the
Thirty-nine Articles with all his heart, and would have signed and
sworn to other nine-and-thirty with entire obedience.  Harry's
wilfulness in this matter, and disorderly thoughts and
conversation, so shocked and afflicted his senior, that there grew
up a coldness and estrangement between them, so that they became
scarce more than mere acquaintances, from having been intimate
friends when they came to college first.  Politics ran high, too,
at the University; and here, also, the young men were at variance.
Tom professed himself, albeit a high-churchman, a strong King
William's-man; whereas Harry brought his family Tory politics to
college with him, to which he must add a dangerous admiration for
Oliver Cromwell, whose side, or King James's by turns, he often
chose to take in the disputes which the young gentlemen used to
hold in each other's rooms, where they debated on the state of the
nation, crowned and deposed kings, and toasted past and present
heroes and beauties in flagons of college ale.

Thus, either from the circumstances of his birth, or the natural
melancholy of his disposition, Esmond came to live very much by
himself during his stay at the University, having neither ambition
enough to distinguish himself in the college career, nor caring to
mingle with the mere pleasures and boyish frolics of the students,
who were, for the most part, two or three years younger than he.
He fancied that the gentlemen of the common-room of his college
slighted him on account of his birth, and hence kept aloof from
their society.  It may be that he made the ill will, which he
imagined came from them, by his own behavior, which, as he looks
back on it in after life, he now sees was morose and haughty.  At
any rate, he was as tenderly grateful for kindness as he was
susceptible of slight and wrong; and, lonely as he was generally,
yet had one or two very warm friendships for his companions of
those days.

One of these was a queer gentleman that resided in the University,
though he was no member of it, and was the professor of a science
scarce recognized in the common course of college education.  This
was a French refugee-officer, who had been driven out of his native
country at the time of the Protestant persecutions there, and who
came to Cambridge, where he taught the science of the small-sword,
and set up a saloon-of-arms.  Though he declared himself a
Protestant, 'twas said Mr. Moreau was a Jesuit in disguise; indeed,
he brought very strong recommendations to the Tory party, which was
pretty strong in that University, and very likely was one of the
many agents whom King James had in this country.  Esmond found this
gentleman's conversation very much more agreeable and to his taste
than the talk of the college divines in the common-room; he never
wearied of Moreau's stories of the wars of Turenne and Conde, in
which he had borne a part; and being familiar with the French
tongue from his youth, and in a place where but few spoke it, his
company became very agreeable to the brave old professor of arms,
whose favorite pupil he was, and who made Mr. Esmond a very
tolerable proficient in the noble science of escrime.

At the next term Esmond was to take his degree of Bachelor of Arts,
and afterwards, in proper season, to assume the cassock and bands
which his fond mistress would have him wear.  Tom Tusher himself
was a parson and a fellow of his college by this time; and Harry
felt that he would very gladly cede his right to the living of
Castlewood to Tom, and that his own calling was in no way to the
pulpit.  But as he was bound, before all things in the world, to
his dear mistress at home, and knew that a refusal on his part
would grieve her, he determined to give her no hint of his
unwillingness to the clerical office: and it was in this
unsatisfactory mood of mind that he went to spend the last
vacation he should have at Castlewood before he took orders.




CHAPTER XI.

I COME HOME FOR A HOLIDAY TO CASTLEWOOD, AND FIND A SKELETON IN THE
HOUSE.


At his third long vacation, Esmond came as usual to Castlewood,
always feeling an eager thrill of pleasure when he found himself
once more in the house where he had passed so many years, and
beheld the kind familiar eyes of his mistress looking upon him.
She and her children (out of whose company she scarce ever saw him)
came to greet him.  Miss Beatrix was grown so tall that Harry did
not quite know whether he might kiss her or no; and she blushed and
held back when he offered that salutation, though she took it, and
even courted it, when they were alone.  The young lord was shooting
up to be like his gallant father in look, though with his mother's
kind eyes: the lady of Castlewood herself seemed grown, too, since
Harry saw her--in her look more stately, in her person fuller, in
her face still as ever most tender and friendly, a greater air of
command and decision than had appeared in that guileless sweet
countenance which Harry remembered so gratefully.  The tone of her
voice was so much deeper and sadder when she spoke and welcomed
him, that it quite startled Esmond, who looked up at her surprised
as she spoke, when she withdrew her eyes from him; nor did she ever
look at him afterwards when his own eyes were gazing upon her.  A
something hinting at grief and secret, and filling his mind with
alarm undefinable, seemed to speak with that low thrilling voice of
hers, and look out of those clear sad eyes.  Her greeting to Esmond
was so cold that it almost pained the lad, (who would have liked to
fall on his knees, and kiss the skirt of her robe, so fond and
ardent was his respect and regard for her,) and he faltered in
answering the questions which she, hesitating on her side, began to
put to him.  Was he happy at Cambridge?  Did he study too hard?
She hoped not.  He had grown very tall, and looked very well.

"He has got a moustache!" cries out Master Esmond.

"Why does he not wear a peruke like my Lord Mohun?" asked Miss
Beatrix.  "My lord says that nobody wears their own hair."

"I believe you will have to occupy your old chamber," says my lady.
"I hope the housekeeper has got it ready."

"Why, mamma, you have been there ten times these three days
yourself!" exclaims Frank.

"And she cut some flowers which you planted in my garden--do you
remember, ever so many years ago? when I was quite a little girl,"
cries out Miss Beatrix, on tiptoe.  "And mamma put them in your
window."

"I remember when you grew well after you were ill that you used to
like roses," said the lady, blushing like one of them.  They all
conducted Harry Esmond to his chamber; the children running before,
Harry walking by his mistress hand-in-hand.

The old room had been ornamented and beautified not a little to
receive him.  The flowers were in the window in a china vase; and
there was a fine new counterpane on the bed, which chatterbox
Beatrix said mamma had made too.  A fire was crackling on the
hearth, although it was June.  My lady thought the room wanted
warming; everything was done to make him happy and welcome: "And
you are not to be a page any longer, but a gentleman and kinsman,
and to walk with papa and mamma," said the children.  And as soon
as his dear mistress and children had left him to himself, it was
with a heart overflowing with love and gratefulness that he flung
himself down on his knees by the side of the little bed, and asked
a blessing upon those who were so kind to him.

The children, who are always house tell-tales, soon made him
acquainted with the little history of the house and family.  Papa
had been to London twice.  Papa often went away now.  Papa had
taken Beatrix to Westlands, where she was taller than Sir George
Harper's second daughter, though she was two years older.  Papa had
taken Beatrix and Frank both to Bellminster, where Frank had got
the better of Lord Bellminster's son in a boxing-match--my lord,
laughing, told Harry afterwards.  Many gentlemen came to stop with
papa, and papa had gotten a new game from London, a French game,
called a billiard--that the French king played it very well: and
the Dowager Lady Castlewood had sent Miss Beatrix a present; and
papa had gotten a new chaise, with two little horses, which he
drove himself, beside the coach, which mamma went in; and Dr.
Tusher was a cross old plague, and they did not like to learn from
him at all; and papa did not care about them learning, and laughed
when they were at their books, but mamma liked them to learn, and
taught them; and "I don't think papa is fond of mamma," said Miss
Beatrix, with her great eyes.  She had come quite close up to Harry
Esmond by the time this prattle took place, and was on his knee,
and had examined all the points of his dress, and all the good or
bad features of his homely face.

"You shouldn't say that papa is not fond of mamma," said the boy,
at this confession.  "Mamma never said so; and mamma forbade you to
say it, Miss Beatrix."

'Twas this, no doubt, that accounted for the sadness in Lady
Castlewood's eyes, and the plaintive vibrations of her voice.  Who
does not know of eyes, lighted by love once, where the flame shines
no more?--of lamps extinguished, once properly trimmed and tended?
Every man has such in his house.  Such mementoes make our
splendidest chambers look blank and sad; such faces seen in a day
cast a gloom upon our sunshine.  So oaths mutually sworn, and
invocations of heaven, and priestly ceremonies, and fond belief,
and love, so fond and faithful that it never doubted but that it
should live for ever, are all of no avail towards making love
eternal: it dies, in spite of the banns and the priest; and I have
often thought there should be a visitation of the sick for it, and
a funeral service, and an extreme unction, and an abi in pace.  It
has its course, like all mortal things--its beginning, progress,
and decay.  It buds and it blooms out into sunshine, and it withers
and ends.  Strephon and Chloe languish apart; join in a rapture:
and presently you hear that Chloe is crying, and Strephon has
broken his crook across her back.  Can you mend it so as to show no
marks of rupture?  Not all the priests of Hymen, not all the
incantations to the gods, can make it whole!

Waking up from dreams, books, and visions of college honors, in
which for two years, Harry Esmond had been immersed, he found
himself, instantly, on his return home, in the midst of this actual
tragedy of life, which absorbed and interested him more than all
his tutor had taught him.  The persons whom he loved best in the
world, and to whom he owed most, were living unhappily together.
The gentlest and kindest of women was suffering ill usage and
shedding tears in secret: the man who made her wretched by neglect,
if not by violence, was Harry's benefactor and patron.  In houses
where, in place of that sacred, inmost flame of love, there is
discord at the centre, the whole household becomes hypocritical,
and each lies to his neighbor.  The husband (or it may be the wife)
lies when the visitor comes in, and wears a grin of reconciliation
or politeness before him.  The wife lies (indeed, her business is
to do that, and to smile, however much she is beaten), swallows her
tears, and lies to her lord and master; lies in bidding little
Jackey respect dear papa; lies in assuring grandpapa that she is
perfectly happy.  The servants lie, wearing grave faces behind
their master's chair, and pretending to be unconscious of the
fighting; and so, from morning till bedtime, life is passed in
falsehood.  And wiseacres call this a proper regard of morals, and
point out Baucis and Philemon as examples of a good life.

If my lady did not speak of her griefs to Harry Esmond, my lord was
by no means reserved when in his cups, and spoke his mind very
freely, bidding Harry in his coarse way, and with his blunt
language, beware of all women as cheats, jades, jilts, and using
other unmistakable monosyllables in speaking of them.  Indeed,
'twas the fashion of the day, as I must own; and there's not a
writer of my time of any note, with the exception of poor Dick
Steele, that does not speak of a woman as of a slave, and scorn and
use her as such.  Mr. Pope, Mr. Congreve, Mr. Addison, Mr. Gay,
every one of 'em, sing in this key, each according to his nature
and politeness, and louder and fouler than all in abuse is Dr.
Swift, who spoke of them as he treated them, worst of all.

Much of the quarrels and hatred which arise between married people
come in my mind from the husband's rage and revolt at discovering
that his slave and bedfellow, who is to minister to all his wishes,
and is church-sworn to honor and obey him--is his superior; and
that HE, and not she, ought to be the subordinate of the twain; and
in these controversies, I think, lay the cause of my lord's anger
against his lady.  When he left her, she began to think for
herself, and her thoughts were not in his favor.  After the
illumination, when the love-lamp is put out that anon we spoke of,
and by the common daylight we look at the picture, what a daub it
looks! what a clumsy effigy!  How many men and wives come to this
knowledge, think you?  And if it be painful to a woman to find
herself mated for life to a boor, and ordered to love and honor a
dullard; it is worse still for the man himself perhaps, whenever in
his dim comprehension the idea dawns that his slave and drudge
yonder is, in truth, his superior; that the woman who does his
bidding, and submits to his humor, should be his lord; that she can
think a thousand things beyond the power of his muddled brains; and
that in yonder head, on the pillow opposite to him, lie a thousand
feelings, mysteries of thought, latent scorns and rebellions,
whereof he only dimly perceives the existence as they look out
furtively from her eyes: treasures of love doomed to perish without
a hand to gather them; sweet fancies and images of beauty that
would grow and unfold themselves into flower; bright wit that would
shine like diamonds could it be brought into the sun: and the
tyrant in possession crushes the outbreak of all these, drives them
back like slaves into the dungeon and darkness, and chafes without
that his prisoner is rebellious, and his sworn subject undutiful
and refractory.  So the lamp was out in Castlewood Hall, and the
lord and lady there saw each other as they were.  With her illness
and altered beauty my lord's fire for his wife disappeared; with
his selfishness and faithlessness her foolish fiction of love and
reverence was rent away.  Love!--who is to love what is base and
unlovely?  Respect!--who is to respect what is gross and sensual?
Not all the marriage oaths sworn before all the parsons, cardinals,
ministers, muftis, and rabbins in the world, can bind to that
monstrous allegiance.  This couple was living apart then; the woman
happy to be allowed to love and tend her children (who were never
of her own good-will away from her), and thankful to have saved
such treasures as these out of the wreck in which the better part
of her heart went down.

These young ones had had no instructors save their mother, and
Doctor Tusher for their theology occasionally, and had made more
progress than might have been expected under a tutor so indulgent
and fond as Lady Castlewood.  Beatrix could sing and dance like a
nymph.  Her voice was her father's delight after dinner.  She ruled
over the house with little imperial ways, which her parents coaxed
and laughed at.  She had long learned the value of her bright eyes,
and tried experiments in coquetry, in corpore vili, upon rustics
and country squires, until she should prepare to conquer the world
and the fashion.  She put on a new ribbon to welcome Harry Esmond,
made eyes at him, and directed her young smiles at him, not a
little to the amusement of the young man, and the joy of her
father, who laughed his great laugh, and encouraged her in her
thousand antics.  Lady Castlewood watched the child gravely and
sadly: the little one was pert in her replies to her mother, yet
eager in her protestations of love and promises of amendment; and
as ready to cry (after a little quarrel brought on by her own
giddiness) until she had won back her mamma's favor, as she was to
risk the kind lady's displeasure by fresh outbreaks of restless
vanity.  From her mother's sad looks she fled to her father's chair
and boozy laughter.  She already set the one against the other: and
the little rogue delighted in the mischief which she knew how to
make so early.

The young heir of Castlewood was spoiled by father and mother both.
He took their caresses as men do, and as if they were his right.
He had his hawks and his spaniel dog, his little horse and his
beagles.  He had learned to ride, and to drink, and to shoot
flying: and he had a small court, the sons of the huntsman and
woodman, as became the heir-apparent, taking after the example of
my lord his father.  If he had a headache, his mother was as much
frightened as if the plague were in the house: my lord laughed and
jeered in his abrupt way--(indeed, 'twas on the day after New
Year's Day, and an excess of mince-pie)--and said with some of his
usual oaths--"D--n it, Harry Esmond--you see how my lady takes on
about Frank's megrim.  She used to be sorry about me, my boy (pass
the tankard, Harry), and to be frightened if I had a headache once.
She don't care about my head now.  They're like that--women are--all the same, Harry, all jilts in their hearts.  Stick to college--stick to punch and buttery ale: and never see a woman that's
handsomer than an old cinder-faced bed-maker.  That's my counsel."

It was my lord's custom to fling out many jokes of this nature, in
presence of his wife and children, at meals--clumsy sarcasms which
my lady turned many a time, or which, sometimes, she affected not
to hear, or which now and again would hit their mark and make the
poor victim wince (as you could see by her flushing face and eyes
filling with tears), or which again worked her up to anger and
retort, when, in answer to one of these heavy bolts, she would
flash back with a quivering reply.  The pair were not happy; nor
indeed was it happy to be with them.  Alas that youthful love and
truth should end in bitterness and bankruptcy!  To see a young
couple loving each other is no wonder; but to see an old couple
loving each other is the best sight of all.  Harry Esmond became
the confidant of one and the other--that is, my lord told the lad
all his griefs and wrongs (which were indeed of Lord Castlewood's
own making), and Harry divined my lady's; his affection leading him
easily to penetrate the hypocrisy under which Lady Castlewood
generally chose to go disguised, and see her heart aching whilst
her face wore a smile.  'Tis a hard task for women in life, that
mask which the world bids them wear.  But there is no greater crime
than for a woman who is ill used and unhappy to show that she is
so.  The world is quite relentless about bidding her to keep a
cheerful face; and our women, like the Malabar wives, are forced to
go smiling and painted to sacrifice themselves with their husbands;
their relations being the most eager to push them on to their duty,
and, under their shouts and applauses, to smother and hush their
cries of pain.

So, into the sad secret of his patron's household, Harry Esmond
became initiated, he scarce knew how.  It had passed under his eyes
two years before, when he could not understand it; but reading, and
thought, and experience of men, had oldened him; and one of the
deepest sorrows of a life which had never, in truth, been very
happy, came upon him now, when he was compelled to understand and
pity a grief which he stood quite powerless to relieve.


It hath been said my lord would never take the oath of allegiance,
nor his seat as a peer of the kingdom of Ireland, where, indeed, he
had but a nominal estate; and refused an English peerage which King
William's government offered him as a bribe to secure his loyalty.

He might have accepted this, and would doubtless, but for the
earnest remonstrances of his wife, who ruled her husband's opinions
better than she could govern his conduct, and who being a simple-hearted woman, with but one rule of faith and right, never thought
of swerving from her fidelity to the exiled family, or of
recognizing any other sovereign but King James; and though she
acquiesced in the doctrine of obedience to the reigning power, no
temptation, she thought, could induce her to acknowledge the Prince
of Orange as rightful monarch, nor to let her lord so acknowledge
him.  So my Lord Castlewood remained a nonjuror all his life
nearly, though his self-denial caused him many a pang, and left him
sulky and out of humor.

The year after the Revolution, and all through King William's life,
'tis known there were constant intrigues for the restoration of the
exiled family; but if my Lord Castlewood took any share of these,
as is probable, 'twas only for a short time, and when Harry Esmond
was too young to be introduced into such important secrets.

But in the year 1695, when that conspiracy of Sir John Fenwick,
Colonel Lowick, and others, was set on foot, for waylaying King
William as he came from Hampton Court to London, and a secret plot
was formed, in which a vast number of the nobility and people of
honor were engaged, Father Holt appeared at Castlewood, and brought
a young friend with him, a gentleman whom 'twas easy to see that
both my lord and the Father treated with uncommon deference.  Harry
Esmond saw this gentleman, and knew and recognized him in after
life, as shall be shown in its place; and he has little doubt now
that my Lord Viscount was implicated somewhat in the transactions
which always kept Father Holt employed and travelling hither and
thither under a dozen of different names and disguises.  The
Father's companion went by the name of Captain James; and it was
under a very different name and appearance that Harry Esmond
afterwards saw him.

It was the next year that the Fenwick conspiracy blew up, which is
a matter of public history now, and which ended in the execution of
Sir John and many more, who suffered manfully for their treason,
and who were attended to Tyburn by my lady's father Dean Armstrong,
Mr. Collier, and other stout nonjuring clergymen, who absolved them
at the gallows-foot.

'Tis known that when Sir John was apprehended, discovery was made
of a great number of names of gentlemen engaged in the conspiracy;
when, with a noble wisdom and clemency, the Prince burned the list
of conspirators furnished to him, and said he would know no more.
Now it was after this that Lord Castlewood swore his great oath,
that he would never, so help him heaven, be engaged in any
transaction against that brave and merciful man; and so he told
Holt when the indefatigable priest visited him, and would have had
him engage in a farther conspiracy.  After this my lord ever spoke
of King William as he was--as one of the wisest, the bravest, and
the greatest of men.  My Lady Esmond (for her part) said she could
never pardon the King, first, for ousting his father-in-law from
his throne, and secondly, for not being constant to his wife, the
Princess Mary.  Indeed, I think if Nero were to rise again, and be
king of England, and a good family man, the ladies would pardon
him.  My lord laughed at his wife's objections--the standard of
virtue did not fit him much.

The last conference which Mr. Holt had with his lordship took place
when Harry was come home for his first vacation from college (Harry
saw his old tutor but for a half-hour, and exchanged no private
words with him), and their talk, whatever it might be, left my Lord
Viscount very much disturbed in mind--so much so, that his wife,
and his young kinsman, Henry Esmond, could not but observe his
disquiet.  After Holt was gone, my lord rebuffed Esmond, and again
treated him with the greatest deference; he shunned his wife's
questions and company, and looked at his children with such a face
of gloom and anxiety, muttering, "Poor children--poor children!" in
a way that could not but fill those whose life it was to watch him
and obey him with great alarm.  For which gloom, each person
interested in the Lord Castlewood, framed in his or her own mind an
interpretation.

My lady, with a laugh of cruel bitterness said, "I suppose the
person at Hexton has been ill, or has scolded him" (for my lord's
infatuation about Mrs. Marwood was known only too well).  Young
Esmond feared for his money affairs, into the condition of which he
had been initiated; and that the expenses, always greater than his
revenue, had caused Lord Castlewood disquiet.

One of the causes why my Lord Viscount had taken young Esmond into
his special favor was a trivial one, that hath not before been
mentioned, though it was a very lucky accident in Henry Esmond's
life.  A very few months after my lord's coming to Castlewood, in
the winter time--the little boy, being a child in a petticoat,
trotting about--it happened that little Frank was with his father
after dinner, who fell asleep over his wine, heedless of the child,
who crawled to the fire; and, as good fortune would have it, Esmond
was sent by his mistress for the boy just as the poor little
screaming urchin's coat was set on fire by a log; when Esmond,
rushing forward, tore the dress off the infant, so that his own
hands were burned more than the child's, who was frightened rather
than hurt by this accident.  But certainly 'twas providential that
a resolute person should have come in at that instant, or the child
had been burned to death probably, my lord sleeping very heavily
after drinking, and not waking so cool as a man should who had a
danger to face.

Ever after this the father, loud in his expressions of remorse and
humility for being a tipsy good-for-nothing, and of admiration for
Harry Esmond, whom his lordship would style a hero for doing a very
trifling service, had the tenderest regard for his son's preserver,
and Harry became quite as one of the family.  His burns were tended
with the greatest care by his kind mistress, who said that heaven
had sent him to be the guardian of her children, and that she would
love him all her life.

And it was after this, and from the very great love and tenderness
which had grown up in this little household, rather than from the
exhortations of Dean Armstrong (though these had no small weight
with him), that Harry came to be quite of the religion of his house
and his dear mistress, of which he has ever since been a professing
member.  As for Dr. Tusher's boasts that he was the cause of this
conversion--even in these young days Mr. Esmond had such a contempt
for the Doctor, that had Tusher bade him believe anything (which he
did not--never meddling at all), Harry would that instant have
questioned the truth on't.

My lady seldom drank wine; but on certain days of the year, such as
birthdays (poor Harry had never a one) and anniversaries, she took
a little; and this day, the 29th December, was one.  At the end,
then, of this year, '96, it might have been a fortnight after Mr.
Holt's last visit, Lord Castlewood being still very gloomy in mind,
and sitting at table--my lady bidding a servant bring her a glass
of wine, and looking at her husband with one of her sweet smiles,
said--

"My lord, will you not fill a bumper too, and let me call a toast?"

"What is it, Rachel?" says he, holding out his empty glass to be
filled.

"'Tis the 29th of December," says my lady, with her fond look of
gratitude: "and my toast is, 'Harry--and God bless him, who saved
my boy's life!'"

My lord looked at Harry hard, and drank the glass, but clapped it
down on the table in a moment, and, with a sort of groan, rose up,
and went out of the room.  What was the matter?  We all knew that
some great grief was over him.

Whether my lord's prudence had made him richer, or legacies had
fallen to him, which enabled him to support a greater establishment
than that frugal one which had been too much for his small means,
Harry Esmond knew not; but the house of Castlewood was now on a
scale much more costly than it had been during the first years of
his lordship's coming to the title.  There were more horses in the
stable and more servants in the hall, and many more guests coming
and going now than formerly, when it was found difficult enough by
the strictest economy to keep the house as befitted one of his
lordship's rank, and the estate out of debt.  And it did not
require very much penetration to find that many of the new
acquaintances at Castlewood were not agreeable to the lady there:
not that she ever treated them or any mortal with anything but
courtesy; but they were persons who could not be welcome to her;
and whose society a lady so refined and reserved could scarce
desire for her children.  There came fuddling squires from the
country round, who bawled their songs under her windows and drank
themselves tipsy with my lord's punch and ale: there came officers
from Hexton, in whose company our little lord was made to hear talk
and to drink, and swear too, in a way that made the delicate lady
tremble for her son.  Esmond tried to console her by saying what he
knew of his College experience; that with this sort of company and
conversation a man must fall in sooner or later in his course
through the world: and it mattered very little whether he heard it
at twelve years old or twenty--the youths who quitted mother's
apron-strings the latest being not uncommonly the wildest rakes.
But it was about her daughter that Lady Castlewood was the most
anxious, and the danger which she thought menaced the little
Beatrix from the indulgences which her father gave her, (it must be
owned that my lord, since these unhappy domestic differences
especially, was at once violent in his language to the children
when angry, as he was too familiar, not to say coarse, when he was
in a good humor,) and from the company into which the careless lord
brought the child.

Not very far off from Castlewood is Sark Castle, where the
Marchioness of Sark lived, who was known to have been a mistress of
the late King Charles--and to this house, whither indeed a great
part of the country gentry went, my lord insisted upon going, not
only himself, but on taking his little daughter and son, to play
with the children there.  The children were nothing loth, for the
house was splendid, and the welcome kind enough.  But my lady,
justly no doubt, thought that the children of such a mother as that
noted Lady Sark had been, could be no good company for her two; and
spoke her mind to her lord.  His own language when he was thwarted
was not indeed of the gentlest: to be brief, there was a family
dispute on this, as there had been on many other points--and the
lady was not only forced to give in, for the other's will was law--nor could she, on account of their tender age, tell her children
what was the nature of her objection to their visit of pleasure, or
indeed mention to them any objection at all--but she had the
additional secret mortification to find them returning delighted
with their new friends, loaded with presents from them, and eager
to be allowed to go back to a place of such delights as Sark
Castle.  Every year she thought the company there would be more
dangerous to her daughter, as from a child Beatrix grew to a woman,
and her daily increasing beauty, and many faults of character too,
expanded.

It was Harry Esmond's lot to see one of the visits which the old
Lady of Sark paid to the Lady of Castlewood Hall: whither she came
in state with six chestnut horses and blue ribbons, a page on each
carriage step, a gentleman of the horse, and armed servants riding
before and behind her.  And, but that it was unpleasant to see Lady
Castlewood's face, it was amusing to watch the behavior of the two
enemies: the frigid patience of the younger lady, and the
unconquerable good-humor of the elder--who would see no offence
whatever her rival intended, and who never ceased to smile and to
laugh, and to coax the children, and to pay compliments to every
man, woman, child, nay dog, or chair and table, in Castlewood, so
bent was she upon admiring everything there.  She lauded the
children, and wished as indeed she well might--that her own family
had been brought up as well as those cherubs.  She had never seen
such a complexion as dear Beatrix's--though to be sure she had a
right to it from father and mother--Lady Castlewood's was indeed a
wonder of freshness, and Lady Sark sighed to think she had not been
born a fair woman; and remarking Harry Esmond, with a fascinating
superannuated smile, she complimented him on his wit, which she
said she could see from his eyes and forehead; and vowed that she
would never have HIM at Sark until her daughter were out of the way.




CHAPTER XII.

MY LORD MOHUN COMES AMONG US FOR NO GOOD.


There had ridden along with this old Princess's cavalcade, two
gentlemen: her son, my Lord Firebrace, and his friend, my Lord
Mohun, who both were greeted with a great deal of cordiality by the
hospitable Lord of Castlewood.  My Lord Firebrace was but a feeble-minded and weak-limbed young nobleman, small in stature and limited
in understanding to judge from the talk young Esmond had with him;
but the other was a person of a handsome presence, with the bel
air, and a bright daring warlike aspect, which, according to the
chronicle of those days, had already achieved for him the conquest
of several beauties and toasts.  He had fought and conquered in
France, as well as in Flanders; he had served a couple of campaigns
with the Prince of Baden on the Danube, and witnessed the rescue of
Vienna from the Turk.  And he spoke of his military exploits
pleasantly, and with the manly freedom of a soldier, so as to
delight all his hearers at Castlewood, who were little accustomed
to meet a companion so agreeable.

On the first day this noble company came, my lord would not hear of
their departure before dinner, and carried away the gentlemen to
amuse them, whilst his wife was left to do the honors of her house
to the old Marchioness and her daughter within.  They looked at the
stables where my Lord Mohun praised the horses, though there was
but a poor show there: they walked over the old house and gardens,
and fought the siege of Oliver's time over again: they played a
game of rackets in the old court, where my Lord Castlewood beat my
Lord Mohun, who said he loved ball of all things, and would quickly
come back to Castlewood for his revenge.  After dinner they played
bowls and drank punch in the green alley; and when they parted they
were sworn friends, my Lord Castlewood kissing the other lord
before he mounted on horseback, and pronouncing him the best
companion he had met for many a long day.  All night long, over his
tobacco-pipe, Castlewood did not cease to talk to Harry Esmond in
praise of his new friend, and in fact did not leave off speaking of
him until his lordship was so tipsy that he could not speak plainly
any more.

At breakfast next day it was the same talk renewed; and when my
lady said there was something free in the Lord Mohun's looks and
manner of speech which caused her to mistrust him, her lord burst
out with one of his laughs and oaths; said that he never liked man,
woman, or beast, but what she was sure to be jealous of it; that
Mohun was the prettiest fellow in England; that he hoped to see
more of him whilst in the country; and that he would let Mohun know
what my Lady Prude said of him.

"Indeed," Lady Castlewood said, "I liked his conversation well
enough.  'Tis more amusing than that of most people I know.  I
thought it, I own, too free; not from what he said, as rather from
what he implied."

"Psha! your ladyship does not know the world," said her husband;
"and you have always been as squeamish as when you were a miss of
fifteen."

"You found no fault when I was a miss at fifteen."

"Begad, madam, you are grown too old for a pinafore now; and I hold
that 'tis for me to judge what company my wife shall see," said my
lord, slapping the table.

"Indeed, Francis, I never thought otherwise," answered my lady,
rising and dropping him a curtsy, in which stately action, if there
was obedience, there was defiance too; and in which a bystander,
deeply interested in the happiness of that pair as Harry Esmond
was, might see how hopelessly separated they were; what a great
gulf of difference and discord had run between them.

"By G-d! Mohun is the best fellow in England; and I'll invite him
here, just to plague that woman.  Did you ever see such a frigid
insolence as it is, Harry?  That's the way she treats me," he broke
out, storming, and his face growing red as he clenched his fists
and went on.  "I'm nobody in my own house.  I'm to be the humble
servant of that parson's daughter.  By Jove!  I'd rather she should
fling the dish at my head than sneer at me as she does.  She puts
me to shame before the children with her d--d airs; and, I'll
swear, tells Frank and Beaty that papa's a reprobate, and that they
ought to despise me."

"Indeed and indeed, sir, I never heard her say a word but of
respect regarding you," Harry Esmond interposed.

"No, curse it! I wish she would speak.  But she never does.  She
scorns me, and holds her tongue.  She keeps off from me, as if I
was a pestilence.  By George! she was fond enough of her pestilence
once.  And when I came a-courting, you would see miss blush--blush
red, by George! for joy.  Why, what do you think she said to me,
Harry?  She said herself, when I joked with her about her d--d
smiling red cheeks: ''Tis as they do at St. James's; I put up my
red flag when my king comes.'  I was the king, you see, she meant.
But now, sir, look at her!  I believe she would be glad if I was
dead; and dead I've been to her these five years--ever since you
all of you had the small-pox: and she never forgave me for going
away."

"Indeed, my lord, though 'twas hard to forgive, I think my mistress
forgave it," Harry Esmond said; "and remember how eagerly she
watched your lordship's return, and how sadly she turned away when
she saw your cold looks."

"Damme!" cries out my lord; "would you have had me wait and catch
the small-pox?  Where the deuce had been the good of that?  I'll
bear danger with any man--but not useless danger--no, no.  Thank
you for nothing.  And--you nod your head, and I know very well,
Parson Harry, what you mean.  There was the--the other affair to
make her angry.  But is a woman never to forgive a husband who goes
a-tripping?  Do you take me for a saint?"

"Indeed, sir, I do not," says Harry, with a smile.

"Since that time my wife's as cold as the statue at Charing Cross.
I tell thee she has no forgiveness in her, Henry.  Her coldness
blights my whole life, and sends me to the punch-bowl, or driving
about the country.  My children are not mine, but hers, when we are
together.  'Tis only when she is out of sight with her abominable
cold glances, that run through me, that they'll come to me, and
that I dare to give them so much as a kiss; and that's why I take
'em and love 'em in other people's houses, Harry.  I'm killed by
the very virtue of that proud woman.  Virtue! give me the virtue
that can forgive; give me the virtue that thinks not of preserving
itself, but of making other folks happy.  Damme, what matters a
scar or two if 'tis got in helping a friend in ill fortune?"

And my lord again slapped the table, and took a great draught from
the tankard.  Harry Esmond admired as he listened to him, and
thought how the poor preacher of this self-sacrifice had fled from
the small-pox, which the lady had borne so cheerfully, and which
had been the cause of so much disunion in the lives of all in this
house.  "How well men preach," thought the young man, "and each is
the example in his own sermon.  How each has a story in a dispute,
and a true one, too, and both are right or wrong as you will!"
Harry's heart was pained within him, to watch the struggles and
pangs that tore the breast of this kind, manly friend and protector.

"Indeed, sir," said he, "I wish to God that my mistress could hear
you speak as I have heard you; she would know much that would make
her life the happier, could she hear it."  But my lord flung away
with one of his oaths, and a jeer; he said that Parson Harry was a
good fellow; but that as for women, all women were alike--all jades
and heartless.  So a man dashes a fine vase down, and despises it
for being broken.  It may be worthless--true: but who had the
keeping of it, and who shattered it?

Harry, who would have given his life to make his benefactress and
her husband happy, bethought him, now that he saw what my lord's
state of mind was, and that he really had a great deal of that love
left in his heart, and ready for his wife's acceptance if she would
take it, whether he could not be a means of reconciliation between
these two persons, whom he revered the most in the world.  And he
cast about how he should break a part of his mind to his mistress,
and warn her that in his, Harry's opinion, at least, her husband
was still her admirer, and even her lover.

But he found the subject a very difficult one to handle, when he
ventured to remonstrate, which he did in the very gravest tone,
(for long confidence and reiterated proofs of devotion and loyalty
had given him a sort of authority in the house, which he resumed as
soon as ever he returned to it,) and with a speech that should have
some effect, as, indeed, it was uttered with the speaker's own
heart, he ventured most gently to hint to his adored mistress that
she was doing her husband harm by her ill opinion of him, and that
the happiness of all the family depended upon setting her right.

She, who was ordinarily calm and most gentle, and full of smiles
and soft attentions, flushed up when young Esmond so spoke to her,
and rose from her chair, looking at him with a haughtiness and
indignation that he had never before known her to display.  She was
quite an altered being for that moment; and looked an angry
princess insulted by a vassal.

"Have you ever heard me utter a word in my lord's disparagement?"
she asked hastily, hissing out her words, and stamping her foot.

"Indeed, no," Esmond said, looking down.

"Are you come to me as his ambassador--YOU?" she continued.

"I would sooner see peace between you than anything else in the
world," Harry answered, "and would go of any embassy that had that
end."

"So YOU are my lord's go-between?" she went on, not regarding this
speech.  "You are sent to bid me back into slavery again, and
inform me that my lord's favor is graciously restored to his
handmaid?  He is weary of Covent Garden, is he, that he comes home
and would have the fatted calf killed?"

"There's good authority for it, surely," said Esmond.

"For a son, yes; but my lord is not my son.  It was he who cast me
away from him.  It was he who broke our happiness down, and he bids
me to repair it.  It was he who showed himself to me at last, as he
was, not as I had thought him.  It is he who comes before my
children stupid and senseless with wine--who leaves our company for
that of frequenters of taverns and bagnios--who goes from his home
to the City yonder and his friends there, and when he is tired of
them returns hither, and expects that I shall kneel and welcome
him.  And he sends YOU as his chamberlain!  What a proud embassy!
Monsieur, I make you my compliment of the new place."

"It would be a proud embassy, and a happy embassy too, could I
bring you and my lord together," Esmond replied.

"I presume you have fulfilled your mission now, sir.  'Twas a
pretty one for you to undertake.  I don't know whether 'tis your
Cambridge philosophy, or time, that has altered your ways of
thinking," Lady Castlewood continued, still in a sarcastic tone.
"Perhaps you too have learned to love drink, and to hiccup over
your wine or punch;--which is your worship's favorite liquor?
Perhaps you too put up at the 'Rose' on your way to London, and
have your acquaintances in Covent Garden.  My services to you, sir,
to principal and ambassador, to master and--and lackey."

"Great heavens! madam," cried Harry.  "What have I done that thus,
for a second time, you insult me?  Do you wish me to blush for what
I used to be proud of, that I lived on your bounty?  Next to doing
you a service (which my life would pay for), you know that to
receive one from you is my highest pleasure.  What wrong have I
done you that you should wound me so, cruel woman?"

"What wrong?" she said, looking at Esmond with wild eyes.  "Well,
none--none that you know of, Harry, or could help.  Why did you
bring back the small-pox," she added, after a pause, "from
Castlewood village?  You could not help it, could you?  Which of us
knows whither fate leads us?  But we were all happy, Henry, till
then."  And Harry went away from this colloquy, thinking still that
the estrangement between his patron and his beloved mistress was
remediable, and that each had at heart a strong attachment to the
other.

The intimacy between the Lords Mohun and Castlewood appeared to
increase as long as the former remained in the country; and my Lord
of Castlewood especially seemed never to be happy out of his new
comrade's sight.  They sported together, they drank, they played
bowls and tennis: my Lord Castlewood would go for three days to
Sark, and bring back my Lord Mohun to Castlewood--where indeed his
lordship made himself very welcome to all persons, having a joke or
a new game at romps for the children, all the talk of the town for
my lord, and music and gallantry and plenty of the beau langage for
my lady, and for Harry Esmond, who was never tired of hearing his
stories of his campaigns and his life at Vienna, Venice, Paris, and
the famous cities of Europe which he had visited both in peace and
war.  And he sang at my lady's harpsichord, and played cards or
backgammon, or his new game of billiards with my lord (of whom he
invariably got the better) always having a consummate good-humor,
and bearing himself with a certain manly grace, that might exhibit
somewhat of the camp and Alsatia perhaps, but that had its charm,
and stamped him a gentleman: and his manner to Lady Castlewood was
so devoted and respectful, that she soon recovered from the first
feelings of dislike which she had conceived against him--nay,
before long, began to be interested in his spiritual welfare, and
hopeful of his conversion, lending him books of piety, which he
promised dutifully to study.  With her my lord talked of reform, of
settling into quiet life, quitting the court and town, and buying
some land in the neighborhood--though it must be owned that, when
the two lords were together over their Burgundy after dinner, their
talk was very different, and there was very little question of
conversion on my Lord Mohun's part.  When they got to their second
bottle, Harry Esmond used commonly to leave these two noble topers,
who, though they talked freely enough, heaven knows, in his
presence (Good Lord, what a set of stories, of Alsatia and Spring
Garden, of the taverns and gaming-houses, of the ladies of the
court, and mesdames of the theatres, he can recall out of their
godly conversation!)--although, I say, they talked before Esmond
freely, yet they seemed pleased when he went away, and then they
had another bottle, and then they fell to cards, and then my Lord
Mohun came to her ladyship's drawing-room; leaving his boon
companion to sleep off his wine.

'Twas a point of honor with the fine gentlemen of those days to
lose or win magnificently at their horse-matches, or games of cards
and dice--and you could never tell, from the demeanor of these two
lords afterwards, which had been successful and which the loser at
their games.  And when my lady hinted to my lord that he played
more than she liked, he dismissed her with a "pish," and swore that
nothing was more equal than play betwixt gentlemen, if they did but
keep it up long enough.  And these kept it up long enough, you may
be sure.  A man of fashion of that time often passed a quarter of
his day at cards, and another quarter at drink: I have known many a
pretty fellow, who was a wit too, ready of repartee, and possessed
of a thousand graces, who would be puzzled if he had to write more
than his name.

There is scarce any thoughtful man or woman, I suppose, but can
look back upon his course of past life, and remember some point,
trifling as it may have seemed at the time of occurrence, which has
nevertheless turned and altered his whole career.  'Tis with almost
all of us, as in M. Massillon's magnificent image regarding King
William, a grain de sable that perverts or perhaps overthrows us;
and so it was but a light word flung in the air, a mere freak of
perverse child's temper, that brought down a whole heap of crushing
woes upon that family whereof Harry Esmond formed a part.

Coming home to his dear Castlewood in the third year of his
academical course, (wherein he had now obtained some distinction,
his Latin Poem on the death of the Duke of Gloucester, Princess
Anne of Denmark's son, having gained him a medal, and introduced
him to the society of the University wits,) Esmond found his little
friend and pupil Beatrix grown to be taller than her mother, a slim
and lovely young girl, with cheeks mantling with health and roses:
with eyes like stars shining out of azure, with waving bronze hair
clustered about the fairest young forehead ever seen: and a mien
and shape haughty and beautiful, such as that of the famous antique
statue of the huntress Diana--at one time haughty, rapid,
imperious, with eyes and arrows that dart and kill.  Harry watched
and wondered at this young creature, and likened her in his mind to
Artemis with the ringing bow and shafts flashing death upon the
children of Niobe; at another time she was coy and melting as Luna
shining tenderly upon Endymion.  This fair creature, this lustrous
Phoebe, was only young as yet, nor had nearly reached her full
splendor: but crescent and brilliant, our young gentleman of the
University, his head full of poetical fancies, his heart perhaps
throbbing with desires undefined, admired this rising young
divinity; and gazed at her (though only as at some "bright
particular star," far above his earth) with endless delight and
wonder.  She had been a coquette from the earliest times almost,
trying her freaks and jealousies, her wayward frolics and winning
caresses, upon all that came within her reach; she set her women
quarrelling in the nursery, and practised her eyes on the groom as
she rode behind him on the pillion.

She was the darling and torment of father and mother.  She
intrigued with each secretly; and bestowed her fondness and
withdrew it, plied them with tears, smiles, kisses, cajolements;--when the mother was angry, as happened often, flew to the father,
and sheltering behind him, pursued her victim; when both were
displeased, transferred her caresses to the domestics, or watched
until she could win back her parents' good graces, either by
surprising them into laughter and good-humor, or appeasing them by
submission and artful humility.  She was saevo laeta negotio, like
that fickle goddess Horace describes, and of whose "malicious joy"
a great poet of our own has written so nobly--who, famous and
heroic as he was, was not strong enough to resist the torture of
women.

It was but three years before that the child, then but ten years
old, had nearly managed to make a quarrel between Harry Esmond and
his comrade, good-natured, phlegmatic Thomas Tusher, who never of
his own seeking quarrelled with anybody: by quoting to the latter
some silly joke which Harry had made regarding him--(it was the
merest idlest jest, though it near drove two old friends to blows,
and I think such a battle would have pleased her)--and from that
day Tom kept at a distance from her; and she respected him, and
coaxed him sedulously whenever they met.  But Harry was much more
easily appeased, because he was fonder of the child: and when she
made mischief, used cutting speeches, or caused her friends pain,
she excused herself for her fault, not by admitting and deploring
it, but by pleading not guilty, and asserting innocence so
constantly, and with such seeming artlessness, that it was
impossible to question her plea.  In her childhood, they were but
mischiefs then which she did; but her power became more fatal as
she grew older--as a kitten first plays with a ball, and then
pounces on a bird and kills it.  'Tis not to be imagined that Harry
Esmond had all this experience at this early stage of his life,
whereof he is now writing the history--many things here noted were
but known to him in later days.  Almost everything Beatrix did or
undid seemed good, or at least pardonable, to him then, and years
afterwards.

It happened, then, that Harry Esmond came home to Castlewood for
his last vacation, with good hopes of a fellowship at his college,
and a contented resolve to advance his fortune that way.  'Twas in
the first year of the present century, Mr. Esmond (as far as he
knew the period of his birth) being then twenty-two years old.  He
found his quondam pupil shot up into this beauty of which we have
spoken, and promising yet more: her brother, my lord's son, a
handsome high-spirited brave lad, generous and frank, and kind to
everybody, save perhaps his sister, with whom Frank was at war (and
not from his but her fault)--adoring his mother, whose joy he was:
and taking her side in the unhappy matrimonial differences which
were now permanent, while of course Mistress Beatrix ranged with
her father.  When heads of families fall out, it must naturally be
that their dependants wear the one or the other party's color; and
even in the parliaments in the servants' hall or the stables,
Harry, who had an early observant turn, could see which were my
lord's adherents and which my lady's, and conjecture pretty
shrewdly how their unlucky quarrel was debated.  Our lackeys sit in
judgment on us.  My lord's intrigues may be ever so stealthily
conducted, but his valet knows them; and my lady's woman carries
her mistress's private history to the servants' scandal market, and
exchanges it against the secrets of other abigails.




CHAPTER XIII.

MY LORD LEAVES US AND HIS EVIL BEHIND HIM.


My Lord Mohun (of whose exploits and fame some of the gentlemen of
the University had brought down but ugly reports) was once more a
guest at Castlewood, and seemingly more intimately allied with my
lord even than before.  Once in the spring those two noblemen had
ridden to Cambridge from Newmarket, whither they had gone for the
horse-racing, and had honored Harry Esmond with a visit at his
rooms; after which Doctor Montague, the master of the College, who
had treated Harry somewhat haughtily, seeing his familiarity with
these great folks, and that my Lord Castlewood laughed and walked
with his hand on Harry's shoulder, relented to Mr. Esmond, and
condescended to be very civil to him; and some days after his
arrival, Harry, laughing, told this story to Lady Esmond, remarking
how strange it was that men famous for learning and renowned over
Europe, should, nevertheless, so bow down to a title, and cringe to
a nobleman ever so poor.  At this Mistress Beatrix flung up her
head, and said it became those of low origin to respect their
betters; that the parsons made themselves a great deal too proud,
she thought; and that she liked the way at Lady Sark's best, where
the chaplain, though he loved pudding, as all parsons do, always
went away before the custard.

"And when I am a parson," says Mr. Esmond, "will you give me no
custard, Beatrix?"

"You--you are different," Beatrix answered.  "You are of our
blood."

"My father was a parson, as you call him," said my lady.

"But mine is a peer of Ireland," says Mistress Beatrix, tossing her
head.  "Let people know their places.  I suppose you will have me
go down on my knees and ask a blessing of Mr. Thomas Tusher, that
has just been made a curate and whose mother was a waiting-maid."

And she tossed out of the room, being in one of her flighty humors
then.

When she was gone, my lady looked so sad and grave, that Harry
asked the cause of her disquietude.  She said it was not merely
what he said of Newmarket, but what she had remarked, with great
anxiety and terror, that my lord, ever since his acquaintance with
the Lord Mohun especially, had recurred to his fondness for play,
which he had renounced since his marriage.

"But men promise more than they are able to perform in marriage,"
said my lady, with a sigh.  "I fear he has lost large sums; and our
property, always small, is dwindling away under this reckless
dissipation.  I heard of him in London with very wild company.
Since his return, letters and lawyers are constantly coming and
going: he seems to me to have a constant anxiety, though he hides
it under boisterousness and laughter.  I looked through--through
the door last night, and--and before," said my lady, "and saw them
at cards after midnight; no estate will bear that extravagance,
much less ours, which will be so diminished that my son will have
nothing at all, and my poor Beatrix no portion!"

"I wish I could help you, madam," said Harry Esmond, sighing, and
wishing that unavailingly, and for the thousandth time in his life.

"Who can?  Only God," said Lady Esmond--"only God, in whose hands
we are."  And so it is, and for his rule over his family, and for
his conduct to wife and children--subjects over whom his power is
monarchical--any one who watches the world must think with
trembling sometimes of the account which many a man will have to
render.  For in our society there's no law to control the King of
the Fireside.  He is master of property, happiness--life almost.
He is free to punish, to make happy or unhappy--to ruin or to
torture.  He may kill a wife gradually, and be no more questioned
than the Grand seignior who drowns a slave at midnight.  He may
make slaves and hypocrites of his children; or friends and freemen;
or drive them into revolt and enmity against the natural law of
love.  I have heard politicians and coffee-house wiseacres talking
over the newspaper, and railing at the tyranny of the French King,
and the Emperor, and wondered how these (who are monarchs, too, in
their way) govern their own dominions at home, where each man rules
absolute.  When the annals of each little reign are shown to the
Supreme Master, under whom we hold sovereignty, histories will be
laid bare of household tyrants as cruel as Amurath, and as savage
as Nero, and as reckless and dissolute as Charles.

If Harry Esmond's patron erred, 'twas in the latter way, from a
disposition rather self-indulgent than cruel; and he might have
been brought back to much better feelings, had time been given to
him to bring his repentance to a lasting reform.

As my lord and his friend Lord Mohun were such close companions,
Mistress Beatrix chose to be jealous of the latter; and the two
gentlemen often entertained each other by laughing, in their rude
boisterous way, at the child's freaks of anger and show of dislike.
"When thou art old enough, thou shalt marry Lord Mohun," Beatrix's
father would say: on which the girl would pout and say, "I would
rather marry Tom Tusher."  And because the Lord Mohun always showed
an extreme gallantry to my Lady Castlewood, whom he professed to
admire devotedly, one day, in answer to this old joke of her
father's, Beatrix said, "I think my lord would rather marry mamma
than marry me; and is waiting till you die to ask her."

The words were said lightly and pertly by the girl one night before
supper, as the family party were assembled near the great fire.
The two lords, who were at cards, both gave a start; my lady turned
as red as scarlet, and bade Mistress Beatrix go to her own chamber;
whereupon the girl, putting on, as her wont was, the most innocent
air, said, "I am sure I meant no wrong; I am sure mamma talks a
great deal more to Harry Esmond than she does to papa--and she
cried when Harry went away, and she never does when papa goes away!
and last night she talked to Lord Mohun for ever so long, and sent
us out of the room, and cried when we came back, and--"

"D--n!" cried out my Lord Castlewood, out of all patience.  "Go out
of the room, you little viper!" and he started up and flung down
his cards.

"Ask Lord Mohun what I said to him, Francis," her ladyship said,
rising up with a scared face, but yet with a great and touching
dignity and candor in her look and voice.  "Come away with me,
Beatrix."  Beatrix sprung up too; she was in tears now.

"Dearest mamma, what have I done?" she asked.  "Sure I meant no
harm."  And she clung to her mother, and the pair went out sobbing
together.

"I will tell you what your wife said to me, Frank," my Lord Mohun
cried.  "Parson Harry may hear it; and, as I hope for heaven, every
word I say is true.  Last night, with tears in her eyes, your wife
implored me to play no more with you at dice or at cards, and you
know best whether what she asked was not for your good."

"Of course, it was, Mohun," says my lord in a dry hard voice.  "Of
course you are a model of a man: and the world knows what a saint
you are."

My Lord Mohun was separated from his wife, and had had many affairs
of honor: of which women as usual had been the cause.

"I am no saint, though your wife is--and I can answer for my
actions as other people must for their words," said my Lord Mohun.

"By G--, my lord, you shall," cried the other, starting up.

"We have another little account to settle first, my lord," says
Lord Mohun.  Whereupon Harry Esmond, filled with alarm for the
consequences to which this disastrous dispute might lead, broke out
into the most vehement expostulations with his patron and his
adversary.  "Gracious heavens!" he said, "my lord, are you going to
draw a sword upon your friend in your own house?  Can you doubt the
honor of a lady who is as pure as heaven, and would die a thousand
times rather than do you a wrong?  Are the idle words of a jealous
child to set friends at variance?  Has not my mistress, as much as
she dared do, besought your lordship, as the truth must be told, to
break your intimacy with my Lord Mohun; and to give up the habit
which may bring ruin on your family?  But for my Lord Mohun's
illness, had he not left you?"

"'Faith, Frank, a man with a gouty toe can't run after other men's
wives," broke out my Lord Mohun, who indeed was in that way, and
with a laugh and a look at his swathed limb so frank and comical,
that the other dashing his fist across his forehead was caught by
that infectious good-humor, and said with his oath, "---- it,
Harry, I believe thee," and so this quarrel was over, and the two
gentlemen, at swords drawn but just now, dropped their points, and
shook hands.

Beati pacifici.  "Go, bring my lady back," said Harry's patron.
Esmond went away only too glad to be the bearer of such good news.
He found her at the door; she had been listening there, but went
back as he came.  She took both his hands, hers were marble cold.
She seemed as if she would fall on his shoulder.  "Thank you, and
God bless you, my dear brother Harry," she said.  She kissed his
hand, Esmond felt her tears upon it: and leading her into the room,
and up to my lord, the Lord Castlewood, with an outbreak of feeling
and affection such as he had not exhibited for many a long day,
took his wife to his heart, and bent over and kissed her and asked
her pardon.

"'Tis time for me to go to roost.  I will have my gruel a-bed,"
said my Lord Mohun: and limped off comically on Harry Esmond's arm.
"By George, that woman is a pearl!" he said; "and 'tis only a pig
that wouldn't value her.  Have you seen the vulgar traipsing
orange-girl whom Esmond"--but here Mr. Esmond interrupted him,
saying, that these were not affairs for him to know.

My lord's gentleman came in to wait upon his master, who was no
sooner in his nightcap and dressing-gown than he had another
visitor whom his host insisted on sending to him: and this was no
other than the Lady Castlewood herself with the toast and gruel,
which her husband bade her make and carry with her own hands in to
her guest.

Lord Castlewood stood looking after his wife as she went on this
errand, and as he looked, Harry Esmond could not but gaze on him,
and remarked in his patron's face an expression of love, and grief,
and care, which very much moved and touched the young man.  Lord
Castlewood's hands fell down at his sides, and his head on his
breast, and presently he said,--

"You heard what Mohun said, parson?"

"That my lady was a saint?"

"That there are two accounts to settle.  I have been going wrong
these five years, Harry Esmond.  Ever since you brought that damned
small-pox into the house, there has been a fate pursuing me, and I
had best have died of it, and not run away from it like a coward.
I left Beatrix with her relations, and went to London; and I fell
among thieves, Harry, and I got back to confounded cards and dice,
which I hadn't touched since my marriage--no, not since I was in
the Duke's Guard, with those wild Mohocks.  And I have been playing
worse and worse, and going deeper and deeper into it; and I owe
Mohun two thousand pounds now; and when it's paid I am little
better than a beggar.  I don't like to look my boy in the face; he
hates me, I know he does.  And I have spent Beaty's little portion:
and the Lord knows what will come if I live; the best thing I can
do is to die, and release what portion of the estate is redeemable
for the boy."

Mohun was as much master at Castlewood as the owner of the Hall
itself; and his equipages filled the stables, where, indeed, there
was room and plenty for many more horses than Harry Esmond's
impoverished patron could afford to keep.  He had arrived on
horseback with his people; but when his gout broke out my Lord
Mohun sent to London for a light chaise he had, drawn by a pair of
small horses, and running as swift, wherever roads were good, as a
Laplander's sledge.  When this carriage came, his lordship was
eager to drive the Lady Castlewood abroad in it, and did so many
times, and at a rapid pace, greatly to his companion's enjoyment,
who loved the swift motion and the healthy breezes over the downs
which lie hard upon Castlewood, and stretch thence towards the sea.
As this amusement was very pleasant to her, and her lord, far from
showing any mistrust of her intimacy with Lord Mohun, encouraged
her to be his companion--as if willing by his present extreme
confidence to make up for any past mistrust which his jealousy had
shown--the Lady Castlewood enjoyed herself freely in this harmless
diversion, which, it must be owned, her guest was very eager to
give her; and it seemed that she grew the more free with Lord
Mohun, and pleased with his company, because of some sacrifice
which his gallantry was pleased to make in her favor.

Seeing the two gentlemen constantly at cards still of evenings,
Harry Esmond one day deplored to his mistress that this fatal
infatuation of her lord should continue; and now they seemed
reconciled together, begged his lady to hint to her husband that he
should play no more.

But Lady Castlewood, smiling archly and gayly, said she would speak
to him presently, and that, for a few nights more at least, he
might be let to have his amusement.

"Indeed, madam," said Harry, "you know not what it costs you; and
'tis easy for any observer who knows the game, to see that Lord
Mohun is by far the stronger of the two."

"I know he is," says my lady, still with exceeding good-humor; "he
is not only the best player, but the kindest player in the world."

"Madam, madam!" Esmond cried, transported and provoked.  "Debts of
honor must be paid some time or other; and my master will be ruined
if he goes on."

"Harry, shall I tell you a secret?" my lady replied, with kindness
and pleasure still in her eyes.  "Francis will not be ruined if he
goes on; he will be rescued if he goes on.  I repent of having
spoken and thought unkindly of the Lord Mohun when he was here in
the past year.  He is full of much kindness and good; and 'tis my
belief that we shall bring him to better things.  I have lent him
'Tillotson' and your favorite 'Bishop Taylor,' and he is much
touched, he says; and as a proof of his repentance--(and herein
lies my secret)--what do you think he is doing with Francis?  He is
letting poor Frank win his money back again.  He hath won already
at the last four nights; and my Lord Mohun says that he will not be
the means of injuring poor Frank and my dear children."

"And in God's name, what do you return him for the sacrifice?"
asked Esmond, aghast; who knew enough of men, and of this one in
particular, to be aware that such a finished rake gave nothing for
nothing.  "How, in heaven's name, are you to pay him?"

"Pay him!  With a mother's blessing and a wife's prayers!" cries my
lady, clasping her hands together.  Harry Esmond did not know
whether to laugh, to be angry, or to love his dear mistress more
than ever for the obstinate innocency with which she chose to
regard the conduct of a man of the world, whose designs he knew
better how to interpret.  He told the lady, guardedly, but so as to
make his meaning quite clear to her, what he knew in respect of the
former life and conduct of this nobleman; of other women against
whom he had plotted, and whom he had overcome; of the conversation
which he, Harry himself, had had with Lord Mohun, wherein the lord
made a boast of his libertinism, and frequently avowed that he held
all women to be fair game (as his lordship styled this pretty
sport), and that they were all, without exception, to be won.  And
the return Harry had for his entreaties and remonstrances was a fit
of anger on Lady Castlewood's part, who would not listen to his
accusations; she said and retorted that he himself must be very
wicked and perverted to suppose evil designs where she was sure
none were meant.  "And this is the good meddlers get of
interfering," Harry thought to himself with much bitterness; and
his perplexity and annoyance were only the greater, because he
could not speak to my Lord Castlewood himself upon a subject of
this nature, or venture to advise or warn him regarding a matter so
very sacred as his own honor, of which my lord was naturally the
best guardian.

But though Lady Castlewood would listen to no advice from her young
dependant, and appeared indignantly to refuse it when offered,
Harry had the satisfaction to find that she adopted the counsel
which she professed to reject; for the next day she pleaded a
headache, when my Lord Mohun would have had her drive out, and the
next day the headache continued; and next day, in a laughing gay
way, she proposed that the children should take her place in his
lordship's car, for they would be charmed with a ride of all
things; and she must not have all the pleasure for herself.  My
lord gave them a drive with a very good grace, though, I dare say,
with rage and disappointment inwardly--not that his heart was very
seriously engaged in his designs upon this simple lady: but the
life of such men is often one of intrigue, and they can no more go
through the day without a woman to pursue, than a fox-hunter
without his sport after breakfast.

Under an affected carelessness of demeanor, and though there was no
outward demonstration of doubt upon his patron's part since the
quarrel between the two lords, Harry yet saw that Lord Castlewood
was watching his guest very narrowly; and caught sight of distrust
and smothered rage (as Harry thought) which foreboded no good.  On
the point of honor Esmond knew how touchy his patron was; and
watched him almost as a physician watches a patient, and it seemed
to him that this one was slow to take the disease, though he could
not throw off the poison when once it had mingled with his blood.
We read in Shakspeare (whom the writer for his part considers to be
far beyond Mr. Congreve, Mr. Dryden, or any of the wits of the
present period,) that when jealousy is once declared, nor poppy,
nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the East, will ever
soothe it or medicine it away.

In fine, the symptoms seemed to be so alarming to this young
physician (who, indeed, young as he was, had felt the kind pulses
of all those dear kinsmen), that Harry thought it would be his duty
to warn my Lord Mohun, and let him know that his designs were
suspected and watched.  So one day, when in rather a pettish humor
his lordship had sent to Lady Castlewood, who had promised to drive
with him, and now refused to come, Harry said--"My lord, if you
will kindly give me a place by your side I will thank you; I have
much to say to you, and would like to speak to you alone."

"You honor me by giving me your confidence, Mr. Henry Esmond," says
the other, with a very grand bow.  My lord was always a fine
gentleman, and young as he was there was that in Esmond's manner
which showed that he was a gentleman too, and that none might take
a liberty with him--so the pair went out, and mounted the little
carriage, which was in waiting for them in the court, with its two
little cream-colored Hanoverian horses covered with splendid
furniture and champing at the bit.

"My lord," says Harry Esmond, after they were got into the country,
and pointing to my Lord Mohun's foot, which was swathed in flannel,
and put up rather ostentatiously on a cushion--"my lord, I studied
medicine at Cambridge."

"Indeed, Parson Harry," says he; "and are you going to take out a
diploma: and cure your fellow-students of the--"

"Of the gout," says Harry, interrupting him, and looking him hard
in the face; "I know a good deal about the gout."

"I hope you may never have it.  'Tis an infernal disease," says my
lord, "and its twinges are diabolical.  Ah!" and he made a dreadful
wry face, as if he just felt a twinge.

"Your lordship would be much better if you took off all that
flannel--it only serves to inflame the toe," Harry continued,
looking his man full in the face.

"Oh! it only serves to inflame the toe, does it?" says the other,
with an innocent air.

"If you took off that flannel, and flung that absurd slipper away,
and wore a boot," continues Harry.

"You recommend me boots, Mr. Esmond?" asks my lord.

"Yes, boots and spurs.  I saw your lordship three days ago run down
the gallery fast enough," Harry goes on.  "I am sure that taking
gruel at night is not so pleasant as claret to your lordship; and
besides it keeps your lordship's head cool for play, whilst my
patron's is hot and flustered with drink."

"'Sdeath, sir, you dare not say that I don't play fair?" cries my
lord, whipping his horses, which went away at a gallop.

"You are cool when my lord is drunk," Harry continued; "your
lordship gets the better of my patron.  I have watched you as I
looked up from my books."

"You young Argus!" says Lord Mohun, who liked Harry Esmond--and for
whose company and wit, and a certain daring manner, Harry had a
great liking too--"You young Argus! you may look with all your
hundred eyes and see we play fair.  I've played away an estate of a
night, and I've played my shirt off my back; and I've played away
my periwig and gone home in a nightcap.  But no man can say I ever
took an advantage of him beyond the advantage of the game.  I
played a dice-cogging scoundrel in Alsatia for his ears and won
'em, and have one of 'em in my lodging in Bow Street in a bottle of
spirits.  Harry Mohun will play any man for anything--always
would."

"You are playing awful stakes, my lord, in my patron's house,"
Harry said, "and more games than are on the cards."

"What do you mean, sir?" cries my lord, turning round, with a flush
on his face.

"I mean," answers Harry, in a sarcastic tone, "that your gout is
well--if ever you had it."

"Sir!" cried my lord, getting hot.

"And to tell the truth I believe your lordship has no more gout
than I have.  At any rate, change of air will do you good, my Lord
Mohun.  And I mean fairly that you had better go from Castlewood."

"And were you appointed to give me this message?" cries the Lord
Mohun.  "Did Frank Esmond commission you?"

"No one did.  'Twas the honor of my family that commissioned me."

"And you are prepared to answer this?" cries the other, furiously
lashing his horses.

"Quite, my lord: your lordship will upset the carriage if you whip
so hotly."

"By George, you have a brave spirit!" my lord cried out, bursting
into a laugh. "I suppose 'tis that infernal botte de Jesuite that
makes you so bold," he added.

"'Tis the peace of the family I love best in the world," Harry
Esmond said warmly--"'tis the honor of a noble benefactor--the
happiness of my dear mistress and her children.  I owe them
everything in life, my lord; and would lay it down for any one of
them.  What brings you here to disturb this quiet household?  What
keeps you lingering month after month in the country?  What makes
you feign illness, and invent pretexts for delay?  Is it to win my
poor patron's money?  Be generous, my lord, and spare his weakness
for the sake of his wife and children.  Is it to practise upon the
simple heart of a virtuous lady?  You might as well storm the Tower
single-handed.  But you may blemish her name by light comments on
it, or by lawless pursuits--and I don't deny that 'tis in your
power to make her unhappy.  Spare these innocent people, and leave
them."

"By the Lord, I believe thou hast an eye to the pretty Puritan
thyself, Master Harry," says my lord, with his reckless, good-humored laugh, and as if he had been listening with interest to the
passionate appeal of the young man.  "Whisper, Harry.  Art thou in
love with her thyself?  Hath tipsy Frank Esmond come by the way of
all flesh?"

"My lord, my lord," cried Harry, his face flushing and his eyes
filling as he spoke, "I never had a mother, but I love this lady as
one.  I worship her as a devotee worships a saint.  To hear her
name spoken lightly seems blasphemy to me.  Would you dare think of
your own mother so, or suffer any one so to speak of her?  It is a
horror to me to fancy that any man should think of her impurely.  I
implore you, I beseech you, to leave her.  Danger will come out of
it."

"Danger, psha!" says my lord, giving a cut to the horses, which at
this minute--for we were got on to the Downs--fairly ran off into a
gallop that no pulling could stop.  The rein broke in Lord Mohun's
hands, and the furious beasts scampered madly forwards, the
carriage swaying to and fro, and the persons within it holding on
to the sides as best they might, until seeing a great ravine before
them, where an upset was inevitable, the two gentlemen leapt for
their lives, each out of his side of the chaise.  Harry Esmond was
quit for a fall on the grass, which was so severe that it stunned
him for a minute; but he got up presently very sick, and bleeding
at the nose, but with no other hurt.  The Lord Mohun was not so
fortunate; he fell on his head against a stone, and lay on the
ground, dead to all appearance.

This misadventure happened as the gentlemen were on their return
homewards; and my Lord Castlewood, with his son and daughter, who
were going out for a ride, met the ponies as they were galloping
with the car behind, the broken traces entangling their heels, and
my lord's people turned and stopped them.  It was young Frank who
spied out Lord Mohun's scarlet coat as he lay on the ground, and
the party made up to that unfortunate gentleman and Esmond, who was
now standing over him.  His large periwig and feathered hat had
fallen off, and he was bleeding profusely from a wound on the
forehead, and looking, and being, indeed, a corpse.

"Great God! he's dead!" says my lord.  "Ride, some one: fetch a
doctor--stay.  I'll go home and bring back Tusher; he knows
surgery," and my lord, with his son after him, galloped away.

They were scarce gone when Harry Esmond, who was indeed but just
come to himself, bethought him of a similar accident which he had
seen on a ride from Newmarket to Cambridge, and taking off a sleeve
of my lord's coat, Harry, with a penknife, opened a vein of his
arm, and was greatly relieved, after a moment, to see the blood
flow.  He was near half an hour before he came to himself, by which
time Doctor Tusher and little Frank arrived, and found my lord not
a corpse indeed, but as pale as one.

After a time, when he was able to bear motion, they put my lord
upon a groom's horse, and gave the other to Esmond, the men walking
on each side of my lord, to support him, if need were, and worthy
Doctor Tusher with them.  Little Frank and Harry rode together at a
foot pace.

When we rode together home, the boy said: "We met mamma, who was
walking on the terrace with the doctor, and papa frightened her,
and told her you were dead . . ."

"That I was dead!" asks Harry.

"Yes.  Papa says: 'Here's poor Harry killed, my dear;' on which
mamma gives a great scream; and oh, Harry! she drops down; and I
thought she was dead too.  And you never saw such a way as papa was
in: he swore one of his great oaths: and he turned quite pale; and
then he began to laugh somehow, and he told the Doctor to take his
horse, and me to follow him; and we left him.  And I looked back,
and saw him dashing water out of the fountain on to mamma.  Oh, she
was so frightened!"

Musing upon this curious history--for my Lord Mohun's name was
Henry too, and they called each other Frank and Harry often--and
not a little disturbed and anxious, Esmond rode home.  His dear
lady was on the terrace still, one of her women with her, and my
lord no longer there.  There are steps and a little door thence
down into the road.  My lord passed, looking very ghastly, with a
handkerchief over his head, and without his hat and periwig, which
a groom carried, but his politeness did not desert him, and he made
a bow to the lady above.

"Thank heaven, you are safe," she said.

"And so is Harry too, mamma," says little Frank,--"huzzay!"

Harry Esmond got off the horse to run to his mistress, as did
little Frank, and one of the grooms took charge of the two beasts,
while the other, hat and periwig in hand, walked by my lord's
bridle to the front gate, which lay half a mile away.

"Oh, my boy! what a fright you have given me!" Lady Castlewood
said, when Harry Esmond came up, greeting him with one of her
shining looks, and a voice of tender welcome; and she was so kind
as to kiss the young man ('twas the second time she had so honored
him), and she walked into the house between him and her son,
holding a hand of each.




CHAPTER XIV.

WE RIDE AFTER HIM TO LONDON.


After a repose of a couple of days, the Lord Mohun was so far
recovered of his hurt as to be able to announce his departure for
the next morning; when, accordingly, he took leave of Castlewood,
proposing to ride to London by easy stages, and lie two nights upon
the road.  His host treated him with a studied and ceremonious
courtesy, certainly different from my lord's usual frank and
careless demeanor; but there was no reason to suppose that the two
lords parted otherwise than good friends, though Harry Esmond
remarked that my Lord Viscount only saw his guest in company with
other persons, and seemed to avoid being alone with him.  Nor did
he ride any distance with Lord Mohun, as his custom was with most
of his friends, whom he was always eager to welcome and unwilling
to lose; but contented himself, when his lordship's horses were
announced, and their owner appeared, booted for his journey, to
take a courteous leave of the ladies of Castlewood, by following
the Lord Mohun down stairs to his horses, and by bowing and wishing
him a good-day, in the court-yard.  "I shall see you in London
before very long, Mohun," my lord said, with a smile, "when we will
settle our accounts together."

"Do not let them trouble you, Frank," said the other good-naturedly, and holding out his hand, looked rather surprised at the
grim and stately manner in which his host received his parting
salutation; and so, followed by his people, he rode away.

Harry Esmond was witness of the departure.  It was very different
to my lord's coming, for which great preparation had been made (the
old house putting on its best appearance to welcome its guest), and
there was a sadness and constraint about all persons that day,
which filled Mr. Esmond with gloomy forebodings, and sad indefinite
apprehensions.  Lord Castlewood stood at the door watching his
guest and his people as they went out under the arch of the outer
gate.  When he was there, Lord Mohun turned once more, my Lord
Viscount slowly raised his beaver and bowed.  His face wore a
peculiar livid look, Harry thought.  He cursed and kicked away his
dogs, which came jumping about him--then he walked up to the
fountain in the centre of the court, and leaned against a pillar
and looked into the basin.  As Esmond crossed over to his own room,
late the chaplain's, on the other side of the court, and turned to
enter in at the low door, he saw Lady Castlewood looking through
the curtains of the great window of the drawing-room overhead, at
my lord as he stood regarding the fountain.  There was in the court
a peculiar silence somehow; and the scene remained long in Esmond's
memory:--the sky bright overhead; the buttresses of the building
and the sun-dial casting shadow over the gilt memento mori
inscribed underneath; the two dogs, a black greyhound and a spaniel
nearly white, the one with his face up to the sun, and the other
snuffing amongst the grass and stones, and my lord leaning over the
fountain, which was bubbling audibly.  'Tis strange how that scene,
and the sound of that fountain, remain fixed on the memory of a man
who has beheld a hundred sights of splendor, and danger too, of
which he has kept no account.

It was Lady Castlewood--she had been laughing all the morning, and
especially gay and lively before her husband and his guest--who as
soon as the two gentlemen went together from her room, ran to
Harry, the expression of her countenance quite changed now, and
with a face and eyes full of care, and said, "Follow them, Harry, I
am sure something has gone wrong."  And so it was that Esmond was
made an eavesdropper at this lady's orders and retired to his own
chamber, to give himself time in truth to try and compose a story
which would soothe his mistress, for he could not but have his own
apprehension that some serious quarrel was pending between the two
gentlemen.

And now for several days the little company at Castlewood sat at
table as of evenings: this care, though unnamed and invisible,
being nevertheless present alway, in the minds of at least three
persons there.  My lord was exceeding gentle and kind.  Whenever he
quitted the room, his wife's eyes followed him.  He behaved to her
with a kind of mournful courtesy and kindness remarkable in one of
his blunt ways and ordinary rough manner.  He called her by her
Christian name often and fondly, was very soft and gentle with the
children, especially with the boy, whom he did not love, and being
lax about church generally, he went thither and performed all the
offices (down even to listening to Dr. Tusher's sermon) with great
devotion.

"He paces his room all night; what is it?  Henry, find out what it
is," Lady Castlewood said constantly to her young dependant.  "He
has sent three letters to London," she said, another day.

"Indeed, madam, they were to a lawyer," Harry answered, who knew of
these letters, and had seen a part of the correspondence, which
related to a new loan my lord was raising; and when the young man
remonstrated with his patron, my lord said, "He was only raising
money to pay off an old debt on the property, which must be
discharged."

Regarding the money, Lady Castlewood was not in the least anxious.
Few fond women feel money-distressed; indeed you can hardly give a
woman a greater pleasure than to bid her pawn her diamonds for the
man she loves; and I remember hearing Mr. Congreve say of my Lord
Marlborough, that the reason why my lord was so successful with
women as a young man, was because he took money of them.  "There
are few men who will make such a sacrifice for them," says Mr.
Congreve, who knew a part of the sex pretty well.

Harry Esmond's vacation was just over, and, as hath been said, he
was preparing to return to the University for his last term before
taking his degree and entering into the Church.  He had made up his
mind for this office, not indeed with that reverence which becomes
a man about to enter upon a duty so holy, but with a worldly spirit
of acquiescence in the prudence of adopting that profession for his
calling.  But his reasoning was that he owed all to the family of
Castlewood, and loved better to be near them than anywhere else in
the world; that he might be useful to his benefactors, who had the
utmost confidence in him and affection for him in return; that he
might aid in bringing up the young heir of the house and acting as
his governor; that he might continue to be his dear patron's and
mistress's friend and adviser, who both were pleased to say that
they should ever look upon him as such; and so, by making himself
useful to those he loved best, he proposed to console himself for
giving up of any schemes of ambition which he might have had in his
own bosom.  Indeed, his mistress had told him that she would not
have him leave her; and whatever she commanded was will to him.

The Lady Castlewood's mind was greatly relieved in the last few
days of this well-remembered holiday time, by my lord's announcing
one morning, after the post had brought him letters from London, in
a careless tone, that the Lord Mohun was gone to Paris, and was
about to make a great journey in Europe; and though Lord
Castlewood's own gloom did not wear off, or his behavior alter, yet
this cause of anxiety being removed from his lady's mind, she began
to be more hopeful and easy in her spirits, striving too, with all
her heart, and by all the means of soothing in her power, to call
back my lord's cheerfulness and dissipate his moody humor.

He accounted for it himself, by saying that he was out of health;
that he wanted to see his physician; that he would go to London,
and consult Doctor Cheyne.  It was agreed that his lordship and
Harry Esmond should make the journey as far as London together; and
of a Monday morning, the 11th of October, in the year 1700, they
set forwards towards London on horseback.  The day before being
Sunday, and the rain pouring down, the family did not visit church;
and at night my lord read the service to his family very finely,
and with a peculiar sweetness and gravity--speaking the parting
benediction, Harry thought, as solemn as ever he heard it.  And he
kissed and embraced his wife and children before they went to their
own chambers with more fondness than he was ordinarily wont to
show, and with a solemnity and feeling of which they thought in
after days with no small comfort.

They took horse the next morning (after adieux from the family as
tender as on the night previous), lay that night on the road, and
entered London at nightfall; my lord going to the "Trumpet," in the
Cockpit, Whitehall, a house used by the military in his time as a
young man, and accustomed by his lordship ever since.

An hour after my lord's arrival (which showed that his visit had
been arranged beforehand), my lord's man of business arrived from
Gray's Inn; and thinking that his patron might wish to be private
with the lawyer, Esmond was for leaving them: but my lord said his
business was short; introduced Mr. Esmond particularly to the
lawyer, who had been engaged for the family in the old lord's time;
who said that he had paid the money, as desired that day, to my
Lord Mohun himself, at his lodgings in Bow Street; that his
lordship had expressed some surprise, as it was not customary to
employ lawyers, he said, in such transactions between men of honor;
but nevertheless, he had returned my Lord Viscount's note of hand,
which he held at his client's disposition.

"I thought the Lord Mohun had been in Paris!" cried Mr. Esmond, in
great alarm and astonishment.

"He is come back at my invitation," said my Lord Viscount.  "We
have accounts to settle together."

"I pray heaven they are over, sir," says Esmond.

"Oh, quite," replied the other, looking hard at the young man.  "He
was rather troublesome about that money which I told you I had lost
to him at play.  And now 'tis paid, and we are quits on that score,
and we shall meet good friends again."

"My lord," cried out Esmond, "I am sure you are deceiving me, and
that there is a quarrel between the Lord Mohun and you."

"Quarrel--pish!  We shall sup together this very night, and drink a
bottle.  Every man is ill-humored who loses such a sum as I have
lost.  But now 'tis paid, and my anger is gone with it."

"Where shall we sup, sir?" says Harry.

"WE!  Let some gentlemen wait till they are asked," says my Lord
Viscount with a laugh.  "You go to Duke Street, and see Mr.
Betterton.  You love the play, I know.  Leave me to follow my own
devices: and in the morning we'll breakfast together, with what
appetite we may, as the play says."

"By G--! my lord, I will not leave you this night," says Harry
Esmond.  "I think I know the cause of your dispute.  I swear to you
'tis nothing.  On the very day the accident befell Lord Mohun, I
was speaking to him about it.  I know that nothing has passed but
idle gallantry on his part."

"You know that nothing has passed but idle gallantry between Lord
Mohun and my wife," says my lord, in a thundering voice--"you knew
of this and did not tell me?"

"I knew more of it than my dear mistress did herself, sir--a
thousand times more.  How was she, who was as innocent as a child,
to know what was the meaning of the covert addresses of a villain?"

"A villain he is, you allow, and would have taken my wife away from
me."

"Sir, she is as pure as an angel," cried young Esmond.

"Have I said a word against her?" shrieks out my lord.  "Did I ever
doubt that she was pure?  It would have been the last day of her
life when I did.  Do you fancy I think that SHE would go astray?
No, she hasn't passion enough for that.  She neither sins nor
forgives.  I know her temper--and now I've lost her, by heaven I
love her ten thousand times more than ever I did--yes, when she was
as young and as beautiful as an angel--when she smiled at me in her
old father's house, and used to lie in wait for me there as I came
from hunting--when I used to fling my head down on her little knees
and cry like a child on her lap--and swear I would reform, and
drink no more and play no more, and follow women no more; when all
the men of the Court used to be following her--when she used to
look with her child more beautiful, by George, than the Madonna in
the Queen's Chapel.  I am not good like her, I know it.  Who is--by
heaven, who is?  I tired and wearied her, I know that very well.  I
could not talk to her.  You men of wit and books could do that, and
I couldn't--I felt I couldn't.  Why, when you was but a boy of
fifteen I could hear you two together talking your poetry and your
books till I was in such a rage that I was fit to strangle you.
But you were always a good lad, Harry, and I loved you, you know I
did.  And I felt she didn't belong to me: and the children don't.
And I besotted myself, and gambled and drank, and took to all sorts
of deviltries out of despair and fury.  And now comes this Mohun,
and she likes him, I know she likes him."

"Indeed, and on my soul, you are wrong, sir," Esmond cried.

"She takes letters from him," cries my lord--"look here, Harry,"
and he pulled out a paper with a brown stain of blood upon it.  "It
fell from him that day he wasn't killed.  One of the grooms picked
it up from the ground and gave it me.  Here it is in their d--d
comedy jargon.  'Divine Gloriana--Why look so coldly on your slave
who adores you?  Have you no compassion on the tortures you have
seen me suffering?  Do you vouchsafe no reply to billets that are
written with the blood of my heart.'  She had more letters from
him."

"But she answered none," cries Esmond.

"That's not Mohun's fault," says my lord, "and I will be revenged
on him, as God's in heaven, I will."

"For a light word or two, will you risk your lady's honor and your
family's happiness, my lord?" Esmond interposed beseechingly.

"Psha--there shall be no question of my wife's honor," said my
lord; "we can quarrel on plenty of grounds beside.  If I live, that
villain will be punished; if I fall, my family will be only the
better: there will only be a spendthrift the less to keep in the
world: and Frank has better teaching than his father.  My mind is
made up, Harry Esmond, and whatever the event is, I am easy about
it.  I leave my wife and you as guardians to the children."

Seeing that my lord was bent upon pursuing this quarrel, and that
no entreaties would draw him from it, Harry Esmond (then of a
hotter and more impetuous nature than now, when care, and
reflection, and gray hairs have calmed him) thought it was his duty
to stand by his kind, generous patron, and said, "My lord, if you
are determined upon war, you must not go into it alone.  'Tis the
duty of our house to stand by its chief; and I should neither
forgive myself nor you if you did not call me, or I should be
absent from you at a moment of danger."

"Why, Harry, my poor boy, you are bred for a parson," says my lord,
taking Esmond by the hand very kindly; "and it were a great pity
that you should meddle in the matter."

"Your lordship thought of being a churchman once," Harry answered,
"and your father's orders did not prevent him fighting at
Castlewood against the Roundheads.  Your enemies are mine, sir; I
can use the foils, as you have seen, indifferently well, and don't
think I shall be afraid when the buttons are taken off 'em."  And
then Harry explained, with some blushes and hesitation (for the
matter was delicate, and he feared lest, by having put himself
forward in the quarrel, he might have offended his patron), how he
had himself expostulated with the Lord Mohun, and proposed to
measure swords with him if need were, and he could not be got to
withdraw peaceably in this dispute.  "And I should have beat him,
sir," says Harry, laughing.  "He never could parry that botte I
brought from Cambridge.  Let us have half an hour of it, and
rehearse--I can teach it your lordship: 'tis the most delicate
point in the world, and if you miss it, your adversary's sword is
through you."

"By George, Harry, you ought to be the head of the house," says my
lord, gloomily.  "You had been a better Lord Castlewood than a lazy
sot like me," he added, drawing his hand across his eyes, and
surveying his kinsman with very kind and affectionate glances.

"Let us take our coats off and have half an hour's practice before
nightfall," says Harry, after thankfully grasping his patron's
manly hand.

"You are but a little bit of a lad," says my lord, good-humoredly;
"but, in faith, I believe you could do for that fellow.  No, my
boy," he continued, "I'll have none of your feints and tricks of
stabbing: I can use my sword pretty well too, and will fight my own
quarrel my own way."

"But I shall be by to see fair play?" cries Harry.

"Yes, God bless you--you shall be by."

"When is it, sir?" says Harry, for he saw that the matter had been
arranged privately and beforehand by my lord.

"'Tis arranged thus: I sent off a courier to Jack Westbury to say
that I wanted him specially.  He knows for what, and will be here
presently, and drink part of that bottle of sack.  Then we shall go
to the theatre in Duke Street, where we shall meet Mohun; and then
we shall all go sup at the 'Rose' or the 'Greyhound.'  Then we
shall call for cards, and there will be probably a difference over
the cards--and then, God help us!--either a wicked villain and
traitor shall go out of the world, or a poor worthless devil, that
doesn't care to remain in it.  I am better away, Hal--my wife will
be all the happier when I am gone," says my lord, with a groan,
that tore the heart of Harry Esmond, so that he fairly broke into a
sob over his patron's kind hand.

"The business was talked over with Mohun before he left home--Castlewood I mean"--my lord went on.  "I took the letter in to him,
which I had read, and I charged him with his villainy, and he could
make no denial of it, only he said that my wife was innocent."

"And so she is; before heaven, my lord, she is!" cries Harry.

"No doubt, no doubt.  They always are," says my lord.  "No doubt,
when she heard he was killed, she fainted from accident."

"But, my lord, MY name is Harry," cried out Esmond, burning red.
"You told my lady, 'Harry was killed!'"

"Damnation! shall I fight you too?" shouts my lord in a fury."  Are
you, you little serpent, warmed by my fire, going to sting--YOU?--No, my boy, you're an honest boy; you are a good boy."  (And here
he broke from rage into tears even more cruel to see.)  "You are an
honest boy, and I love you; and, by heavens, I am so wretched that
I don't care what sword it is that ends me.  Stop, here's Jack
Westbury.  Well, Jack!  Welcome, old boy!  This is my kinsman,
Harry Esmond."

"Who brought your bowls for you at Castlewood, sir?" says Harry,
bowing; and the three gentlemen sat down and drank of that bottle
of sack which was prepared for them.

"Harry is number three," says my lord.  "You needn't be afraid of
him, Jack."  And the Colonel gave a look, as much as to say,
"Indeed, he don't look as if I need."  And then my lord explained
what he had only told by hints before.  When he quarrelled with
Lord Mohun he was indebted to his lordship in a sum of sixteen
hundred pounds, for which Lord Mohun said he proposed to wait until
my Lord Viscount should pay him.  My lord had raised the sixteen
hundred pounds and sent them to Lord Mohun that morning, and before
quitting home had put his affairs into order, and was now quite
ready to abide the issue of the quarrel.

When we had drunk a couple of bottles of sack, a coach was called,
and the three gentlemen went to the Duke's Playhouse, as agreed.
The play was one of Mr. Wycherley's--"Love in a Wood."

Harry Esmond has thought of that play ever since with a kind of
terror, and of Mrs. Bracegirdle, the actress who performed the
girl's part in the comedy.  She was disguised as a page, and came
and stood before the gentlemen as they sat on the stage, and looked
over her shoulder with a pair of arch black eyes, and laughed at my
lord, and asked what ailed the gentleman from the country, and had
he had bad news from Bullock fair?

Between the acts of the play the gentlemen crossed over and
conversed freely.  There were two of Lord Mohun's party, Captain
Macartney, in a military habit, and a gentleman in a suit of blue
velvet and silver in a fair periwig, with a rich fall of point of
Venice lace--my Lord the Earl of Warwick and Holland.  My lord had
a paper of oranges, which he ate and offered to the actresses,
joking with them.  And Mrs. Bracegirdle, when my Lord Mohun said
something rude, turned on him, and asked him what he did there, and
whether he and his friends had come to stab anybody else, as they
did poor Will Mountford?  My lord's dark face grew darker at this
taunt, and wore a mischievous, fatal look.  They that saw it
remembered it, and said so afterward.

When the play was ended the two parties joined company; and my Lord
Castlewood then proposed that they should go to a tavern and sup.
Lockit's, the "Greyhound," in Charing Cross, was the house
selected.  All six marched together that way; the three lords going
a-head, Lord Mohun's captain, and Colonel Westbury, and Harry
Esmond, walking behind them.  As they walked, Westbury told Harry
Esmond about his old friend Dick the Scholar, who had got
promotion, and was Cornet of the Guards, and had wrote a book
called the "Christian Hero," and had all the Guards to laugh at him
for his pains, for the Christian Hero was breaking the commandments
constantly, Westbury said, and had fought one or two duels already.
And, in a lower tone, Westbury besought young Mr. Esmond to take no
part in the quarrel.  "There was no need for more seconds than
one," said the Colonel, "and the Captain or Lord Warwick might
easily withdraw."  But Harry said no; he was bent on going through
with the business.  Indeed, he had a plan in his head, which, he
thought, might prevent my Lord Viscount from engaging.

They went in at the bar of the tavern, and desired a private room
and wine and cards, and when the drawer had brought these, they
began to drink and call healths, and as long as the servants were
in the room appeared very friendly.

Harry Esmond's plan was no other than to engage in talk with Lord
Mohun, to insult him, and so get the first of the quarrel.  So when
cards were proposed he offered to play.  "Psha!" says my Lord Mohun
(whether wishing to save Harry, or not choosing, to try the botte
de Jesuite, it is not to be known)--"Young gentlemen from college
should not play these stakes.  You are too young."

"Who dares say I am too young?" broke out Harry.  "Is your lordship
afraid?"

"Afraid!" cries out Mohun.

But my good Lord Viscount saw the move--"I'll play you for ten
moidores, Mohun," says he.  "You silly boy, we don't play for
groats here as you do at Cambridge."  And Harry, who had no such
sum in his pocket (for his half-year's salary was always pretty
well spent before it was due), fell back with rage and vexation in
his heart that he had not money enough to stake.

"I'll stake the young gentleman a crown," says the Lord Mohun's
captain.

"I thought crowns were rather scarce with the gentlemen of the
army," says Harry.

"Do they birch at College?" says the Captain.

"They birch fools," says Harry, "and they cane bullies, and they
fling puppies into the water."

"Faith, then, there's some escapes drowning," says the Captain, who
was an Irishman; and all the gentlemen began to laugh, and made
poor Harry only more angry.

My Lord Mohun presently snuffed a candle.  It was when the drawers
brought in fresh bottles and glasses and were in the room on which
my Lord Viscount said--"The Deuce take you, Mohun, how damned
awkward you are.  Light the candle, you drawer."

"Damned awkward is a damned awkward expression, my lord," says the
other.  "Town gentlemen don't use such words--or ask pardon if they
do."

"I'm a country gentleman," says my Lord Viscount.

"I see it by your manner," says my Lord Mohun.  "No man shall say
damned awkward to me."

"I fling the words in your face, my lord," says the other; "shall I
send the cards too?"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen! before the servants?" cry out Colonel
Westbury and my Lord Warwick in a breath.  The drawers go out of
the room hastily.  They tell the people below of the quarrel up
stairs.

"Enough has been said," says Colonel Westbury.  "Will your
lordships meet to-morrow morning?"

"Will my Lord Castlewood withdraw his words?" asks the Earl of
Warwick.

"My Lord Castlewood will be ---- first," says Colonel Westbury.

"Then we have nothing for it.  Take notice, gentlemen, there have
been outrageous words--reparation asked and refused."

"And refused," says my Lord Castlewood, putting on his hat.  "Where
shall the meeting be? and when?"

"Since my Lord refuses me satisfaction, which I deeply regret,
there is no time so good as now," says my Lord Mohun.  "Let us have
chairs and go to Leicester Field."

"Are your lordship and I to have the honor of exchanging a pass or
two?" says Colonel Westbury, with a low bow to my Lord of Warwick
and Holland.

"It is an honor for me," says my lord, with a profound congee, "to
be matched with a gentleman who has been at Mons and Namur."

"Will your Reverence permit me to give you a lesson?" says the
Captain.

"Nay, nay, gentlemen, two on a side are plenty," says Harry's
patron.  "Spare the boy, Captain Macartney," and he shook Harry's
hand--for the last time, save one, in his life.

At the bar of the tavern all the gentlemen stopped, and my Lord
Viscount said, laughing, to the barwoman, that those cards set
people sadly a-quarrelling; but that the dispute was over now, and
the parties were all going away to my Lord Mohun's house, in Bow
Street, to drink a bottle more before going to bed.

A half-dozen of chairs were now called, and the six gentlemen
stepping into them, the word was privately given to the chairmen to
go to Leicester Field, where the gentlemen were set down opposite
the "Standard Tavern."  It was midnight, and the town was abed by
this time, and only a few lights in the windows of the houses; but
the night was bright enough for the unhappy purpose which the
disputants came about; and so all six entered into that fatal
square, the chairmen standing without the railing and keeping the
gate, lest any persons should disturb the meeting.

All that happened there hath been matter of public notoriety, and
is recorded, for warning to lawless men, in the annals of our
country.  After being engaged for not more than a couple of
minutes, as Harry Esmond thought (though being occupied at the time
with his own adversary's point, which was active, he may not have
taken a good note of time), a cry from the chairmen without, who
were smoking their pipes, and leaning over the railings of the
field as they watched the dim combat within, announced that some
catastrophe had happened, which caused Esmond to drop his sword and
look round, at which moment his enemy wounded him in the right
hand.  But the young man did not heed this hurt much, and ran up to
the place where he saw his dear master was down.

My Lord Mohun was standing over him.

"Are you much hurt, Frank?" he asked in a hollow voice.

"I believe I am a dead man," my lord said from the ground.

"No, no, not so," says the other; "and I call God to witness, Frank
Esmond, that I would have asked your pardon, had you but given me a
chance.  In--in the first cause of our falling out, I swear that no
one was to blame but me, and--and that my lady--"

"Hush!" says my poor Lord Viscount, lifting himself on his elbow
and speaking faintly.  "'Twas a dispute about the cards--the cursed
cards.  Harry my boy, are you wounded, too?  God help thee!  I
loved thee, Harry, and thou must watch over my little Frank--and--and carry this little heart to my wife."

And here my dear lord felt in his breast for a locket he wore
there, and, in the act, fell back fainting.

We were all at this terrified, thinking him dead; but Esmond and
Colonel Westbury bade the chairmen come into the field; and so my
lord was carried to one Mr. Aimes, a surgeon, in Long Acre, who
kept a bath, and there the house was wakened up, and the victim of
this quarrel carried in.

My Lord Viscount was put to bed, and his wound looked to by the
surgeon, who seemed both kind and skilful.  When he had looked to
my lord, he bandaged up Harry Esmond's hand (who, from loss of
blood, had fainted too, in the house, and may have been some time
unconscious); and when the young man came to himself, you may be
sure he eagerly asked what news there were of his dear patron; on
which the surgeon carried him to the room where the Lord Castlewood
lay; who had already sent for a priest; and desired earnestly, they
said, to speak with his kinsman.  He was lying on a bed, very pale
and ghastly, with that fixed, fatal look in his eyes, which
betokens death; and faintly beckoning all the other persons away
from him with his hand, and crying out "Only Harry Esmond," the
hand fell powerless down on the coverlet, as Harry came forward,
and knelt down and kissed it.

"Thou art all but a priest, Harry," my Lord Viscount gasped out,
with a faint smile, and pressure of his cold hand.  "Are they all
gone?  Let me make thee a death-bed confession."

And with sacred Death waiting, as it were, at the bed-foot, as an
awful witness of his words, the poor dying soul gasped out his last
wishes in respect of his family;--his humble profession of
contrition for his faults;--and his charity towards the world he
was leaving.  Some things he said concerned Harry Esmond as much as
they astonished him.  And my Lord Viscount, sinking visibly, was in
the midst of these strange confessions, when the ecclesiastic for
whom my lord had sent, Mr. Atterbury, arrived.

This gentleman had reached to no great church dignity as yet, but
was only preacher at St. Bride's, drawing all the town thither by
his eloquent sermons.  He was godson to my lord, who had been pupil
to his father; had paid a visit to Castlewood from Oxford more than
once; and it was by his advice, I think, that Harry Esmond was sent
to Cambridge, rather than to Oxford, of which place Mr. Atterbury,
though a distinguished member, spoke but ill.

Our messenger found the good priest already at his books at five
o'clock in the morning, and he followed the man eagerly to the
house where my poor Lord Viscount lay--Esmond watching him, and
taking his dying words from his mouth.

My lord, hearing of Mr. Atterbury's arrival, and squeezing Esmond's
hand, asked to be alone with the priest; and Esmond left them there
for this solemn interview.  You may be sure that his own prayers
and grief accompanied that dying benefactor.  My lord had said to
him that which confounded the young man--informed him of a secret
which greatly concerned him.  Indeed, after hearing it, he had had
good cause for doubt and dismay; for mental anguish as well as
resolution.  While the colloquy between Mr. Atterbury and his dying
penitent took place within, an immense contest of perplexity was
agitating Lord Castlewood's young companion.

At the end of an hour--it may be more--Mr. Atterbury came out of
the room, looking very hard at Esmond, and holding a paper.

"He is on the brink of God's awful judgment," the priest whispered.
"He has made his breast clean to me.  He forgives and believes, and
makes restitution.  Shall it be in public?  Shall we call a witness
to sign it?"

"God knows," sobbed out the young man, "my dearest lord has only
done me kindness all his life."

The priest put the paper into Esmond's hand.  He looked at it.  It
swam before his eyes.

"'Tis a confession," he said.

"'Tis as you please," said Mr. Atterbury.

There was a fire in the room where the cloths were drying for the
baths, and there lay a heap in a corner saturated with the blood of
my dear lord's body.  Esmond went to the fire, and threw the paper
into it.  'Twas a great chimney with glazed Dutch tiles.  How we
remember such trifles at such awful moments!--the scrap of the book
that we have read in a great grief--the taste of that last dish
that we have eaten before a duel, or some such supreme meeting or
parting.  On the Dutch tiles at the Bagnio was a rude picture
representing Jacob in hairy gloves, cheating Isaac of Esau's
birthright.  The burning paper lighted it up.

"'Tis only a confession, Mr. Atterbury," said the young man.  He
leaned his head against the mantel-piece: a burst of tears came to
his eyes.  They were the first he had shed as he sat by his lord,
scared by this calamity, and more yet by what the poor dying
gentleman had told him, and shocked to think that he should be the
agent of bringing this double misfortune on those he loved best.

"Let us go to him," said Mr. Esmond.  And accordingly they went
into the next chamber, where by this time, the dawn had broke,
which showed my lord's poor pale face and wild appealing eyes, that
wore that awful fatal look of coming dissolution.  The surgeon was
with him.  He went into the chamber as Atterbury came out thence.
My Lord Viscount turned round his sick eyes towards Esmond.  It
choked the other to hear that rattle in his throat.

"My Lord Viscount," says Mr. Atterbury, "Mr. Esmond wants no
witnesses, and hath burned the paper."

"My dearest master!" Esmond said, kneeling down, and taking his
hand and kissing it.

My Lord Viscount sprang up in his bed, and flung his arms round
Esmond.  "God bl--bless--" was all he said.  The blood rushed from
his mouth, deluging the young man.  My dearest lord was no more.
He was gone with a blessing on his lips, and love and repentance
and kindness in his manly heart.

"Benedicti benedicentes," says Mr. Atterbury, and the young man,
kneeling at the bedside, groaned out an "Amen."

"Who shall take the news to her?" was Mr. Esmond's next thought.
And on this he besought Mr. Atterbury to bear the tidings to
Castlewood.  He could not face his mistress himself with those
dreadful news.  Mr. Atterbury complying kindly, Esmond writ a hasty
note on his table-book to my lord's man, bidding him get the horses
for Mr. Atterbury, and ride with him, and send Esmond's own valise
to the Gatehouse prison, whither he resolved to go and give himself
up.




BOOK II.

CONTAINS MR. ESMOND'S MILITARY LIFE, AND OTHER MATTERS APPERTAINING
TO THE ESMOND FAMILY.





CHAPTER I.

I AM IN PRISON, AND VISITED, BUT NOT CONSOLED THERE.


Those may imagine, who have seen death untimely strike down persons
revered and beloved, and know how unavailing consolation is, what
was Harry Esmond's anguish after being an actor in that ghastly
midnight scene of blood and homicide.  He could not, he felt, have
faced his dear mistress, and told her that story.  He was thankful
that kind Atterbury consented to break the sad news to her; but,
besides his grief, which he took into prison with him, he had that
in his heart which secretly cheered and consoled him.

A great secret had been told to Esmond by his unhappy stricken
kinsman, lying on his death-bed.  Were he to disclose it, as in
equity and honor he might do, the discovery would but bring greater
grief upon those whom he loved best in the world, and who were sad
enough already.  Should he bring down shame and perplexity upon all
those beings to whom he was attached by so many tender ties of
affection and gratitude? degrade his father's widow? impeach and
sully his father's and kinsman's honor? and for what? for a barren
title, to be worn at the expense of an innocent boy, the son of his
dearest benefactress.  He had debated this matter in his
conscience, whilst his poor lord was making his dying confession.
On one side were ambition, temptation, justice even; but love,
gratitude, and fidelity, pleaded on the other.  And when the
struggle was over in Harry's mind, a glow of righteous happiness
filled it; and it was with grateful tears in his eyes that he
returned thanks to God for that decision which he had been enabled
to make.

"When I was denied by my own blood," thought he, "these dearest
friends received and cherished me.  When I was a nameless orphan
myself, and needed a protector, I found one in yonder kind soul,
who has gone to his account repenting of the innocent wrong he has
done."

And with this consoling thought he went away to give himself up at
the prison, after kissing the cold lips of his benefactor.

It was on the third day after he had come to the Gatehouse prison,
(where he lay in no small pain from his wound, which inflamed and
ached severely,) and with those thoughts and resolutions that have
been just spoke of, to depress, and yet to console him, that H.
Esmond's keeper came and told him that a visitor was asking for
him, and though he could not see her face, which was enveloped in a
black hood, her whole figure, too, being veiled and covered with
the deepest mourning, Esmond knew at once that his visitor was his
dear mistress.

He got up from his bed, where he was lying, being very weak; and
advancing towards her as the retiring keeper shut the door upon him
and his guest in that sad place, he put forward his left hand (for
the right was wounded and bandaged), and he would have taken that
kind one of his mistress, which had done so many offices of
friendship for him for so many years.

But the Lady Castlewood went back from him, putting back her hood,
and leaning against the great stanchioned door which the gaoler had
just closed upon them.  Her face was ghastly white, as Esmond saw
it, looking from the hood; and her eyes, ordinarily so sweet and
tender, were fixed on him with such a tragic glance of woe and
anger, as caused the young man, unaccustomed to unkindness from
that person, to avert his own glances from her face.

"And this, Mr. Esmond," she said, "is where I see you; and 'tis to
this you have brought me!"

"You have come to console me in my calamity, madam," said he
(though, in truth, he scarce knew how to address her, his emotions
at beholding her so overpowered him).

She advanced a little, but stood silent and trembling, looking out
at him from her black draperies, with her small white hands clasped
together, and quivering lips and hollow eyes.

"Not to reproach me," he continued after a pause.  "My grief is
sufficient as it is."

"Take back your hand--do not touch me with it!" she cried.  "Look!
there's blood on it!"

"I wish they had taken it all," said Esmond; "if you are unkind to
me."

"Where is my husband?" she broke out.  "Give me back my husband,
Henry.  Why did you stand by at midnight and see him murdered?  Why
did the traitor escape who did it?  You, the champion of your
house, who offered to die for us!  You that he loved and trusted,
and to whom I confided him--you that vowed devotion and gratitude,
and I believed you--yes, I believed you--why are you here, and my
noble Francis gone?  Why did you come among us?  You have only
brought us grief and sorrow; and repentance, bitter, bitter
repentance, as a return for our love and kindness.  Did I ever do
you a wrong, Henry?  You were but an orphan child when I first saw
you--when HE first saw you, who was so good, and noble, and
trusting.  He would have had you sent away, but, like a foolish
woman, I besought him to let you stay.  And you pretended to love
us, and we believed you--and you made our house wretched, and my
husband's heart went from me: and I lost him through you--I lost
him--the husband of my youth, I say.  I worshipped him: you know I
worshipped him--and he was changed to me.  He was no more my
Francis of old--my dear, dear soldier.  He loved me before he saw
you; and I loved him.  Oh, God is my witness how I loved him!  Why
did he not send you from among us?  'Twas only his kindness, that
could refuse me nothing then.  And, young as you were--yes, and
weak and alone--there was evil, I knew there was evil in keeping
you.  I read it in your face and eyes.  I saw that they boded harm
to us--and it came, I knew it would.  Why did you not die when you
had the small-pox--and I came myself and watched you, and you
didn't know me in your delirium--and you called out for me, though
I was there at your side?  All that has happened since, was a just
judgment on my wicked heart--my wicked jealous heart.  Oh, I am
punished--awfully punished!  My husband lies in his blood--murdered
for defending me, my kind, kind, generous lord--and you were by,
and you let him die, Henry!"

These words, uttered in the wildness of her grief, by one who was
ordinarily quiet, and spoke seldom except with a gentle smile and a
soothing tone, rung in Esmond's ear; and 'tis said that he repeated
many of them in the fever into which he now fell from his wound,
and perhaps from the emotion which such passionate, undeserved
upbraidings caused him.  It seemed as if his very sacrifices and
love for this lady and her family were to turn to evil and
reproach: as if his presence amongst them was indeed a cause of
grief, and the continuance of his life but woe and bitterness to
theirs.  As the Lady Castlewood spoke bitterly, rapidly, without a
tear, he never offered a word of appeal or remonstrance: but sat at
the foot of his prison-bed, stricken only with the more pain at
thinking it was that soft and beloved hand which should stab him so
cruelly, and powerless against her fatal sorrow.  Her words as she
spoke struck the chords of all his memory, and the whole of his
boyhood and youth passed within him; whilst this lady, so fond and
gentle but yesterday--this good angel whom he had loved and
worshipped--stood before him, pursuing him with keen words and
aspect malign.

"I wish I were in my lord's place," he groaned out.  "It was not my
fault that I was not there, madam.  But Fate is stronger than all
of us, and willed what has come to pass.  It had been better for me
to have died when I had the illness."

"Yes, Henry," said she--and as she spoke she looked at him with a
glance that was at once so fond and so sad, that the young man,
tossing up his arms, wildly fell back, hiding his head in the
coverlet of the bed.  As he turned he struck against the wall with
his wounded hand, displacing the ligature; and he felt the blood
rushing again from the wound.  He remembered feeling a secret
pleasure at the accident--and thinking, "Suppose I were to end now,
who would grieve for me?"

This hemorrhage, or the grief and despair in which the luckless
young man was at the time of the accident, must have brought on a
deliquium presently; for he had scarce any recollection afterwards,
save of some one, his mistress probably, seizing his hand--and then
of the buzzing noise in his ears as he awoke, with two or three
persons of the prison around his bed, whereon he lay in a pool of
blood from his arm.

It was now bandaged up again by the prison surgeon, who happened to
be in the place; and the governor's wife and servant, kind people
both, were with the patient.  Esmond saw his mistress still in the
room when he awoke from his trance; but she went away without a
word; though the governor's wife told him that she sat in her room
for some time afterward, and did not leave the prison until she
heard that Esmond was likely to do well.

Days afterwards, when Esmond was brought out of a fever which he
had, and which attacked him that night pretty sharply, the honest
keeper's wife brought her patient a handkerchief fresh washed and
ironed, and at the corner of which he recognized his mistress's
well-known cipher and viscountess's crown.  "The lady had bound it
round his arm when he fainted, and before she called for help," the
keeper's wife said.  "Poor lady! she took on sadly about her
husband.  He has been buried to-day, and a many of the coaches of
the nobility went with him--my Lord Marlborough's and my Lord
Sunderland's, and many of the officers of the Guards, in which he
served in the old King's time; and my lady has been with her two
children to the King at Kensington, and asked for justice against
my Lord Mohun, who is in hiding, and my Lord the Earl of Warwick
and Holland, who is ready to give himself up and take his trial."

Such were the news, coupled with assertions about her own honesty
and that of Molly her maid, who would never have stolen a certain
trumpery gold sleeve-button of Mr. Esmond's that was missing after
his fainting fit, that the keeper's wife brought to her lodger.
His thoughts followed to that untimely grave, the brave heart, the
kind friend, the gallant gentleman, honest of word and generous of
thought, (if feeble of purpose, but are his betters much stronger
than he?) who had given him bread and shelter when he had none;
home and love when he needed them; and who, if he had kept one
vital secret from him, had done that of which he repented ere
dying--a wrong indeed, but one followed by remorse, and occasioned
by almost irresistible temptation.

Esmond took his handkerchief when his nurse left him, and very
likely kissed it, and looked at the bauble embroidered in the
corner.  "It has cost thee grief enough," he thought, "dear lady,
so loving and so tender.  Shall I take it from thee and thy
children?  No, never!  Keep it, and wear it, my little Frank, my
pretty boy.  If I cannot make a name for myself, I can die without
one.  Some day, when my dear mistress sees my heart, I shall be
righted; or if not here or now, why, elsewhere; where Honor doth
not follow us, but where Love reigns perpetual."

'Tis needless to relate here, as the reports of the lawyers already
have chronicled them, the particulars or issue of that trial which
ensued upon my Lord Castlewood's melancholy homicide.  Of the two
lords engaged in that sad matter, the second, my Lord the Earl of
Warwick and Holland, who had been engaged with Colonel Westbury,
and wounded by him, was found not guilty by his peers, before whom
he was tried (under the presidence of the Lord Steward, Lord
Somers); and the principal, the Lord Mohun, being found guilty of
the manslaughter, (which, indeed, was forced upon him, and of which
he repented most sincerely,) pleaded his clergy, and so was
discharged without any penalty.  The widow of the slain nobleman,
as it was told us in prison, showed an extraordinary spirit; and,
though she had to wait for ten years before her son was old enough
to compass it, declared she would have revenge of her husband's
murderer.  So much and suddenly had grief, anger, and misfortune
appeared to change her.  But fortune, good or ill, as I take it,
does not change men and women.  It but develops their characters.
As there are a thousand thoughts lying within a man that he does
not know till he takes up the pen to write, so the heart is a
secret even to him (or her) who has it in his own breast.  Who hath
not found himself surprised into revenge, or action, or passion,
for good or evil, whereof the seeds lay within him, latent and
unsuspected, until the occasion called them forth?  With the death
of her lord, a change seemed to come over the whole conduct and
mind of Lady Castlewood; but of this we shall speak in the right
season and anon.

The lords being tried then before their peers at Westminster,
according to their privilege, being brought from the Tower with
state processions and barges, and accompanied by lieutenants and
axe-men, the commoners engaged in that melancholy fray took their
trial at Newgate, as became them; and, being all found guilty,
pleaded likewise their benefit of clergy.  The sentence, as we all
know in these cases, is, that the culprit lies a year in prison, or
during the King's pleasure, and is burned in the hand, or only
stamped with a cold iron; or this part of the punishment is
altogether remitted at the grace of the Sovereign.  So Harry Esmond
found himself a criminal and a prisoner at two-and-twenty years
old; as for the two colonels, his comrades, they took the matter
very lightly.  Duelling was a part of their business; and they
could not in honor refuse any invitations of that sort.

But the case was different with Mr. Esmond.  His life was changed
by that stroke of the sword which destroyed his kind patron's.  As
he lay in prison, old Dr. Tusher fell ill and died; and Lady
Castlewood appointed Thomas Tusher to the vacant living; about the
filling of which she had a thousand times fondly talked to Harry
Esmond: how they never should part; how he should educate her boy;
how to be a country clergyman, like saintly George Herbert or pious
Dr. Ken, was the happiest and greatest lot in life; how (if he were
obstinately bent on it, though, for her part, she owned rather to
holding Queen Bess's opinion, that a bishop should have no wife,
and if not a bishop why a clergyman?) she would find a good wife
for Harry Esmond: and so on, with a hundred pretty prospects told
by fireside evenings, in fond prattle, as the children played about
the hall.  All these plans were overthrown now.  Thomas Tusher
wrote to Esmond, as he lay in prison, announcing that his patroness
had conferred upon him the living his reverend father had held for
many years; that she never, after the tragical events which had
occurred (whereof Tom spoke with a very edifying horror), could see
in the revered Tusher's pulpit, or at her son's table, the man who
was answerable for the father's life; that her ladyship bade him to
say that she prayed for her kinsman's repentance and his worldly
happiness; that he was free to command her aid for any scheme of
life which he might propose to himself; but that on this side of
the grave she would see him no more.  And Tusher, for his own part,
added that Harry should have his prayers as a friend of his youth,
and commended him whilst he was in prison to read certain works of
theology, which his Reverence pronounced to be very wholesome for
sinners in his lamentable condition.

And this was the return for a life of devotion--this the end of
years of affectionate intercourse and passionate fidelity!  Harry
would have died for his patron, and was held as little better than
his murderer: he had sacrificed, she did not know how much, for his
mistress, and she threw him aside; he had endowed her family with
all they had, and she talked about giving him alms as to a menial!
The grief for his patron's loss; the pains of his own present
position, and doubts as to the future: all these were forgotten
under the sense of the consummate outrage which he had to endure,
and overpowered by the superior pang of that torture.

He writ back a letter to Mr. Tusher from his prison, congratulating
his Reverence upon his appointment to the living of Castlewood:
sarcastically bidding him to follow in the footsteps of his
admirable father, whose gown had descended upon him; thanking her
ladyship for her offer of alms, which he said he should trust not
to need; and beseeching her to remember that, if ever her
determination should change towards him, he would be ready to give
her proofs of a fidelity which had never wavered, and which ought
never to have been questioned by that house.  "And if we meet no
more, or only as strangers in this world," Mr. Esmond concluded, "a
sentence against the cruelty and injustice of which I disdain to
appeal; hereafter she will know who was faithful to her, and
whether she had any cause to suspect the love and devotion of her
kinsman and servant."

After the sending of this letter, the poor young fellow's mind was
more at ease than it had been previously.  The blow had been
struck, and he had borne it.  His cruel goddess had shaken her
wings and fled: and left him alone and friendless, but virtute sua.
And he had to bear him up, at once the sense of his right and the
feeling of his wrongs, his honor and his misfortune.  As I have
seen men waking and running to arms at a sudden trumpet, before
emergency a manly heart leaps up resolute; meets the threatening
danger with undaunted countenance; and, whether conquered or
conquering, faces it always.  Ah! no man knows his strength or his
weakness, till occasion proves them.  If there be some thoughts and
actions of his life from the memory of which a man shrinks with
shame, sure there are some which he may be proud to own and
remember; forgiven injuries, conquered temptations (now and then)
and difficulties vanquished by endurance.

It was these thoughts regarding the living, far more than any great
poignancy of grief respecting the dead, which affected Harry Esmond
whilst in prison after his trial: but it may be imagined that he
could take no comrade of misfortune into the confidence of his
feelings, and they thought it was remorse and sorrow for his
patron's loss which affected the young man, in error of which
opinion he chose to leave them.  As a companion he was so moody and
silent that the two officers, his fellow-sufferers, left him to
himself mostly, liked little very likely what they knew of him,
consoled themselves with dice, cards, and the bottle, and whiled
away their own captivity in their own way.  It seemed to Esmond as
if he lived years in that prison: and was changed and aged when he
came out of it.  At certain periods of life we live years of
emotion in a few weeks--and look back on those times, as on great
gaps between the old life and the new.  You do not know how much
you suffer in those critical maladies of the heart, until the
disease is over and you look back on it afterwards.  During the
time, the suffering is at least sufferable.  The day passes in more
or less of pain, and the night wears away somehow.  'Tis only in
after days that we see what the danger has been--as a man out a-hunting or riding for his life looks at a leap, and wonders how he
should have survived the taking of it.  O dark months of grief and
rage! of wrong and cruel endurance!  He is old now who recalls you.
Long ago he has forgiven and blest the soft hand that wounded him:
but the mark is there, and the wound is cicatrized only--no time,
tears, caresses, or repentance, can obliterate the scar.  We are
indocile to put up with grief, however.  Reficimus rates quassas:
we tempt the ocean again and again, and try upon new ventures.
Esmond thought of his early time as a novitiate, and of this past
trial as an initiation before entering into life--as our young
Indians undergo tortures silently before they pass to the rank of
warriors in the tribe.

The officers, meanwhile, who were not let into the secret of the
grief which was gnawing at the side of their silent young friend,
and being accustomed to such transactions, in which one comrade or
another was daily paying the forfeit of the sword, did not, of
course, bemoan themselves very inconsolably about the fate of their
late companion in arms.  This one told stories of former adventures
of love, or war, or pleasure, in which poor Frank Esmond had been
engaged; t'other recollected how a constable had been bilked, or a
tavern-bully beaten: whilst my lord's poor widow was sitting at his
tomb worshipping him as an actual saint and spotless hero--so the
visitors said who had news of Lady Castlewood; and Westbury and
Macartney had pretty nearly had all the town to come and see them.

The duel, its fatal termination, the trial of the two peers and the
three commoners concerned, had caused the greatest excitement in
the town.  The prints and News Letters were full of them.  The
three gentlemen in Newgate were almost as much crowded as the
bishops in the Tower, or a highwayman before execution.  We were
allowed to live in the Governor's house, as hath been said, both
before trial and after condemnation, waiting the King's pleasure;
nor was the real cause of the fatal quarrel known, so closely had
my lord and the two other persons who knew it kept the secret, but
every one imagined that the origin of the meeting was a gambling
dispute.  Except fresh air, the prisoners had, upon payment, most
things they could desire.  Interest was made that they should not
mix with the vulgar convicts, whose ribald choruses and loud
laughter and curses could be heard from their own part of the
prison, where they and the miserable debtors were confined pell-mell.




CHAPTER II.

I COME TO THE END OF MY CAPTIVITY, BUT NOT OF MY TROUBLE.


Among the company which came to visit the two officers was an old
acquaintance of Harry Esmond; that gentleman of the Guards, namely,
who had been so kind to Harry when Captain Westbury's troop had
been quartered at Castlewood more than seven years before.  Dick
the Scholar was no longer Dick the Trooper now, but Captain Steele
of Lucas's Fusiliers, and secretary to my Lord Cutts, that famous
officer of King William's, the bravest and most beloved man of the
English army.  The two jolly prisoners had been drinking with a
party of friends (for our cellar and that of the keepers of
Newgate, too, were supplied with endless hampers of Burgundy and
Champagne that the friends of the Colonels sent in); and Harry,
having no wish for their drink or their conversation, being too
feeble in health for the one and too sad in spirits for the other,
was sitting apart in his little room, reading such books as he had,
one evening, when honest Colonel Westbury, flushed with liquor, and
always good-humored in and out of his cups, came laughing into
Harry's closet and said, "Ho, young Killjoy! here's a friend come
to see thee; he'll pray with thee, or he'll drink with thee; or
he'll drink and pray turn about.  Dick, my Christian hero, here's
the little scholar of Castlewood."

Dick came up and kissed Esmond on both cheeks, imparting a strong
perfume of burnt sack along with his caress to the young man.

"What! is this the little man that used to talk Latin and fetch our
bowls?  How tall thou art grown!  I protest I should have known
thee anywhere.  And so you have turned ruffian and fighter; and
wanted to measure swords with Mohun, did you?  I protest that Mohun
said at the Guard dinner yesterday, where there was a pretty
company of us, that the young fellow wanted to fight him, and was
the better man of the two."

"I wish we could have tried and proved it, Mr. Steele," says
Esmond, thinking of his dead benefactor, and his eyes filling with
tears.

With the exception of that one cruel letter which he had from his
mistress, Mr. Esmond heard nothing from her, and she seemed
determined to execute her resolve of parting from him and disowning
him.  But he had news of her, such as it was, which Mr. Steele
assiduously brought him from the Prince's and Princess's Court,
where our honest Captain had been advanced to the post of gentleman
waiter.  When off duty there, Captain Dick often came to console
his friends in captivity; a good nature and a friendly disposition
towards all who were in ill-fortune no doubt prompting him to make
his visits, and good-fellowship and good wine to prolong them.

"Faith," says Westbury, "the little scholar was the first to begin
the quarrel--I mind me of it now--at Lockit's.  I always hated that
fellow Mohun.  What was the real cause, of the quarrel betwixt him
and poor Frank?  I would wager 'twas a woman."

"'Twas a quarrel about play--on my word, about play," Harry said.
"My poor lord lost great sums to his guest at Castlewood.  Angry
words passed between them; and, though Lord Castlewood was the
kindest and most pliable soul alive, his spirit was very high; and
hence that meeting which has brought us all here," says Mr. Esmond,
resolved never to acknowledge that there had ever been any other
cause but cards for the duel.

"I do not like to use bad words of a nobleman," says Westbury; "but
if my Lord Mohun were a commoner, I would say, 'twas a pity he was
not hanged.  He was familiar with dice and women at a time other
boys are at school being birched; he was as wicked as the oldest
rake, years ere he had done growing; and handled a sword and a
foil, and a bloody one, too, before he ever used a razor.  He held
poor Will Mountford in talk that night, when bloody Dick Hill ran
him through.  He will come to a bad end, will that young lord; and
no end is bad enough for him," says honest Mr. Westbury: whose
prophecy was fulfilled twelve years after, upon that fatal day when
Mohun fell, dragging down one of the bravest and greatest gentlemen
in England in his fall.

From Mr. Steele, then, who brought the public rumor, as well as his
own private intelligence, Esmond learned the movements of his
unfortunate mistress.  Steele's heart was of very inflammable
composition; and the gentleman usher spoke in terms of boundless
admiration both of the widow (that most beautiful woman, as he
said) and of her daughter, who, in the Captain's eyes, was a still
greater paragon.  If the pale widow, whom Captain Richard, in his
poetic rapture compared to a Niobe in tears--to a Sigismunda--to a
weeping Belvidera, was an object the most lovely and pathetic which
his eyes had ever beheld, or for which his heart had melted, even
her ripened perfections and beauty were as nothing compared to the
promise of that extreme loveliness which the good Captain saw in
her daughter.  It was matre pulcra filia pulcrior.  Steele composed
sonnets whilst he was on duty in his Prince's ante-chamber, to the
maternal and filial charms.  He would speak for hours about them to
Harry Esmond; and, indeed, he could have chosen few subjects more
likely to interest the unhappy young man, whose heart was now as
always devoted to these ladies; and who was thankful to all who
loved them, or praised them, or wished them well.

Not that his fidelity was recompensed by any answering kindness, or
show of relenting even, on the part of a mistress obdurate now
after ten years of love and benefactions.  The poor young man
getting no answer, save Tusher's, to that letter which he had
written, and being too proud to write more, opened a part of his
heart to Steele, than whom no man, when unhappy, could find a
kinder hearer, or more friendly emissary; described (in words which
were no doubt pathetic, for they came imo pectore, and caused
honest Dick to weep plentifully) his youth, his constancy, his fond
devotion to that household which had reared him; his affection, how
earned, and how tenderly requited until but yesterday, and (as far
as he might) the circumstances and causes for which that sad
quarrel had made of Esmond a prisoner under sentence, a widow and
orphans of those whom in life he held dearest.  In terms that might
well move a harder-hearted man than young Esmond's confidant--for,
indeed, the speaker's own heart was half broke as he uttered them--he described a part of what had taken place in that only sad
interview which his mistress had granted him; how she had left him
with anger and almost imprecation, whose words and thoughts until
then had been only blessing and kindness; how she had accused him
of the guilt of that blood, in exchange for which he would
cheerfully have sacrificed his own (indeed, in this the Lord Mohun,
the Lord Warwick, and all the gentlemen engaged, as well as the
common rumor out of doors--Steele told him--bore out the luckless
young man); and with all his heart, and tears, he besought Mr.
Steele to inform his mistress of her kinsman's unhappiness, and to
deprecate that cruel anger she showed him.  Half frantic with grief
at the injustice done him, and contrasting it with a thousand soft
recollections of love and confidence gone by, that made his present
misery inexpressibly more bitter, the poor wretch passed many a
lonely day and wakeful night in a kind of powerless despair and
rage against his iniquitous fortune.  It was the softest hand that
struck him, the gentlest and most compassionate nature that
persecuted him.  "I would as lief," he said, "have pleaded guilty
to the murder, and have suffered for it like any other felon, as
have to endure the torture to which my mistress subjects me."

Although the recital of Esmond's story, and his passionate appeals
and remonstrances, drew so many tears from Dick who heard them,
they had no effect upon the person whom they were designed to move.
Esmond's ambassador came back from the mission with which the poor
young gentleman had charged him, with a sad blank face and a shake
of the head, which told that there was no hope for the prisoner;
and scarce a wretched culprit in that prison of Newgate ordered for
execution, and trembling for a reprieve, felt more cast down than
Mr. Esmond, innocent and condemned.

As had been arranged between the prisoner and his counsel in their
consultations, Mr. Steele had gone to the dowager's house in
Chelsey, where it has been said the widow and her orphans were, had
seen my Lady Viscountess, and pleaded the cause of her unfortunate
kinsman.  "And I think I spoke well, my poor boy," says Mr. Steele;
"for who would not speak well in such a cause, and before so
beautiful a judge?  I did not see the lovely Beatrix (sure her
famous namesake of Florence was never half so beautiful), only the
young Viscount was in the room with the Lord Churchill, my Lord of
Marlborough's eldest son.  But these young gentlemen went off to
the garden; I could see them from the window tilting at each other
with poles in a mimic tournament (grief touches the young but
lightly, and I remember that I beat a drum at the coffin of my own
father).  My Lady Viscountess looked out at the two boys at their
game and said--'You see, sir, children are taught to use weapons of
death as toys, and to make a sport of murder;' and as she spoke she
looked so lovely, and stood there in herself so sad and beautiful,
an instance of that doctrine whereof I am a humble preacher, that
had I not dedicated my little volume of the 'Christian Hero'--(I
perceive, Harry, thou hast not cut the leaves of it.  The sermon is
good, believe me, though the preacher's life may not answer it)--I
say, hadn't I dedicated the volume to Lord Cutts, I would have
asked permission to place her ladyship's name on the first page.  I
think I never saw such a beautiful violet as that of her eyes,
Harry.  Her complexion is of the pink of the blush-rose, she hath
an exquisite turned wrist and dimpled hand, and I make no doubt--"

"Did you come to tell me about the dimples on my lady's hand?"
broke out Mr. Esmond, sadly.

"A lovely creature in affliction seems always doubly beautiful to
me," says the poor Captain, who indeed was but too often in a state
to see double, and so checked he resumed the interrupted thread of
his story.  "As I spoke my business," Mr. Steele said, "and
narrated to your mistress what all the world knows, and the other
side hath been eager to acknowledge--that you had tried to put
yourself between the two lords, and to take your patron's quarrel
on your own point; I recounted the general praises of your
gallantry, besides my Lord Mohun's particular testimony to it; I
thought the widow listened with some interest, and her eyes--I have
never seen such a violet, Harry--looked up at mine once or twice.
But after I had spoken on this theme for a while she suddenly broke
away with a cry of grief.  'I would to God, sir,' she said, 'I had
never heard that word gallantry which you use, or known the meaning
of it.  My lord might have been here but for that; my home might be
happy; my poor boy have a father.  It was what you gentlemen call
gallantry came into my home, and drove my husband on to the cruel
sword that killed him.  You should not speak the word to a
Christian woman, sir, a poor widowed mother of orphans, whose home
was happy until the world came into it--the wicked godless world,
that takes the blood of the innocent, and lets the guilty go free.'

"As the afflicted lady spoke in this strain, sir," Mr. Steele
continued, "it seemed as if indignation moved her, even more than
grief.  'Compensation!' she went on passionately, her cheeks and
eyes kindling; 'what compensation does your world give the widow
for her husband, and the children for the murderer of their father?
The wretch who did the deed has not even a punishment.  Conscience!
what conscience has he, who can enter the house of a friend,
whisper falsehood and insult to a woman that never harmed him, and
stab the kind heart that trusted him?  My Lord--my Lord Wretch's,
my Lord Villain's, my Lord Murderer's peers meet to try him, and
they dismiss him with a word or two of reproof and send him into
the world again, to pursue women with lust and falsehood, and to
murder unsuspecting guests that harbor him.  That day, my Lord--my
Lord Murderer--(I will never name him)--was let loose, a woman was
executed at Tyburn for stealing in a shop.  But a man may rob
another of his life, or a lady of her honor, and shall pay no
penalty!  I take my child, run to the throne, and on my knees ask
for justice, and the King refuses me.  The King! he is no king of
mine--he never shall be.  He, too, robbed the throne from the king
his father--the true king--and he has gone unpunished, as the great
do.'

"I then thought to speak for you," Mr. Steele continued, "and I
interposed by saying, 'There was one, madam, who, at least, would
have put his own breast between your husband's and my Lord Mohun's
sword.  Your poor young kinsman, Harry Esmond, hath told me that he
tried to draw the quarrel on himself.'

"'Are you come from HIM?' asked the lady (so Mr. Steele went on)
rising up with a great severity and stateliness.  'I thought you
had come from the Princess.  I saw Mr. Esmond in his prison, and
bade him farewell.  He brought misery into my house.  He never
should have entered it.'

"'Madam, madam, he is not to blame,' I interposed," continued Mr.
Steele.

"'Do I blame him to you, sir?' asked the widow.  'If 'tis he who
sent you, say that I have taken counsel, where'--she spoke with a
very pallid cheek now, and a break in her voice--'where all who ask
may have it;--and that it bids me to part from him, and to see him
no more.  We met in the prison for the last time--at least for
years to come.  It may be, in years hence, when--when our knees and
our tears and our contrition have changed our sinful hearts, sir,
and wrought our pardon, we may meet again--but not now.  After what
has passed, I could not bear to see him.  I wish him well, sir; but
I wish him farewell, too; and if he has that--that regard towards
us which he speaks of, I beseech him to prove it by obeying me in
this.'

"'I shall break the young man's heart, madam, by this hard
sentence,'" Mr. Steele said.

"The lady shook her head," continued my kind scholar.  "'The hearts
of young men, Mr. Steele, are not so made,' she said.  'Mr. Esmond
will find other--other friends.  The mistress of this house has
relented very much towards the late lord's son,' she added, with a
blush, 'and has promised me, that is, has promised that she will
care for his fortune.  Whilst I live in it, after the horrid horrid
deed which has passed, Castlewood must never be a home to him--never.  Nor would I have him write to me--except--no--I would have
him never write to me, nor see him more.  Give him, if you will, my
parting--Hush! not a word of this before my daughter.'

"Here the fair Beatrix entered from the river, with her cheeks
flushing with health, and looking only the more lovely and fresh
for the mourning habiliments which she wore.  And my Lady
Viscountess said--

"'Beatrix, this is Mr. Steele, gentleman-usher to the Prince's
Highness.  When does your new comedy appear, Mr. Steele?'  I hope
thou wilt be out of prison for the first night, Harry."

The sentimental Captain concluded his sad tale, saying, "Faith, the
beauty of Filia pulcrior drove pulcram matrem out of my head; and
yet as I came down the river, and thought about the pair, the
pallid dignity and exquisite grace of the matron had the uppermost,
and I thought her even more noble than the virgin!"


The party of prisoners lived very well in Newgate, and with
comforts very different to those which were awarded to the poor
wretches there (his insensibility to their misery, their gayety
still more frightful, their curses and blasphemy, hath struck with
a kind of shame since--as proving how selfish, during his
imprisonment, his own particular grief was, and how entirely the
thoughts of it absorbed him): if the three gentlemen lived well
under the care of the Warden of Newgate, it was because they paid
well: and indeed the cost at the dearest ordinary or the grandest
tavern in London could not have furnished a longer reckoning, than
our host of the "Handcuff Inn"--as Colonel Westbury called it.  Our
rooms were the three in the gate over Newgate--on the second story
looking up Newgate Street towards Cheapside and Paul's Church.  And
we had leave to walk on the roof, and could see thence Smithfield
and the Bluecoat Boys' School, Gardens, and the Chartreux, where,
as Harry Esmond remembered, Dick the Scholar, and his friend Tom
Tusher, had had their schooling.

Harry could never have paid his share of that prodigious heavy
reckoning which my landlord brought to his guests once a week: for
be had but three pieces in his pockets that fatal night before the
duel, when the gentlemen were at cards, and offered to play five.
But whilst he was yet ill at the Gatehouse, after Lady Castlewood
had visited him there, and before his trial, there came one in an
orange-tawny coat and blue lace, the livery which the Esmonds
always wore, and brought a sealed packet for Mr. Esmond, which
contained twenty guineas, and a note saying that a counsel had been
appointed for him, and that more money would be forthcoming
whenever he needed it.

'Twas a queer letter from the scholar as she was, or as she called
herself: the Dowager Viscountess Castlewood, written in the strange
barbarous French which she and many other fine ladies of that time--witness her Grace of Portsmouth--employed.  Indeed, spelling was
not an article of general commodity in the world then, and my Lord
Marlborough's letters can show that he, for one, had but a little
share of this part of grammar:--


"MONG COUSSIN," my Lady Viscountess Dowager wrote, "je scay que
vous vous etes bravement batew et grievement blessay--du coste de
feu M. le Vicomte.  M. le Compte de Varique ne se playt qua parlay
de vous: M. de Moon aucy.  Il di que vous avay voulew vous bastre
avecque luy--que vous estes plus fort que luy fur l'ayscrimme--quil'y a surtout certaine Botte que vous scavay quil n'a jammay
sceu pariay: et que c'en eut ete fay de luy si vouseluy vous vous
fussiay battews ansamb.  Aincy ce pauv Vicompte est mort.  Mort et
pontayt--Mon coussin, mon coussin! jay dans la tayste que vous
n'estes quung pety Monst--angcy que les Esmonds ong tousjours este.
La veuve est chay moy.  J'ay recuilly cet' pauve famme.  Elle est
furieuse cont vous, allans tous les jours chercher ley Roy (d'icy)
demandant a gran cri revanche pour son Mary.  Elle ne veux voyre ni
entende parlay de vous: pourtant elle ne fay qu'en parlay milfoy
par jour.  Quand vous seray hor prison venay me voyre.  J'auray
soing de vous.  Si cette petite Prude veut se defaire de song pety
Monste (Helas je craing quil ne soy trotar!) je m'on chargeray.
J'ay encor quelqu interay et quelques escus de costay.

"La Veuve se raccommode avec Miladi Marlboro qui est tout puicante
avecque la Reine Anne.  Cet dam senteraysent pour la petite prude;
qui pourctant a un fi du mesme asge que vous savay.

"En sortant de prisong venez icy.  Je ne puy vous recevoir chaymoy
a cause des mechansetes du monde, may pre du moy vous aurez
logement.

"ISABELLE VICOMTESSE D'ESMOND"


Marchioness of Esmond this lady sometimes called herself, in virtue
of that patent which had been given by the late King James to Harry
Esmond's father; and in this state she had her train carried by a
knight's wife, a cup and cover of assay to drink from, and fringed
cloth.

He who was of the same age as little Francis, whom we shall
henceforth call Viscount Castlewood here, was H. R. H. the Prince
of Wales, born in the same year and month with Frank, and just
proclaimed at Saint Germains, King of Great Britain, France, and
Ireland.




CHAPTER III.

I TAKE THE QUEEN'S PAY IN QUIN'S REGIMENT.


The fellow in the orange-tawny livery with blue lace and facings
was in waiting when Esmond came out of prison, and, taking the
young gentleman's slender baggage, led the way out of that odious
Newgate, and by Fleet Conduit, down to the Thames, where a pair of
oars was called, and they went up the river to Chelsey.  Esmond
thought the sun had never shone so bright; nor the air felt so
fresh and exhilarating.  Temple Garden, as they rowed by, looked
like the garden of Eden to him, and the aspect of the quays,
wharves, and buildings by the river, Somerset House, and
Westminster (where the splendid new bridge was just beginning),
Lambeth tower and palace, and that busy shining scene of the Thames
swarming with boats and barges, filled his heart with pleasure and
cheerfulness--as well such a beautiful scene might to one who had
been a prisoner so long, and with so many dark thoughts deepening
the gloom of his captivity.  They rowed up at length to the pretty
village of Chelsey, where the nobility have many handsome country-houses; and so came to my Lady Viscountess's house, a cheerful new
house in the row facing the river, with a handsome garden behind
it, and a pleasant look-out both towards Surrey and Kensington,
where stands the noble ancient palace of the Lord Warwick, Harry's
reconciled adversary.

Here in her ladyship's saloon, the young man saw again some of
those pictures which had been at Castlewood, and which she had
removed thence on the death of her lord, Harry's father.
Specially, and in the place of honor, was Sir Peter Lely's picture
of the honorable Mistress Isabella Esmond as Diana, in yellow
satin, with a bow in her hand and a crescent in her forehead; and
dogs frisking about her.  'Twas painted about the time when royal
Endymions were said to find favor with this virgin huntress; and,
as goddesses have youth perpetual, this one believed to the day of
her death that she never grew older: and always persisted in
supposing the picture was still like her.

After he had been shown to her room by the groom of the chamber,
who filled many offices besides in her ladyship's modest household,
and after a proper interval, his elderly goddess Diana vouchsafed
to appear to the young man.  A blackamoor in a Turkish habit, with
red boots and a silver collar, on which the Viscountess's arms were
engraven, preceded her and bore her cushion; then came her
gentlewoman; a little pack of spaniels barking and frisking about
preceded the austere huntress--then, behold, the Viscountess
herself "dropping odors."  Esmond recollected from his childhood
that rich aroma of musk which his mother-in-law (for she may be
called so) exhaled.  As the sky grows redder and redder towards
sunset, so, in the decline of her years, the cheeks of my Lady
Dowager blushed more deeply.  Her face was illuminated with
vermilion, which appeared the brighter from the white paint
employed to set it off.  She wore the ringlets which had been in
fashion in King Charles's time; whereas the ladies of King
William's had head-dresses like the towers of Cybele.  Her eyes
gleamed out from the midst of this queer structure of paint, dyes,
and pomatums.  Such was my Lady Viscountess, Mr. Esmond's father's
widow.

He made her such a profound bow as her dignity and relationship
merited, and advanced with the greatest gravity, and once more
kissed that hand, upon the trembling knuckles of which glittered a
score of rings--remembering old times when that trembling hand made
him tremble.  "Marchioness," says he, bowing, and on one knee, "is
it only the hand I may have the honor of saluting?"  For,
accompanying that inward laughter, which the sight of such an
astonishing old figure might well produce in the young man, there
was good will too, and the kindness of consanguinity.  She had been
his father's wife, and was his grandfather's daughter.  She had
suffered him in old days, and was kind to him now after her
fashion.  And now that bar-sinister was removed from Esmond's
thought, and that secret opprobrium no longer cast upon his mind,
he was pleased to feel family ties and own them--perhaps secretly
vain of the sacrifice he had made, and to think that he, Esmond,
was really the chief of his house, and only prevented by his own
magnanimity from advancing his claim.

At least, ever since he had learned that secret from his poor
patron on his dying bed, actually as he was standing beside it, he
had felt an independency which he had never known before, and which
since did not desert him.  So he called his old aunt Marchioness,
but with an air as if he was the Marquis of Esmond who so addressed
her.

Did she read in the young gentleman's eyes, which had now no fear
of hers or their superannuated authority, that he knew or suspected
the truth about his birth?  She gave a start of surprise at his
altered manner: indeed, it was quite a different bearing to that of
the Cambridge student who had paid her a visit two years since, and
whom she had dismissed with five pieces sent by the groom of the
chamber.  She eyed him, then trembled a little more than was her
wont, perhaps, and said, "Welcome, cousin," in a frightened voice.

His resolution, as has been said before, had been quite different,
namely, so to bear himself through life as if the secret of his
birth was not known to him; but he suddenly and rightly determined
on a different course.  He asked that her ladyship's attendants
should be dismissed, and when they were private--"Welcome, nephew,
at least, madam, it should be," he said.  "A great wrong has been
done to me and to you, and to my poor mother, who is no more."

"I declare before heaven that I was guiltless of it," she cried
out, giving up her cause at once.  "It was your wicked father who--"

"Who brought this dishonor on our family," says Mr. Esmond.  "I
know it full well.  I want to disturb no one.  Those who are in
present possession have been my dearest benefactors, and are quite
innocent of intentional wrong to me.  The late lord, my dear
patron, knew not the truth until a few months before his death,
when Father Holt brought the news to him."

"The wretch! he had it in confession! he had it in confession!"
cried out the Dowager Lady.

"Not so.  He learned it elsewhere as well as in confession," Mr.
Esmond answered.  "My father, when wounded at the Boyne, told the
truth to a French priest, who was in hiding after the battle, as
well as to the priest there, at whose house he died.  This
gentleman did not think fit to divulge the story till he met with
Mr. Holt at Saint Omer's.  And the latter kept it back for his own
purpose, and until he had learned whether my mother was alive or
no.  She is dead years since, my poor patron told me with his dying
breath, and I doubt him not.  I do not know even whether I could
prove a marriage.  I would not if I could.  I do not care to bring
shame on our name, or grief upon those whom I love, however hardly
they may use me.  My father's son, madam, won't aggravate the wrong
my father did you.  Continue to be his widow, and give me your
kindness.  'Tis all I ask from you; and I shall never speak of this
matter again."

"Mais vous etes un noble jeune homme!" breaks out my lady,
speaking, as usual with her when she was agitated, in the French
language.

"Noblesse oblige," says Mr. Esmond, making her a low bow.  "There
are those alive to whom, in return for their love to me, I often
fondly said I would give my life away.  Shall I be their enemy now,
and quarrel about a title?  What matters who has it?  'Tis with the
family still."

"What can there be in that little prude of a woman that makes men
so raffoler about her?" cries out my Lady Dowager.  "She was here
for a month petitioning the King.  She is pretty, and well
conserved; but she has not the bel air.  In his late Majesty's
Court all the men pretended to admire her, and she was no better
than a little wax doll.  She is better now, and looks the sister of
her daughter; but what mean you all by bepraising her?  Mr. Steele,
who was in waiting on Prince George, seeing her with her two
children going to Kensington, writ a poem about her, and says he
shall wear her colors, and dress in black for the future.  Mr.
Congreve says he will write a 'Mourning Widow,' that shall be
better than his 'Mourning Bride.'  Though their husbands quarrelled
and fought when that wretch Churchill deserted the King (for which
he deserved to be hung), Lady Marlborough has again gone wild about
the little widow; insulted me in my own drawing-room, by saying
'twas not the OLD widow, but the young Viscountess, she had come to
see.  Little Castlewood and little Lord Churchill are to be sworn
friends, and have boxed each other twice or thrice like brothers
already.  'Twas that wicked young Mohun who, coming back from the
provinces last year, where he had disinterred her, raved about her
all the winter; said she was a pearl set before swine; and killed
poor stupid Frank.  The quarrel was all about his wife.  I know
'twas all about her.  Was there anything between her and Mohun,
nephew?  Tell me now--was there anything?  About yourself, I do not
ask you to answer questions."

Mr. Esmond blushed up.  "My lady's virtue is like that of a saint
in heaven, madam," he cried out.

"Eh!--mon neveu.  Many saints get to heaven after having a deal to
repent of.  I believe you are like all the rest of the fools, and
madly in love with her."

"Indeed, I loved and honored her before all the world," Esmond
answered.  "I take no shame in that."

"And she has shut her door on you--given the living to that horrid
young cub, son of that horrid old bear, Tusher, and says she will
never see you more.  Monsieur mon neveu--we are all like that.
When I was a young woman, I'm positive that a thousand duels were
fought about me.  And when poor Monsieur de Souchy drowned himself
in the canal at Bruges because I danced with Count Springbock, I
couldn't squeeze out a single tear, but danced till five o'clock
the next morning.  'Twas the Count--no, 'twas my Lord Ormond that
played the fiddles, and his Majesty did me the honor of dancing all
night with me.--How you are grown!  You have got the bel air.  You
are a black man.  Our Esmonds are all black.  The little prude's
son is fair; so was his father--fair and stupid.  You were an ugly
little wretch when you came to Castlewood--you were all eyes, like
a young crow.  We intended you should be a priest.  That awful
Father Holt--how he used to frighten me when I was ill!  I have a
comfortable director now--the Abbe Douillette--a dear man.  We make
meagre on Fridays always.  My cook is a devout pious man.  You, of
course, are of the right way of thinking.  They say the Prince of
Orange is very ill indeed."

In this way the old Dowager rattled on remorselessly to Mr. Esmond,
who was quite astounded with her present volubility, contrasting it
with her former haughty behavior to him.  But she had taken him
into favor for the moment, and chose not only to like him, as far
as her nature permitted, but to be afraid of him; and he found
himself to be as familiar with her now as a young man, as, when a
boy, he had been timorous and silent.  She was as good as her word
respecting him.  She introduced him to her company, of which she
entertained a good deal--of the adherents of King James of course--and a great deal of loud intriguing took place over her card-tables.  She presented Mr. Esmond as her kinsman to many persons of
honor; she supplied him not illiberally with money, which he had no
scruple in accepting from her, considering the relationship which
he bore to her, and the sacrifices which he himself was making in
behalf of the family.  But he had made up his mind to continue at
no woman's apron-strings longer; and perhaps had cast about how he
should distinguish himself, and make himself a name, which his
singular fortune had denied him.  A discontent with his former
bookish life and quietude,--a bitter feeling of revolt at that
slavery in which he had chosen to confine himself for the sake of
those whose hardness towards him make his heart bleed,--a restless
wish to see men and the world,--led him to think of the military
profession: at any rate, to desire to see a few campaigns, and
accordingly he pressed his new patroness to get him a pair of
colors; and one day had the honor of finding himself appointed an
ensign in Colonel Quin's regiment of Fusileers on the Irish
establishment.

Mr. Esmond's commission was scarce three weeks old when that
accident befell King William which ended the life of the greatest,
the wisest, the bravest, and most clement sovereign whom England
ever knew.  'Twas the fashion of the hostile party to assail this
great prince's reputation during his life; but the joy which they
and all his enemies in Europe showed at his death, is a proof of
the terror in which they held him.  Young as Esmond was, he was
wise enough (and generous enough too, let it be said) to scorn that
indecency of gratulation which broke out amongst the followers of
King James in London, upon the death of this illustrious prince,
this invincible warrior, this wise and moderate statesman.  Loyalty
to the exiled king's family was traditional, as has been said, in
that house to which Mr. Esmond belonged.  His father's widow had
all her hopes, sympathies, recollections, prejudices, engaged on
King James's side; and was certainly as noisy a conspirator as ever
asserted the King's rights, or abused his opponent's, over a
quadrille table or a dish of bohea.  Her ladyship's house swarmed
with ecclesiastics, in disguise and out; with tale-bearers from St.
Germains; and quidnuncs that knew the last news from Versailles;
nay, the exact force and number of the next expedition which the
French king was to send from Dunkirk, and which was to swallow up
the Prince of Orange, his army and his court.  She had received the
Duke of Berwick when he landed here in '96.  She kept the glass he
drank from, vowing she never would use it till she drank King James
the Third's health in it on his Majesty's return; she had tokens
from the Queen, and relics of the saint who, if the story was true,
had not always been a saint as far as she and many others were
concerned.  She believed in the miracles wrought at his tomb, and
had a hundred authentic stories of wondrous cures effected by the
blessed king's rosaries, the medals which he wore, the locks of his
hair, or what not.  Esmond remembered a score of marvellous tales
which the credulous old woman told him.  There was the Bishop of
Autun, that was healed of a malady he had for forty years, and
which left him after he said mass for the repose of the king's
soul.  There was M. Marais, a surgeon in Auvergne, who had a palsy
in both his legs, which was cured through the king's intercession.
There was Philip Pitet, of the Benedictines, who had a suffocating
cough, which wellnigh killed him, but he besought relief of heaven
through the merits and intercession of the blessed king, and he
straightway felt a profuse sweat breaking out all over him, and was
recovered perfectly.  And there was the wife of Mons. Lepervier,
dancing-master to the Duke of Saxe-Gotha, who was entirely eased of
a rheumatism by the king's intercession, of which miracle there
could be no doubt, for her surgeon and his apprentice had given
their testimony, under oath, that they did not in any way
contribute to the cure.  Of these tales, and a thousand like them,
Mr. Esmond believed as much as he chose.  His kinswoman's greater
faith had swallow for them all.

The English High Church party did not adopt these legends.  But
truth and honor, as they thought, bound them to the exiled king's
side; nor had the banished family any warmer supporter than that
kind lady of Castlewood, in whose house Esmond was brought up.  She
influenced her husband, very much more perhaps than my lord knew,
who admired his wife prodigiously though he might be inconstant to
her, and who, adverse to the trouble of thinking himself, gladly
enough adopted the opinions which she chose for him.  To one of her
simple and faithful heart, allegiance to any sovereign but the one
was impossible.  To serve King William for interest's sake would
have been a monstrous hypocrisy and treason.  Her pure conscience
could no more have consented to it than to a theft, a forgery, or
any other base action.  Lord Castlewood might have been won over,
no doubt, but his wife never could: and he submitted his conscience
to hers in this case as he did in most others, when he was not
tempted too sorely.  And it was from his affection and gratitude
most likely, and from that eager devotion for his mistress, which
characterized all Esmond's youth, that the young man subscribed to
this, and other articles of faith, which his fond benefactress set
him.  Had she been a Whig, he had been one; had she followed Mr.
Fox, and turned Quaker, no doubt he would have abjured ruffles and
a periwig, and have forsworn swords, lace-coats, and clocked
stockings.  In the scholars' boyish disputes at the University,
where parties ran very high, Esmond was noted as a Jacobite, and
very likely from vanity as much as affection took the side of his
family.

Almost the whole of the clergy of the country and more than a half
of the nation were on this side.  Ours is the most loyal people in
the world surely; we admire our kings, and are faithful to them
long after they have ceased to be true to us.  'Tis a wonder to any
one who looks back at the history of the Stuart family to think how
they kicked their crowns away from them; how they flung away
chances after chances; what treasures of loyalty they dissipated,
and how fatally they were bent on consummating their own ruin.  If
ever men had fidelity, 'twas they; if ever men squandered
opportunity, 'twas they; and, of all the enemies they had, they
themselves were the most fatal.

When the Princess Anne succeeded, the wearied nation was glad
enough to cry a truce from all these wars, controversies, and
conspiracies, and to accept in the person of a Princess of the
blood royal a compromise between the parties into which the country
was divided.  The Tories could serve under her with easy
consciences; though a Tory herself, she represented the triumph of
the Whig opinion.  The people of England, always liking that their
Princes should be attached to their own families, were pleased to
think the Princess was faithful to hers; and up to the very last
day and hour of her reign, and but for that fatality which he
inherited from his fathers along with their claims to the English
crown, King James the Third might have worn it.  But he neither
knew how to wait an opportunity, nor to use it when he had it; he
was venturesome when he ought to have been cautious, and cautious
when he ought to have dared everything.  'Tis with a sort of rage
at his inaptitude that one thinks of his melancholy story.  Do the
Fates deal more specially with kings than with common men?  One is
apt to imagine so, in considering the history of that royal race,
in whose behalf so much fidelity, so much valor, so much blood were
desperately and bootlessly expended.

The King dead then, the Princess Anne (ugly Anne Hyde's daughter,
our Dowager at Chelsey called her) was proclaimed by trumpeting
heralds all over the town from Westminster to Ludgate Hill, amidst
immense jubilations of the people.

Next week my Lord Marlborough was promoted to the Garter, and to be
Captain-General of her Majesty's forces at home and abroad.  This
appointment only inflamed the Dowager's rage, or, as she thought
it, her fidelity to her rightful sovereign.  "The Princess is but a
puppet in the hands of that fury of a woman, who comes into my
drawing-room and insults me to my face.  What can come to a country
that is given over to such a woman?" says the Dowager: "As for that
double-faced traitor, my Lord Marlborough, he has betrayed every
man and every woman with whom he has had to deal, except his horrid
wife, who makes him tremble.  'Tis all over with the country when
it has got into the clutches of such wretches as these."

Esmond's old kinswoman saluted the new powers in this way; but some
good fortune at last occurred to a family which stood in great need
of it, by the advancement of these famous personages who benefited
humbler people that had the luck of being in their favor.  Before
Mr. Esmond left England in the month of August, and being then at
Portsmouth, where he had joined his regiment, and was busy at
drill, learning the practice and mysteries of the musket and pike,
he heard that a pension on the Stamp Office had been got for his
late beloved mistress, and that the young Mistress Beatrix was also
to be taken into court.  So much good, at least, had come of the
poor widow's visit to London, not revenge upon her husband's
enemies, but reconcilement to old friends, who pitied, and seemed
inclined to serve her.  As for the comrades in prison and the late
misfortune, Colonel Westbury was with the Captain-General gone to
Holland; Captain Macartney was now at Portsmouth, with his regiment
of Fusileers and the force under command of his Grace the Duke of
Ormond, bound for Spain it was said; my Lord Warwick was returned
home; and Lord Mohun, so far from being punished for the homicide
which had brought so much grief and change into the Esmond family,
was gone in company of my Lord Macclesfield's splendid embassy to
the Elector of Hanover, carrying the Garter to his Highness, and a
complimentary letter from the Queen.




CHAPTER IV.

RECAPITULATIONS.


From such fitful lights as could be cast upon his dark history by
the broken narrative of his poor patron, torn by remorse and
struggling in the last pangs of dissolution, Mr. Esmond had been
made to understand so far, that his mother was long since dead; and
so there could be no question as regarded her or her honor,
tarnished by her husband's desertion and injury, to influence her
son in any steps which he might take either for prosecuting or
relinquishing his own just claims.  It appeared from my poor lord's
hurried confession, that he had been made acquainted with the real
facts of the case only two years since, when Mr. Holt visited him,
and would have implicated him in one of those many conspiracies by
which the secret leaders of King James's party in this country were
ever endeavoring to destroy the Prince of Orange's life or power:
conspiracies so like murder, so cowardly in the means used, so
wicked in the end, that our nation has sure done well in throwing
off all allegiance and fidelity to the unhappy family that could
not vindicate its right except by such treachery--by such dark
intrigue and base agents.  There were designs against King William
that were no more honorable than the ambushes of cut-throats and
footpads.  'Tis humiliating to think that a great Prince, possessor
of a great and sacred right, and upholder of a great cause, should
have stooped to such baseness of assassination and treasons as are
proved by the unfortunate King James's own warrant and sign manual
given to his supporters in this country.  What he and they called
levying war was, in truth, no better than instigating murder.  The
noble Prince of Orange burst magnanimously through those feeble
meshes of conspiracy in which his enemies tried to envelop him: it
seemed as if their cowardly daggers broke upon the breast of his
undaunted resolution.  After King James's death, the Queen and her
people at St. Germains--priests and women for the most part--continued their intrigues in behalf of the young Prince, James the
Third, as he was called in France and by his party here (this
Prince, or Chevalier de St. George, was born in the same year with
Esmond's young pupil Frank, my Lord Viscount's son); and the
Prince's affairs, being in the hands of priests and women, were
conducted as priests and women will conduct them, artfully,
cruelly, feebly, and to a certain bad issue.  The moral of the
Jesuits' story I think as wholesome a one as ever was writ: the
artfullest, the wisest, the most toilsome, and dexterous plot-builders in the world--there always comes a day when the roused
public indignation kicks their flimsy edifice down, and sends its
cowardly enemies a-flying.  Mr. Swift hath finely described that
passion for intrigue, that love of secrecy, slander, and lying,
which belongs to weak people, hangers-on of weak courts.  'Tis the
nature of such to hate and envy the strong, and conspire their
ruin; and the conspiracy succeeds very well, and everything
presages the satisfactory overthrow of the great victim; until one
day Gulliver rouses himself, shakes off the little vermin of an
enemy, and walks away unmolested.  Ah! the Irish soldiers might
well say after the Boyne, "Change kings with us and we will fight
it over again."  Indeed, the fight was not fair between the two.
'Twas a weak, priest-ridden, woman-ridden man, with such puny
allies and weapons as his own poor nature led him to choose,
contending against the schemes, the generalship, the wisdom, and
the heart of a hero.

On one of these many coward's errands then, (for, as I view them
now, I can call them no less,) Mr. Holt had come to my lord at
Castlewood, proposing some infallible plan for the Prince of
Orange's destruction, in which my Lord Viscount, loyalist as he
was, had indignantly refused to join.  As far as Mr. Esmond could
gather from his dying words, Holt came to my lord with a plan of
insurrection, and offer of the renewal, in his person, of that
marquis's title which King James had conferred on the preceding
viscount; and on refusal of this bribe, a threat was made, on
Holt's part, to upset my Lord Viscount's claim to his estate and
title of Castlewood altogether.  To back this astounding piece of
intelligence, of which Henry Esmond's patron now had the first
light, Holt came armed with the late lord's dying declaration,
after the affair of the Boyne, at Trim, in Ireland, made both to
the Irish priest and a French ecclesiastic of Holt's order, that
was with King James's army.  Holt showed, or pretended to show, the
marriage certificate of the late Viscount Esmond with my mother, in
the city of Brussels, in the year 1677, when the viscount, then
Thomas Esmond, was serving with the English army in Flanders; he
could show, he said, that this Gertrude, deserted by her husband
long since, was alive, and a professed nun in the year 1685, at
Brussels, in which year Thomas Esmond married his uncle's daughter,
Isabella, now called Viscountess Dowager of Castlewood; and leaving
him, for twelve hours, to consider this astounding news (so the
poor dying lord said), disappeared with his papers in the
mysterious way in which he came.  Esmond knew how, well enough: by
that window from which he had seen the Father issue:--but there was
no need to explain to my poor lord, only to gather from his parting
lips the words which he would soon be able to utter no more.

Ere the twelve hours were over, Holt himself was a prisoner,
implicated in Sir John Fenwick's conspiracy, and locked up at
Hexton first, whence he was transferred to the Tower; leaving the
poor Lord Viscount, who was not aware of the others being taken, in
daily apprehension of his return, when (as my Lord Castlewood
declared, calling God to witness, and with tears in his dying eyes)
it had been his intention at once to give up his estate and his
title to their proper owner, and to retire to his own house at
Walcote with his family.  "And would to God I had done it," the
poor lord said.  "I would not be here now, wounded to death, a
miserable, stricken man!"

My lord waited day after day, and, as may be supposed, no messenger
came; but at a month's end Holt got means to convey to him a
message out of the Tower, which was to this effect: that he should
consider all unsaid that had been said, and that things were as
they were.

"I had a sore temptation," said my poor lord.  "Since I had come
into this cursed title of Castlewood, which hath never prospered
with me, I have spent far more than the income of that estate, and
my paternal one, too.  I calculated all my means down to the last
shilling, and found I never could pay you back, my poor Harry,
whose fortune I had had for twelve years.  My wife and children
must have gone out of the house dishonored, and beggars.  God
knows, it hath been a miserable one for me and mine.  Like a
coward, I clung to that respite which Holt gave me.  I kept the
truth from Rachel and you.  I tried to win money of Mohun, and only
plunged deeper into debt; I scarce dared look thee in the face when
I saw thee.  This sword hath been hanging over my head these two
years.  I swear I felt happy when Mohun's blade entered my side."

After lying ten months in the Tower, Holt, against whom nothing
could be found except that he was a Jesuit priest, known to be in
King James's interest, was put on shipboard by the incorrigible
forgiveness of King William, who promised him, however, a hanging
if ever he should again set foot on English shore.  More than once,
whilst he was in prison himself, Esmond had thought where those
papers could be, which the Jesuit had shown to his patron, and
which had such an interest for himself.  They were not found on Mr.
Holt's person when that Father was apprehended, for had such been
the case my Lords of the Council had seen them, and this family
history had long since been made public.  However, Esmond cared not
to seek the papers.  His resolution being taken; his poor mother
dead; what matter to him that documents existed proving his right
to a title which he was determined not to claim, and of which he
vowed never to deprive that family which he loved best in the
world?  Perhaps he took a greater pride out of his sacrifice than
he would have had in those honors which he was resolved to forego.
Again, as long as these titles were not forthcoming, Esmond's
kinsman, dear young Francis, was the honorable and undisputed owner
of the Castlewood estate and title.  The mere word of a Jesuit
could not overset Frank's right of occupancy, and so Esmond's mind
felt actually at ease to think the papers were missing, and in
their absence his dear mistress and her son the lawful Lady and
Lord of Castlewood.

Very soon after his liberation, Mr. Esmond made it his business to
ride to that village of Ealing where he had passed his earliest
years in this country, and to see if his old guardians were still
alive and inhabitants of that place.  But the only relique which he
found of old M. Pastoureau was a stone in the churchyard, which
told that Athanasius Pastoureau, a native of Flanders, lay there
buried, aged 87 years.  The old man's cottage, which Esmond
perfectly recollected, and the garden (where in his childhood he
had passed many hours of play and reverie, and had many a beating
from his termagant of a foster-mother), were now in the occupation
of quite a different family; and it was with difficulty that he
could learn in the village what had come of Pastoureau's widow and
children.  The clerk of the parish recollected her--the old man was
scarce altered in the fourteen years that had passed since last
Esmond set eyes on him.  It appeared she had pretty soon consoled
herself after the death of her old husband, whom she ruled over, by
taking a new one younger than herself, who spent her money and ill-treated her and her children.  The girl died; one of the boys
'listed; the other had gone apprentice.  Old Mr. Rogers, the clerk,
said he had heard that Mrs. Pastoureau was dead too.  She and her
husband had left Ealing this seven year; and so Mr. Esmond's hopes
of gaining any information regarding his parentage from this family
were brought to an end.  He gave the old clerk a crown-piece for
his news, smiling to think of the time when he and his little
playfellows had slunk out of the churchyard or hidden behind the
gravestones, at the approach of this awful authority.

Who was his mother?  What had her name been?  When did she die?
Esmond longed to find some one who could answer these questions to
him, and thought even of putting them to his aunt the Viscountess,
who had innocently taken the name which belonged of right to
Henry's mother.  But she knew nothing, or chose to know nothing, on
this subject, nor, indeed, could Mr. Esmond press her much to speak
on it.  Father Holt was the only man who could enlighten him, and
Esmond felt he must wait until some fresh chance or new intrigue
might put him face to face with his old friend, or bring that
restless indefatigable spirit back to England again.

The appointment to his ensigncy, and the preparations necessary for
the campaign, presently gave the young gentleman other matters to
think of.  His new patroness treated him very kindly and liberally;
she promised to make interest and pay money, too, to get him a
company speedily; she bade him procure a handsome outfit, both of
clothes and of arms, and was pleased to admire him when he made his
first appearance in his laced scarlet coat, and to permit him to
salute her on the occasion of this interesting investiture.  "Red,"
says she, tossing up her old head, "hath always been the color worn
by the Esmonds."  And so her ladyship wore it on her own cheeks
very faithfully to the last.  She would have him be dressed, she
said, as became his father's son, and paid cheerfully for his five-pound beaver, his black buckled periwig, and his fine holland
shirts, and his swords, and his pistols, mounted with silver.
Since the day he was born, poor Harry had never looked such a fine
gentleman: his liberal step-mother filled his purse with guineas,
too, some of which Captain Steele and a few choice spirits helped
Harry to spend in an entertainment which Dick ordered (and, indeed,
would have paid for, but that he had no money when the reckoning
was called for; nor would the landlord give him any more credit) at
the "Garter," over against the gate of the Palace, in Pall Mall.

The old Viscountess, indeed, if she had done Esmond any wrong
formerly, seemed inclined to repair it by the present kindness of
her behavior: she embraced him copiously at parting, wept
plentifully, bade him write by every packet, and gave him an
inestimable relic, which she besought him to wear round his neck--a
medal, blessed by I know not what pope, and worn by his late sacred
Majesty King James.  So Esmond arrived at his regiment with a
better equipage than most young officers could afford.  He was
older than most of his seniors, and had a further advantage which
belonged but to very few of the army gentlemen in his day--many of
whom could do little more than write their names--that he had read
much, both at home and at the University, was master of two or
three languages, and had that further education which neither books
nor years will give, but which some men get from the silent
teaching of adversity.  She is a great schoolmistress, as many a
poor fellow knows, that hath held his hand out to her ferule, and
whimpered over his lesson before her awful chair.




CHAPTER V.

I GO ON THE VIGO BAY EXPEDITION, TASTE SALT-WATER AND SMELL POWDER.


The first expedition in which Mr. Esmond had the honor to be
engaged, rather resembled one of the invasions projected by the
redoubted Captain Avory or Captain Kidd, than a war between crowned
heads, carried on by generals of rank and honor.  On the 1st day of
July, 1702, a great fleet, of a hundred and fifty sail, set sail
from Spithead, under the command of Admiral Shovell, having on
board 12,000 troops, with his Grace the Duke of Ormond as the
Capt.-General of the expedition.  One of these 12,000 heroes having
never been to sea before, or, at least, only once in his infancy,
when he made the voyage to England from that unknown country where
he was born--one of those 12,000--the junior ensign of Colonel
Quin's regiment of Fusileers--was in a quite unheroic state of
corporal prostration a few hours after sailing; and an enemy, had
he boarded the ship, would have had easy work of him.  From
Portsmouth we put into Plymouth, and took in fresh reinforcements.
We were off Finisterre on the 31st of July, so Esmond's table-book
informs him: and on the 8th of August made the rock of Lisbon.  By
this time the Ensign was grown as bold as an admiral, and a week
afterwards had the fortune to be under fire for the first time--and
under water, too,--his boat being swamped in the surf in Toros Bay,
where the troops landed.  The ducking of his new coat was all the
harm the young soldier got in this expedition, for, indeed, the
Spaniards made no stand before our troops, and were not in strength
to do so.

But the campaign, if not very glorious, was very pleasant.  New
sights of nature, by sea and land--a life of action, beginning now
for the first time--occupied and excited the young man.  The many
accidents, and the routine of shipboard--the military duty--the new
acquaintances, both of his comrades in arms, and of the officers of
the fleet--served to cheer and occupy his mind, and waken it out of
that selfish depression into which his late unhappy fortunes had
plunged him.  He felt as if the ocean separated him from his past
care, and welcomed the new era of life which was dawning for him.
Wounds heal rapidly in a heart of two-and-twenty; hopes revive
daily; and courage rallies in spite of a man.  Perhaps, as Esmond
thought of his late despondency and melancholy, and how
irremediable it had seemed to him, as he lay in his prison a few
months back, he was almost mortified in his secret mind at finding
himself so cheerful.

To see with one's own eyes men and countries, is better than
reading all the books of travel in the world: and it was with
extreme delight and exultation that the young man found himself
actually on his grand tour, and in the view of people and cities
which he had read about as a boy.  He beheld war for the first
time--the pride, pomp, and circumstance of it, at least, if not
much of the danger.  He saw actually, and with his own eyes, those
Spanish cavaliers and ladies whom he had beheld in imagination in
that immortal story of Cervantes, which had been the delight of his
youthful leisure.  'Tis forty years since Mr. Esmond witnessed
those scenes, but they remain as fresh in his memory as on the day
when first he saw them as a young man.  A cloud, as of grief, that
had lowered over him, and had wrapped the last years of his life in
gloom, seemed to clear away from Esmond during this fortunate
voyage and campaign.  His energies seemed to awaken and to expand
under a cheerful sense of freedom.  Was his heart secretly glad to
have escaped from that fond but ignoble bondage at home?  Was it
that the inferiority to which the idea of his base birth had
compelled him, vanished with the knowledge of that secret, which
though, perforce, kept to himself, was yet enough to cheer and
console him?  At any rate, young Esmond of the army was quite a
different being to the sad little dependant of the kind Castlewood
household, and the melancholy student of Trinity Walks;
discontented with his fate, and with the vocation into which that
drove him, and thinking, with a secret indignation, that the
cassock and bands, and the very sacred office with which he had
once proposed to invest himself, were, in fact, but marks of a
servitude which was to continue all his life long.  For, disguise
it as he might to himself, he had all along felt that to be
Castlewood's chaplain was to be Castlewood's inferior still, and
that his life was but to be a long, hopeless servitude.  So,
indeed, he was far from grudging his old friend Tom Tusher's good
fortune (as Tom, no doubt, thought it).  Had it been a mitre and
Lambeth which his friends offered him, and not a small living and a
country parsonage, he would have felt as much a slave in one case
as in the other, and was quite happy and thankful to be free.

The bravest man I ever knew in the army, and who had been present
in most of King William's actions, as well as in the campaigns of
the great Duke of Marlborough, could never be got to tell us of any
achievement of his, except that once Prince Eugene ordered him up a
tree to reconnoitre the enemy, which feat he could not achieve on
account of the horseman's boots he wore; and on another day that he
was very nearly taken prisoner because of these jack-boots, which
prevented him from running away.  The present narrator shall
imitate this laudable reserve, and doth not intend to dwell upon
his military exploits, which were in truth not very different from
those of a thousand other gentlemen.  This first campaign of Mr.
Esmond's lasted but a few days; and as a score of books have been
written concerning it, it may be dismissed very briefly here.

When our fleet came within view of Cadiz, our commander sent a boat
with a white flag and a couple of officers to the Governor of
Cadiz, Don Scipio de Brancaccio, with a letter from his Grace, in
which he hoped that as Don Scipio had formerly served with the
Austrians against the French, 'twas to be hoped that his Excellency
would now declare himself against the French King, and for the
Austrian in the war between King Philip and King Charles.  But his
Excellency, Don Scipio, prepared a reply, in which he announced
that, having served his former king with honor and fidelity, he
hoped to exhibit the same loyalty and devotion towards his present
sovereign, King Philip V.; and by the time this letter was ready,
the two officers had been taken to see the town, and the alameda,
and the theatre, where bull-fights are fought, and the convents,
where the admirable works of Don Bartholomew Murillo inspired one
of them with a great wonder and delight--such as he had never felt
before--concerning this divine art of painting; and these sights
over, and a handsome refection and chocolate being served to the
English gentlemen, they were accompanied back to their shallop with
every courtesy, and were the only two officers of the English army
that saw at that time that famous city.

The general tried the power of another proclamation on the
Spaniards, in which he announced that we only came in the interest
of Spain and King Charles, and for ourselves wanted to make no
conquest nor settlement in Spain at all.  But all this eloquence
was lost upon the Spaniards, it would seem: the Captain-General of
Andalusia would no more listen to us than the Governor of Cadiz;
and in reply to his Grace's proclamation, the Marquis of
Villadarias fired off another, which those who knew the Spanish
thought rather the best of the two; and of this number was Harry
Esmond, whose kind Jesuit in old days had instructed him, and now
had the honor of translating for his Grace these harmless documents
of war.  There was a hard touch for his Grace, and, indeed, for
other generals in her Majesty's service, in the concluding sentence
of the Don: "That he and his council had the generous example of
their ancestors to follow, who had never yet sought their elevation
in the blood or in the flight of their kings.  'Mori pro patria'
was his device, which the Duke might communicate to the Princess
who governed England."

Whether the troops were angry at this repartee or no, 'tis certain
something put them in a fury; for, not being able to get possession
of Cadiz, our people seized upon Port Saint Mary's and sacked it,
burning down the merchants' storehouses, getting drunk with the
famous wines there, pillaging and robbing quiet houses and
convents, murdering and doing worse.  And the only blood which Mr.
Esmond drew in this shameful campaign, was the knocking down an
English sentinel with a half-pike, who was offering insult to a
poor trembling nun.  Is she going to turn out a beauty? or a
princess? or perhaps Esmond's mother that he had lost and never
seen?  Alas no, it was but a poor wheezy old dropsical woman, with
a wart upon her nose.  But having been early taught a part of the
Roman religion, he never had the horror of it that some Protestants
have shown, and seem to think to be a part of ours.

After the pillage and plunder of St. Mary's and an assault upon a
fort or two, the troops all took shipping, and finished their
expedition, at any rate, more brilliantly than it had begun.
Hearing that the French fleet with a great treasure was in Vigo
Bay, our Admirals, Rooke and Hopson, pursued the enemy thither; the
troops landed and carried the forts that protected the bay, Hopson
passing the boom first on board his ship the "Torbay," and the rest
of the ships, English and Dutch, following him.  Twenty ships were
burned or taken in the Port of Redondilla, and a vast deal more
plunder than was ever accounted for; but poor men before that
expedition were rich afterwards, and so often was it found and
remarked that the Vigo officers came home with pockets full of
money, that the notorious Jack Shafto, who made such a figure at
the coffeehouses and gaming-tables in London, and gave out that he
had been a soldier at Vigo, owned, when he was about to be hanged,
that Bagshot Heath had been HIS Vigo, and that he only spoke of La
Redondilla to turn away people's eyes from the real place where the
booty lay.  Indeed, Hounslow or Vigo--which matters much?  The
latter was a bad business, though Mr. Addison did sing its praises
in Latin.  That honest gentleman's muse had an eye to the main
chance; and I doubt whether she saw much inspiration in the losing
side.

But though Esmond, for his part, got no share of this fabulous
booty, one great prize which he had out of the campaign was, that
excitement of action and change of scene, which shook off a great
deal of his previous melancholy.  He learnt at any rate to bear his
fate cheerfully.  He brought back a browned face, a heart resolute
enough, and a little pleasant store of knowledge and observation,
from that expedition, which was over with the autumn, when the
troops were back in England again; and Esmond giving up his post of
secretary to General Lumley, whose command was over, and parting
with that officer with many kind expressions of good will on the
General's side, had leave to go to London, to see if he could push
his fortunes any way further, and found himself once more in his
dowager aunt's comfortable quarters at Chelsey, and in greater
favor than ever with the old lady.  He propitiated her with a
present of a comb, a fan, and a black mantle, such as the ladies of
Cadiz wear, and which my Lady Viscountess pronounced became her
style of beauty mightily.  And she was greatily edified at hearing
of that story of his rescue of the nun, and felt very little doubt
but that her King James's relic, which he had always dutifully worn
in his desk, had kept him out of danger, and averted the shot of
the enemy.  My lady made feasts for him, introduced him to more
company, and pushed his fortunes with such enthusiasm and success,
that she got a promise of a company for him through the Lady
Marlborough's interest, who was graciously pleased to accept of a
diamond worth a couple of hundred guineas, which Mr. Esmond was
enabled to present to her ladyship through his aunt's bounty, and
who promised that she would take charge of Esmond's fortune.  He
had the honor to make his appearance at the Queen's drawing-room
occasionally, and to frequent my Lord Marlborough's levees.  That
great man received the young one with very especial favor, so
Esmond's comrades said, and deigned to say that he had received the
best reports of Mr. Esmond, both for courage and ability, whereon
you may be sure the young gentleman made a profound bow, and
expressed himself eager to serve under the most distinguished
captain in the world.

Whilst his business was going on thus prosperously, Esmond had his
share of pleasure too, and made his appearance along with other
young gentlemen at the coffee-houses, the theatres, and the Mall.
He longed to hear of his dear mistress and her family: many a time,
in the midst of the gayeties and pleasures of the town, his heart
fondly reverted to them; and often as the young fellows of his
society were making merry at the tavern, and calling toasts (as the
fashion of that day was) over their wine, Esmond thought of
persons--of two fair women, whom he had been used to adore almost,
and emptied his glass with a sigh.

By this time the elder Viscountess had grown tired again of the
younger, and whenever she spoke of my lord's widow, 'twas in terms
by no means complimentary towards that poor lady: the younger woman
not needing her protection any longer, the elder abused her.  Most
of the family quarrels that I have seen in life (saving always
those arising from money disputes, when a division of twopence
halfpenny will often drive the dearest relatives into war and
estrangement,) spring out of jealousy and envy.  Jack and Tom, born
of the same family and to the same fortune, live very cordially
together, not until Jack is ruined when Tom deserts him, but until
Tom makes a sudden rise in prosperity, which Jack can't forgive.
Ten times to one 'tis the unprosperous man that is angry, not the
other who is in fault.  'Tis Mrs. Jack, who can only afford a
chair, that sickens at Mrs. Tom's new coach-and-sick, cries out
against her sister's airs, and sets her husband against his
brother.  'Tis Jack who sees his brother shaking hands with a lord
(with whom Jack would like to exchange snuff-boxes himself), that
goes home and tells his wife how poor Tom is spoiled, he fears, and
no better than a sneak, parasite, and beggar on horse back.  I
remember how furious the coffee-house wits were with Dick Steele
when he set up his coach and fine house in Bloomsbury: they began
to forgive him when the bailiffs were after him, and abused Mr.
Addison for selling Dick's country-house.  And yet Dick in the
sponging-house, or Dick in the Park, with his four mares and plated
harness, was exactly the same gentle, kindly, improvident, jovial
Dick Steele: and yet Mr. Addison was perfectly right in getting the
money which was his, and not giving up the amount of his just
claim, to be spent by Dick upon champagne and fiddlers, laced
clothes, fine furniture, and parasites, Jew and Christian, male and
female, who clung to him.  As, according to the famous maxim of
Monsieur de Rochefoucault, "in our friends' misfortunes there's
something secretly pleasant to us;" so, on the other hand, their
good fortune is disagreeable.  If 'tis hard for a man to bear his
own good luck, 'tis harder still for his friends to bear it for him
and but few of them ordinarily can stand that trial: whereas one of
the "precious uses" of adversity is, that it is a great reconciler;
that it brings back averted kindness, disarms animosity, and causes
yesterday's enemy to fling his hatred aside, and hold out a hand to
the fallen friend of old days.  There's pity and love, as well as
envy, in the same heart and towards the same person.  The rivalry
stops when the competitor tumbles; and, as I view it, we should
look at these agreeable and disagreeable qualities of our humanity
humbly alike.  They are consequent and natural, and our kindness
and meanness both manly.

So you may either read the sentence, that the elder of Esmond's two
kinswomen pardoned the younger her beauty, when that had lost
somewhat of its freshness, perhaps; and forgot most her grievances
against the other, when the subject of them was no longer
prosperous and enviable; or we may say more benevolently (but the
sum comes to the same figures, worked either way,) that Isabella
repented of her unkindness towards Rachel, when Rachel was unhappy;
and, bestirring herself in behalf of the poor widow and her
children, gave them shelter and friendship.  The ladies were quite
good friends as long as the weaker one needed a protector.  Before
Esmond went away on his first campaign, his mistress was still on
terms of friendship (though a poor little chit, a woman that had
evidently no spirit in her, &c.) with the elder Lady Castlewood;
and Mistress Beatrix was allowed to be a beauty.

But between the first year of Queen Anne's reign, and the second,
sad changes for the worse had taken place in the two younger
ladies, at least in the elder's description of them.  Rachel,
Viscountess Castlewood, had no more face than a dumpling, and Mrs.
Beatrix was grown quite coarse, and was losing all her beauty.
Little Lord Blandford--(she never would call him Lord Blandford;
his father was Lord Churchill--the King, whom he betrayed, had made
him Lord Churchill, and he was Lord Churchill still)--might be
making eyes at her; but his mother, that vixen of a Sarah Jennings,
would never hear of such a folly.  Lady Marlborough had got her to
be a maid of honor at Court to the Princess, but she would repent
of it.  The widow Francis (she was but Mrs. Francis Esmond) was a
scheming, artful, heartless hussy.  She was spoiling her brat of a
boy, and she would end by marrying her chaplain.

"What, Tusher!" cried Mr. Esmond, feeling a strange pang of rage
and astonishment.

"Yes--Tusher, my maid's son; and who has got all the qualities of
his father the lackey in black, and his accomplished mamma the
waiting-woman," cries my lady.  "What do you suppose that a
sentimental widow, who will live down in that dingy dungeon of a
Castlewood, where she spoils her boy, kills the poor with her
drugs, has prayers twice a day and sees nobody but the chaplain--what do you suppose she can do, mon Cousin, but let the horrid
parson, with his great square toes and hideous little green eyes,
make love to her?  Cela c'est vu, mon Cousin.  When I was a girl at
Castlewood, all the chaplains fell in love with me--they've nothing
else to do."

My lady went on with more talk of this kind, though, in truth,
Esmond had no idea of what she said further, so entirely did her
first words occupy his thought.  Were they true?  Not all, nor
half, nor a tenth part of what the garrulous old woman said, was
true.  Could this be so?  No ear had Esmond for anything else,
though his patroness chatted on for an hour.

Some young gentlemen of the town, with whom Esmond had made
acquaintance, had promised to present him to that most charming of
actresses, and lively and agreeable of women, Mrs. Bracegirdle,
about whom Harry's old adversary Mohun had drawn swords, a few
years before my poor lord and he fell out.  The famous Mr. Congreve
had stamped with his high approval, to the which there was no
gainsaying, this delightful person: and she was acting in Dick
Steele's comedies, and finally, and for twenty-four hours after
beholding her, Mr. Esmond felt himself, or thought himself, to be
as violently enamored of this lovely brunette, as were a thousand
other young fellows about the city.  To have once seen her was to
long to behold her again; and to be offered the delightful
privilege of her acquaintance, was a pleasure the very idea of
which set the young lieutenant's heart on fire.  A man cannot live
with comrades under the tents without finding out that he too is
five-and-twenty.  A young fellow cannot be cast down by grief and
misfortune ever so severe but some night he begins to sleep sound,
and some day when dinner-time comes to feel hungry for a beefsteak.
Time, youth and good health, new scenes and the excitement of
action and a campaign, had pretty well brought Esmond's mourning to
an end; and his comrades said that Don Dismal, as they called him,
was Don Dismal no more.  So when a party was made to dine at the
"Rose," and go to the playhouse afterward, Esmond was as pleased as
another to take his share of the bottle and the play.

How was it that the old aunt's news, or it might be scandal, about
Tom Tusher, caused such a strange and sudden excitement in Tom's
old playfellow?  Hadn't he sworn a thousand times in his own mind
that the Lady of Castlewood, who had treated him with such kindness
once, and then had left him so cruelly, was, and was to remain
henceforth, indifferent to him for ever?  Had his pride and his
sense of justice not long since helped him to cure the pain of that
desertion--was it even a pain to him now?  Why, but last night as
he walked across the fields and meadows to Chelsey from Pall Mall,
had he not composed two or three stanzas of a song, celebrating
Bracegirdle's brown eyes, and declaring them a thousand times more
beautiful than the brightest blue ones that ever languished under
the lashes of an insipid fair beauty!  But Tom Tusher!  Tom Tusher,
the waiting-woman's son, raising up his little eyes to his
mistress!  Tom Tusher presuming to think of Castlewood's widow!
Rage and contempt filled Mr. Harry's heart at the very notion; the
honor of the family, of which he was the chief, made it his duty to
prevent so monstrous an alliance, and to chastise the upstart who
could dare to think of such an insult to their house.  'Tis true
Mr. Esmond often boasted of republican principles, and could
remember many fine speeches he had made at college and elsewhere,
with WORTH and not BIRTH for a text: but Tom Tusher to take the
place of the noble Castlewood--faugh! 'twas as monstrous as King
Hamlet's widow taking off her weeds for Claudius.  Esmond laughed
at all widows, all wives, all women; and were the banns about to be
published, as no doubt they were, that very next Sunday at Walcote
Church, Esmond swore that he would be present to shout No! in the
face of the congregation, and to take a private revenge upon the
ears of the bridegroom.

Instead of going to dinner then at the "Rose" that night, Mr.
Esmond bade his servant pack a portmanteau and get horses, and was
at Farnham, half-way on the road to Walcote, thirty miles off,
before his comrades had got to their supper after the play.  He
bade his man give no hint to my Lady Dowager's household of the
expedition on which he was going; and as Chelsey was distant from
London, the roads bad, and infested by footpads, and Esmond often
in the habit, when engaged in a party of pleasure, of lying at a
friend's lodging in town, there was no need that his old aunt
should be disturbed at his absence--indeed, nothing more delighted
the old lady than to fancy that mon cousin, the incorrigible young
sinner, was abroad boxing the watch, or scouring St. Giles's.  When
she was not at her books of devotion, she thought Etheridge and
Sedley very good reading.  She had a hundred pretty stories about
Rochester, Harry Jermyn, and Hamilton; and if Esmond would but have
run away with the wife even of a citizen, 'tis my belief she would
have pawned her diamonds (the best of them went to our Lady of
Chaillot) to pay his damages.

My lord's little house of Walcote--which he inhabited before he
took his title and occupied the house of Castlewood--lies about a
mile from Winchester, and his widow had returned to Walcote after
my lord's death as a place always dear to her, and where her
earliest and happiest days had been spent, cheerfuller than
Castlewood, which was too large for her straitened means, and
giving her, too, the protection of the ex-dean, her father.  The
young Viscount had a year's schooling at the famous college there,
with Mr. Tusher as his governor.  So much news of them Mr. Esmond
had had during the past year from the old Viscountess, his own
father's widow; from the young one there had never been a word.

Twice or thrice in his benefactor's lifetime, Esmond had been to
Walcote; and now, taking but a couple of hours' rest only at the
inn on the road, he was up again long before daybreak, and made
such good speed that he was at Walcote by two o'clock of the day.
He rid to the end of the village, where he alighted and sent a man
thence to Mr. Tusher, with a message that a gentleman from London
would speak with him on urgent business.  The messenger came back
to say the Doctor was in town, most likely at prayers in the
Cathedral.  My Lady Viscountess was there, too; she always went to
Cathedral prayers every day.

The horses belonged to the post-house at Winchester.  Esmond
mounted again and rode on to the "George;" whence he walked,
leaving his grumbling domestic at last happy with a dinner,
straight to the Cathedral.  The organ was playing: the winter's day
was already growing gray: as he passed under the street-arch into
the Cathedral yard, and made his way into the ancient solemn
edifice.




CHAPTER VI.

THE 29TH DECEMBER.


There was scarce a score of persons in the Cathedral beside the
Dean and some of his clergy, and the choristers, young and old,
that performed the beautiful evening prayer.  But Mr. Tusher was
one of the officiants, and read from the eagle in an authoritative
voice, and a great black periwig; and in the stalls, still in her
black widow's hood, sat Esmond's dear mistress, her son by her
side, very much grown, and indeed a noble-looking youth, with his
mother's eyes, and his father's curling brown hair, that fell over
his point de Venise--a pretty picture such as Van Dyck might have
painted.  Mons. Rigaud's portrait of my Lord Viscount, done at
Paris afterwards, gives but a French version of his manly, frank,
English face.  When he looked up there were two sapphire beams out
of his eyes such as no painter's palette has the color to match, I
think.  On this day there was not much chance of seeing that
particular beauty of my young lord's countenance; for the truth is,
he kept his eyes shut for the most part, and, the anthem being
rather long, was asleep.

But the music ceasing, my lord woke up, looking about him, and his
eyes lighting on Mr. Esmond, who was sitting opposite him, gazing
with no small tenderness and melancholy upon two persons who had so
much of his heart for so many years, Lord Castlewood, with a start,
pulled at his mother's sleeve (her face had scarce been lifted from
her book), and said, "Look, mother!" so loud, that Esmond could
hear on the other side of the church, and the old Dean on his
throned stall.  Lady Castlewood looked for an instant as her son
bade her, and held up a warning finger to Frank; Esmond felt his
whole face flush, and his heart throbbing, as that dear lady beheld
him once more.  The rest of the prayers were speedily over; Mr.
Esmond did not hear them; nor did his mistress, very likely, whose
hood went more closely over her face, and who never lifted her head
again until the service was over, the blessing given, and Mr. Dean,
and his procession of ecclesiastics, out of the inner chapel.

Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls before the clergy
were fairly gone, and running up to Esmond, eagerly embraced him.
"My dear, dearest old Harry!" he said, "are you come back?  Have
you been to the wars?  You'll take me with you when you go again?
Why didn't you write to us?  Come to mother."

Mr. Esmond could hardly say more than a "God bless you, my boy,"
for his heart was very full and grateful at all this tenderness on
the lad's part; and he was as much moved at seeing Frank as he was
fearful about that other interview which was now to take place: for
he knew not if the widow would reject him as she had done so
cruelly a year ago.

"It was kind of you to come back to us, Henry," Lady Esmond said.
"I thought you might come."

"We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth.  Why did you not come
from Portsmouth?" Frank asked, or my Lord Viscount, as he now must
be called.

Esmond had thought of that too.  He would have given one of his
eyes so that he might see his dear friends again once more; but
believing that his mistress had forbidden him her house, he had
obeyed her, and remained at a distance.

"You had but to ask, and you know I would be here," he said.

She gave him her hand, her little fair hand; there was only her
marriage ring on it.  The quarrel was all over.  The year of grief
and estrangement was passed.  They never had been separated.  His
mistress had never been out of his mind all that time.  No, not
once.  No, not in the prison; nor in the camp; nor on shore before
the enemy; nor at sea under the stars of solemn midnight; nor as he
watched the glorious rising of the dawn: not even at the table,
where he sat carousing with friends, or at the theatre yonder,
where he tried to fancy that other eyes were brighter than hers.
Brighter eyes there might be, and faces more beautiful, but none so
dear--no voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who had
been sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth--goddess now
no more, for he knew of her weaknesses; and by thought, by
suffering, and that experience it brings, was older now than she;
but more fondly cherished as woman perhaps than ever she had been
adored as divinity.  What is it?  Where lies it? the secret which
makes one little hand the dearest of all?  Whoever can unriddle
that mystery?  Here she was, her son by his side, his dear boy.
Here she was, weeping and happy.  She took his hand in both hers;
he felt her tears.  It was a rapture of reconciliation.

"Here comes Squaretoes," says Frank.  "Here's Tusher."

Tusher, indeed, now appeared, creaking on his great heels.  Mr. Tom
had divested himself of his alb or surplice, and came forward
habited in his cassock and great black periwig.  How had Esmond
ever been for a moment jealous of this fellow?

"Give us thy hand, Tom Tusher," he said.  The chaplain made him a
very low and stately bow.  "I am charmed to see Captain Esmond,"
says he.  "My lord and I have read the Reddas incolumem precor, and
applied it, I am sure, to you.  You come back with Gaditanian
laurels; when I heard you were bound thither, I wished, I am sure,
I was another Septimius.  My Lord Viscount, your lordship remembers
Septimi, Gades aditure mecum?"

"There's an angle of earth that I love better than Gades, Tusher,"
says Mr. Esmond.  "'Tis that one where your reverence hath a
parsonage, and where our youth was brought up."

"A house that has so many sacred recollections to me," says Mr.
Tusher (and Harry remembered how Tom's father used to flog him
there)--"a house near to that of my respected patron, my most
honored patroness, must ever be a dear abode to me.  But, madam,
the verger waits to close the gates on your ladyship."

"And Harry's coming home to supper.  Huzzay! huzzay!" cries my
lord.  "Mother, I shall run home and bid Beatrix put her ribbons
on.  Beatrix is a maid of honor, Harry.  Such a fine set-up minx!"

"Your heart was never in the Church, Harry," the widow said, in her
sweet low tone, as they walked away together.  (Now, it seemed they
never had been parted, and again, as if they had been ages
asunder.)  "I always thought you had no vocation that way; and that
'twas a pity to shut you out from the world.  You would but have
pined and chafed at Castlewood: and 'tis better you should make a
name for yourself.  I often said so to my dear lord.  How he loved
you!  'Twas my lord that made you stay with us."

"I asked no better than to stay near you always," said Mr. Esmond.

"But to go was best, Harry.  When the world cannot give peace, you
will know where to find it; but one of your strong imagination and
eager desires must try the world first before he tires of it.
'Twas not to be thought of, or if it once was, it was only by my
selfishness, that you should remain as chaplain to a country
gentleman and tutor to a little boy.  You are of the blood of the
Esmonds, kinsman; and that was always wild in youth.  Look at
Francis.  He is but fifteen, and I scarce can keep him in my nest.
His talk is all of war and pleasure, and he longs to serve in the
next campaign.  Perhaps he and the young Lord Churchill shall go
the next.  Lord Marlborough has been good to us.  You know how kind
they were in my misfortune.  And so was your--your father's widow.
No one knows how good the world is, till grief comes to try us.
'Tis through my Lady Marlborough's goodness that Beatrix hath her
place at Court; and Frank is under my Lord Chamberlain.  And the
dowager lady, your father's widow, has promised to provide for you--has she not?"

Esmond said, "Yes.  As far as present favor went, Lady Castlewood
was very good to him.  And should her mind change," he added gayly,
"as ladies' minds will, I am strong enough to bear my own burden,
and make my way somehow.  Not by the sword very likely.  Thousands
have a better genius for that than I, but there are many ways in
which a young man of good parts and education can get on in the
world; and I am pretty sure, one way or other, of promotion!"
Indeed, he had found patrons already in the army, and amongst
persons very able to serve him, too; and told his mistress of the
flattering aspect of fortune.  They walked as though they had never
been parted, slowly, with the gray twilight closing round them.

"And now we are drawing near to home," she continued, "I knew you
would come, Harry, if--if it was but to forgive me for having
spoken unjustly to you after that horrid--horrid misfortune.  I was
half frantic with grief then when I saw you.  And I know now--they
have told me.  That wretch, whose name I can never mention, even
has said it: how you tried to avert the quarrel, and would have
taken it on yourself, my poor child: but it was God's will that I
should be punished, and that my dear lord should fall."

"He gave me his blessing on his death-bed," Esmond said.  "Thank
God for that legacy!"

"Amen, amen! dear Henry," said the lady, pressing his arm.  "I knew
it.  Mr. Atterbury, of St. Bride's, who was called to him, told me
so.  And I thanked God, too, and in my prayers ever since
remembered it."

"You had spared me many a bitter night, had you told me sooner,"
Mr. Esmond said.

"I know it, I know it," she answered, in a tone of such sweet
humility, as made Esmond repent that he should ever have dared to
reproach her.  "I know how wicked my heart has been; and I have
suffered too, my dear.  I confessed to Mr. Atterbury--I must not
tell any more.  He--I said I would not write to you or go to you--and it was better even that having parted, we should part.  But I
knew you would come back--I own that.  That is no one's fault.  And
to-day, Henry, in the anthem, when they sang it, 'When the Lord
turned the captivity of Zion, we were like them that dream,' I
thought, yes, like them that dream--them that dream.  And then it
went, 'They that sow in tears shall reap in joy; and he that goeth
forth and weepeth, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing,
bringing his sheaves with him;' I looked up from the book, and saw
you.  I was not surprised when I saw you.  I knew you would come,
my dear, and saw the gold sunshine round your head."

She smiled an almost wild smile as she looked up at him.  The moon
was up by this time, glittering keen in the frosty sky.  He could
see, for the first time now clearly, her sweet careworn face.

"Do you know what day it is?" she continued.  "It is the 29th of
December--it is your birthday!  But last year we did not drink it--no, no.  My lord was cold, and my Harry was likely to die: and my
brain was in a fever; and we had no wine.  But now--now you are
come again, bringing your sheaves with you, my dear."  She burst
into a wild flood of weeping as she spoke; she laughed and sobbed
on the young man's heart, crying out wildly, "bringing your sheaves
with you--your sheaves with you!"

As he had sometimes felt, gazing up from the deck at midnight into
the boundless starlit depths overhead, in a rapture of devout
wonder at that endless brightness and beauty--in some such a way
now, the depth of this pure devotion (which was, for the first
time, revealed to him) quite smote upon him, and filled his heart
with thanksgiving.  Gracious God, who was he, weak and friendless
creature, that such a love should be poured out upon him?  Not in
vain--not in vain has he lived--hard and thankless should he be to
think so--that has such a treasure given him.  What is ambition
compared to that, but selfish vanity?  To be rich, to be famous?
What do these profit a year hence, when other names sound louder
than yours, when you lie hidden away under the ground, along with
idle titles engraven on your coffin?  But only true love lives
after you--follows your memory with secret blessing--or precedes
you, and intercedes for you.  Non omnis moriar--if dying, I yet
live in a tender heart or two; nor am lost and hopeless living, if
a sainted departed soul still loves and prays for me.

"If--if 'tis so, dear lady," Mr. Esmond said, "why should I ever
leave you?  If God hath given me this great boon--and near or far
from me, as I know now, the heart of my dearest mistress follows
me, let me have that blessing near me, nor ever part with it till
death separate us.  Come away--leave this Europe, this place which
has so many sad recollections for you.  Begin a new life in a new
world.  My good lord often talked of visiting that land in Virginia
which King Charles gave us--gave his ancestor.  Frank will give us
that.  No man there will ask if there is a blot on my name, or
inquire in the woods what my title is."

"And my children--and my duty--and my good father, Henry?" she
broke out.  "He has none but me now! for soon my sister will leave
him, and the old man will be alone.  He has conformed since the new
Queen's reign; and here in Winchester, where they love him, they
have found a church for him.  When the children leave me, I will
stay with him.  I cannot follow them into the great world, where
their way lies--it scares me.  They will come and visit me; and you
will, sometimes, Henry--yes, sometimes, as now, in the Holy Advent
season, when I have seen and blessed you once more."

"I would leave all to follow you," said Mr. Esmond; "and can you
not be as generous for me, dear lady?"

"Hush, boy!" she said, and it was with a mother's sweet plaintive
tone and look that she spoke.  "The world is beginning for you.
For me, I have been so weak and sinful that I must leave it, and
pray out an expiation, dear Henry.  Had we houses of religion as
there were once, and many divines of our Church would have them
again, I often think I would retire to one and pass my life in
penance.  But I would love you still--yes, there is no sin in such
a love as mine now; and my dear lord in heaven may see my heart;
and knows the tears that have washed my sin away--and now--now my
duty is here, by my children whilst they need me, and by my poor
old father, and--"

"And not by me?" Henry said.

"Hush!" she said again, and raised her hand up to his lip.  "I have
been your nurse.  You could not see me, Harry, when you were in the
small-pox, and I came and sat by you.  Ah! I prayed that I might
die, but it would have been in sin, Henry.  Oh, it is horrid to
look back to that time.  It is over now and past, and it has been
forgiven me.  When you need me again, I will come ever so far.
When your heart is wounded, then come to me, my dear.  Be silent!
let me say all.  You never loved me, dear Henry--no, you do not
now, and I thank heaven for it.  I used to watch you, and knew by a
thousand signs that it was so.  Do you remember how glad you were
to go away to college?  'Twas I sent you.  I told my papa that, and
Mr. Atterbury too, when I spoke to him in London.  And they both
gave me absolution--both--and they are godly men, having authority
to bind and to loose.  And they forgave me, as my dear lord forgave
me before he went to heaven."

"I think the angels are not all in heaven," Mr. Esmond said.  And
as a brother folds a sister to his heart; and as a mother cleaves
to her son's breast--so for a few moments Esmond's beloved mistress
came to him and blessed him.




CHAPTER VII.

I AM MADE WELCOME AT WALCOTE.


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-parlor; it seemed as if forgiveness and love were
awaiting the returning prodigal.  Two or three familiar faces of
domestics were on the look-out 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'm
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, rapt 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 blessed 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 gray,
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
dear 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?" asked 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 tablebook."  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 rumor 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
favorite.  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 gayety, 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 of
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 color 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
Years' 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 gray
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.




CHAPTER VIII.

FAMILY TALK.


What Harry admired and submitted to in the pretty lad his kinsman
was (for why should he resist it?) the calmness of patronage which
my young lord assumed, as if to command was his undoubted right,
and all the world (below his degree) ought to bow down to Viscount
Castlewood.

"I know my place, Harry," he said.  "I'm not proud--the boys at
Winchester College say I'm proud: but I'm not proud.  I am simply
Francis James Viscount Castlewood in the peerage of Ireland.  I
might have been (do you know that?) Francis James Marquis and Earl
of Esmond in that of England.  The late lord refused the title
which was offered to him by my godfather, his late Majesty.  You
should know that--you are of our family, you know you cannot help
your bar sinister, Harry, my dear fellow; and you belong to one of
the best families in England, in spite of that; and you stood by my
father, and by G--! I'll stand by you.  You shall never want a
friend, Harry, while Francis James Viscount Castlewood has a
shilling.  It's now 1703--I shall come of age in 1709.  I shall go
back to Castlewood; I shall live at Castlewood; I shall build up
the house.  My property will be pretty well restored by then.  The
late viscount mismanaged my property, and left it in a very bad
state.  My mother is living close, as you see, and keeps me in a
way hardly befitting a peer of these realms; for I have but a pair
of horses, a governor, and a man that is valet and groom.  But when
I am of age, these things will be set right, Harry.  Our house will
be as it should be.  You will always come to Castlewood, won't you?
You shall always have your two rooms in the court kept for you; and
if anybody slights you, d--- them! let them have a care of ME.  I
shall marry early--Trix will be a duchess by that time, most
likely; for a cannon ball may knock over his grace any day, you
know."

"How?" says Harry.

"Hush, my dear!" says my Lord Viscount.  "You are of the family--you are faithful to us, by George, and I tell you everything.
Blandford will marry her--or"--and here he put his little hand on
his sword--"you understand the rest.  Blandford knows which of us
two is the best weapon.  At small-sword, or back-sword, or sword
and dagger if he likes; I can beat him.  I have tried him, Harry;
and begad he knows I am a man not to be trifled with."

"But you do not mean," says Harry, concealing his laughter, but not
his wonder, "that you can force my Lord Blandford, the son of the
first man of this kingdom, to marry your sister at sword's point?"

"I mean to say that we are cousins by the mother's side, though
that's nothing to boast of.  I mean to say that an Esmond is as
good as a Churchill; and when the King comes back, the Marquis of
Esmond's sister may be a match for any nobleman's daughter in the
kingdom.  There are but two marquises in all England, William
Herbert Marquis of Powis, and Francis James Marquis of Esmond; and
hark you, Harry,--now swear you will never mention this.  Give me
your honor as a gentleman, for you ARE a gentleman, though you are
a--"

"Well, well?" says Harry, a little impatient.

"Well, then, when after my late viscount's misfortune, my mother
went up with us to London, to ask for justice against you all (as
for Mohun, I'll have his blood, as sure as my name is Francis
Viscount Esmond)--we went to stay with our cousin my Lady
Marlborough, with whom we had quarrelled for ever so long.  But
when misfortune came, she stood by her blood:--so did the Dowager
Viscountess stand by her blood,--so did you.  Well, sir, whilst my
mother was petitioning the late Prince of Orange--for I will never
call him king--and while you were in prison, we lived at my Lord
Marlborough's house, who was only a little there, being away with
the army in Holland.  And then . . . I say, Harry, you won't tell,
now?"

Harry again made a vow of secrecy.

"Well, there used to be all sorts of fun, you know: my Lady
Marlborough was very fond of us, and she said I was to be her page;
and she got Trix to be a maid of honor, and while she was up in her
room crying, we used to be always having fun, you know; and the
Duchess used to kiss me, and so did her daughters, and Blandford
fell tremendous in love with Trix, and she liked him; and one day
he--he kissed her behind a door--he did though,--and the Duchess
caught him, and she banged such a box of the ear both at Trix and
Blandford--you should have seen it!  And then she said that we must
leave directly, and abused my mamma who was cognizant of the
business; but she wasn't--never thinking about anything but father.
And so we came down to Walcote.  Blandford being locked up, and not
allowed to see Trix.  But I got at him.  I climbed along the
gutter, and in through the window, where he was crying.

"'Marquis,' says I, when he had opened it and helped me in, 'you
know I wear a sword,' for I had brought it.

"'Oh, viscount,' says he--'oh, my dearest Frank!' and he threw
himself into my arms and burst out a-crying.  'I do love Mistress
Beatrix so, that I shall die if I don't have her.'

"'My dear Blandford,' says I, 'you are young to think of marrying;'
for he was but fifteen, and a young fellow of that age can scarce
do so, you know.

"'But I'll wait twenty years, if she'll have me,' says he.  'I'll
never marry--no, never, never, never, marry anybody but her.  No,
not a princess, though they would have me do it ever so.  If
Beatrix will wait for me, her Blandford swears he will be
faithful.'  And he wrote a paper (it wasn't spelt right, for he
wrote 'I'm ready to SINE WITH MY BLODE,' which, you know, Harry,
isn't the way of spelling it), and vowing that he would marry none
other but the Honorable Mistress Gertrude Beatrix Esmond, only
sister of his dearest friend Francis James, fourth Viscount Esmond.
And so I gave him a locket of her hair."

"A locket of her hair?" cries Esmond.

"Yes.  Trix gave me one after the fight with the Duchess that very
day.  I am sure I didn't want it; and so I gave it him, and we
kissed at parting, and said--'Good-by, brother.'  And I got back
through the gutter; and we set off home that very evening.  And he
went to King's College, in Cambridge, and I'M going to Cambridge
soon; and if he doesn't stand to his promise (for he's only wrote
once),--he knows I wear a sword, Harry.  Come along, and let's go
see the cocking-match at Winchester.

". . . . But I say," he added, laughing, after a pause, "I don't
think Trix will break her heart about him.  La bless you! whenever
she sees a man, she makes eyes at him; and young Sir Wilmot Crawley
of Queen's Crawley, and Anthony Henley of Airesford, were at swords
drawn about her, at the Winchester Assembly, a month ago."

That night Mr. Harry's sleep was by no means so pleasant or sweet
as it had been on the first two evenings after his arrival at
Walcote.  "So the bright eyes have been already shining on
another," thought he, "and the pretty lips, or the cheeks at any
rate, have begun the work which they were made for.  Here's a girl
not sixteen, and one young gentleman is already whimpering over a
lock of her hair, and two country squires are ready to cut each
other's throats that they may have the honor of a dance with her.
What a fool am I to be dallying about this passion, and singeing my
wings in this foolish flame.  Wings!--why not say crutches?  'There
is but eight years' difference between us, to be sure; but in life
I am thirty years older.  How could I ever hope to please such a
sweet creature as that, with my rough ways and glum face?  Say that
I have merit ever so much, and won myself a name, could she ever
listen to me?  She must be my Lady Marchioness, and I remain a
nameless bastard.  Oh! my master, my master!" (here he fell to
thinking with a passionate grief of the vow which he had made to
his poor dying lord.)  "Oh! my mistress, dearest and kindest, will
you be contented with the sacrifice which the poor orphan makes for
you, whom you love, and who so loves you?"

And then came a fiercer pang of temptation.  "A word from me,"
Harry thought, "a syllable of explanation, and all this might be
changed; but no, I swore it over the dying bed of my benefactor.
For the sake of him and his; for the sacred love and kindness of
old days; I gave my promise to him, and may kind heaven enable me
to keep my vow!"

The next day, although Esmond gave no sign of what was going on in
his mind, but strove to be more than ordinarily gay and cheerful
when he met his friends at the morning meal, his dear mistress,
whose clear eyes it seemed no emotion of his could escape,
perceived that something troubled him, for she looked anxiously
towards him more than once during the breakfast, and when he went
up to his chamber afterwards she presently followed him, and
knocked at his door.

As she entered, no doubt the whole story was clear to her at once,
for she found our young gentleman packing his valise, pursuant to
the resolution which he had come to over-night of making a brisk
retreat out of this temptation.

She closed the door very carefully behind her, and then leant
against it, very pale, her hands folded before her, looking at the
young man, who was kneeling over his work of packing.  "Are you
going so soon?" she said.

He rose up from his knees, blushing, perhaps, to be so discovered,
in the very act, as it were, and took one of her fair little hands--it was that which had her marriage ring on--and kissed it.

"It is best that it should be so, dearest lady," he said.

"I knew you were going, at breakfast.  I--I thought you might stay.
What has happened?  Why can't you remain longer with us?  What has
Frank told you--you were talking together late last night?"

"I had but three days' leave from Chelsey," Esmond said, as gayly
as he could.  "My aunt--she lets me call her aunt--is my mistress
now!  I owe her my lieutenancy and my laced coat.  She has taken me
into high favor; and my new General is to dine at Chelsey to-morrow--General Lumley, madam--who has appointed me his aide-de-camp, and on whom I must have the honor of waiting.  See, here is a
letter from the Dowager; the post brought it last night; and I
would not speak of it, for fear of disturbing our last merry
meeting."

My lady glanced at the letter, and put it down with a smile that
was somewhat contemptuous.  "I have no need to read the letter,"
says she--(indeed, 'twas as well she did not; for the Chelsey
missive, in the poor Dowager's usual French jargon, permitted him a
longer holiday than he said.  "Je vous donne," quoth her ladyship,
"oui jour, pour vous fatigay parfaictement de vos parens
fatigans")--"I have no need to read the letter," says she.  "What
was it Frank told you last night?"

"He told me little I did not know," Mr. Esmond answered.  "But I
have thought of that little, and here's the result: I have no right
to the name I bear, dear lady; and it is only by your sufferance
that I am allowed to keep it.  If I thought for an hour of what has
perhaps crossed your mind too--"

"Yes, I did, Harry," said she; "I thought of it; and think of it.
I would sooner call you my son than the greatest prince in Europe--yes, than the greatest prince.  For who is there so good and so
brave, and who would love her as you would?  But there are reasons
a mother can't tell."

"I know them," said Mr. Esmond, interrupting her with a smile.  "I
know there's Sir Wilmot Crawley of Queen's Crawley, and Mr. Anthony
Henley of the Grange, and my Lord Marquis of Blandford, that seems
to be the favored suitor.  You shall ask me to wear my Lady
Marchioness's favors and to dance at her ladyship's wedding."

"Oh! Harry, Harry, it is none of these follies that frighten me,"
cried out Lady Castlewood.  "Lord Churchill is but a child, his
outbreak about Beatrix was a mere boyish folly.  His parents would
rather see him buried than married to one below him in rank.  And
do you think that I would stoop to sue for a husband for Francis
Esmond's daughter; or submit to have my girl smuggled into that
proud family to cause a quarrel between son and parents, and to be
treated only as an inferior?  I would disdain such a meanness.
Beatrix would scorn it.  Ah! Henry, 'tis not with you the fault
lies, 'tis with her.  I know you both, and love you: need I be
ashamed of that love now?  No, never, never, and 'tis not you, dear
Harry, that is unworthy.  'Tis for my poor Beatrix I tremble--whose
headstrong will frightens me; whose jealous temper (they say I was
jealous too, but, pray God, I am cured of that sin) and whose
vanity no words or prayers of mine can cure--only suffering, only
experience, and remorse afterwards.  Oh! Henry, she will make no
man happy who loves her.  Go away, my son: leave her: love us
always, and think kindly of us: and for me, my dear, you know that
these walls contain all that I love in the world."

In after life, did Esmond find the words true which his fond
mistress spoke from her sad heart?  Warning he had: but I doubt
others had warning before his time, and since: and he benefited by
it as most men do.

My young Lord Viscount was exceeding sorry when he heard that Harry
could not come to the cock-match with him, and must go to London,
but no doubt my lord consoled himself when the Hampshire cocks won
the match; and he saw every one of the battles, and crowed properly
over the conquered Sussex gentlemen.

As Esmond rode towards town his servant, coming up to him, informed
him with a grin, that Mistress Beatrix had brought out a new gown
and blue stockings for that day's dinner, in which she intended to
appear, and had flown into a rage and given her maid a slap on the
face soon after she heard he was going away.  Mistress Beatrix's
woman, the fellow said, came down to the servants' hall crying, and
with the mark of a blow still on her cheek: but Esmond peremptorily
ordered him to fall back and be silent, and rode on with thoughts
enough of his own to occupy him--some sad ones, some inexpressibly
dear and pleasant.

His mistress, from whom he had been a year separated, was his
dearest mistress again.  The family from which he had been parted,
and which he loved with the fondest devotion, was his family once
more.  If Beatrix's beauty shone upon him, it was with a friendly
lustre, and he could regard it with much such a delight as he
brought away after seeing the beautiful pictures of the smiling
Madonnas in the convent at Cadiz, when he was despatched thither
with a flag; and as for his mistress, 'twas difficult to say with
what a feeling he regarded her.  'Twas happiness to have seen her;
'twas no great pang to part; a filial tenderness, a love that was
at once respect and protection, filled his mind as he thought of
her; and near her or far from her, and from that day until now, and
from now till death is past and beyond it, he prays that sacred
flame may ever burn.




CHAPTER IX.

I MAKE THE CAMPAIGN OF 1704.


Mr. Esmond rode up to London then, where, if the Dowager had been
angry at the abrupt leave of absence he took, she was mightily
pleased at his speedy return.

He went immediately and paid his court to his new general, General
Lumley, who received him graciously, having known his father, and
also, he was pleased to say, having had the very best accounts of
Mr. Esmond from the officer whose aide-de-camp he had been at Vigo.
During this winter Mr. Esmond was gazetted to a lieutenancy in
Brigadier Webb's regiment of Fusileers, then with their colonel in
Flanders; but being now attached to the suite of Mr. Lumley, Esmond
did not join his own regiment until more than a year afterwards,
and after his return from the campaign of Blenheim, which was
fought the next year.  The campaign began very early, our troops
marching out of their quarters before the winter was almost over,
and investing the city of Bonn, on the Rhine, under the Duke's
command.  His Grace joined the army in deep grief of mind, with
crape on his sleeve, and his household in mourning; and the very
same packet which brought the Commander-in-Chief over, brought
letters to the forces which preceded him, and one from his dear
mistress to Esmond, which interested him not a little.

The young Marquis of Blandford, his Grace's son, who had been
entered in King's College in Cambridge, (whither my Lord Viscount
had also gone, to Trinity, with Mr. Tusher as his governor,) had
been seized with small-pox, and was dead at sixteen years of age,
and so poor Frank's schemes for his sister's advancement were over,
and that innocent childish passion nipped in the birth.

Esmond's mistress would have had him return, at least her letters
hinted as much; but in the presence of the enemy this was
impossible, and our young man took his humble share in the siege,
which need not be described here, and had the good luck to escape
without a wound of any sort, and to drink his general's health
after the surrender.  He was in constant military duty this year,
and did not think of asking for a leave of absence, as one or two
of his less fortunate friends did, who were cast away in that
tremendous storm which happened towards the close of November, that
"which of late o'er pale Britannia past" (as Mr. Addison sang of
it), and in which scores of our greatest ships and 15,000 of our
seamen went down.

They said that our Duke was quite heart-broken by the calamity
which had befallen his family; but his enemies found that he could
subdue them, as well as master his grief.  Successful as had been
this great General's operations in the past year, they were far
enhanced by the splendor of his victory in the ensuing campaign.
His Grace the Captain-General went to England after Bonn, and our
army fell back into Holland, where, in April 1704, his Grace again
found the troops, embarking from Harwich and landing at Maesland
Sluys: thence his Grace came immediately to the Hague, where he
received the foreign ministers, general officers, and other people
of quality.  The greatest honors were paid to his Grace everywhere--at the Hague, Utrecht, Ruremonde, and Maestricht; the civil
authorities coming to meet his coaches: salvos of cannon saluting
him, canopies of state being erected for him where he stopped, and
feasts prepared for the numerous gentlemen following in his suite.
His Grace reviewed the troops of the States-General between Liege
and Maestricht, and afterwards the English forces, under the
command of General Churchill, near Bois-le-Duc.  Every preparation
was made for a long march; and the army heard, with no small
elation, that it was the Commander-in-Chief's intention to carry
the war out of the Low Countries, and to march on the Mozelle.
Before leaving our camp at Maestricht, we heard that the French,
under the Marshal Villeroy, were also bound towards the Mozelle.

Towards the end of May, the army reached Coblentz; and next day,
his Grace, and the generals accompanying him, went to visit the
Elector of Treves at his Castle of Ehrenbreitstein, the horse and
dragoons passing the Rhine whilst the Duke was entertained at a
grand feast by the Elector.  All as yet was novelty, festivity, and
splendor--a brilliant march of a great and glorious army through a
friendly country, and sure through some of the most beautiful
scenes of nature which I ever witnessed.

The foot and artillery, following after the horse as quick as
possible, crossed the Rhine under Ehrenbreitstein, and so to
Castel, over against Mayntz, in which city his Grace, his generals,
and his retinue were received at the landing-place by the Elector's
coaches, carried to his Highness's palace amidst the thunder of
cannon, and then once more magnificently entertained.  Gidlingen,
in Bavaria, was appointed as the general rendezvous of the army,
and thither, by different routes, the whole forces of English,
Dutch, Danes, and German auxiliaries took their way.  The foot and
artillery under General Churchill passed the Neckar, at Heidelberg;
and Esmond had an opportunity of seeing that city and palace, once
so famous and beautiful (though shattered and battered by the
French, under Turenne, in the late war), where his grandsire had
served the beautiful and unfortunate Electress-Palatine, the first
King Charles's sister.

At Mindelsheim, the famous Prince of Savoy came to visit our
commander, all of us crowding eagerly to get a sight of that
brilliant and intrepid warrior; and our troops were drawn up in
battalia before the Prince, who was pleased to express his
admiration of this noble English army.  At length we came in sight
of the enemy between Dillingen and Lawingen, the Brentz lying
between the two armies.  The Elector, judging that Donauwort would
be the point of his Grace's attack, sent a strong detachment of his
best troops to Count Darcos, who was posted at Schellenberg, near
that place, where great intrenchments were thrown up, and thousands
of pioneers employed to strengthen the position.

On the 2nd of July his Grace stormed the post, with what success on
our part need scarce be told.  His Grace advanced with six thousand
foot, English and Dutch, thirty squadrons, and three regiments of
Imperial Cuirassiers, the Duke crossing the river at the head of
the cavalry.  Although our troops made the attack with unparalleled
courage and fury--rushing up to the very guns of the enemy, and
being slaughtered before their works--we were driven back many
times, and should not have carried them, but that the Imperialists
came up under the Prince of Baden, when the enemy could make no
head against us: we pursued them into the trenches, making a
terrible slaughter there, and into the very Danube, where a great
part of his troops, following the example of their generals, Count
Darcos and the Elector himself, tried to save themselves by
swimming.  Our army entered Donauwort, which the Bavarians
evacuated; and where 'twas said the Elector purposed to have given
us a warm reception, by burning us in our beds; the cellars of the
houses, when we took possession of them, being found stuffed with
straw.  But though the links were there, the link-boys had run
away.  The townsmen saved their houses, and our General took
possession of the enemy's ammunition in the arsenals, his stores,
and magazines.  Five days afterwards a great "Te Deum" was sung in
Prince Lewis's army, and a solemn day of thanksgiving held in our
own; the Prince of Savoy's compliments coming to his Grace the
Captain-General during the day's religious ceremony, and
concluding, as it were, with an Amen.

And now, having seen a great military march through a friendly
country; the pomps and festivities of more than one German court;
the severe struggle of a hotly contested battle, and the triumph of
victory, Mr. Esmond beheld another part of military duty: our
troops entering the enemy's territory, and putting all around them
to fire and sword; burning farms, wasted fields, shrieking women,
slaughtered sons and fathers, and drunken soldiery, cursing and
carousing in the midst of tears, terror, and murder.  Why does the
stately Muse of History, that delights in describing the valor of
heroes and the grandeur of conquest, leave out these scenes, so
brutal, mean, and degrading, that yet form by far the greater part
of the drama of war?  You, gentlemen of England, who live at home
at ease, and compliment yourselves in the songs of triumph with
which our chieftains are bepraised--you pretty maidens, that come
tumbling down the stairs when the fife and drum call you, and
huzzah for the British Grenadiers--do you take account that these
items go to make up the amount of the triumph you admire, and form
part of the duties of the heroes you fondle?  Our chief, whom
England and all Europe, saving only the Frenchmen, worshipped
almost, had this of the godlike in him, that he was impassible
before victory, before danger, before defeat.  Before the greatest
obstacle or the most trivial ceremony; before a hundred thousand
men drawn in battalia, or a peasant slaughtered at the door of his
burning hovel; before a carouse of drunken German lords, or a
monarch's court or a cottage table, where his plans were laid, or
an enemy's battery, vomiting flame and death, and strewing corpses
round about him;--he was always cold, calm, resolute, like fate.
He performed a treason or a court-bow, he told a falsehood as black
as Styx, as easily as he paid a compliment or spoke about the
weather.  He took a mistress, and left her; he betrayed his
benefactor, and supported him, or would have murdered him, with the
same calmness always, and having no more remorse than Clotho when
she weaves the thread, or Lachesis when she cuts it.  In the hour
of battle I have heard the Prince of Savoy's officers say, the
Prince became possessed with a sort of warlike fury; his eyes
lighted up; he rushed hither and thither, raging; he shrieked
curses and encouragement, yelling and harking his bloody war-dogs
on, and himself always at the first of the hunt.  Our duke was as
calm at the mouth of the cannon as at the door of a drawing-room.
Perhaps he could not have been the great man he was, had he had a
heart either for love or hatred, or pity or fear, or regret or
remorse.  He achieved the highest deed of daring, or deepest
calculation of thought, as he performed the very meanest action of
which a man is capable; told a lie, or cheated a fond woman, or
robbed a poor beggar of a halfpenny, with a like awful serenity and
equal capacity of the highest and lowest acts of our nature.

His qualities were pretty well known in the army, where there were
parties of all politics, and of plenty of shrewdness and wit; but
there existed such a perfect confidence in him, as the first
captain of the world, and such a faith and admiration in his
prodigious genius and fortune, that the very men whom he
notoriously cheated of their pay, the chiefs whom he used and
injured--(for he used all men, great and small, that came near him,
as his instruments alike, and took something of theirs, either some
quality or some property--the blood of a soldier, it might be, or a
jewelled hat, or a hundred thousand crowns from a king, or a
portion out of a starving sentinel's three-farthings; or (when he
was young) a kiss from a woman, and the gold chain off her neck,
taking all he could from woman or man, and having, as I have said,
this of the godlike in him, that he could see a hero perish or a
sparrow fall, with the same amount of sympathy for either.  Not
that he had no tears; he could always order up this reserve at the
proper moment to battle; he could draw upon tears or smiles alike,
and whenever need was for using this cheap coin.  He would cringe
to a shoeblack, as he would flatter a minister or a monarch; be
haughty, be humble, threaten, repent, weep, grasp your hand, (or
stab you whenever he saw occasion)--but yet those of the army, who
knew him best and had suffered most from him, admired him most of
all: and as he rode along the lines to battle or galloped up in the
nick of time to a battalion reeling from before the enemy's charge
or shot, the fainting men and officers got new courage as they saw
the splendid calm of his face, and felt that his will made them
irresistible.

After the great victory of Blenheim the enthusiasm of the army for
the Duke, even of his bitterest personal enemies in it, amounted to
a sort of rage--nay, the very officers who cursed him in their
hearts were among the most frantic to cheer him.  Who could refuse
his meed of admiration to such a victory and such a victor?  Not he
who writes: a man may profess to be ever so much a philosopher; but
he who fought on that day must feel a thrill of pride as he recalls
it.

The French right was posted near to the village of Blenheim, on the
Danube, where the Marshal Tallard's quarters were; their line
extending through, it may be a league and a half, before Lutzingen
and up to a woody hill, round the base of which, and acting against
the Prince of Savoy, were forty of his squadrons.

Here was a village that the Frenchmen had burned, the wood being,
in fact, a better shelter and easier of guard than any village.

Before these two villages and the French lines ran a little stream,
not more than two foot broad, through a marsh (that was mostly
dried up from the heats of the weather), and this stream was the
only separation between the two armies--ours coming up and ranging
themselves in line of battle before the French, at six o'clock in
the morning; so that our line was quite visible to theirs; and the
whole of this great plain was black and swarming with troops for
hours before the cannonading began.

On one side and the other this cannonading lasted many hours.  The
French guns being in position in front of their line, and doing
severe damage among our horse especially, and on our right wing of
Imperialists under the Prince of Savoy, who could neither advance
his artillery nor his lines, the ground before him being cut up by
ditches, morasses, and very difficult of passage for the guns.

It was past mid-day when the attack began on our left, where Lord
Cutts commanded, the bravest and most beloved officer in the
English army.  And now, as if to make his experience in war
complete, our young aide-de-camp having seen two great armies
facing each other in line of battle, and had the honor of riding
with orders from one end to other of the line, came in for a not
uncommon accompaniment of military glory, and was knocked on the
head, along with many hundred of brave fellows, almost at the very
commencement of this famous day of Blenheim.  A little after noon,
the disposition for attack being completed with much delay and
difficulty, and under a severe fire from the enemy's guns, that
were better posted and more numerous than ours, a body of English
and Hessians, with Major-General Wilkes commanding at the extreme
left of our line, marched upon Blenheim, advancing with great
gallantry, the Major-General on foot, with his officers, at the
head of the column, and marching, with his hat off, intrepidly in
the face of the enemy, who was pouring in a tremendous fire from
his guns and musketry, to which our people were instructed not to
reply, except with pike and bayonet when they reached the French
palisades.  To these Wilkes walked intrepidly, and struck the
woodwork with his sword before our people charged it.  He was shot
down at the instant, with his colonel, major, and several officers;
and our troops cheering and huzzaing, and coming on, as they did,
with immense resolution and gallantry, were nevertheless stopped by
the murderous fire from behind the enemy's defences, and then
attacked in flank by a furious charge of French horse which swept
out of Blenheim, and cut down our men in great numbers.  Three
fierce and desperate assaults of our foot were made and repulsed by
the enemy; so that our columns of foot were quite shattered, and
fell back, scrambling over the little rivulet, which we had crossed
so resolutely an hour before, and pursued by the French cavalry,
slaughtering us and cutting us down.

And now the conquerors were met by a furious charge of English
horse under Esmond's general, General Lumley, behind whose
squadrons the flying foot found refuge, and formed again, whilst
Lumley drove back the French horse, charging up to the village of
Blenheim and the palisades where Wilkes, and many hundred more
gallant Englishmen, lay in slaughtered heaps.  Beyond this moment,
and of this famous victory, Mr. Esmond knows nothing; for a shot
brought down his horse and our young gentleman on it, who fell
crushed and stunned under the animal, and came to his senses he
knows not how long after, only to lose them again from pain and
loss of blood.  A dim sense, as of people groaning round about him,
a wild incoherent thought or two for her who occupied so much of
his heart now, and that here his career, and his hopes, and
misfortunes were ended, he remembers in the course of these hours.
When he woke up, it was with a pang of extreme pain, his
breastplate was taken off, his servant was holding his head up, the
good and faithful lad of Hampshire* was blubbering over his master,
whom he found and had thought dead, and a surgeon was probing a
wound in the shoulder, which he must have got at the same moment
when his horse was shot and fell over him.  The battle was over at
this end of the field, by this time: the village was in possession
of the English, its brave defenders prisoners, or fled, or drowned,
many of them, in the neighboring waters of Donau.  But for honest
Lockwood's faithful search after his master, there had no doubt
been an end of Esmond here, and of this his story.  The marauders
were out riffling the bodies as they lay on the field, and Jack had
brained one of these gentry with the club-end of his musket, who
had eased Esmond of his hat and periwig, his purse, and fine
silver-mounted pistols which the Dowager gave him, and was fumbling
in his pockets for further treasure, when Jack Lockwood came up and
put an end to the scoundrel's triumph.

/*
     * My mistress, before I went this campaign, sent me John
     Lockwood out of Walcote, who hath ever since remained with
     me.--H. E.
*/

Hospitals for our wounded were established at Blenheim, and here
for several weeks Esmond lay in very great danger of his life; the
wound was not very great from which he suffered, and the ball
extracted by the surgeon on the spot where our young gentleman
received it; but a fever set in next day, as he was lying in
hospital, and that almost carried him away.  Jack Lockwood said he
talked in the wildest manner during his delirium; that he called
himself the Marquis of Esmond, and seizing one of the surgeon's
assistants who came to dress his wounds, swore that he was Madam
Beatrix, and that he would make her a duchess if she would but say
yes.  He was passing the days in these crazy fancies, and vana
somnia, whilst the army was singing "Te Deum" for the victory, and
those famous festivities were taking place at which our Duke, now
made a Prince of the Empire, was entertained by the King of the
Romans and his nobility.  His Grace went home by Berlin and
Hanover, and Esmond lost the festivities which took place at those
cities, and which his general shared in company of the other
general officers who travelled with our great captain.  When he
could move, it was by the Duke of Wurtemberg's city of Stuttgard
that he made his way homewards, revisiting Heidelberg again, whence
he went to Manheim, and hence had a tedious but easy water journey
down the river of Rhine, which he had thought a delightful and
beautiful voyage indeed, but that his heart was longing for home,
and something far more beautiful and delightful.

As bright and welcome as the eyes almost of his mistress shone the
lights of Harwich, as the packet came in from Holland.  It was not
many hours ere he, Esmond, was in London, of that you may be sure,
and received with open arms by the old Dowager of Chelsey, who
vowed, in her jargon of French and English, that he had the air
noble, that his pallor embellished him, that he was an Amadis and
deserved a Gloriana; and oh! flames and darts! what was his joy at
hearing that his mistress was come into waiting, and was now with
her Majesty at Kensington!  Although Mr. Esmond had told Jack
Lockwood to get horses and they would ride for Winchester that
night, when he heard this news he countermanded the horses at once;
his business lay no longer in Hants; all his hope and desire lay
within a couple of miles of him in Kensington Park wall.  Poor
Harry had never looked in the glass before so eagerly to see
whether he had the bel air, and his paleness really did become him;
he never took such pains about the curl of his periwig, and the
taste of his embroidery and point-lace, as now, before Mr. Amadis
presented himself to Madam Gloriana.  Was the fire of the French
lines half so murderous as the killing glances from her ladyship's
eyes?  Oh! darts and raptures, how beautiful were they!

And as, before the blazing sun of morning, the moon fades away in
the sky almost invisible, Esmond thought, with a blush perhaps, of
another sweet pale face, sad and faint, and fading out of sight,
with its sweet fond gaze of affection; such a last look it seemed
to cast as Eurydice might have given, yearning after her lover,
when Fate and Pluto summoned her, and she passed away into the
shades.




CHAPTER X.

AN OLD STORY ABOUT A FOOL AND A WOMAN.


Any taste for pleasure which Esmond had (and he liked to desipere
in loco, neither more nor less than most young men of his age) he
could now gratify to the utmost extent, and in the best company
which the town afforded.  When the army went into winter quarters
abroad, those of the officers who had interest or money easily got
leave of absence, and found it much pleasanter to spend their time
in Pall Mall and Hyde Park, than to pass the winter away behind the
fortifications of the dreary old Flanders towns, where the English
troops were gathered.  Yachts and packets passed daily between the
Dutch and Flemish ports and Harwich; the roads thence to London and
the great inns were crowded with army gentlemen; the taverns and
ordinaries of the town swarmed with red-coats; and our great Duke's
levees at St. James's were as thronged as they had been at Ghent
and Brussels, where we treated him, and he us, with the grandeur
and ceremony of a sovereign.  Though Esmond had been appointed to a
lieutenancy in the Fusileer regiment, of which that celebrated
officer, Brigadier John Richmond Webb, was colonel, he had never
joined the regiment, nor been introduced to its excellent
commander, though they had made the same campaign together, and
been engaged in the same battle.  But being aide-de-camp to General
Lumley, who commanded the division of horse, and the army marching
to its point of destination on the Danube by different routes,
Esmond had not fallen in, as yet, with his commander and future
comrades of the fort; and it was in London, in Golden Square, where
Major-General Webb lodged, that Captain Esmond had the honor of
first paying his respects to his friend, patron, and commander of
after days.

Those who remember this brilliant and accomplished gentleman may
recollect his character, upon which he prided himself, I think, not
a little, of being the handsomest man in the army; a poet who writ
a dull copy of verses upon the battle of Oudenarde three years
after, describing Webb, says:--

/*
     "To noble danger Webb conducts the way,
      His great example all his troops obey;
      Before the front the general sternly rides,
      With such an air as Mars to battle strides:
      Propitious heaven must sure a hero save,
      Like Paris handsome, and like Hector brave."
*/

Mr. Webb thought these verses quite as fine as Mr. Addison's on the
Blenheim Campaign, and, indeed, to be Hector a la mode de Paris,
was part of this gallant gentleman's ambition.  It would have been
difficult to find an officer in the whole army, or amongst the
splendid courtiers and cavaliers of the Maison du Roy, that fought
under Vendosme and Villeroy in the army opposed to ours, who was a
more accomplished soldier and perfect gentleman, and either braver
or better-looking.  And if Mr. Webb believed of himself what the
world said of him, and was deeply convinced of his own indisputable
genius, beauty, and valor, who has a right to quarrel with him very
much?  This self-content of his kept him in general good-humor, of
which his friends and dependants got the benefit.

He came of a very ancient Wiltshire family, which he respected
above all families in the world: he could prove a lineal descent
from King Edward the First, and his first ancestor, Roaldus de
Richmond, rode by William the Conqueror's side on Hastings field.
"We were gentlemen, Esmond," he used to say, "when the Churchills
were horse-boys."  He was a very tall man, standing in his pumps
six feet three inches (in his great jack-boots, with his tall fair
periwig, and hat and feather, he could not have been less than
eight feet high).  "I am taller than Churchill," he would say,
surveying himself in the glass, "and I am a better made man; and if
the women won't like a man that hasn't a wart on his nose, faith, I
can't help myself, and Churchill has the better of me there."
Indeed, he was always measuring himself with the Duke, and always
asking his friends to measure them.  And talking in this frank way,
as he would do, over his cups, wags would laugh and encourage him;
friends would be sorry for him; schemers and flatterers would egg
him on, and tale-bearers carry the stories to headquarters, and
widen the difference which already existed there, between the great
captain and one of the ablest and bravest lieutenants he ever had.

His rancor against the Duke was so apparent, that one saw it in the
first half-hour's conversation with General Webb; and his lady, who
adored her General, and thought him a hundred times taller,
handsomer, and braver than a prodigal nature had made him, hated
the great Duke with such an intensity as it becomes faithful wives
to feel against their husbands' enemies.  Not that my Lord Duke was
so yet; Mr. Webb had said a thousand things against him, which his
superior had pardoned; and his Grace, whose spies were everywhere,
had heard a thousand things more that Webb had never said.  But it
cost this great man no pains to pardon; and he passed over an
injury or a benefit alike easily.

Should any child of mine take the pains to read these his
ancestor's memoirs, I would not have him judge of the great Duke*
by what a contemporary has written of him.  No man hath been so
immensely lauded and decried as this great statesman and warrior;
as, indeed, no man ever deserved better the very greatest praise
and the strongest censure.  If the present writer joins with the
latter faction, very likely a private pique of his own may be the
cause of his ill-feeling.

/*
     * This passage in the Memoirs of Esmond is written on a leaf
     inserted into the MS. book, and dated 1744, probably after
     he had heard of the Duchess's death.
*/

On presenting himself at the Commander-in-Chief's levee, his Grace
had not the least remembrance of General Lumley's aide-de-camp, and
though he knew Esmond's family perfectly well, having served with
both lords (my Lord Francis and the Viscount Esmond's father) in
Flanders, and in the Duke of York's Guard, the Duke of Marlborough,
who was friendly and serviceable to the (so-styled) legitimate
representatives of the Viscount Castlewood, took no sort of notice
of the poor lieutenant who bore their name.  A word of kindness or
acknowledgment, or a single glance of approbation, might have
changed Esmond's opinion of the great man; and instead of a satire,
which his pen cannot help writing, who knows but that the humble
historian might have taken the other side of panegyric?  We have
but to change the point of view, and the greatest action looks
mean; as we turn the perspective-glass, and a giant appears a
pigmy.  You may describe, but who can tell whether your sight is
clear or not, or your means of information accurate?  Had the great
man said but a word of kindness to the small one (as he would have
stepped out of his gilt chariot to shake hands with Lazarus in rags
and sores, if he thought Lazarus could have been of any service to
him), no doubt Esmond would have fought for him with pen and sword
to the utmost of his might; but my lord the lion did not want
master mouse at this moment, and so Muscipulus went off and nibbled
in opposition.

So it was, however, that a young gentleman, who, in the eyes of his
family, and in his own, doubtless, was looked upon as a consummate
hero, found that the great hero of the day took no more notice of
him than of the smallest drummer in his Grace's army.  The Dowager
at Chelsey was furious against this neglect of her family, and had
a great battle with Lady Marlborough (as Lady Castlewood insisted
on calling the Duchess).  Her Grace was now Mistress of the Robes
to her Majesty, and one of the greatest personages in this kingdom,
as her husband was in all Europe, and the battle between the two
ladies took place in the Queen's drawing-room.

The Duchess, in reply to my aunt's eager clamor, said haughtily,
that she had done her best for the legitimate branch of the
Esmonds, and could not be expected to provide for the bastard brats
of the family.

"Bastards!" says the Viscountess, in a fury.  "There are bastards
among the Churchills, as your Grace knows, and the Duke of Berwick
is provided for well enough."

"Madam," says the Duchess, "you know whose fault it is that there
are no such dukes in the Esmond family too, and how that little
scheme of a certain lady miscarried."

Esmond's friend, Dick Steele, who was in waiting on the Prince,
heard the controversy between the ladies at court.  "And faith,"
says Dick, "I think, Harry, thy kinswoman had the worst of it."

He could not keep the story quiet; 'twas all over the coffee-houses
ere night; it was printed in a News Letter before a month was over,
and "The reply of her Grace the Duchess of M-rlb-r-gh to a Popish
Lady of the Court, once a favorite of the late K--- J-m-s," was
printed in half a dozen places, with a note stating that "this
duchess, when the head of this lady's family came by his death
lately in a fatal duel, never rested until she got a pension for
the orphan heir, and widow, from her Majesty's bounty."  The
squabble did not advance poor Esmond's promotion much, and indeed
made him so ashamed of himself that he dared not show his face at
the Commander-in-Chief's levees again.

During those eighteen months which had passed since Esmond saw his
dear mistress, her good father, the old Dean, quitted this life,
firm in his principles to the very last, and enjoining his family
always to remember that the Queen's brother, King James the Third,
was their rightful sovereign.  He made a very edifying end, as his
daughter told Esmond, and not a little to her surprise, after his
death (for he had lived always very poorly) my lady found that her
father had left no less a sum than 3,000L. behind him, which he
bequeathed to her.

With this little fortune Lady Castlewood was enabled, when her
daughter's turn at Court came, to come to London, where she took a
small genteel house at Kensington, in the neighborhood of the
Court, bringing her children with her, and here it was that Esmond
found his friends.

As for the young lord, his university career had ended rather
abruptly.  Honest Tusher, his governor, had found my young
gentleman quite ungovernable.  My lord worried his life away with
tricks; and broke out, as home-bred lads will, into a hundred
youthful extravagances, so that Dr. Bentley, the new master of
Trinity, thought fit to write to the Viscountess Castlewood, my
lord's mother, and beg her to remove the young nobleman from a
college where he declined to learn, and where he only did harm by
his riotous example.  Indeed, I believe he nearly set fire to
Nevil's Court, that beautiful new quadrangle of our college, which
Sir Christopher Wren had lately built.  He knocked down a proctor's
man that wanted to arrest him in a midnight prank; he gave a
dinner-party on the Prince of Wales's birthday, which was within a
fortnight of his own, and the twenty young gentlemen then present
sallied out after their wine, having toasted King James's health
with open windows, and sung cavalier songs, and shouted "God save
the King!" in the great court, so that the master came out of his
lodge at midnight, and dissipated the riotous assembly.

This was my lord's crowning freak, and the Rev. Thomas Tusher,
domestic chaplain to the Right Honorable the Lord Viscount
Castlewood, finding his prayers and sermons of no earthly avail to
his lordship, gave up his duties of governor; went and married his
brewer's widow at Southampton, and took her and her money to his
parsonage house at Castlewood.

My lady could not be angry with her son for drinking King James's
health, being herself a loyal Tory, as all the Castlewood family
were, and acquiesced with a sigh, knowing, perhaps, that her
refusal would be of no avail to the young lord's desire for a
military life.  She would have liked him to be in Mr. Esmond's
regiment, hoping that Harry might act as a guardian and adviser to
his wayward young kinsman; but my young lord would hear of nothing
but the Guards, and a commission was got for him in the Duke of
Ormond's regiment; so Esmond found my lord, ensign and lieutenant,
when he returned from Germany after the Blenheim campaign.

The effect produced by both Lady Castlewood's children when they
appeared in public was extraordinary, and the whole town speedily
rang with their fame: such a beautiful couple, it was declared,
never had been seen; the young maid of honor was toasted at every
table and tavern, and as for my young lord, his good looks were
even more admired than his sister's.  A hundred songs were written
about the pair, and as the fashion of that day was, my young lord
was praised in these Anacreontics as warmly as Bathyllus.  You may
be sure that he accepted very complacently the town's opinion of
him, and acquiesced with that frankness and charming good-humor he
always showed in the idea that he was the prettiest fellow in all
London.

The old Dowager at Chelsey, though she could never be got to
acknowledge that Mistress Beatrix was any beauty at all, (in which
opinion, as it may be imagined, a vast number of the ladies agreed
with her), yet, on the very first sight of young Castlewood, she
owned she fell in love with him: and Henry Esmond, on his return to
Chelsey, found himself quite superseded in her favor by her younger
kinsman.  The feat of drinking the King's health at Cambridge would
have won her heart, she said, if nothing else did.  "How had the
dear young fellow got such beauty?" she asked.  "Not from his
father--certainly not from his mother.  How had he come by such
noble manners, and the perfect bel air?  That countrified Walcote
widow could never have taught him."  Esmond had his own opinion
about the countrified Walcote widow, who had a quiet grace and
serene kindness, that had always seemed to him the perfection of
good breeding, though he did not try to argue this point with his
aunt.  But he could agree in most of the praises which the
enraptured old dowager bestowed on my Lord Viscount, than whom he
never beheld a more fascinating and charming gentleman.  Castlewood
had not wit so much as enjoyment.  "The lad looks good things," Mr.
Steele used to say; "and his laugh lights up a conversation as much
as ten repartees from Mr. Congreve.  I would as soon sit over a
bottle with him as with Mr. Addison; and rather listen to his talk
than hear Nicolini.  Was ever man so gracefully drunk as my Lord
Castlewood?  I would give anything to carry my wine (though,
indeed, Dick bore his very kindly, and plenty of it, too), "like
this incomparable young man.  When he is sober he is delightful;
and when tipsy, perfectly irresistible."  And referring to his
favorite, Shakspeare (who was quite out of fashion until Steele
brought him back into the mode), Dick compared Lord Castlewood to
Prince Hal, and was pleased to dub Esmond as ancient Pistol.

The Mistress of the Robes, the greatest lady in England after the
Queen, or even before her Majesty, as the world said, though she
never could be got to say a civil word to Beatrix, whom she had
promoted to her place as maid of honor, took her brother into
instant favor.  When young Castlewood, in his new uniform, and
looking like a prince out of a fairy tale, went to pay his duty to
her Grace, she looked at him for a minute in silence, the young man
blushing and in confusion before her, then fairly burst out a-crying, and kissed him before her daughters and company.  "He was
my boy's friend," she said, through her sobs.  "My Blandford might
have been like him."  And everybody saw, after this mark of the
Duchess's favor, that my young lord's promotion was secure, and
people crowded round the favorite's favorite, who became vainer and
gayer, and more good-humored than ever.

Meanwhile Madam Beatrix was making her conquests on her own side,
and amongst them was one poor gentleman, who had been shot by her
young eyes two years before, and had never been quite cured of that
wound; he knew, to be sure, how hopeless any passion might be,
directed in that quarter, and had taken that best, though ignoble,
remedium amoris, a speedy retreat from before the charmer, and a
long absence from her; and not being dangerously smitten in the
first instance, Esmond pretty soon got the better of his complaint,
and if he had it still, did not know he had it, and bore it easily.
But when he returned after Blenheim, the young lady of sixteen, who
had appeared the most beautiful object his eyes had ever looked on
two years back, was now advanced to a perfect ripeness and
perfection of beauty, such as instantly enthralled the poor devil,
who had already been a fugitive from her charms.  Then he had seen
her but for two days, and fled; now he beheld her day after day,
and when she was at Court watched after her; when she was at home,
made one of the family party; when she went abroad, rode after her
mother's chariot; when she appeared in public places, was in the
box near her, or in the pit looking at her; when she went to church
was sure to be there, though he might not listen to the sermon, and
be ready to hand her to her chair if she deigned to accept of his
services, and select him from a score of young men who were always
hanging round about her.  When she went away, accompanying her
Majesty to Hampton Court, a darkness fell over London.  Gods, what
nights has Esmond passed, thinking of her, rhyming about her,
talking about her!  His friend Dick Steele was at this time
courting the young lady, Mrs. Scurlock, whom he married; she had a
lodging in Kensington Square, hard by my Lady Castlewood's house
there.  Dick and Harry, being on the same errand, used to meet
constantly at Kensington.  They were always prowling about that
place, or dismally walking thence, or eagerly running thither.
They emptied scores of bottles at the "King's Arms," each man
prating of his love, and allowing the other to talk on condition
that he might have his own turn as a listener.  Hence arose an
intimacy between them, though to all the rest of their friends they
must have been insufferable.  Esmond's verses to "Gloriana at the
Harpsichord," to "Gloriana's Nosegay," to "Gloriana at Court,"
appeared this year in the Observator.--Have you never read them?
They were thought pretty poems, and attributed by some to Mr.
Prior.

This passion did not escape--how should it?--the clear eyes of
Esmond's mistress: he told her all; what will a man not do when
frantic with love?  To what baseness will he not demean himself?
What pangs will he not make others suffer, so that he may ease his
selfish heart of a part of its own pain?  Day after day he would
seek his dear mistress, pour insane hopes, supplications,
rhapsodies, raptures, into her ear.  She listened, smiled,
consoled, with untiring pity and sweetness.  Esmond was the eldest
of her children, so she was pleased to say; and as for her
kindness, who ever had or would look for aught else from one who
was an angel of goodness and pity?  After what has been said, 'tis
needless almost to add that poor Esmond's suit was unsuccessful.
What was a nameless, penniless lieutenant to do, when some of the
greatest in the land were in the field?  Esmond never so much as
thought of asking permission to hope so far above his reach as he
knew this prize was and passed his foolish, useless life in mere
abject sighs and impotent longing.  What nights of rage, what days
of torment, of passionate unfulfilled desire, of sickening jealousy
can he recall!  Beatrix thought no more of him than of the lackey
that followed her chair.  His complaints did not touch her in the
least; his raptures rather fatigued her; she cared for his verses
no more than for Dan Chaucer's, who's dead these ever so many
hundred years; she did not hate him; she rather despised him, and
just suffered him.

One day, after talking to Beatrix's mother, his dear, fond,
constant mistress--for hours--for all day long--pouring out his
flame and his passion, his despair and rage, returning again and
again to the theme, pacing the room, tearing up the flowers on the
table, twisting and breaking into bits the wax out of the stand-dish, and performing a hundred mad freaks of passionate folly;
seeing his mistress at last quite pale and tired out with sheer
weariness of compassion, and watching over his fever for the
hundredth time, Esmond seized up his hat, and took his leave.  As
he got into Kensington Square, a sense of remorse came over him for
the wearisome pain he had been inflicting upon the dearest and
kindest friend ever man had.  He went back to the house, where the
servant still stood at the open door, ran up the stairs, and found
his mistress where he had left her in the embrasure of the window,
looking over the fields towards Chelsey.  She laughed, wiping away
at the same time the tears which were in her kind eyes; he flung
himself down on his knees, and buried his head in her lap.  She had
in her hand the stalk of one of the flowers, a pink, that he had
torn to pieces.  "Oh, pardon me, pardon me, my dearest and
kindest," he said; "I am in hell, and you are the angel that brings
me a drop of water."

"I am your mother, you are my son, and I love you always," she
said, holding her hands over him: and he went away comforted and
humbled in mind, as he thought of that amazing and constant love
and tenderness with which this sweet lady ever blessed and pursued
him.




CHAPTER XI.

THE FAMOUS MR. JOSEPH ADDISON.


The gentlemen ushers had a table at Kensington, and the Guard a
very splendid dinner daily at St. James's, at either of which
ordinaries Esmond was free to dine.  Dick Steele liked the Guard-table better than his own at the gentlemen ushers', where there was
less wine and more ceremony; and Esmond had many a jolly afternoon
in company of his friend, and a hundred times at least saw Dick
into his chair.  If there is verity in wine, according to the old
adage, what an amiable-natured character Dick's must have been!  In
proportion as he took in wine he overflowed with kindness.  His
talk was not witty so much as charming.  He never said a word that
could anger anybody, and only became the more benevolent the more
tipsy he grew.  Many of the wags derided the poor fellow in his
cups, and chose him as a butt for their satire: but there was a
kindness about him, and a sweet playful fancy, that seemed to
Esmond far more charming than the pointed talk of the brightest
wits, with their elaborate repartees and affected severities.  I
think Steele shone rather than sparkled.  Those famous beaux-esprits of the coffee-houses (Mr. William Congreve, for instance,
when his gout and his grandeur permitted him to come among us)
would make many brilliant hits--half a dozen in a night sometimes--but, like sharp-shooters, when they had fired their shot, they were
obliged to retire under cover till their pieces were loaded again,
and wait till they got another chance at their enemy; whereas Dick
never thought that his bottle companion was a butt to aim at--only
a friend to shake by the hand.  The poor fellow had half the town
in his confidence; everybody knew everything about his loves and
his debts, his creditors or his mistress's obduracy.  When Esmond
first came on to the town, honest Dick was all flames and raptures
for a young lady, a West India fortune, whom he married.  In a
couple of years the lady was dead, the fortune was all but spent,
and the honest widower was as eager in pursuit of a new paragon of
beauty, as if he had never courted and married and buried the last
one.

Quitting the Guard-table one Sunday afternoon, when by chance Dick
had a sober fit upon him, be and his friend were making their way
down Germain Street, and Dick all of a sudden left his companion's
arm, and ran after a gentleman who was poring over a folio volume
at the book-shop near to St. James's Church.  He was a fair, tall
man, in a snuff-colored suit, with a plain sword, very sober, and
almost shabby in appearance--at least when compared to Captain
Steele, who loved to adorn his jolly round person with the finest
of clothes, and shone in scarlet and gold lace.  The Captain rushed
up, then, to the student of the book-stall, took him in his arms,
hugged him, and would have kissed him--for Dick was always hugging
and bussing his friends--but the other stepped back with a flush on
his pale face, seeming to decline this public manifestation of
Steele's regard.

"My dearest Joe, where hast thou hidden thyself this age?" cries
the Captain, still holding both his friend's hands; "I have been
languishing for thee this fortnight."

"A fortnight is not an age, Dick," says the other, very good-humoredly.  (He had light blue eyes, extraordinary bright, and a
face perfectly regular and handsome, like a tinted statue.)  "And I
have been hiding myself--where do you think?"

"What! not across the water, my dear Joe?" says Steele, with a look
of great alarm: "thou knowest I have always--"

"No," says his friend, interrupting him with a smile: "we are not
come to such straits as that, Dick.  I have been hiding, sir, at a
place where people never think of finding you--at my own lodgings,
whither I am going to smoke a pipe now and drink a glass of sack:
will your honor come?"

"Harry Esmond, come hither," cries out Dick.  "Thou hast heard me
talk over and over again of my dearest Joe, my guardian angel?"

"Indeed," says Mr. Esmond, with a bow, "it is not from you only
that I have learnt to admire Mr. Addison.  We loved good poetry at
Cambridge as well as at Oxford; and I have some of yours by heart,
though I have put on a red coat. . . .  'O qui canoro blandius
Orpheo vocale ducis carmen;' shall I go on, sir?" says Mr. Esmond,
who, indeed, had read and loved the charming Latin poems of Mr.
Addison, as every scholar of that time knew and admired them.

"This is Captain Esmond who was at Blenheim," says Steele.

"Lieutenant Esmond," says the other, with a low bow, "at Mr.
Addison's service.

"I have heard of you," says Mr. Addison, with a smile; as, indeed,
everybody about town had heard that unlucky story about Esmond's
dowager aunt and the Duchess.

"We were going to the 'George' to take a bottle before the play,"
says Steele: "wilt thou be one, Joe?"

Mr. Addison said his own lodgings were hard by, where he was still
rich enough to give a good bottle of wine to his friends; and
invited the two gentlemen to his apartment in the Haymarket,
whither we accordingly went.

"I shall get credit with my landlady," says he, with a smile, "when
she sees two such fine gentlemen as you come up my stair."  And he
politely made his visitors welcome to his apartment, which was
indeed but a shabby one, though no grandee of the land could
receive his guests with a more perfect and courtly grace than this
gentleman.  A frugal dinner, consisting of a slice of meat and a
penny loaf, was awaiting the owner of the lodgings.  "My wine is
better than my meat," says Mr. Addison; "my Lord Halifax sent me
the Burgundy."  And he set a bottle and glasses before his friends,
and ate his simple dinner in a very few minutes, after which the
three fell to, and began to drink.  "You see," says Mr. Addison,
pointing to his writing-table, whereon was a map of the action at
Hochstedt, and several other gazettes and pamphlets relating to the
battle, "that I, too, am busy about your affairs, Captain.  I am
engaged as a poetical gazetteer, to say truth, and am writing a
poem on the campaign."

So Esmond, at the request of his host, told him what he knew about
the famous battle, drew the river on the table aliquo mero, and
with the aid of some bits of tobacco-pipe showed the advance of the
left wing, where he had been engaged.

A sheet or two of the verses lay already on the table beside our
bottles and glasses, and Dick having plentifully refreshed himself
from the latter, took up the pages of manuscript, writ out with
scarce a blot or correction, in the author's slim, neat
handwriting, and began to read therefrom with great emphasis and
volubility.  At pauses of the verse, the enthusiastic reader
stopped and fired off a great salvo of applause.

Esmond smiled at the enthusiasm of Addison's friend.  "You are like
the German Burghers," says he, "and the Princes on the Mozelle:
when our army came to a halt, they always sent a deputation to
compliment the chief, and fired a salute with all their artillery
from their walls."

"And drunk the great chiefs health afterward, did not they?" says
Captain Steele, gayly filling up a bumper;--he never was tardy at
that sort of acknowledgment of a friend's merit.

"And the Duke, since you will have me act his Grace's part," says
Mr. Addison, with a smile, and something of a blush, "pledged his
friends in return.  Most Serene Elector of Covent Garden, I drink
to your Highness's health," and he filled himself a glass.  Joseph
required scarce more pressing than Dick to that sort of amusement;
but the wine never seemed at all to fluster Mr. Addison's brains;
it only unloosed his tongue: whereas Captain Steele's head and
speech were quite overcome by a single bottle.

No matter what the verses were, and, to say truth, Mr. Esmond found
some of them more than indifferent, Dick's enthusiasm for his chief
never faltered, and in every line from Addison's pen, Steele found
a master-stroke.  By the time Dick had come to that part of the
poem, wherein the bard describes as blandly as though he were
recording a dance at the opera, or a harmless bout of bucolic
cudgelling at a village fair, that bloody and ruthless part of our
campaign, with the remembrance whereof every soldier who bore a
part in it must sicken with shame--when we were ordered to ravage
and lay waste the Elector's country; and with fire and murder,
slaughter and crime, a great part of his dominions was overrun;
when Dick came to the lines--

/*
     "In vengeance roused the soldier fills his hand
      With sword and fire, and ravages the land,
      In crackling flames a thousand harvests burn,
      A thousand villages to ashes turn.
      To the thick woods the woolly flocks retreat,
      And mixed with bellowing herds confusedly bleat.
      Their trembling lords the common shade partake,
      And cries of infants found in every brake.
      The listening soldier fixed in sorrow stands,
      Loth to obey his leader's just commands.
      The leader grieves, by generous pity swayed,
      To see his just commands so well obeyed;"
*/

by this time wine and friendship had brought poor Dick to a
perfectly maudlin state, and he hiccupped out the last line with a
tenderness that set one of his auditors a-laughing.

"I admire the license of your poets," says Esmond to Mr. Addison.
(Dick, after reading of the verses, was fain to go off, insisting
on kissing his two dear friends before his departure, and reeling
away with his periwig over his eyes.)  "I admire your art: the
murder of the campaign is done to military music, like a battle at
the opera, and the virgins shriek in harmony, as our victorious
grenadiers march into their villages.  Do you know what a scene it
was?"--(by this time, perhaps, the wine had warmed Mr. Esmond's
head too,)--"what a triumph you are celebrating? what scenes of
shame and horror were enacted, over which the commander's genius
presided, as calm as though he didn't belong to our sphere?  You
talk of the 'listening soldier fixed in sorrow,' the 'leader's
grief swayed by generous pity;' to my belief the leader cared no
more for bleating flocks than he did for infants' cries, and many
of our ruffians butchered one or the other with equal alacrity.  I
was ashamed of my trade when I saw those horrors perpetrated, which
came under every man's eyes.  You hew out of your polished verses a
stately image of smiling victory; I tell you 'tis an uncouth,
distorted, savage idol; hideous, bloody, and barbarous.  The rites
performed before it are shocking to think of.  You great poets
should show it as it is--ugly and horrible, not beautiful and
serene.  Oh, sir, had you made the campaign, believe me, you never
would have sung it so."

During this little outbreak, Mr. Addison was listening, smoking out
of his long pipe, and smiling very placidly.  "What would you
have?" says he.  "In our polished days, and according to the rules
of art, 'tis impossible that the Muse should depict tortures or
begrime her hands with the horrors of war.  These are indicated
rather than described; as in the Greek tragedies, that, I dare say,
you have read (and sure there can be no more elegant specimens of
composition), Agamemnon is slain, or Medea's children destroyed,
away from the scene;--the chorus occupying the stage and singing of
the action to pathetic music.  Something of this I attempt, my dear
sir, in my humble way: 'tis a panegyric I mean to write, and not a
satire.  Were I to sing as you would have me, the town would tear
the poet in pieces, and burn his book by the hands of the common
hangman.  Do you not use tobacco?  Of all the weeds grown on earth,
sure the nicotian is the most soothing and salutary.  We must paint
our great Duke," Mr. Addison went on, "not as a man, which no doubt
he is, with weaknesses like the rest of us, but as a hero.  'Tis in
a triumph, not a battle, that your humble servant is riding his
sleek Pegasus.  We college poets trot, you know, on very easy nags;
it hath been, time out of mind, part of the poet's profession to
celebrate the actions of heroes in verse, and to sing the deeds
which you men of war perform.  I must follow the rules of my art,
and the composition of such a strain as this must be harmonious and
majestic, not familiar, or too near the vulgar truth.  Si parva
licet: if Virgil could invoke the divine Augustus, a humbler poet
from the banks of the Isis may celebrate a victory and a conqueror
of our own nation, in whose triumphs every Briton has a share, and
whose glory and genius contributes to every citizen's individual
honor.  When hath there been, since our Henrys' and Edwards' days,
such a great feat of arms as that from which you yourself have
brought away marks of distinction?  If 'tis in my power to sing
that song worthily, I will do so, and be thankful to my Muse.  If I
fail as a poet, as a Briton at least I will show my loyalty, and
fling up my cap and huzzah for the conqueror:--

/*
     /                 "'Rheni pacator et Istri
     Omnis in hoc uno variis discordia cessit
     Ordinibus; laetatur eques, plauditque senator,
     Votaque patricio certant plebeia favori.'"
*/

"There were as brave men on that field," says Mr. Esmond (who never
could be made to love the Duke of Marlborough, nor to forget those
stories which he used to hear in his youth regarding that great
chiefs selfishness and treachery)--"there were men at Blenheim as
good as the leader, whom neither knights nor senators applauded,
nor voices plebeian or patrician favored, and who lie there
forgotten, under the clods.  What poet is there to sing them?"

"To sing the gallant souls of heroes sent to Hades!" says Mr.
Addison, with a smile.  "Would you celebrate them all?  If I may
venture to question anything in such an admirable work, the
catalogue of the ships in Homer hath always appeared to me as
somewhat wearisome; what had the poem been, supposing the writer
had chronicled the names of captains, lieutenants, rank and file?
One of the greatest of a great man's qualities is success; 'tis the
result of all the others; 'tis a latent power in him which compels
the favor of the gods, and subjugates fortune.  Of all his gifts I
admire that one in the great Marlborough.  To be brave? every man
is brave.  But in being victorious, as he is, I fancy there is
something divine.  In presence of the occasion, the great soul of
the leader shines out, and the god is confessed.  Death itself
respects him, and passes by him to lay others low.  War and carnage
flee before him to ravage other parts of the field, as Hector from
before the divine Achilles.  You say he hath no pity; no more have
the gods, who are above it, and superhuman.  The fainting battle
gathers strength at his aspect; and, wherever he rides, victory
charges with him."

A couple of days after, when Mr. Esmond revisited his poetic
friend, he found this thought, struck out in the fervor of
conversation, improved and shaped into those famous lines, which
are in truth the noblest in the poem of the "Campaign."  As the two
gentlemen sat engaged in talk, Mr. Addison solacing himself with
his customary pipe, the little maid-servant that waited on his
lodging came up, preceding a gentleman in fine laced clothes, that
had evidently been figuring at Court or a great man's levee.  The
courtier coughed a little at the smoke of the pipe, and looked
round the room curiously, which was shabby enough, as was the owner
in his worn, snuff-colored suit and plain tie-wig.

"How goes on the magnum opus, Mr. Addison?" says the Court
gentleman on looking down at the papers that were on the table.

"We were but now over it," says Addison (the greatest courtier in
the land could not have a more splendid politeness, or greater
dignity of manner).  "Here is the plan," says he, "on the table:
hac ibat Simois, here ran the little river Nebel: hic est Sigeia
tellus, here are Tallard's quarters, at the bowl of this pipe, at
the attack of which Captain Esmond was present.  I have the honor
to introduce him to Mr. Boyle; and Mr. Esmond was but now depicting
aliquo proelia mixta mero, when you came in."  In truth, the two
gentlemen had been so engaged when the visitor arrived, and
Addison, in his smiling way, speaking of Mr. Webb, colonel of
Esmond's regiment (who commanded a brigade in the action, and
greatly distinguished himself there), was lamenting that he could
find never a suitable rhyme for Webb, otherwise the brigade should
have had a place in the poet's verses.  "And for you, you are but a
lieutenant," says Addison, "and the Muse can't occupy herself with
any gentleman under the rank of a field officer."

Mr. Boyle was all impatient to hear, saying that my Lord Treasurer
and my Lord Halifax were equally anxious; and Addison, blushing,
began reading of his verses, and, I suspect, knew their weak parts
as well as the most critical hearer.  When he came to the lines
describing the angel, that

/*
     "Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
      And taught the doubtful battle where to rage,"
*/

he read with great animation, looking at Esmond, as much as to say,
"You know where that simile came from--from our talk, and our
bottle of Burgundy, the other day."

The poet's two hearers were caught with enthusiasm, and applauded
the verses with all their might.  The gentleman of the Court sprang
up in great delight.  "Not a word more, my dear sir," says he.
"Trust me with the papers--I'll defend them with my life.  Let me
read them over to my Lord Treasurer, whom I am appointed to see in
half an hour.  I venture to promise, the verses shall lose nothing
by my reading, and then, sir, we shall see whether Lord Halifax has
a right to complain that his friend's pension is no longer paid."
And without more ado, the courtier in lace seized the manuscript
pages, placed them in his breast with his ruffled hand over his
heart, executed a most gracious wave of the hat with the disengaged
hand, and smiled and bowed out of the room, leaving an odor of
pomander behind him.

"Does not the chamber look quite dark?" says Addison, surveying it,
"after the glorious appearance and disappearance of that gracious
messenger?  Why, he illuminated the whole room.  Your scarlet, Mr.
Esmond, will bear any light; but this threadbare old coat of mine,
how very worn it looked under the glare of that splendor!  I wonder
whether they will do anything for me," he continued.  "When I came
out of Oxford into the world, my patrons promised me great things;
and you see where their promises have landed me, in a lodging up
two pair of stairs, with a sixpenny dinner from the cook's shop.
Well, I suppose this promise will go after the others, and fortune
will jilt me, as the jade has been doing any time these seven
years.  'I puff the prostitute away,'" says he, smiling, and
blowing a cloud out of his pipe.  "There is no hardship in poverty,
Esmond, that is not bearable; no hardship even in honest dependence
that an honest man may not put up with.  I came out of the lap of
Alma Mater, puffed up with her praises of me, and thinking to make
a figure in the world with the parts and learning which had got me
no small name in our college.  The world is the ocean, and Isis and
Charwell are but little drops, of which the sea takes no account.
My reputation ended a mile beyond Maudlin Tower; no one took note
of me; and I learned this at least, to bear up against evil fortune
with a cheerful heart.  Friend Dick hath made a figure in the
world, and has passed me in the race long ago.  What matters a
little name or a little fortune?  There is no fortune that a
philosopher cannot endure.  I have been not unknown as a scholar,
and yet forced to live by turning bear-leader, and teaching a boy
to spell.  What then?  The life was not pleasant, but possible--the
bear was bearable.  Should this venture fail, I will go back to
Oxford; and some day, when you are a general, you shall find me a
curate in a cassock and bands, and I shall welcome your honor to my
cottage in the country, and to a mug of penny ale.  'Tis not
poverty that's the hardest to bear, or the least happy lot in
life," says Mr. Addison, shaking the ash out of his pipe.  "See, my
pipe is smoked out.  Shall we have another bottle?  I have still a
couple in the cupboard, and of the right sort.  No more?--let us go
abroad and take a turn on the Mall, or look in at the theatre and
see Dick's comedy.  'Tis not a masterpiece of wit; but Dick is a
good fellow, though he doth not set the Thames on fire."

Within a month after this day, Mr. Addison's ticket had come up a
prodigious prize in the lottery of life.  All the town was in an
uproar of admiration of his poem, the "Campaign," which Dick Steele
was spouting at every coffee-house in Whitehall and Covent Garden.
The wits on the other side of Temple Bar saluted him at once as the
greatest poet the world had seen for ages; the people huzza'ed for
Marlborough and for Addison, and, more than this, the party in
power provided for the meritorious poet, and Addison got the
appointment of Commissioner of Excise, which the famous Mr. Locke
vacated, and rose from this place to other dignities and honors;
his prosperity from henceforth to the end of his life being scarce
ever interrupted.  But I doubt whether he was not happier in his
garret in the Haymarket, than ever he was in his splendid palace at
Kensington; and I believe the fortune that came to him in the shape
of the countess his wife was no better than a shrew and a vixen.


Gay as the town was, 'twas but a dreary place for Mr. Esmond,
whether his charmer was in or out of it, and he was glad when his
general gave him notice that he was going back to his division of
the army which lay in winter-quarters at Bois-le-Duc.  His dear
mistress bade him farewell with a cheerful face; her blessing he
knew he had always, and wheresoever fate carried him.  Mistress
Beatrix was away in attendance on her Majesty at Hampton Court, and
kissed her fair fingertips to him, by way of adieu, when he rode
thither to take his leave.  She received her kinsman in a waiting-room, where there were half a dozen more ladies of the Court, so
that his high-flown speeches, had he intended to make any (and very
likely he did), were impossible; and she announced to her friends
that her cousin was going to the army, in as easy a manner as she
would have said he was going to a chocolate-house.  He asked with a
rather rueful face, if she had any orders for the army? and she was
pleased to say that she would like a mantle of Mechlin lace.  She
made him a saucy curtsy in reply to his own dismal bow.  She
deigned to kiss her fingertips from the window, where she stood
laughing with the other ladies, and chanced to see him as he made
his way to the "Toy."  The Dowager at Chelsey was not sorry to part
with him this time.  "Mon cher, vous etes triste comme un sermon,"
she did him the honor to say to him; indeed, gentlemen in his
condition are by no means amusing companions, and besides, the
fickle old woman had now found a much more amiable favorite, and
raffoled for her darling lieutenant of the Guard.  Frank remained
behind for a while, and did not join the army till later, in the
suite of his Grace the Commander-in-Chief.  His dear mother, on the
last day before Esmond went away, and when the three dined
together, made Esmond promise to befriend her boy, and besought
Frank to take the example of his kinsman as of a loyal gentleman
and brave soldier, so she was pleased to say; and at parting,
betrayed not the least sign of faltering or weakness, though, God
knows, that fond heart was fearful enough when others were
concerned, though so resolute in bearing its own pain.

Esmond's general embarked at Harwich.  'Twas a grand sight to see
Mr. Webb dressed in scarlet on the deck, waving his hat as our
yacht put off, and the guns saluted from the shore.  Harry did not
see his viscount again, until three months after, at Bois-le-Duc,
when his Grace the Duke came to take the command, and Frank brought
a budget of news from home: how he had supped with this actress,
and got tired of that; how he had got the better of Mr. St. John,
both over the bottle, and with Mrs. Mountford, of the Haymarket
Theatre (a veteran charmer of fifty, with whom the young scapegrace
chose to fancy himself in love); how his sister was always at her
tricks, and had jilted a young baron for an old earl.  "I can't
make out Beatrix," he said; "she cares for none of us--she only
thinks about herself; she is never happy unless she is quarrelling;
but as for my mother--my mother, Harry, is an angel."  Harry tried
to impress on the young fellow the necessity of doing everything in
his power to please that angel; not to drink too much; not to go
into debt; not to run after the pretty Flemish girls, and so forth,
as became a senior speaking to a lad.  "But Lord bless thee!" the
boy said; "I may do what I like, and I know she will love me all
the same;" and so, indeed, he did what he liked.  Everybody spoiled
him, and his grave kinsman as much as the rest.




CHAPTER XII.

I GET A COMPANY IN THE CAMPAIGN OF 1706.


On Whit-Sunday, the famous 23rd of May, 1706, my young lord first
came under the fire of the enemy, whom we found posted in order of
battle, their lines extending three miles or more, over the high
ground behind the little Gheet river, and having on his left the
little village of Anderkirk or Autre-eglise, and on his right
Ramillies, which has given its name to one of the most brilliant
and disastrous days of battle that history ever hath recorded.

Our Duke here once more met his old enemy of Blenheim, the Bavarian
Elector and the Marechal Villeroy, over whom the Prince of Savoy
had gained the famous victory of Chiari.  What Englishman or
Frenchman doth not know the issue of that day?  Having chosen his
own ground, having a force superior to the English, and besides the
excellent Spanish and Bavarian troops, the whole Maison-du-Roy with
him, the most splendid body of horse in the world,--in an hour (and
in spite of the prodigious gallantry of the French Royal Household,
who charged through the centre of our line and broke it,) this
magnificent army of Villeroy was utterly routed by troops that had
been marching for twelve hours, and by the intrepid skill of a
commander, who did, indeed, seem in the presence of the enemy to be
the very Genius of Victory.

I think it was more from conviction than policy, though that policy
was surely the most prudent in the world, that the great Duke
always spoke of his victories with an extraordinary modesty, and as
if it was not so much his own admirable genius and courage which
achieved these amazing successes, but as if he was a special and
fatal instrument in the hands of Providence, that willed
irresistibly the enemy's overthrow.  Before his actions he always
had the church service read solemnly, and professed an undoubting
belief that our Queen's arms were blessed and our victory sure.
All the letters which he writ after his battles show awe rather
than exultation; and he attributes the glory of these achievements,
about which I have heard mere petty officers and men bragging with
a pardonable vainglory, in nowise to his own bravery or skill, but
to the superintending protection of heaven, which he ever seemed to
think was our especial ally.  And our army got to believe so, and
the enemy learnt to think so too; for we never entered into a
battle without a perfect confidence that it was to end in a
victory; nor did the French, after the issue of Blenheim, and that
astonishing triumph of Ramillies, ever meet us without feeling that
the game was lost before it was begun to be played, and that our
general's fortune was irresistible.  Here, as at Blenheim, the
Duke's charger was shot, and 'twas thought for a moment he was
dead.  As he mounted another, Binfield, his master of the horse,
kneeling to hold his Grace's stirrup, had his head shot away by a
cannon-ball.  A French gentleman of the Royal Household, that was a
prisoner with us, told the writer that at the time of the charge of
the Household, when their horse and ours were mingled, an Irish
officer recognized the Prince-Duke, and calling out--"Marlborough,
Marlborough!" fired his pistol at him a bout-portant, and that a
score more carbines and pistols were discharged at him.  Not one
touched him: he rode through the French Curiassiers sword-in-hand,
and entirely unhurt, and calm and smiling, rallied the German
Horse, that was reeling before the enemy, brought these and twenty
squadrons of Orkney's back upon them, and drove the French across
the river, again leading the charge himself, and defeating the only
dangerous move the French made that day.

Major-General Webb commanded on the left of our line, and had his
own regiment under the orders of their beloved colonel.  Neither he
nor they belied their character for gallantry on this occasion; but
it was about his dear young lord that Esmond was anxious, never
having sight of him save once, in the whole course of the day, when
he brought an order from the Commander-in-Chief to Mr. Webb.  When
our horse, having charged round the right flank of the enemy by
Overkirk, had thrown him into entire confusion, a general advance
was made, and our whole line of foot, crossing the little river and
the morass, ascended the high ground where the French were posted,
cheering as they went, the enemy retreating before them.  'Twas a
service of more glory than danger, the French battalions never
waiting to exchange push of pike or bayonet with ours; and the
gunners flying from their pieces, which our line left behind us as
they advanced, and the French fell back.

At first it was a retreat orderly enough; but presently the retreat
became a rout, and a frightful slaughter of the French ensued on
this panic: so that an army of sixty thousand men was utterly
crushed and destroyed in the course of a couple of hours.  It was
as if a hurricane had seized a compact numerous fleet, flung it all
to the winds, shattered, sunk, and annihilated it: afflavit Deus,
et dissipati sunt.  The French army of Flanders was gone, their
artillery, their standards, their treasure, provisions, and
ammunition were all left behind them: the poor devils had even fled
without their soup-kettles, which are as much the palladia of the
French infantry as of the Grand Seignior's Janissaries, and round
which they rally even more than round their lilies.

The pursuit, and a dreadful carnage which ensued (for the dregs of
a battle, however brilliant, are ever a base residue of rapine,
cruelty, and drunken plunder,) was carried far beyond the field of
Ramillies.

Honest Lockwood, Esmond's servant, no doubt wanted to be among the
marauders himself and take his share of the booty; for when, the
action over, and the troops got to their ground for the night, the
Captain bade Lockwood get a horse, he asked, with a very rueful
countenance, whether his honor would have him come too; but his
honor only bade him go about his own business, and Jack hopped away
quite delighted as soon as he saw his master mounted.  Esmond made
his way, and not without danger and difficulty, to his Grace's
headquarters, and found for himself very quickly where the aide-de-camps' quarters were, in an out-building of a farm, where several
of these gentlemen were seated, drinking and singing, and at
supper.  If he had any anxiety about his boy, 'twas relieved at
once.  One of the gentlemen was singing a song to a tune that Mr.
Farquhar and Mr. Gay both had used in their admirable comedies, and
very popular in the army of that day; and after the song came a
chorus, "Over the hills and far away;" and Esmond heard Frank's
fresh voice, soaring, as it were, over the songs of the rest of the
young men--a voice that had always a certain artless, indescribable
pathos with it, and indeed which caused Mr. Esmond's eyes to fill
with tears now, out of thankfulness to God the child was safe and
still alive to laugh and sing.

When the song was over Esmond entered the room, where he knew
several of the gentlemen present, and there sat my young lord,
having taken off his cuirass, his waistcoat open, his face flushed,
his long yellow hair hanging over his shoulders, drinking with the
rest; the youngest, gayest, handsomest there.  As soon as he saw
Esmond, he clapped down his glass, and running towards his friend,
put both his arms round him and embraced him.  The other's voice
trembled with joy as he greeted the lad; he had thought but now as
he stood in the court-yard under the clear-shining moonlight:
"Great God! what a scene of murder is here within a mile of us;
what hundreds and thousands have faced danger to-day; and here are
these lads singing over their cups, and the same moon that is
shining over yonder horrid field is looking down on Walcote very
likely, while my lady sits and thinks about her boy that is at the
war."  As Esmond embraced his young pupil now, 'twas with the
feeling of quite religious thankfulness and an almost paternal
pleasure that he beheld him.

Round his neck was a star with a striped ribbon, that was made of
small brilliants and might be worth a hundred crowns.  "Look," says
he, "won't that be a pretty present for mother?"

"Who gave you the Order?" says Harry, saluting the gentleman: "did
you win it in battle?"

"I won it," cried the other, "with my sword and my spear.  There
was a mousquetaire that had it round his neck--such a big
mousquetaire, as big as General Webb.  I called out to him to
surrender, and that I'd give him quarter: he called me a petit
polisson and fired his pistol at me, and then sent it at my head
with a curse.  I rode at him, sir, drove my sword right under his
arm-hole, and broke it in the rascal's body.  I found a purse in
his holster with sixty-five Louis in it, and a bundle of love-letters, and a flask of Hungary-water.  Vive la guerre! there are
the ten pieces you lent me.  I should like to have a fight every
day;" and he pulled at his little moustache and bade a servant
bring a supper to Captain Esmond.

Harry fell to with a very good appetite; he had tasted nothing
since twenty hours ago, at early dawn.  Master Grandson, who read
this, do you look for the history of battles and sieges?  Go, find
them in the proper books; this is only the story of your
grandfather and his family.  Far more pleasant to him than the
victory, though for that too he may say meminisse juvat, it was to
find that the day was over, and his dear young Castlewood was
unhurt.

And would you, sirrah, wish to know how it was that a sedate
Captain of Foot, a studious and rather solitary bachelor of eight
or nine and twenty years of age, who did not care very much for the
jollities which his comrades engaged in, and was never known to
lose his heart in any garrison-town--should you wish to know why
such a man had so prodigious a tenderness, and tended so fondly a
boy of eighteen, wait, my good friend, until thou art in love with
thy schoolfellow's sister, and then see how mighty tender thou wilt
be towards him.  Esmond's general and his Grace the Prince-Duke
were notoriously at variance, and the former's friendship was in
nowise likely to advance any man's promotion of whose services Webb
spoke well; but rather likely to injure him, so the army said, in
the favor of the greater man.  However, Mr. Esmond had the good
fortune to be mentioned very advantageously by Major-General Webb
in his report after the action; and the major of his regiment and
two of the captains having been killed upon the day of Ramillies,
Esmond, who was second of the lieutenants, got his company, and had
the honor of serving as Captain Esmond in the next campaign.

My lord went home in the winter, but Esmond was afraid to follow
him.  His dear mistress wrote him letters more than once, thanking
him, as mothers know how to thank, for his care and protection of
her boy, extolling Esmond's own merits with a great deal more
praise than they deserved; for he did his duty no better than any
other officer; and speaking sometimes, though gently and
cautiously, of Beatrix.  News came from home of at least half a
dozen grand matches that the beautiful maid of honor was about to
make.  She was engaged to an earl, our gentleman of St. James's
said, and then jilted him for a duke, who, in his turn, had drawn
off.  Earl or duke it might be who should win this Helen, Esmond
knew she would never bestow herself on a poor captain.  Her
conduct, it was clear, was little satisfactory to her mother, who
scarcely mentioned her, or else the kind lady thought it was best
to say nothing, and leave time to work out its cure.  At any rate,
Harry was best away from the fatal object which always wrought him
so much mischief; and so he never asked for leave to go home, but
remained with his regiment that was garrisoned in Brussels, which
city fell into our hands when the victory of Ramillies drove the
French out of Flanders.




CHAPTER XIII.

I MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE IN FLANDERS, AND FIND MY MOTHER'S GRAVE
AND MY OWN CRADLE THERE.


Being one day in the Church of St. Gudule, at Brussels, admiring
the antique splendor of the architecture (and always entertaining a
great tenderness and reverence for the Mother Church, that hath
been as wickedly persecuted in England as ever she herself
persecuted in the days of her prosperity), Esmond saw kneeling at a
side altar an officer in a green uniform coat, very deeply engaged
in devotion.  Something familiar in the figure and posture of the
kneeling man struck Captain Esmond, even before he saw the
officer's face.  As he rose up, putting away into his pocket a
little black breviary, such as priests use, Esmond beheld a
countenance so like that of his friend and tutor of early days,
Father Holt, that he broke out into an exclamation of astonishment
and advanced a step towards the gentleman, who was making his way
out of church.  The German officer too looked surprised when he saw
Esmond, and his face from being pale grew suddenly red.  By this
mark of recognition, the Englishman knew that he could not be
mistaken; and though the other did not stop, but on the contrary
rather hastily walked away towards the door, Esmond pursued him and
faced him once more, as the officer, helping himself to holy water,
turned mechanically towards the altar, to bow to it ere he quitted
the sacred edifice.


"My Father!" says Esmond in English.

"Silence!  I do not understand.  I do not speak English," says the
other in Latin.

Esmond smiled at this sign of confusion, and replied in the same
language--"I should know my Father in any garment, black or white,
shaven or bearded;" for the Austrian officer was habited quite in
the military manner, and had as warlike a mustachio as any Pandour.

He laughed--we were on the church steps by this time, passing
through the crowd of beggars that usually is there holding up
little trinkets for sale and whining for alms.  "You speak Latin,"
says he, "in the English way, Harry Esmond; you have forsaken the
old true Roman tongue you once knew."  His tone was very frank, and
friendly quite; the kind voice of fifteen years back; he gave
Esmond his hand as he spoke.

"Others have changed their coats too, my Father," says Esmond,
glancing at his friend's military decoration.

"Hush!  I am Mr. or Captain von Holtz, in the Bavarian Elector's
service, and on a mission to his Highness the Prince of Savoy.  You
can keep a secret I know from old times."

"Captain von Holtz," says Esmond, "I am your very humble servant."

"And you, too, have changed your coat," continues the other in his
laughing way; "I have heard of you at Cambridge and afterwards: we
have friends everywhere; and I am told that Mr. Esmond at Cambridge
was as good a fencer as he was a bad theologian."  (So, thinks
Esmond, my old maitre d'armes was a Jesuit, as they said.)

"Perhaps you are right," says the other, reading his thoughts quite
as he used to do in old days; "you were all but killed at Hochstedt
of a wound in the left side.  You were before that at Vigo, aide-de-camp to the Duke of Ormonde.  You got your company the other day
after Ramillies; your general and the Prince-Duke are not friends;
he is of the Webbs of Lydiard Tregoze, in the county of York, a
relation of my Lord St. John.  Your cousin, M. de Castlewood,
served his first campaign this year in the Guard; yes, I do know a
few things, as you see."

Captain Esmond laughed in his turn.  "You have indeed a curious
knowledge," he says.  A foible of Mr. Holt's, who did know more
about books and men than, perhaps, almost any person Esmond had
ever met, was omniscience; thus in every point he here professed to
know, he was nearly right, but not quite.  Esmond's wound was in
the right side, not the left; his first general was General Lumley;
Mr. Webb came out of Wiltshire, not out of Yorkshire; and so forth.
Esmond did not think fit to correct his old master in these
trifling blunders, but they served to give him a knowledge of the
other's character, and he smiled to think that this was his oracle
of early days; only now no longer infallible or divine.

"Yes," continues Father Holt, or Captain von Holtz, "for a man who
has not been in England these eight years, I know what goes on in
London very well.  The old Dean is dead, my Lady Castlewood's
father.  Do you know that your recusant bishops wanted to
consecrate him Bishop of Southampton, and that Collier is Bishop of
Thetford by the same imposition?  The Princess Anne has the gout
and eats too much; when the King returns, Collier will be an
archbishop."

"Amen!" says Esmond, laughing; "and I hope to see your Eminence no
longer in jack-boots, but red stockings, at Whitehall."

"You are always with us--I know that--I heard of that when you were
at Cambridge; so was the late lord; so is the young viscount."

"And so was my father before me," said Mr. Esmond, looking calmly
at the other, who did not, however, show the least sign of
intelligence in his impenetrable gray eyes--how well Harry
remembered them and their look! only crows' feet were wrinkled
round them--marks of black old Time had settled there.

Esmond's face chose to show no more sign of meaning than the
Father's.  There may have been on the one side and the other just
the faintest glitter of recognition, as you see a bayonet shining
out of an ambush; but each party fell back, when everything was
again dark.

"And you, mon capitaine, where have you been?" says Esmond, turning
away the conversation from this dangerous ground, where neither
chose to engage.

"I may have been in Pekin," says he, "or I may have been in
Paraguay--who knows where?  I am now Captain von Holtz, in the
service of his Electoral Highness, come to negotiate exchange of
prisoners with his Highness of Savoy."

'Twas well known that very many officers in our army were well-affected towards the young king at St. Germains, whose right to the
throne was undeniable, and whose accession to it, at the death of
his sister, by far the greater part of the English people would
have preferred, to the having a petty German prince for a
sovereign, about whose cruelty, rapacity, boorish manners, and
odious foreign ways, a thousand stories were current.  It wounded
our English pride to think that a shabby High-Dutch duke, whose
revenues were not a tithe as great as those of many of the princes
of our ancient English nobility, who could not speak a word of our
language, and whom we chose to represent as a sort of German boor,
feeding on train-oil and sour-crout, with a bevy of mistresses in a
barn, should come to reign over the proudest and most polished
people in the world.  Were we, the conquerors of the Grand Monarch,
to submit to that ignoble domination?  What did the Hanoverian's
Protestantism matter to us?  Was it not notorious (we were told and
led to believe so) that one of the daughters of this Protestant
hero was being bred up with no religion at all, as yet, and ready
to be made Lutheran or Roman, according as the husband might be
whom her parents should find for her?  This talk, very idle and
abusive much of it was, went on at a hundred mess-tables in the
army; there was scarce an ensign that did not hear it, or join in
it, and everybody knew, or affected to know, that the Commander-in-Chief himself had relations with his nephew, the Duke of Berwick
('twas by an Englishman, thank God, that we were beaten at
Almanza), and that his Grace was most anxious to restore the royal
race of his benefactors, and to repair his former treason.

This is certain, that for a considerable period no officer in the
Duke's army lost favor with the Commander-in-Chief for entertaining
or proclaiming his loyalty towards the exiled family.  When the
Chevalier de St. George, as the King of England called himself,
came with the dukes of the French blood royal, to join the French
army under Vendosme, hundreds of ours saw him and cheered him, and
we all said he was like his father in this, who, seeing the action
of La Hogue fought between the French ships and ours, was on the
side of his native country during the battle.  But this, at least
the Chevalier knew, and every one knew, that, however well our
troops and their general might be inclined towards the prince
personally, in the face of the enemy there was no question at all.
Wherever my Lord Duke found a French army, he would fight and beat
it, as he did at Oudenarde, two years after Ramillies, where his
Grace achieved another of his transcendent victories; and the noble
young prince, who charged gallantly along with the magnificent
Maison-du-Roy, sent to compliment his conquerors after the action.

In this battle, where the young Electoral Prince of Hanover behaved
himself very gallantly, fighting on our side, Esmond's dear General
Webb distinguished himself prodigiously, exhibiting consummate
skill and coolness as a general, and fighting with the personal
bravery of a common soldier.  Esmond's good-luck again attended
him; he escaped without a hurt, although more than a third of his
regiment was killed, had again the honor to be favorably mentioned
in his commander's report, and was advanced to the rank of major.
But of this action there is little need to speak, as it hath been
related in every Gazette, and talked of in every hamlet in this
country.  To return from it to the writer's private affairs, which
here, in his old age, and at a distance, he narrates for his
children who come after him.  Before Oudenarde, after that chance
rencontre with Captain von Holtz at Brussels, a space of more than
a year elapsed, during which the captain of Jesuits and the captain
of Webb's Fusileers were thrown very much together.  Esmond had no
difficulty in finding out (indeed, the other made no secret of it
to him, being assured from old times of his pupil's fidelity), that
the negotiator of prisoners was an agent from St. Germains, and
that he carried intelligence between great personages in our camp
and that of the French.  "My business," said he--"and I tell you,
both because I can trust you and your keen eyes have already
discovered it--is between the King of England and his subjects here
engaged in fighting the French king.  As between you and them, all
the Jesuits in the world will not prevent your quarrelling: fight
it out, gentlemen.  St. George for England, I say--and you know who
says so, wherever he may be."

I think Holt loved to make a parade of mystery, as it were, and
would appear and disappear at our quarters as suddenly as he used
to return and vanish in the old days at Castlewood.  He had passes
between both armies, and seemed to know (but with that inaccuracy
which belonged to the good Father's omniscience) equally well what
passed in the French camp and in ours.  One day he would give
Esmond news of a great feste that took place in the French
quarters, of a supper of Monsieur de Rohan's, where there was play
and violins, and then dancing and masques; the King drove thither
in Marshal Villars' own guinguette.  Another day he had the news of
his Majesty's ague: the King had not had a fit these ten days, and
might be said to be well.  Captain Holtz made a visit to England
during this time, so eager was he about negotiating prisoners; and
'twas on returning from this voyage that he began to open himself
more to Esmond, and to make him, as occasion served, at their
various meetings, several of those confidences which are here set
down all together.

The reason of his increased confidence was this: upon going to
London, the old director of Esmond's aunt, the dowager, paid her
ladyship a visit at Chelsey, and there learnt from her that Captain
Esmond was acquainted with the secret of his family, and was
determined never to divulge it.  The knowledge of this fact raised
Esmond in his old tutor's eyes, so Holt was pleased to say, and he
admired Harry very much for his abnegation.

"The family at Castlewood have done far more for me than my own
ever did," Esmond said.  "I would give my life for them.  Why
should I grudge the only benefit that 'tis in my power to confer on
them?"  The good Father's eyes filled with tears at this speech,
which to the other seemed very simple: he embraced Esmond, and
broke out into many admiring expressions; he said he was a noble
coeur, that he was proud of him, and fond of him as his pupil and
friend--regretted more than ever that he had lost him, and been
forced to leave him in those early times, when he might have had an
influence over him, have brought him into that only true church to
which the Father belonged, and enlisted him in the noblest army in
which a man ever engaged--meaning his own society of Jesus, which
numbers (says he) in its troops the greatest heroes the world ever
knew;--warriors brave enough to dare or endure anything, to
encounter any odds, to die any death--soldiers that have won
triumphs a thousand times more brilliant than those of the greatest
general; that have brought nations on their knees to their sacred
banner, the Cross; that have achieved glories and palms
incomparably brighter than those awarded to the most splendid
earthly conquerors--crowns of immortal light, and seats in the high
places of heaven.

Esmond was thankful for his old friend's good opinion, however
little he might share the Jesuit-father's enthusiasm.  "I have
thought of that question, too," says he, "dear Father," and he took
the other's hand--"thought it out for myself, as all men must, and
contrive to do the right, and trust to heaven as devoutly in my way
as you in yours.  Another six months of you as a child, and I had
desired no better.  I used to weep upon my pillow at Castlewood as
I thought of you, and I might have been a brother of your order;
and who knows," Esmond added, with a smile, "a priest in full
orders, and with a pair of mustachios, and a Bavarian uniform?"

"My son," says Father Holt, turning red, "in the cause of religion
and loyalty all disguises are fair."

"Yes," broke in Esmond, "all disguises are fair, you say; and all
uniforms, say I, black or red,--a black cockade or a white one--or
a laced hat, or a sombrero, with a tonsure under it.  I cannot
believe that St. Francis Xavier sailed over the sea in a cloak, or
raised the dead--I tried, and very nearly did once, but cannot.
Suffer me to do the right, and to hope for the best in my own way."

Esmond wished to cut short the good Father's theology, and
succeeded; and the other, sighing over his pupil's invincible
ignorance, did not withdraw his affection from him, but gave him
his utmost confidence--as much, that is to say, as a priest can
give: more than most do; for he was naturally garrulous, and too
eager to speak.

Holt's friendship encouraged Captain Esmond to ask, what he long
wished to know, and none could tell him, some history of the poor
mother whom he had often imagined in his dreams, and whom he never
knew.  He described to Holt those circumstances which are already
put down in the first part of this story--the promise he had made
to his dear lord, and that dying friend's confession; and he
besought Mr. Holt to tell him what he knew regarding the poor woman
from whom he had been taken.

"She was of this very town," Holt said, and took Esmond to see the
street where her father lived, and where, as he believed, she was
born.  "In 1676, when your father came hither in the retinue of the
late king, then Duke of York, and banished hither in disgrace,
Captain Thomas Esmond became acquainted with your mother, pursued
her, and made a victim of her; he hath told me in many subsequent
conversations, which I felt bound to keep private then, that she
was a woman of great virtue and tenderness, and in all respects a
most fond, faithful creature.  He called himself Captain Thomas,
having good reason to be ashamed of his conduct towards her, and
hath spoken to me many times with sincere remorse for that, as with
fond love for her many amiable qualities, he owned to having
treated her very ill: and that at this time his life was one of
profligacy, gambling, and poverty.  She became with child of you;
was cursed by her own parents at that discovery; though she never
upbraided, except by her involuntary tears, and the misery depicted
on her countenance, the author of her wretchedness and ruin.

"Thomas Esmond--Captain Thomas, as he was called--became engaged in
a gaming-house brawl, of which the consequence was a duel, and a
wound so severe that he never--his surgeon said--could outlive it.
Thinking his death certain, and touched with remorse, he sent for a
priest of the very Church of St. Gudule where I met you; and on the
same day, after his making submission to our Church, was married to
your mother a few weeks before you were born.  My Lord Viscount
Castlewood, Marquis of Esmond, by King James's patent, which I
myself took to your father, your lordship was christened at St.
Gudule by the same cure who married your parents, and by the name
of Henry Thomas, son of E. Thomas, officier Anglois, and Gertrude
Maes.  You see you belong to us from your birth, and why I did not
christen you when you became my dear little pupil at Castlewood.

"Your father's wound took a favorable turn--perhaps his conscience
was eased by the right he had done--and to the surprise of the
doctors he recovered.  But as his health came back, his wicked
nature, too, returned.  He was tired of the poor girl, whom he had
ruined; and receiving some remittance from his uncle, my lord the
old viscount, then in England, he pretended business, promised
return, and never saw your poor mother more.

"He owned to me, in confession first, but afterwards in talk before
your aunt, his wife, else I never could have disclosed what I now
tell you, that on coming to London he writ a pretended confession
to poor Gertrude Maes--Gertrude Esmond--of his having been married
in England previously, before uniting himself with her; said that
his name was not Thomas; that he was about to quit Europe for the
Virginian plantations, where, indeed, your family had a grant of
land from King Charles the First; sent her a supply of money, the
half of the last hundred guineas he had, entreated her pardon, and
bade her farewell.

"Poor Gertrude never thought that the news in this letter might be
untrue as the rest of your father's conduct to her.  But though a
young man of her own degree, who knew her history, and whom she
liked before she saw the English gentleman who was the cause of all
her misery, offered to marry her, and to adopt you as his own
child, and give you his name, she refused him.  This refusal only
angered her father, who had taken her home; she never held up her
head there, being the subject of constant unkindness after her
fall; and some devout ladies of her acquaintance offering to pay a
little pension for her, she went into a convent, and you were put
out to nurse.

"A sister of the young fellow who would have adopted you as his son
was the person who took charge of you.  Your mother and this person
were cousins.  She had just lost a child of her own, which you
replaced, your own mother being too sick and feeble to feed you;
and presently your nurse grew so fond of you, that she even grudged
letting you visit the convent where your mother was, and where the
nuns petted the little infant, as they pitied and loved its unhappy
parent.  Her vocation became stronger every day, and at the end of
two years she was received as a sister of the house.

"Your nurse's family were silk-weavers out of France, whither they
returned to Arras in French Flanders, shortly before your mother
took her vows, carrying you with them, then a child of three years
old.  'Twas a town, before the late vigorous measures of the French
king, full of Protestants, and here your nurse's father, old
Pastoureau, he with whom you afterwards lived at Ealing, adopted
the reformed doctrines, perverting all his house with him.  They
were expelled thence by the edict of his most Christian Majesty,
and came to London, and set up their looms in Spittlefields.  The
old man brought a little money with him, and carried on his trade,
but in a poor way.  He was a widower; by this time his daughter, a
widow too, kept house for him, and his son and he labored together
at their vocation.  Meanwhile your father had publicly owned his
conversion just before King Charles's death (in whom our Church had
much such another convert), was reconciled to my Lord Viscount
Castlewood, and married, as you know, to his daughter.

"It chanced that the younger Pastoureau, going with a piece of
brocade to the mercer who employed him, on Ludgate Hill, met his
old rival coming out of an ordinary there.  Pastoureau knew your
father at once, seized him by the collar, and upbraided him as a
villain, who had seduced his mistress, and afterwards deserted her
and her son.  Mr. Thomas Esmond also recognized Pastoureau at once,
besought him to calm his indignation, and not to bring a crowd
round about them; and bade him to enter into the tavern, out of
which he had just stepped, when he would give him any explanation.
Pastoureau entered, and heard the landlord order the drawer to show
Captain Thomas to a room; it was by his Christian name that your
father was familiarly called at his tavern haunts, which, to say
the truth, were none of the most reputable.

"I must tell you that Captain Thomas, or my Lord Viscount
afterwards, was never at a loss for a story, and could cajole a
woman or a dun with a volubility, and an air of simplicity at the
same time, of which many a creditor of his has been the dupe.  His
tales used to gather verisimilitude as he went on with them.  He
strung together fact after fact with a wonderful rapidity and
coherence.  It required, saving your presence, a very long habit of
acquaintance with your father to know when his lordship was l----,--telling the truth or no.

"He told me with rueful remorse when he was ill--for the fear of
death set him instantly repenting, and with shrieks of laughter
when he was well, his lordship having a very great sense of humor--how in a half an hour's time, and before a bottle was drunk, he had
completely succeeded in biting poor Pastoureau.  The seduction he
owned to: that he could not help: he was quite ready with tears at
a moment's warning, and shed them profusely to melt his credulous
listener.  He wept for your mother even more than Pastoureau did,
who cried very heartily, poor fellow, as my lord informed me; he
swore upon his honor that he had twice sent money to Brussels, and
mentioned the name of the merchant with whom it was lying for poor
Gertrude's use.  He did not even know whether she had a child or
no, or whether she was alive or dead; but got these facts easily
out of honest Pastoureau's answers to him.  When he heard that she
was in a convent, he said he hoped to end his days in one himself,
should he survive his wife, whom he hated, and had been forced by a
cruel father to marry; and when he was told that Gertrude's son was
alive, and actually in London, 'I started,' says he; 'for then,
damme, my wife was expecting to lie in, and I thought should this
old Put, my father-in-law, run rusty, here would be a good chance
to frighten him.'

"He expressed the deepest gratitude to the Pastoureau family for
the care of the infant: you were now near six years old; and on
Pastoureau bluntly telling him, when he proposed to go that instant
and see the darling child, that they never wished to see his ill-omened face again within their doors; that he might have the boy,
though they should all be very sorry to lose him; and that they
would take his money, they being poor, if he gave it; or bring him
up, by God's help, as they had hitherto done, without: he
acquiesced in this at once, with a sigh, said, 'Well, 'twas better
that the dear child should remain with friends who had been so
admirably kind to him;' and in his talk to me afterwards, honestly
praised and admired the weaver's conduct and spirit; owned that the
Frenchman was a right fellow, and he, the Lord have mercy upon him,
a sad villain.

"Your father," Mr. Holt went on to say, "was good-natured with his
money when he had it; and having that day received a supply from
his uncle, gave the weaver ten pieces with perfect freedom, and
promised him further remittances.  He took down eagerly
Pastoureau's name and place of abode in his table-book, and when
the other asked him for his own, gave, with the utmost readiness,
his name as Captain Thomas, New Lodge, Penzance, Cornwall; he said
he was in London for a few days only on business connected with his
wife's property; described her as a shrew, though a woman of kind
disposition; and depicted his father as a Cornish squire, in an
infirm state of health, at whose death he hoped for something
handsome, when he promised richly to reward the admirable protector
of his child, and to provide for the boy.  'And by Gad, sir,' he
said to me in his strange laughing way, 'I ordered a piece of
brocade of the very same pattern as that which the fellow was
carrying, and presented it to my wife for a morning wrapper, to
receive company after she lay in of our little boy.'

"Your little pension was paid regularly enough; and when your
father became Viscount Castlewood on his uncle's demise, I was
employed to keep a watch over you, and 'twas at my instance that
you were brought home.  Your foster-mother was dead; her father
made acquaintance with a woman whom he married, who quarrelled with
his son.  The faithful creature came back to Brussels to be near
the woman he loved, and died, too, a few months before her.  Will
you see her cross in the convent cemetery?  The Superior is an old
penitent of mine, and remembers Soeur Marie Madeleine fondly
still."


Esmond came to this spot in one sunny evening of spring, and saw,
amidst a thousand black crosses, casting their shadows across the
grassy mounds, that particular one which marked his mother's
resting-place.  Many more of those poor creatures that lay there
had adopted that same name, with which sorrow had rebaptized her,
and which fondly seemed to hint their individual story of love and
grief.  He fancied her in tears and darkness, kneeling at the foot
of her cross, under which her cares were buried.  Surely he knelt
down, and said his own prayer there, not in sorrow so much as in
awe (for even his memory had no recollection of her), and in pity
for the pangs which the gentle soul in life had been made to
suffer.  To this cross she brought them; for this heavenly
bridegroom she exchanged the husband who had wooed her, the traitor
who had left her.  A thousand such hillocks lay round about, the
gentle daisies springing out of the grass over them, and each
bearing its cross and requiescat.  A nun, veiled in black, was
kneeling hard by, at a sleeping sister's bedside (so fresh made,
that the spring had scarce had time to spin a coverlid for it);
beyond the cemetery walls you had glimpses of life and the world,
and the spires and gables of the city.  A bird came down from a
roof opposite, and lit first on a cross, and then on the grass
below it, whence it flew away presently with a leaf in its mouth:
then came a sound as of chanting, from the chapel of the sisters
hard by; others had long since filled the place which poor Mary
Magdeleine once had there, were kneeling at the same stall, and
hearing the same hymns and prayers in which her stricken heart had
found consolation.  Might she sleep in peace--might she sleep in
peace; and we, too, when our struggles and pains are over!  But the
earth is the Lord's as the heaven is; we are alike his creatures
here and yonder.  I took a little flower off the hillock and kissed
it, and went my way, like the bird that had just lighted on the
cross by me, back into the world again.  Silent receptacle of
death; tranquil depth of calm, out of reach of tempest and trouble!
I felt as one who had been walking below the sea, and treading
amidst the bones of shipwrecks.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE CAMPAIGN OF 1707, 1708.


During the whole of the year which succeeded that in which the
glorious battle of Ramillies had been fought, our army made no
movement of importance, much to the disgust of very many of our
officers remaining inactive in Flanders, who said that his Grace
the Captain-General had had fighting enough, and was all for money
now, and the enjoyment of his five thousand a year and his splendid
palace at Woodstock, which was now being built.  And his Grace had
sufficient occupation fighting his enemies at home this year, where
it began to be whispered that his favor was decreasing, and his
duchess losing her hold on the Queen, who was transferring her
royal affections to the famous Mrs. Masham, and Mrs. Masham's
humble servant, Mr. Harley.  Against their intrigues, our Duke
passed a great part of his time intriguing.  Mr. Harley was got out
of office, and his Grace, in so far, had a victory.  But her
Majesty, convinced against her will, was of that opinion still, of
which the poet says people are when so convinced, and Mr. Harley
before long had his revenge.

Meanwhile the business of fighting did not go on any way to the
satisfaction of Marlborough's gallant lieutenants.  During all
1707, with the French before us, we had never so much as a battle;
our army in Spain was utterly routed at Almanza by the gallant Duke
of Berwick; and we of Webb's, which regiment the young Duke had
commanded before his father's abdication, were a little proud to
think that it was our colonel who had achieved this victory.  "I
think if I had had Galway's place, and my Fusileers," says our
General, "we would not have laid down our arms, even to our old
colonel, as Galway did;" and Webb's officers swore if we had had
Webb, at least we would not have been taken prisoners.  Our dear
old general talked incautiously of himself and of others; a braver
or a more brilliant soldier never lived than he; but he blew his
honest trumpet rather more loudly than became a commander of his
station, and, mighty man of valor as he was, shook his great spear
and blustered before the army too fiercely.

Mysterious Mr. Holtz went off on a secret expedition in the early
part of 1708, with great elation of spirits and a prophecy to
Esmond that a wonderful something was about to take place.  This
secret came out on my friend's return to the army, whither he
brought a most rueful and dejected countenance, and owned that the
great something he had been engaged upon had failed utterly.  He
had been indeed with that luckless expedition of the Chevalier de
St. George, who was sent by the French king with ships and an army
from Dunkirk, and was to have invaded and conquered Scotland.  But
that ill wind which ever opposed all the projects upon which the
Prince ever embarked, prevented the Chevalier's invasion of
Scotland, as 'tis known, and blew poor Monsieur von Holtz back into
our camp again, to scheme and foretell, and to pry about as usual.
The Chevalier (the king of England, as some of us held him) went
from Dunkirk to the French army to make the campaign against us.
The Duke of Burgundy had the command this year, having the Duke of
Berry with him, and the famous Mareschal Vendosme and the Duke of
Matignon to aid him in the campaign.  Holtz, who knew everything
that was passing in Flanders and France (and the Indies for what I
know), insisted that there would be no more fighting in 1708 than
there had been in the previous year, and that our commander had
reasons for keeping him quiet.  Indeed, Esmond's general, who was
known as a grumbler, and to have a hearty mistrust of the great
Duke, and hundreds more officers besides, did not scruple to say
that these private reasons came to the Duke in the shape of crown-pieces from the French King, by whom the Generalissimo was bribed
to avoid a battle.  There were plenty of men in our lines,
quidnuncs, to whom Mr. Webb listened only too willingly, who could
specify the exact sums the Duke got, how much fell to Cadogan's
share, and what was the precise fee given to Doctor Hare.

And the successes with which the French began the campaign of 1708
served to give strength to these reports of treason, which were in
everybody's mouth.  Our general allowed the enemy to get between us
and Ghent, and declined to attack him, though for eight and forty
hours the armies were in presence of each other.  Ghent was taken,
and on the same day Monsieur de la Mothe summoned Bruges; and these
two great cities fell into the hands of the French without firing a
shot.  A few days afterwards La Mothe seized upon the fort of
Plashendall: and it began to be supposed that all Spanish Flanders,
as well as Brabant, would fall into the hands of the French troops;
when the Prince Eugene arrived from the Mozelle, and then there was
no more shilly-shallying.

The Prince of Savoy always signalized his arrival at the army by a
great feast (my Lord Duke's entertainments were both seldom and
shabby): and I remember our general returning from this dinner with
the two commanders-in-chief; his honest head a little excited by
wine, which was dealt out much more liberally by the Austrian than
by the English commander:--"Now," says my general, slapping the
table, with an oath, "he must fight; and when he is forced to it,
d--- it, no man in Europe can stand up against Jack Churchill."
Within a week the battle of Oudenarde was fought, when, hate each
other as they might, Esmond's general and the Commander-in-Chief
were forced to admire each other, so splendid was the gallantry of
each upon this day.

The brigade commanded by Major-General Webb gave and received about
as hard knocks as any that were delivered in that action, in which
Mr. Esmond had the fortune to serve at the head of his own company
in his regiment, under the command of their own Colonel as Major-General; and it was his good luck to bring the regiment out of
action as commander of it, the four senior officers above him being
killed in the prodigious slaughter which happened on that day.  I
like to think that Jack Haythorn, who sneered at me for being a
bastard and a parasite of Webb's, as he chose to call me, and with
whom I had had words, shook hands with me the day before the battle
began.  Three days before, poor Brace, our Lieutenant-Colonel, had
heard of his elder brother's death, and was heir to a baronetcy in
Norfolk, and four thousand a year.  Fate, that had left him
harmless through a dozen campaigns, seized on him just as the world
was worth living for, and he went into action knowing, as he said,
that the luck was going to turn against him.  The Major had just
joined us--a creature of Lord Marlborough, put in much to the
dislike of the other officers, and to be a spy upon us, as it was
said.  I know not whether the truth was so, nor who took the tattle
of our mess to headquarters, but Webb's regiment, as its Colonel,
was known to be in the Commander-in-Chief's black books: "And if he
did not dare to break it up at home," our gallant old chief used to
say, "he was determined to destroy it before the enemy;" so that
poor Major Proudfoot was put into a post of danger.

Esmond's dear young Viscount, serving as aide-de-camp to my Lord
Duke, received a wound, and won an honorable name for himself in
the Gazette; and Captain Esmond's name was sent in for promotion by
his General, too, whose favorite he was.  It made his heart beat to
think that certain eyes at home, the brightest in the world, might
read the page on which his humble services were recorded; but his
mind was made up steadily to keep out of their dangerous influence,
and to let time and absence conquer that passion he had still
lurking about him.  Away from Beatrix, it did not trouble him; but
he knew as certain that if he returned home, his fever would break
out again, and avoided Walcote as a Lincolnshire man avoids
returning to his fens, where he is sure that the ague is lying in
wait for him.

We of the English party in the army, who were inclined to sneer at
everything that came out of Hanover, and to treat as little better
than boors and savages the Elector's court and family, were yet
forced to confess that, on the day of Oudenarde, the young
Electoral Prince, then making his first campaign, conducted himself
with the spirit and courage of an approved soldier.  On this
occasion his Electoral Highness had better luck than the King of
England, who was with his cousins in the enemy's camp, and had to
run with them at the ignominious end of the day.  With the most
consummate generals in the world before them, and an admirable
commander on their own side, they chose to neglect the councils,
and to rush into a combat with the former, which would have ended
in the utter annihilation of their army but for the great skill and
bravery of the Duke of Vendosme, who remedied, as far as courage
and genius might, the disasters occasioned by the squabbles and
follies of his kinsmen, the legitimate princes of the blood royal.

"If the Duke of Berwick had but been in the army, the fate of the
day would have been very different," was all that poor Mr. von
Holtz could say; "and you would have seen that the hero of Almanza
was fit to measure swords with the conqueror of Blenheim."

The business relative to the exchange of prisoners was always going
on, and was at least that ostensible one which kept Mr. Holtz
perpetually on the move between the forces of the French and the
Allies.  I can answer for it, that he was once very near hanged as
a spy by Major-General Wayne, when he was released and sent on to
head-quarters by a special order of the Commander-in-Chief.  He
came and went, always favored, wherever he was, by some high though
occult protection.  He carried messages between the Duke of Berwick
and his uncle, our Duke.  He seemed to know as well what was taking
place in the Prince's quarter as our own: he brought the
compliments of the King of England to some of our officers, the
gentlemen of Webb's among the rest, for their behavior on that
great day; and after Wynendael, when our General was chafing at the
neglect of our Commander-in-Chief, he said he knew how that action
was regarded by the chiefs of the French army, and that the stand
made before Wynendael wood was the passage by which the Allies
entered Lille.

"Ah!" says Holtz (and some folks were very willing to listen to
him), "if the king came by his own, how changed the conduct of
affairs would be!  His Majesty's very exile has this advantage,
that he is enabled to read England impartially, and to judge
honestly of all the eminent men.  His sister is always in the hand
of one greedy favorite or another, through whose eyes she sees, and
to whose flattery or dependants she gives away everything.  Do you
suppose that his Majesty, knowing England so well as he does, would
neglect such a man as General Webb?  He ought to be in the House of
Peers as Lord Lydiard.  The enemy and all Europe know his merit; it
is that very reputation which certain great people, who hate all
equality and independence, can never pardon."  It was intended that
these conversations should be carried to Mr. Webb.  They were
welcome to him, for great as his services were, no man could value
them more than John Richmond Webb did himself, and the differences
between him and Marlborough being notorious, his Grace's enemies in
the army and at home began to court Webb, and set him up against
the all-grasping, domineering chief.  And soon after the victory of
Oudenarde, a glorious opportunity fell into General Webb's way,
which that gallant warrior did not neglect, and which gave him the
means of immensely increasing his reputation at home.

After Oudenarde, and against the counsels of Marlborough, it was
said, the Prince of Savoy sat down before Lille, the capital of
French Flanders, and commenced that siege, the most celebrated of
our time, and almost as famous as the siege of Troy itself, for the
feats of valor performed in the assault and the defence.  The
enmity of the Prince of Savoy against the French king was a furious
personal hate, quite unlike the calm hostility of our great English
general, who was no more moved by the game of war than that of
billiards, and pushed forward his squadrons, and drove his red
battalions hither and thither as calmly as he would combine a
stroke or make a cannon with the balls.  The game over (and he
played it so as to be pretty sure to win it), not the least
animosity against the other party remained in the breast of this
consummate tactician.  Whereas between the Prince of Savoy and the
French it was guerre a mort.  Beaten off in one quarter, as he had
been at Toulon in the last year, he was back again on another
frontier of France, assailing it with his indefatigable fury.  When
the Prince came to the army, the smouldering fires of war were
lighted up and burst out into a flame.  Our phlegmatic Dutch allies
were made to advance at a quick march--our calm Duke forced into
action.  The Prince was an army in himself against the French; the
energy of his hatred, prodigious, indefatigable--infectious over
hundreds of thousands of men.  The Emperor's general was repaying,
and with a vengeance, the slight the French King had put upon the
fiery little Abbe of Savoy.  Brilliant and famous as a leader
himself, and beyond all measure daring and intrepid, and enabled to
cope with almost the best of those famous men of war who commanded
the armies of the French King, Eugene had a weapon, the equal of
which could not be found in France, since the cannon-shot of
Sasbach laid low the noble Turenne, and could hurl Marlborough at
the heads of the French host, and crush them as with a rock, under
which all the gathered strength of their strongest captains must go
down.

The English Duke took little part in that vast siege of Lille,
which the Imperial Generalissimo pursued with all his force and
vigor, further than to cover the besieging lines from the Duke of
Burgundy's army, between which and the Imperialists our Duke lay.
Once, when Prince Eugene was wounded, our Duke took his Highness's
place in the trenches; but the siege was with the Imperialists, not
with us.  A division under Webb and Rantzau was detached into
Artois and Picardy upon the most painful and odious service that
Mr. Esmond ever saw in the course of his military life.  The
wretched towns of the defenceless provinces, whose young men had
been drafted away into the French armies, which year after year the
insatiable war devoured, were left at our mercy; and our orders
were to show them none.  We found places garrisoned by invalids,
and children and women; poor as they were, and as the costs of this
miserable war had made them, our commission was to rob these almost
starving wretches--to tear the food out of their granaries, and
strip them of their rags.  'Twas an expedition of rapine and murder
we were sent on: our soldiers did deeds such as an honest man must
blush to remember.  We brought back money and provisions in
quantity to the Duke's camp; there had been no one to resist us,
and yet who dares to tell with what murder and violence, with what
brutal cruelty, outrage, insult, that ignoble booty had been
ravished from the innocent and miserable victims of the war?

Meanwhile, gallantly as the operations before Lille had been
conducted, the Allies had made but little progress, and 'twas said
when we returned to the Duke of Marlborough's camp, that the siege
would never be brought to a satisfactory end, and that the Prince
of Savoy would be forced to raise it.  My Lord Marlborough gave
this as his opinion openly; those who mistrusted him, and Mr.
Esmond owns himself to be of the number, hinted that the Duke had
his reasons why Lille should not be taken, and that he was paid to
that end by the French King.  If this was so, and I believe it,
General Webb had now a remarkable opportunity of gratifying his
hatred of the Commander-in-Chief, of balking that shameful avarice,
which was one of the basest and most notorious qualities of the
famous Duke, and of showing his own consummate skill as a
commander.  And when I consider all the circumstances preceding the
event which will now be related, that my Lord Duke was actually
offered certain millions of crowns provided that the siege of Lille
should be raised: that the Imperial army before it was without
provisions and ammunition, and must have decamped but for the
supplies that they received; that the march of the convoy destined
to relieve the siege was accurately known to the French; and that
the force covering it was shamefully inadequate to that end, and by
six times inferior to Count de la Mothe's army, which was sent to
intercept the convoy; when 'tis certain that the Duke of Berwick,
De la Mothe's chief, was in constant correspondence with his uncle,
the English Generalissimo: I believe on my conscience that 'twas my
Lord Marlborough's intention to prevent those supplies, of which
the Prince of Savoy stood in absolute need, from ever reaching his
Highness; that he meant to sacrifice the little army which covered
this convoy, and to betray it as he had betrayed Tollemache at
Brest; as he had betrayed every friend he had, to further his own
schemes of avarice or ambition.  But for the miraculous victory
which Esmond's general won over an army six or seven times greater
than his own, the siege of Lille must have been raised; and it must
be remembered that our gallant little force was under the command
of a general whom Marlborough hated, that he was furious with the
conqueror, and tried by the most open and shameless injustice
afterwards to rob him of the credit of his victory.




CHAPTER XV.

GENERAL WEBB WINS THE BATTLE OF WYNENDAEL.


By the besiegers and besieged of Lille, some of the most brilliant
feats of valor were performed that ever illustrated any war.  On
the French side (whose gallantry was prodigious, the skill and
bravery of Marshal Boufflers actually eclipsing those of his
conqueror, the Prince of Savoy) may be mentioned that daring action
of Messieurs de Luxembourg and Tournefort, who, with a body of
horse and dragoons, carried powder into the town, of which the
besieged were in extreme want, each soldier bringing a bag with
forty pounds of powder behind him; with which perilous provision
they engaged our own horse, faced the fire of the foot brought out
to meet them: and though half of the men were blown up in the
dreadful errand they rode on, a part of them got into the town with
the succors of which the garrison was so much in want.  A French
officer, Monsieur du Bois, performed an act equally daring, and
perfectly successful.  The Duke's great army lying at Helchin, and
covering the siege, and it being necessary for M. de Vendosme to
get news of the condition of the place, Captain Dubois performed
his famous exploit: not only passing through the lines of the
siege, but swimming afterwards no less than seven moats and
ditches: and coming back the same way, swimming with his letters in
his mouth.

By these letters Monsieur de Boufflers said that he could undertake
to hold the place till October; and that if one of the convoys of
the Allies could be intercepted, they must raise the siege
altogether.

Such a convoy as hath been said was now prepared at Ostend, and
about to march for the siege; and on the 27th September we (and the
French too) had news that it was on its way.  It was composed of
700 wagons, containing ammunition of all sorts, and was escorted
out of Ostend by 2,000 infantry and 300 horse.  At the same time M.
de la Mothe quitted Bruges, having with him five-and-thirty
battalions, and upwards of sixty squadrons and forty guns, in
pursuit of the convoy.

Major-General Webb had meanwhile made up a force of twenty
battalions and three squadrons of dragoons at Turout, whence he
moved to cover the convoy and pursue La Mothe: with whose advanced
guard ours came up upon the great plain of Turout, and before the
little wood and castle of Wynendael; behind which the convoy was
marching.

As soon as they came in sight of the enemy, our advanced troops
were halted, with the wood behind them, and the rest of our force
brought up as quickly as possible, our little body of horse being
brought forward to the opening of the plain, as our General said,
to amuse the enemy.  When M. de la Mothe came up, he found us
posted in two lines in front of the wood; and formed his own army
in battle facing ours, in eight lines, four of infantry in front,
and dragoons and cavalry behind.

The French began the action, as usual, with a cannonade which
lasted three hours, when they made their attack, advancing in eight
lines, four of foot and four of horse, upon the allied troops in
the wood where we were posted.  Their infantry behaved ill; they
were ordered to charge with the bayonet, but, instead, began to
fire, and almost at the very first discharge from our men, broke
and fled.  The cavalry behaved better; with these alone, who were
three or four times as numerous as our whole force, Monsieur de la
Mothe might have won victory: but only two of our battalions were
shaken in the least; and these speedily rallied: nor could the
repeated attacks of the French horse cause our troops to budge an
inch from the position in the wood in which our General had placed
them.

After attacking for two hours, the French retired at nightfall
entirely foiled.  With all the loss we had inflicted upon him, the
enemy was still three times stronger than we: and it could not be
supposed that our General could pursue M. de la Mothe, or do much
more than hold our ground about the wood, from which the Frenchman
had in vain attempted to dislodge us.  La Mothe retired behind his
forty guns, his cavalry protecting them better than it had been
enabled to annoy us; and meanwhile the convoy, which was of more
importance than all our little force, and the safe passage of which
we would have dropped to the last man to accomplish, marched away
in perfect safety during the action, and joyfully reached the
besieging camp before Lille.

Major-General Cadogan, my Lord Duke's Quarter-Master-General, (and
between whom and Mr. Webb there was no love lost), accompanied the
convoy, and joined Mr. Webb with a couple of hundred horse just as
the battle was over, and the enemy in full retreat.  He offered,
readily enough, to charge with his horse upon the French as they
fell back; but his force was too weak to inflict any damage upon
them; and Mr. Webb, commanding as Cadogan's senior, thought enough
was done in holding our ground before an enemy that might still
have overwhelmed us had we engaged him in the open territory, and
in securing the safe passage of the convoy.  Accordingly, the horse
brought up by Cadogan did not draw a sword; and only prevented, by
the good countenance they showed, any disposition the French might
have had to renew the attack on us.  And no attack coming, at
nightfall General Cadogan drew off with his squadron, being bound
for head-quarters, the two Generals at parting grimly saluting each
other.

"He will be at Roncq time enough to lick my Lord Duke's trenchers
at supper," says Mr. Webb.

Our own men lay out in the woods of Wynendael that night, and our
General had his supper in the little castle there.

"If I was Cadogan, I would have a peerage for this day's work,"
General Webb said; "and, Harry, thou shouldst have a regiment.
Thou hast been reported in the last two actions: thou wert near
killed in the first.  I shall mention thee in my despatch to his
Grace the Commander-in-Chief, and recommend thee to poor Dick
Harwood's vacant majority.  Have you ever a hundred guineas to give
Cardonnel?  Slip them into his hand to-morrow, when you go to head-quarters with my report."

In this report the Major-General was good enough to mention Captain
Esmond's name with particular favor; and that gentleman carried the
despatch to head-quarters the next day, and was not a little
pleased to bring back a letter by his Grace's secretary, addressed
to Lieutenant-General Webb.  The Dutch officer despatched by Count
Nassau Woudenbourg, Vaelt-Mareschal Auverquerque's son, brought
back also a complimentary letter to his commander, who had seconded
Mr. Webb in the action with great valor and skill.

Esmond, with a low bow and a smiling face, presented his despatch,
and saluted Mr. Webb as Lieutenant-General, as he gave it in.  The
gentlemen round about him--he was riding with his suite on the road
to Menin as Esmond came up with him--gave a cheer, and he thanked
them, and opened the despatch with rather a flushed, eager face.

He slapped it down on his boot in a rage after he had read it.
"'Tis not even writ with his own hand.  Read it out, Esmond."  And
Esmond read it out:--


"SIR,--Mr. Cadogan is just now come in, and has acquainted me with
the success of the action you had yesterday in the afternoon
against the body of troops commanded by M. de la Mothe, at
Wynendael, which must be attributed chiefly to your good conduct
and resolution.  You may be sure I shall do you justice at home,
and be glad on all occasions to own the service you have done in
securing this convoy.--Yours, &c., M."


"Two lines by that d--d Cardonnel, and no more, for the taking of
Lille--for beating five times our number--for an action as
brilliant as the best he ever fought," says poor Mr. Webb.
"Lieutenant-General!  That's not his doing.  I was the oldest
major-general.  By ----, I believe he had been better pleased if I
had been beat."

The letter to the Dutch officer was in French, and longer and more
complimentary than that to Mr. Webb.

"And this is the man," he broke out, "that's gorged with gold--that's covered with titles and honors that we won for him--and that
grudges even a line of praise to a comrade in arms!  Hasn't he
enough?  Don't we fight that he may roll in riches?  Well, well,
wait for the Gazette, gentlemen.  The Queen and the country will do
us justice if his Grace denies it us."  There were tears of rage in
the brave warrior's eyes as he spoke; and he dashed them off his
face on to his glove.  He shook his fist in the air.  "Oh, by the
Lord!" says he, "I know what I had rather have than a peerage!"

"And what is that, sir?" some of them asked.

"I had rather have a quarter of an hour with John Churchill, on a
fair green field, and only a pair of rapiers between my shirt and
his--"

"Sir!" interposes one.

"Tell him so!  I know that's what you mean.  I know every word goes
to him that's dropped from every general officer's mouth.  I don't
say he's not brave.  Curse him! he's brave enough; but we'll wait
for the Gazette, gentlemen.  God save her Majesty! she'll do us
justice."

The Gazette did not come to us till a month afterwards; when my
General and his officers had the honor to dine with Prince Eugene
in Lille; his Highness being good enough to say that we had brought
the provisions, and ought to share in the banquet.  'Twas a great
banquet.  His Grace of Marlborough was on his Highness's right, and
on his left the Mareschal de Boufflers, who had so bravely defended
the place.  The chief officers of either army were present; and you
may be sure Esmond's General was splendid this day: his tall noble
person, and manly beauty of face, made him remarkable anywhere; he
wore, for the first time, the star of the Order of Generosity, that
his Prussian Majesty had sent to him for his victory.  His Highness
the Prince of Savoy called a toast to the conqueror of Wynendael.
My Lord Duke drank it with rather a sickly smile.  The aides-de-camp were present: and Harry Esmond and his dear young lord were
together, as they always strove to be when duty would permit: they
were over against the table where the generals were, and could see
all that passed pretty well.  Frank laughed at my Lord Duke's glum
face: the affair of Wynendael, and the Captain-General's conduct to
Webb, had been the talk of the whole army.  When his Highness
spoke, and gave--"Le vainqueur de Wynendael; son armee et sa
victoire," adding, "qui nous font diner a Lille aujourd'huy"--there
was a great cheer through the hall; for Mr. Webb's bravery,
generosity, and very weaknesses of character caused him to be
beloved in the army.

"Like Hector, handsome, and like Paris, brave!" whispers Frank
Castlewood.  "A Venus, an elderly Venus, couldn't refuse him a
pippin.  Stand up, Harry.  See, we are drinking the army of
Wynendael.  Ramillies is nothing to it.  Huzzay! huzzay!"

At this very time, and just after our General had made his
acknowledgment, some one brought in an English Gazette--and was
passing it from hand to hand down the table.  Officers were eager
enough to read it; mothers and sisters at home must have sickened
over it.  There scarce came out a Gazette for six years that did
not tell of some heroic death or some brilliant achievement.

"Here it is--Action of Wynendael--here you are, General," says
Frank, seizing hold of the little dingy paper that soldiers love to
read so; and, scrambling over from our bench, he went to where the
General sat, who knew him, and had seen many a time at his table
his laughing, handsome face, which everybody loved who saw.  The
generals in their great perukes made way for him.  He handed the
paper over General Dohna's buff-coat to our General on the opposite
side.

He came hobbling back, and blushing at his feat: "I thought he'd
like it, Harry," the young fellow whispered.  "Didn't I like to
read my name after Ramillies, in the London Gazette?--Viscount
Castlewood serving a volunteer--I say, what's yonder?"

Mr. Webb, reading the Gazette, looked very strange--slapped it down
on the table--then sprang up in his place, and began to--"Will your
Highness please to--"

His Grace the Duke of Marlborough here jumped up too--"There's some
mistake, my dear General Webb."

"Your Grace had better rectify it," says Mr. Webb, holding out the
letter; but he was five off his Grace the Prince Duke, who,
besides, was higher than the General (being seated with the Prince
of Savoy, the Electoral Prince of Hanover, and the envoys of
Prussia and Denmark, under a baldaquin), and Webb could not reach
him, tall as he was.

"Stay," says he, with a smile, as if catching at some idea, and
then, with a perfect courtesy, drawing his sword, he ran the
Gazette through with the point, and said, "Permit me to hand it to
your Grace."

The Duke looked very black.  "Take it," says he, to his Master of
the Horse, who was waiting behind him.

The Lieutenant-General made a very low bow, and retired and
finished his glass.  The Gazette in which Mr. Cardonnel, the Duke's
secretary, gave an account of the victory of Wynendael, mentioned
Mr. Webb's name, but gave the sole praise and conduct of the action
to the Duke's favorite, Mr. Cadogan.

There was no little talk and excitement occasioned by this strange
behavior of General Webb, who had almost drawn a sword upon the
Commander-in-Chief; but the General, after the first outbreak of
his anger, mastered it outwardly altogether; and, by his subsequent
behavior, had the satisfaction of even more angering the Commander-in-Chief, than he could have done by any public exhibition of
resentment.

On returning to his quarters, and consulting with his chief
adviser, Mr. Esmond, who was now entirely in the General's
confidence, and treated by him as a friend, and almost a son, Mr.
Webb writ a letter to his Grace the Commander-in-Chief, in which he
said:--


"Your Grace must be aware that the sudden perusal of the London
Gazette, in which your Grace's secretary, Mr. Cardonnel, hath
mentioned Major-General Cadogan's name as the officer commanding in
the late action of Wynendael, must have caused a feeling of
anything but pleasure to the General who fought that action.

"Your Grace must be aware that Mr. Cadogan was not even present at
the battle, though he arrived with squadrons of horse at its close,
and put himself under the command of his superior officer.  And as
the result of the battle of Wynendael, in which Lieutenant-General
Webb had the good fortune to command, was the capture of Lille, the
relief of Brussels, then invested by the enemy under the Elector of
Bavaria, the restoration of the great cities of Ghent and Bruges,
of which the enemy (by treason within the walls) had got possession
in the previous year, Mr. Webb cannot consent to forego the honors
of such a success and service, for the benefit of Mr. Cadogan, or
any other person.

"As soon as the military operations of the year are over,
Lieutenant-General Webb will request permission to leave the army,
and return to his place in Parliament, where he gives notice to his
Grace the Commander-in Chief, that he shall lay his case before the
House of Commons, the country, and her Majesty the Queen.

"By his eagerness to rectify that false statement of the Gazette,
which had been written by his Grace's secretary, Mr. Cardonnel, Mr.
Webb, not being able to reach his Grace the Commander-in-Chief on
account of the gentlemen seated between them, placed the paper
containing the false statement on his sword, so that it might more
readily arrive in the hands of his Grace the Duke of Marlborough,
who surely would wish to do justice to every officer of his army.

"Mr. Webb knows his duty too well to think of insubordination to
his superior officer, or of using his sword in a campaign against
any but the enemies of her Majesty.  He solicits permission to
return to England immediately the military duties will permit, and
take with him to England Captain Esmond, of his regiment, who acted
as his aide-de-camp, and was present during the entire action, and
noted by his watch the time when Mr. Cadogan arrived at its close."


The Commander-in-Chief could not but grant this permission, nor
could he take notice of Webb's letter, though it was couched in
terms the most insulting.  Half the army believed that the cities
of Ghent and Bruges were given up by a treason, which some in our
army very well understood; that the Commander-in-Chief would not
have relieved Lille if he could have helped himself; that he would
not have fought that year had not the Prince of Savoy forced him.
When the battle once began, then, for his own renown, my Lord
Marlborough would fight as no man in the world ever fought better;
and no bribe on earth could keep him from beating the enemy.*

/*
     * Our Grandfather's hatred of the Duke of Marlborough
     appears all through his account of these campaigns.  He
     always persisted that the Duke was the greatest traitor and
     soldier history ever told of: and declared that he took
     bribes on all hands during the war.  My Lord Marquis (for so
     we may call him here, though he never went by any other name
     than Colonel Esmond) was in the habit of telling many
     stories which he did not set down in his memoirs, and which
     he had from his friend the Jesuit, who was not always
     correctly informed, and who persisted that Marlborough was
     looking for a bribe of two millions of crowns before the
     campaign of Ramillies.

     And our Grandmother used to tell us children, that on his
     first presentation to my Lord duke, the Duke turned his back
     upon my Grandfather; and said to the Duchess, who told my
     lady dowager at Chelsey, who afterwards told Colonel Esmond
     --"Tom Esmond's bastard has been to my levee: he has the
     hang-dog look of his rogue of a father"--an expression which
     my Grandfather never forgave.  He was as constant in his
     dislikes as in his attachments; and exceedingly partial to
     Webb, whose side he took against the more celebrated
     general.  We have General Webb's portrait now at Castlewood,
     Va.
*/

But the matter was taken up by the subordinates; and half the army
might have been by the ears, if the quarrel had not been stopped.
General Cadogan sent an intimation to General Webb to say that he
was ready if Webb liked, and would meet him.  This was a kind of
invitation our stout old general was always too ready to accept,
and 'twas with great difficulty we got the General to reply that he
had no quarrel with Mr. Cadogan, who had behaved with perfect
gallantry, but only with those at head-quarters, who had belied
him.  Mr. Cardonnel offered General Webb reparation; Mr. Webb said
he had a cane at the service of Mr. Cardonnel, and the only
satisfaction he wanted from him was one he was not likely to get,
namely, the truth.  The officers in our staff of Webb's, and those
in the immediate suite of the General, were ready to come to blows;
and hence arose the only affair in which Mr. Esmond ever engaged as
principal, and that was from a revengeful wish to wipe off an old
injury.

My Lord Mohun, who had a troop in Lord Macclesfield's regiment of
the Horse Guards, rode this campaign with the Duke.  He had sunk by
this time to the very worst reputation; he had had another fatal
duel in Spain; he had married, and forsaken his wife; he was a
gambler, a profligate, and debauchee.  He joined just before
Oudenarde; and, as Esmond feared, as soon as Frank Castlewood heard
of his arrival, Frank was for seeking him out, and killing him.
The wound my lord got at Oudenarde prevented their meeting, but
that was nearly healed, and Mr. Esmond trembled daily lest any
chance should bring his boy and this known assassin together.  They
met at the mess-table of Handyside's regiment at Lille; the officer
commanding not knowing of the feud between the two noblemen.

Esmond had not seen the hateful handsome face of Mohun for nine
years, since they had met on that fatal night in Leicester Field.
It was degraded with crime and passion now; it wore the anxious
look of a man who has three deaths, and who knows how many hidden
shames, and lusts, and crimes on his conscience.  He bowed with a
sickly low bow, and slunk away when our host presented us round to
one another.  Frank Castlewood had not known him till then, so
changed was he.  He knew the boy well enough.

'Twas curious to look at the two--especially the young man, whose
face flushed up when he heard the hated name of the other; and who
said in his bad French and his brave boyish voice--"He had long
been anxious to meet my Lord Mohun."  The other only bowed, and
moved away from him.  I do him justice, he wished to have no
quarrel with the lad.

Esmond put himself between them at table.  "D--- it," says Frank,
"why do you put yourself in the place of a man who is above you in
degree?  My Lord Mohun should walk after me.  I want to sit by my
Lord Mohun."

Esmond whispered to Lord Mohun, that Frank was hurt in the leg at
Oudenarde; and besought the other to be quiet.  Quiet enough he was
for some time; disregarding the many taunts which young Castlewood
flung at him, until after several healths, when my Lord Mohun got
to be rather in liquor.

"Will you go away, my lord?" Mr. Esmond said to him, imploring him
to quit the table.

"No, by G--," says my Lord Mohun.  "I'll not go away for any man;"
he was quite flushed with wine by this time.

The talk got round to the affairs of yesterday.  Webb had offered
to challenge the Commander-in-Chief: Webb had been ill-used: Webb
was the bravest, handsomest, vainest man in the army.  Lord Mohun
did not know that Esmond was Webb's aide-de-camp.  He began to tell
some stories against the General; which, from t'other side of
Esmond, young Castlewood contradicted.

"I can't bear any more of this," says my Lord Mohun.

"Nor can I, my lord," says Mr. Esmond, starting up.  "The story my
Lord Mohun has told respecting General Webb is false, gentlemen--false, I repeat," and making a low bow to Lord Mohun, and without a
single word more, Esmond got up and left the dining-room.  These
affairs were common enough among the military of those days.  There
was a garden behind the house, and all the party turned instantly
into it; and the two gentlemen's coats were off and their points
engaged within two minutes after Esmond's words had been spoken.
If Captain Esmond had put Mohun out of the world, as he might, a
villain would have been punished and spared further villanies--but
who is one man to punish another?  I declare upon my honor that my
only thought was to prevent Lord Mohun from mischief with Frank,
and the end of this meeting was, that after half a dozen passes my
lord went home with a hurt which prevented him from lifting his
right arm for three months.

"Oh, Harry! why didn't you kill the villain?" young Castlewood
asked.  "I can't walk without a crutch: but I could have met him on
horseback with sword and pistol."  But Harry Esmond said, "'Twas
best to have no man's life on one's conscience, not even that
villain's."  And this affair, which did not occupy three minutes,
being over, the gentlemen went back to their wine, and my Lord
Mohun to his quarters, where he was laid up with a fever which had
spared mischief had it proved fatal.  And very soon after this
affair Harry Esmond and his General left the camp for London;
whither a certain reputation had preceded the Captain, for my Lady
Castlewood of Chelsey received him as if he had been a conquering
hero.  She gave a great dinner to Mr. Webb, where the General's
chair was crowned with laurels; and her ladyship called Esmond's
health in a toast, to which my kind General was graciously pleased
to bear the strongest testimony: and took down a mob of at least
forty coaches to cheer our General as he came out of the House of
Commons, the day when he received the thanks of Parliament for his
action.  The mob huzza'd and applauded him, as well as the fine
company: it was splendid to see him waving his hat, and bowing, and
laying his hand upon his Order of Generosity.  He introduced Mr.
Esmond to Mr. St. John and the Right Honorable Robert Harley,
Esquire, as he came out of the House walking between them; and was
pleased to make many flattering observations regarding Mr. Esmond's
behavior during the three last campaigns.

Mr. St. John (who had the most winning presence of any man I ever
saw, excepting always my peerless young Frank Castlewood) said he
had heard of Mr. Esmond before from Captain Steele, and how he had
helped Mr. Addison to write his famous poem of the "Campaign."

"'Twas as great an achievement as the victory of Blenheim itself,"
Mr. Harley said, who was famous as a judge and patron of letters,
and so, perhaps, it may be--though for my part I think there are
twenty beautiful lines, but all the rest is commonplace, and Mr.
Addison's hymn worth a thousand such poems.

All the town was indignant at my Lord Duke's unjust treatment of
General Webb, and applauded the vote of thanks which the House of
Commons gave to the General for his victory at Wynendael.  'Tis
certain that the capture of Lille was the consequence of that lucky
achievement, and the humiliation of the old French King, who was
said to suffer more at the loss of this great city, than from any
of the former victories our troops had won over him.  And, I think,
no small part of Mr. Webb's exultation at his victory arose from
the idea that Marlborough had been disappointed of a great bribe
the French King had promised him, should the siege be raised.  The
very sum of money offered to him was mentioned by the Duke's
enemies; and honest Mr. Webb chuckled at the notion, not only of
beating the French, but of beating Marlborough too, and
intercepting a convoy of three millions of French crowns, that were
on their way to the Generalissimo's insatiable pockets.  When the
General's lady went to the Queen's drawing-room, all the Tory women
crowded round her with congratulations, and made her a train
greater than the Duchess of Marlborough's own.  Feasts were given
to the General by all the chiefs of the Tory party, who vaunted him
as the Duke's equal in military skill; and perhaps used the worthy
soldier as their instrument, whilst he thought they were but
acknowledging his merits as a commander.  As the General's aide-de-camp and favorite officer, Mr. Esmond came in for a share of his
chief's popularity, and was presented to her Majesty, and advanced
to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel, at the request of his grateful
chief.

We may be sure there was one family in which any good fortune that
happened to Esmond caused such a sincere pride and pleasure, that
he, for his part, was thankful he could make them so happy.  With
these fond friends, Blenheim and Oudenarde seemed to be mere
trifling incidents of the war; and Wynendael was its crowning
victory.  Esmond's mistress never tired to hear accounts of the
battle; and I think General Webb's lady grew jealous of her, for
the General was for ever at Kensington, and talking on that
delightful theme.  As for his aide-de-camp, though, no doubt,
Esmond's own natural vanity was pleased at the little share of
reputation which his good fortune had won him, yet it was chiefly
precious to him (he may say so, now that he hath long since
outlived it,) because it pleased his mistress, and, above all,
because Beatrix valued it.

As for the old Dowager of Chelsey, never was an old woman in all
England more delighted nor more gracious than she.  Esmond had his
quarters in her ladyship's house, where the domestics were
instructed to consider him as their master.  She bade him give
entertainments, of which she defrayed the charges, and was charmed
when his guests were carried away tipsy in their coaches.  She must
have his picture taken; and accordingly he was painted by Mr.
Jervas, in his red coat, and smiling upon a bomb-shell, which was
bursting at the corner of the piece.  She vowed that unless he made
a great match, she should never die easy, and was for ever bringing
young ladies to Chelsey, with pretty faces and pretty fortunes, at
the disposal of the Colonel.  He smiled to think how times were
altered with him, and of the early days in his father's lifetime,
when a trembling page he stood before her, with her ladyship's
basin and ewer, or crouched in her coach-step.  The only fault she
found with him was, that he was more sober than an Esmond ought to
be; and would neither be carried to bed by his valet, nor lose his
heart to any beauty, whether of St. James's or Covent Garden.

What is the meaning of fidelity in love, and whence the birth of it?
'Tis a state of mind that men fall into, and depending on the man
rather than the woman.  We love being in love, that's the truth
on't.  If we had not met Joan, we should have met Kate, and adored
her.  We know our mistresses are no better than many other women,
nor no prettier, nor no wiser, nor no wittier.  'Tis not for these
reasons we love a woman, or for any special quality or charm I know
of; we might as well demand that a lady should be the tallest woman
in the world, like the Shropshire giantess,* as that she should be a
paragon in any other character, before we began to love her.
Esmond's mistress had a thousand faults beside her charms; he knew
both perfectly well!  She was imperious, she was light-minded, she
was flighty, she was false, she had no reverence in her character;
she was in everything, even in beauty, the contrast of her mother,
who was the most devoted and the least selfish of women.  Well, from
the very first moment he saw her on the stairs at Walcote, Esmond
knew he loved Beatrix.  There might be better women--he wanted that
one.  He cared for none other.  Was it because she was gloriously
beautiful?  Beautiful as she was, he had heard people say a score of
times in their company that Beatrix's mother looked as young, and
was the handsomer of the two.  Why did her voice thrill in his ear
so?  She could not sing near so well as Nicolini or Mrs. Tofts; nay,
she sang out of tune, and yet he liked to hear her better than St.
Cecilia.  She had not a finer complexion than Mrs. Steele, (Dick's
wife, whom he had now got, and who ruled poor Dick with a rod of
pickle,) and yet to see her dazzled Esmond; he would shut his eyes,
and the thought of her dazzled him all the same.  She was brilliant
and lively in talk, but not so incomparably witty as her mother,
who, when she was cheerful, said the finest things; but yet to hear
her, and to be with her, was Esmond's greatest pleasure.  Days
passed away between him and these ladies, he scarce knew how.  He
poured his heart out to them, so as he never could in any other
company, where he hath generally passed for being moody, or
supercilious and silent.  This society** was more delightful than
that of the greatest wits to him.  May heaven pardon him the lies he
told the Dowager at Chelsey, in order to get a pretext for going
away to Kensington: the business at the Ordnance which he invented;
the interview with his General, the courts and statesmen's levees
which he DIDN'T frequent and describe; who wore a new suit on Sunday
at St. James's or at the Queen's birthday; how many coaches filled
the street at Mr. Harley's levee; how many bottles he had had the
honor to drink over-night with Mr. St. John at the "Cocoa-Tree," or
at the "Garter" with Mr. Walpole and Mr. Steele.

/*
     * 'Tis not thus WOMAN LOVES: Col. E. hath owned to this
     folly for a SCORE OF WOMEN besides.--R.

     ** And, indeed, so was his to them, a thousand thousand
     times more charming, for where was his equal?--R.
*/

Mistress Beatrix Esmond had been a dozen times on the point of
making great matches, so the Court scandal said; but for his part
Esmond never would believe the stories against her; and came back,
after three years' absence from her, not so frantic as he had been
perhaps, but still hungering after her and no other; still hopeful,
still kneeling, with his heart in his hand for the young lady to
take.  We were now got to 1709.  She was near twenty-two years old,
and three years at Court, and without a husband.

"'Tis not for want of being asked," Lady Castlewood said, looking
into Esmond's heart, as she could, with that perceptiveness
affection gives.  "But she will make no mean match, Harry: she will
not marry as I would have her; the person whom I should like to
call my son, and Henry Esmond knows who that is, is best served by
my not pressing his claim.  Beatrix is so wilful, that what I would
urge on her, she would be sure to resist.  The man who would marry
her, will not be happy with her, unless he be a great person, and
can put her in a great position.  Beatrix loves admiration more
than love; and longs, beyond all things, for command.  Why should a
mother speak so of her child?  You are my son, too, Harry.  You
should know the truth about your sister.  I thought you might cure
yourself of your passion," my lady added, fondly.  "Other people
can cure themselves of that folly, you know.  But I see you are
still as infatuated as ever.  When we read your name in the
Gazette, I pleaded for you, my poor boy.  Poor boy, indeed!  You
are growing a grave old gentleman, now, and I am an old woman.  She
likes your fame well enough, and she likes your person.  She says
you have wit, and fire, and good-breeding, and are more natural
than the fine gentlemen of the Court.  But this is not enough.  She
wants a commander-in-chief, and not a colonel.  Were a duke to ask
her, she would leave an earl whom she had promised.  I told you so
before.  I know not how my poor girl is so worldly."

"Well," says Esmond, "a man can but give his best and his all.  She
has that from me.  What little reputation I have won, I swear I
cared for it because I thought Beatrix would be pleased with it.
What care I to be a colonel or a general?  Think you 'twill matter
a few score years hence, what our foolish honors to-day are?  I
would have had a little fame, that she might wear it in her hat.
If I had anything better, I would endow her with it.  If she wants
my life, I would give it her.  If she marries another, I will say
God bless him.  I make no boast, nor no complaint.  I think my
fidelity is folly, perhaps.  But so it is.  I cannot help myself.
I love her.  You are a thousand times better: the fondest, the
fairest, the dearest of women.  Sure, my dear lady, I see all
Beatrix's faults as well as you do.  But she is my fate.  'Tis
endurable.  I shall not die for not having her.  I think I should
be no happier if I won her.  Que voulez-vous? as my Lady of Chelsey
would say.  Je l'aime."

"I wish she would have you," said Harry's fond mistress, giving a
hand to him.  He kissed the fair hand ('twas the prettiest dimpled
little hand in the world, and my Lady Castlewood, though now almost
forty years old, did not look to be within ten years of her age).
He kissed and kept her fair hand, as they talked together.

"Why," says he, "should she hear me?  She knows what I would say.
Far or near, she knows I'm her slave.  I have sold myself for
nothing, it may be.  Well, 'tis the price I choose to take.  I am
worth nothing, or I am worth all."

"You are such a treasure," Esmond's mistress was pleased to say,
"that the woman who has your love, shouldn't change it away against
a kingdom, I think.  I am a country-bred woman, and cannot say but
the ambitions of the town seem mean to me.  I never was awe-stricken by my Lady Duchess's rank and finery, or afraid," she
added, with a sly laugh, "of anything but her temper.  I hear of
Court ladies who pine because her Majesty looks cold on them; and
great noblemen who would give a limb that they might wear a garter
on the other.  This worldliness, which I can't comprehend, was born
with Beatrix, who, on the first day of her waiting, was a perfect
courtier.  We are like sisters, and she the eldest sister, somehow.
She tells me I have a mean spirit.  I laugh, and say she adores a
coach-and-six.  I cannot reason her out of her ambition.  'Tis
natural to her, as to me to love quiet, and be indifferent about
rank and riches.  What are they, Harry? and for how long do they
last?  Our home is not here."  She smiled as she spoke, and looked
like an angel that was only on earth on a visit.  "Our home is
where the just are, and where our sins and sorrows enter not.  My
father used to rebuke me, and say that I was too hopeful about
heaven.  But I cannot help my nature, and grow obstinate as I grow
to be an old woman; and as I love my children so, sure our Father
loves us with a thousand and a thousand times greater love.  It
must be that we shall meet yonder, and be happy.  Yes, you--and my
children, and my dear lord.  Do you know, Harry, since his death,
it has always seemed to me as if his love came back to me, and that
we are parted no more.  Perhaps he is here now, Harry--I think he
is.  Forgiven I am sure he is: even Mr. Atterbury absolved him, and
he died forgiving.  Oh, what a noble heart he had!  How generous he
was!  I was but fifteen and a child when he married me.  How good
he was to stoop to me!  He was always good to the poor and humble."
She stopped, then presently, with a peculiar expression, as if her
eyes were looking into heaven, and saw my lord there, she smiled,
and gave a little laugh.  "I laugh to see you, sir," she says;
"when you come, it seems as if you never were away."  One may put
her words down, and remember them, but how describe her sweet
tones, sweeter than music!

My young lord did not come home at the end of the campaign, and
wrote that he was kept at Bruxelles on military duty.  Indeed, I
believe he was engaged in laying siege to a certain lady, who was
of the suite of Madame de Soissons, the Prince of Savoy's mother,
who was just dead, and who, like the Flemish fortresses, was taken
and retaken a great number of times during the war, and occupied by
French, English, and Imperialists.  Of course, Mr. Esmond did not
think fit to enlighten Lady Castlewood regarding the young
scapegrace's doings: nor had he said a word about the affair with
Lord Mohun, knowing how abhorrent that man's name was to his
mistress.  Frank did not waste much time or money on pen and ink;
and, when Harry came home with his General, only writ two lines to
his mother, to say his wound in the leg was almost healed, that he
would keep his coming of age next year--that the duty aforesaid
would keep him at Bruxelles, and that Cousin Harry would tell all
the news.

But from Bruxelles, knowing how the Lady Castlewood always liked to
have a letter about the famous 29th of December, my lord writ her a
long and full one, and in this he must have described the affair
with Mohun; for when Mr. Esmond came to visit his mistress one day,
early in the new year, to his great wonderment, she and her
daughter both came up and saluted him, and after them the Dowager
of Chelsey, too, whose chairman had just brought her ladyship from
her village to Kensington across the fields.  After this honor, I
say, from the two ladies of Castlewood, the Dowager came forward in
great state, with her grand tall head-dress of King James's reign,
that, she never forsook, and said, "Cousin Henry, all our family
have met; and we thank you, cousin, for your noble conduct towards
the head of our house."  And pointing to her blushing cheek, she
made Mr. Esmond aware that he was to enjoy the rapture of an
embrace there.  Having saluted one cheek, she turned to him the
other.  "Cousin Harry," said both the other ladies, in a little
chorus, "we thank you for your noble conduct;" and then Harry
became aware that the story of the Lille affair had come to his
kinswomen's ears.  It pleased him to hear them all saluting him as
one of their family.

The tables of the dining-room were laid for a great entertainment;
and the ladies were in gala dresses--my Lady of Chelsey in her
highest tour, my Lady Viscountess out of black, and looking fair
and happy a ravir; and the Maid of Honor attired with that splendor
which naturally distinguished her, and wearing on her beautiful
breast the French officer's star which Frank had sent home after
Ramillies.

"You see, 'tis a gala day with us," says she, glancing down to the
star complacently, "and we have our orders on.  Does not mamma look
charming?  'Twas I dressed her!"  Indeed, Esmond's dear mistress,
blushing as he looked at her, with her beautiful fair hair, and an
elegant dress according to the mode, appeared to have the shape and
complexion of a girl of twenty.

On the table was a fine sword, with a red velvet scabbard, and a
beautiful chased silver handle, with a blue ribbon for a sword-knot.  "What is this?" says the Captain, going up to look at this
pretty piece.

Mrs. Beatrix advanced towards it.  "Kneel down," says she: "we dub
you our knight with this"--and she waved the sword over his head.
"My Lady Dowager hath given the sword; and I give the ribbon, and
mamma hath sewn on the fringe."

"Put the sword on him, Beatrix," says her mother.  "You are our
knight, Harry--our true knight.  Take a mother's thanks and prayers
for defending her son, my dear, dear friend."  She could say no
more, and even the Dowager was affected, for a couple of rebellious
tears made sad marks down those wrinkled old roses which Esmond had
just been allowed to salute.

"We had a letter from dearest Frank," his mother said, "three days
since, whilst you were on your visit to your friend Captain Steele,
at Hampton.  He told us all that you had done, and how nobly you
had put yourself between him and that--that wretch."

"And I adopt you from this day," says the Dowager, "and I wish I
was richer, for your sake, son Esmond," she added with a wave of
her hand; and as Mr. Esmond dutifully went down on his knee before
her ladyship, she cast her eyes up to the ceiling, (the gilt
chandelier, and the twelve wax-candles in it, for the party was
numerous,) and invoked a blessing from that quarter upon the newly
adopted son.

"Dear Frank," says the other viscountess, "how fond he is of his
military profession!  He is studying fortification very hard.  I
wish he were here.  We shall keep his coming of age at Castlewood
next year."

"If the campaign permit us," says Mr. Esmond.

"I am never afraid when he is with you," cries the boy's mother.
"I am sure my Henry will always defend him."

"But there will be a peace before next year; we know it for
certain," cries the Maid of Honor.  "Lord Marlborough will be
dismissed, and that horrible duchess turned out of all her places.
Her Majesty won't speak to her now.  Did you see her at Bushy,
Harry?  She is furious, and she ranges about the park like a
lioness, and tears people's eyes out."

"And the Princess Anne will send for somebody," says my Lady of
Chelsey, taking out her medal and kissing it.

"Did you see the King at Oudenarde, Harry?" his mistress asked.
She was a staunch Jacobite, and would no more have thought of
denying her king than her God.

"I saw the young Hanoverian only," Harry said.  "The Chevalier de
St. George--"

"The King, sir, the King!" said the ladies and Miss Beatrix; and
she clapped her pretty hands, and cried, "Vive le Roy."

By this time there came a thundering knock, that drove in the doors
of the house almost.  It was three o'clock, and the company were
arriving; and presently the servant announced Captain Steele and
his lady.

Captain and Mrs. Steele, who were the first to arrive, had driven
to Kensington from their country-house, the Hovel at Hampton Wick.
"Not from our mansion in Bloomsbury Square," as Mrs. Steele took
care to inform the ladies.  Indeed Harry had ridden away from
Hampton that very morning, leaving the couple by the ears; for from
the chamber where he lay, in a bed that was none of the cleanest,
and kept awake by the company which he had in his own bed, and the
quarrel which was going on in the next room, he could hear both
night and morning the curtain lecture which Mrs. Steele was in the
habit of administering to poor Dick.

At night it did not matter so much for the culprit; Dick was
fuddled, and when in that way no scolding could interrupt his
benevolence.  Mr. Esmond could hear him coaxing and speaking in
that maudlin manner, which punch and claret produce, to his beloved
Prue, and beseeching her to remember that there was a distiwisht
officer ithe rex roob, who would overhear her.  She went on,
nevertheless, calling him a drunken wretch, and was only
interrupted in her harangues by the Captain's snoring.

In the morning, the unhappy victim awoke to a headache, and
consciousness, and the dialogue of the night was resumed.  "Why do
you bring captains home to dinner when there's not a guinea in the
house?  How am I to give dinners when you leave me without a
shilling?  How am I to go traipsing to Kensington in my yellow
satin sack before all the fine company?  I've nothing fit to put
on; I never have:" and so the dispute went on--Mr. Esmond
interrupting the talk when it seemed to be growing too intimate by
blowing his nose as loudly as ever he could, at the sound of which
trumpet there came a lull.  But Dick was charming, though his wife
was odious, and 'twas to give Mr. Steele pleasure, that the ladies
of Castlewood, who were ladies of no small fashion, invited Mrs.
Steele.

Besides the Captain and his lady, there was a great and notable
assemblage of company: my Lady of Chelsey having sent her lackeys
and liveries to aid the modest attendance at Kensington.  There was
Lieutenant-General Webb, Harry's kind patron, of whom the Dowager
took possession, and who resplended in velvet and gold lace; there
was Harry's new acquaintance, the Right Honorable Henry St. John,
Esquire, the General's kinsman, who was charmed with the Lady
Castlewood, even more than with her daughter; there was one of the
greatest noblemen in the kingdom, the Scots Duke of Hamilton, just
created Duke of Brandon in England; and two other noble lords of
the Tory party, my Lord Ashburnham, and another I have forgot; and
for ladies, her Grace the Duchess of Ormonde and her daughters, the
Lady Mary and the Lady Betty, the former one of Mistress Beatrix's
colleagues in waiting on the Queen.

"What a party of Tories!" whispered Captain Steele to Esmond, as we
were assembled in the parlor before dinner.  Indeed, all the
company present, save Steele, were of that faction.

Mr. St. John made his special compliments to Mrs. Steele, and so
charmed her that she declared she would have Steele a Tory too.

"Or will you have me a Whig?" says Mr. St. John.  "I think, madam,
you could convert a man to anything."

"If Mr. St. John ever comes to Bloomsbury Square I will teach him
what I know," says Mrs. Steele, dropping her handsome eyes.  "Do
you know Bloomsbury Square?"

"Do I know the Mall?  Do I know the Opera?  Do I know the reigning
toast?  Why, Bloomsbury is the very height of the mode," says Mr.
St. John.  "'Tis rus in urbe.  You have gardens all the way to
Hampstead, and palaces round about you--Southampton House and
Montague House."

"Where you wretches go and fight duels," cries Mrs. Steele.

"Of which the ladies are the cause!" says her entertainer.  "Madam,
is Dick a good swordsman?  How charming the 'Tatler' is!  We all
recognized your portrait in the 49th number, and I have been dying
to know you ever since I read it.  'Aspasia must be allowed to be
the first of the beauteous order of love.'  Doth not the passage
run so?  'In this accomplished lady love is the constant effect,
though it is never the design; yet though her mien carries much
more invitation than command, to behold her is an immediate check
to loose behavior, and to love her is a liberal education.'"

"Oh, indeed!" says Mrs. Steele, who did not seem to understand a
word of what the gentleman was saying.

"Who could fail to be accomplished under such a mistress?" says Mr.
St. John, still gallant and bowing.

"Mistress! upon my word, sir!" cries the lady.  "If you mean me,
sir, I would have you know that I am the Captain's wife."

"Sure we all know it," answers Mr. St. John, keeping his
countenance very gravely; and Steele broke in saying, "'Twas not
about Mrs. Steele I writ that paper--though I am sure she is worthy
of any compliment I can pay her--but of the Lady Elizabeth
Hastings."

"I hear Mr. Addison is equally famous as a wit and a poet," says
Mr. St. John.  "Is it true that his hand is to be found in your
'Tatler,' Mr. Steele?"

"Whether 'tis the sublime or the humorous, no man can come near
him," cries Steele.

"A fig, Dick, for your Mr. Addison! cries out his lady: "a
gentleman who gives himself such airs and holds his head so high
now.  I hope your ladyship thinks as I do: I can't bear those very
fair men with white eyelashes--a black man for me."  (All the black
men at table applauded, and made Mrs. Steele a bow for this
compliment.)  "As for this Mr. Addison," she went on, "he comes to
dine with the Captain sometimes, never says a word to me, and then
they walk up stairs both tipsy, to a dish of tea.  I remember your
Mr. Addison when he had but one coat to his back, and that with a
patch at the elbow."

"Indeed--a patch at the elbow!  You interest me," says Mr. St.
John.  "'Tis charming to hear of one man of letters from the
charming wife of another."

"La, I could tell you ever so much about 'em," continues the
voluble lady.  "What do you think the Captain has got now?--a
little hunchback fellow--a little hop-o'-my-thumb creature that he
calls a poet--a little Popish brat!"

"Hush, there are two in the room," whispers her companion.

"Well, I call him Popish because his name is Pope," says the lady.
"'Tis only my joking way.  And this little dwarf of a fellow has
wrote a pastoral poem--all about shepherds and shepherdesses, you
know."

"A shepherd should have a little crook," says my mistress, laughing
from her end of the table: on which Mrs. Steele said, "She did not
know, but the Captain brought home this queer little creature when
she was in bed with her first boy, and it was a mercy he had come
no sooner; and Dick raved about his genus, and was always raving
about some nonsense or other."

"Which of the 'Tatlers' do you prefer, Mrs. Steele?" asked Mr. St.
John.

"I never read but one, and think it all a pack of rubbish, sir,"
says the lady.  "Such stuff about Bickerstaffe, and Distaff, and
Quarterstaff, as it all is!  There's the Captain going on still
with the Burgundy--I know he'll be tipsy before he stops--Captain
Steele!"

"I drink to your eyes, my dear," says the Captain, who seemed to
think his wife charming, and to receive as genuine all the satiric
compliments which Mr. St. John paid her.

All this while the Maid of Honor had been trying to get Mr. Esmond
to talk, and no doubt voted him a dull fellow.  For, by some
mistake, just as he was going to pop into the vacant place, he was
placed far away from Beatrix's chair, who sat between his Grace and
my Lord Ashburnham, and shrugged her lovely white shoulders, and
cast a look as if to say, "Pity me," to her cousin.  My Lord Duke
and his young neighbor were presently in a very animated and close
conversation.  Mrs. Beatrix could no more help using her eyes than
the sun can help shining, and setting those it shines on a-burning.
By the time the first course was done the dinner seemed long to
Esmond; by the time the soup came he fancied they must have been
hours at table: and as for the sweets and jellies he thought they
never would be done.

At length the ladies rose, Beatrix throwing a Parthian glance at
her duke as she retreated; a fresh bottle and glasses were fetched,
and toasts were called.  Mr. St. John asked his Grace the Duke of
Hamilton and the company to drink to the health of his Grace the
Duke of Brandon.  Another lord gave General Webb's health, "and may
he get the command the bravest officer in the world deserves."  Mr.
Webb thanked the company, complimented his aide-de-camp, and fought
his famous battle over again.

"Il est fatiguant," whispers Mr. St. John, "avec sa trompette de
Wynendael."

Captain Steele, who was not of our side, loyally gave the health of
the Duke of Marlborough, the greatest general of the age.

"I drink to the greatest general with all my heart," says Mr. Webb;
"there can be no gainsaying that character of him.  My glass goes
to the General, and not to the Duke, Mr. Steele."  And the stout
old gentleman emptied his bumper; to which Dick replied by filling
and emptying a pair of brimmers, one for the General and one for
the Duke.

And now his Grace of Hamilton, rising up with flashing eyes (we had
all been drinking pretty freely), proposed a toast to the lovely,
to the incomparable Mrs. Beatrix Esmond; we all drank it with
cheers, and my Lord Ashburnham especially, with a shout of
enthusiasm.

"What a pity there is a Duchess of Hamilton," whispers St. John,
who drank more wine and yet was more steady than most of the
others, and we entered the drawing-room where the ladies were at
their tea.  As for poor Dick, we were obliged to leave him alone at
the dining-table, where he was hiccupping out the lines from the
"Campaign," in which the greatest poet had celebrated the greatest
general in the world; and Harry Esmond found him, half an hour
afterwards, in a more advanced stage of liquor, and weeping about
the treachery of Tom Boxer.

The drawing-room was all dark to poor Harry, in spite of the grand
illumination.  Beatrix scarce spoke to him.  When my Lord Duke went
away, she practised upon the next in rank, and plied my young Lord
Ashburnham with all the fire of her eyes and the fascinations of
her wit.  Most of the party were set to cards, and Mr. St. John,
after yawning in the face of Mrs. Steele, whom he did not care to
pursue any more; and talking in his most brilliant animated way to
Lady Castlewood, whom he pronounced to be beautiful, of a far
higher order of beauty than her daughter, presently took his leave,
and went his way.  The rest of the company speedily followed, my
Lord Ashburnham the last, throwing fiery glances at the smiling
young temptress, who had bewitched more hearts than his in her
thrall.

No doubt, as a kinsman of the house, Mr. Esmond thought fit to be
the last of all in it; he remained after the coaches had rolled
away--after his dowager aunt's chair and flambeaux had marched off
in the darkness towards Chelsey, and the town's people had gone to
bed, who had been drawn into the square to gape at the unusual
assemblage of chairs and chariots, lackeys, and torchmen.  The poor
mean wretch lingered yet for a few minutes, to see whether the girl
would vouchsafe him a smile, or a parting word of consolation.  But
her enthusiasm of the morning was quite died out, or she chose to
be in a different mood.  She fell to joking about the dowdy
appearance of Lady Betty, and mimicked the vulgarity of Mrs.
Steele; and then she put up her little hand to her mouth and
yawned, lighted a taper, and shrugged her shoulders, and dropping
Mr. Esmond a saucy curtsy, sailed off to bed.

"The day began so well, Henry, that I hoped it might have ended
better," was all the consolation that poor Esmond's fond mistress
could give him; and as he trudged home through the dark alone, he
thought with bitter rage in his heart, and a feeling of almost
revolt against the sacrifice he had made:--"She would have me,"
thought he, "had I but a name to give her.  But for my promise to
her father, I might have my rank and my mistress too."

I suppose a man's vanity is stronger than any other passion in him;
for I blush, even now, as I recall the humiliation of those distant
days, the memory of which still smarts, though the fever of balked
desire has passed away more than a score of years ago.  When the
writer's descendants come to read this memoir, I wonder will they
have lived to experience a similar defeat and shame?  Will they
ever have knelt to a woman who has listened to them, and played
with them, and laughed with them--who beckoning them with lures and
caresses, and with Yes smiling from her eyes, has tricked them on
to their knees, and turned her back and left them.  All this shame
Mr. Esmond had to undergo; and he submitted, and revolted, and
presently came crouching back for more.

After this feste, my young Lord Ashburnham's coach was for ever
rolling in and out of Kensington Square; his lady-mother came to
visit Esmond's mistress, and at every assembly in the town,
wherever the Maid of Honor made her appearance, you might be pretty
sure to see the young gentleman in a new suit every week, and
decked out in all the finery that his tailor or embroiderer could
furnish for him.  My lord was for ever paying Mr. Esmond
compliments: bidding him to dinner, offering him horses to ride,
and giving him a thousand uncouth marks of respect and good-will.
At last, one night at the coffee-house, whither my lord came
considerably flushed and excited with drink, he rushes up to Mr.
Esmond, and cries out--"Give me joy, my dearest Colonel; I am the
happiest of men."

"The happiest of men needs no dearest colonel to give him joy,"
says Mr. Esmond.  "What is the cause of this supreme felicity?"

"Haven't you heard?" says he.  "Don't you know?  I thought the
family told you everything: the adorable Beatrix hath promised to
be mine."

"What!" cries out Mr. Esmond, who had spent happy hours with
Beatrix that very morning--had writ verses for her, that she had
sung at the harpsichord.

"Yes," says he; "I waited on her to-day.  I saw you walking towards
Knightsbridge as I passed in my coach; and she looked so lovely,
and spoke so kind, that I couldn't help going down on my knees,
and--and--sure I am the happiest of men in all the world; and I'm
very young; but she says I shall get older: and you know I shall be
of age in four months; and there's very little difference between
us; and I'm so happy.  I should like to treat the company to
something.  Let us have a bottle--a dozen bottles--and drink the
health of the finest woman in England."

Esmond left the young lord tossing off bumper after bumper, and
strolled away to Kensington to ask whether the news was true.
'Twas only too sure: his mistress's sad, compassionate face told
him the story; and then she related what particulars of it she
knew, and how my young lord had made his offer, half an hour after
Esmond went away that morning, and in the very room where the song
lay yet on the harpsichord, which Esmond had writ, and they had
sung together.




BOOK III.

CONTAINING THE END OF MR. ESMOND'S ADVENTURES IN ENGLAND.




CHAPTER I.

I COME TO AN END OF MY BATTLES AND BRUISES.


That feverish desire to gain a little reputation which Esmond had
had, left him now perhaps that he had attained some portion of his
wish, and the great motive of his ambition was over.  His desire
for military honor was that it might raise him in Beatrix's eyes.
'Twas next to nobility and wealth, the only kind of rank she
valued.  It was the stake quickest won or lost too; for law is a
very long game that requires a life to practise; and to be
distinguished in letters or the Church would not have forwarded the
poor gentleman's plans in the least.  So he had no suit to play but
the red one, and he played it; and this, in truth, was the reason
of his speedy promotion; for he exposed himself more than most
gentlemen do, and risked more to win more.  Is he the only man that
hath set his life against a stake which may be not worth the
winning?  Another risks his life (and his honor, too, sometimes,)
against a bundle of bank-notes, or a yard of blue ribbon, or a seat
in Parliament; and some for the mere pleasure and excitement of the
sport; as a field of a hundred huntsmen will do, each out-bawling
and out-galloping the other at the tail of a dirty fox, that is to
be the prize of the foremost happy conqueror.

When he heard this news of Beatrix's engagement in marriage,
Colonel Esmond knocked under to his fate, and resolved to surrender
his sword, that could win him nothing now he cared for; and in this
dismal frame of mind he determined to retire from the regiment, to
the great delight of the captain next in rank to him, who happened
to be a young gentleman of good fortune, who eagerly paid Mr.
Esmond a thousand guineas for his majority in Webb's regiment, and
was knocked on the head the next campaign.  Perhaps Esmond would
not have been sorry to share his fate.  He was more the Knight of
the Woful Countenance than ever he had been.  His moodiness must
have made him perfectly odious to his friends under the tents, who
like a jolly fellow, and laugh at a melancholy warrior always
sighing after Dulcinea at home.

Both the ladies of Castlewood approved of Mr. Esmond quitting the
army, and his kind General coincided in his wish of retirement and
helped in the transfer of his commission, which brought a pretty
sum into his pocket.  But when the Commander-in-Chief came home,
and was forced, in spite of himself, to appoint Lieutenant-General
Webb to the command of a division of the army in Flanders, the
Lieutenant-General prayed Colonel Esmond so urgently to be his
aide-de-camp and military secretary, that Esmond could not resist
his kind patron's entreaties, and again took the field, not
attached to any regiment, but under Webb's orders.  What must have
been the continued agonies of fears* and apprehensions which racked
the gentle breasts of wives and matrons in those dreadful days,
when every Gazette brought accounts of deaths and battles, and when
the present anxiety over, and the beloved person escaped, the doubt
still remained that a battle might be fought, possibly, of which
the next Flanders letter would bring the account; so they, the poor
tender creatures, had to go on sickening and trembling through the
whole campaign.  Whatever these terrors were on the part of
Esmond's mistress, (and that tenderest of women must have felt them
most keenly for both her sons, as she called them), she never
allowed them outwardly to appear, but hid her apprehension, as she
did her charities and devotion.  'Twas only by chance that Esmond,
wandering in Kensington, found his mistress coming out of a mean
cottage there, and heard that she had a score of poor retainers,
whom she visited and comforted in their sickness and poverty, and
who blessed her daily.  She attended the early church daily (though
of a Sunday, especially, she encouraged and advanced all sorts of
cheerfulness and innocent gayety in her little household): and by
notes entered into a table-book of hers at this time, and
devotional compositions writ with a sweet artless fervor, such as
the best divines could not surpass, showed how fond her heart was,
how humble and pious her spirit, what pangs of apprehension she
endured silently, and with what a faithful reliance she committed
the care of those she loved to the awful Dispenser of death and
life.

/*
* What indeed?  Psm. xci. 2, 3, 7.--R. E.
*/

As for her ladyship at Chelsey, Esmond's newly adopted mother, she
was now of an age when the danger of any second party doth not
disturb the rest much.  She cared for trumps more than for most
things in life.  She was firm enough in her own faith, but no
longer very bitter against ours.  She had a very good-natured, easy
French director, Monsieur Gauthier by name, who was a gentleman of
the world, and would take a hand of cards with Dean Atterbury, my
lady's neighbor at Chelsey, and was well with all the High Church
party.  No doubt Monsieur Gauthier knew what Esmond's peculiar
position was, for he corresponded with Holt, and always treated
Colonel Esmond with particular respect and kindness; but for good
reasons the Colonel and the Abbe never spoke on this matter
together, and so they remained perfect good friends.

All the frequenters of my Lady of Chelsey's house were of the Tory
and High Church party.  Madame Beatrix was as frantic about the
King as her elderly kinswoman: she wore his picture on her heart;
she had a piece of his hair; she vowed he was the most injured, and
gallant, and accomplished, and unfortunate, and beautiful of
princes.  Steele, who quarrelled with very many of his Tory
friends, but never with Esmond, used to tell the Colonel that his
kinswoman's house was a rendezvous of Tory intrigues; that Gauthier
was a spy; that Atterbury was a spy; that letters were constantly
going from that house to the Queen at St. Germains; on which
Esmond, laughing, would reply, that they used to say in the army
the Duke of Marlborough was a spy too, and as much in
correspondence with that family as any Jesuit.  And without
entering very eagerly into the controversy, Esmond had frankly
taken the side of his family.  It seemed to him that King James the
Third was undoubtedly King of England by right: and at his sister's
death it would be better to have him than a foreigner over us.  No
man admired King William more; a hero and a conqueror, the bravest,
justest, wisest of men--but 'twas by the sword he conquered the
country, and held and governed it by the very same right that the
great Cromwell held it, who was truly and greatly a sovereign.  But
that a foreign despotic Prince, out of Germany, who happened to be
descended from King James the First, should take possession of this
empire, seemed to Mr. Esmond a monstrous injustice--at least, every
Englishman had a right to protest, and the English Prince, the
heir-at-law, the first of all.  What man of spirit with such a
cause would not back it?  What man of honor with such a crown to
win would not fight for it?  But that race was destined.  That
Prince had himself against him, an enemy he could not overcome.  He
never dared to draw his sword, though he had it.  He let his
chances slip by as he lay in the lap of opera-girls, or snivelled
at the knees of priests asking pardon; and the blood of heroes, and
the devotedness of honest hearts, and endurance, courage, fidelity,
were all spent for him in vain.

But let us return to my Lady of Chelsey, who, when her son Esmond
announced to her ladyship that he proposed to make the ensuing
campaign, took leave of him with perfect alacrity, and was down to
piquet with her gentlewoman before he had well quitted the room on
his last visit.  "Tierce to a king," were the last words he ever
heard her say: the game of life was pretty nearly over for the good
lady, and three months afterwards she took to her bed, where she
flickered out without any pain, so the Abbe Gauthier wrote over to
Mr. Esmond, then with his General on the frontier of France.  The
Lady Castlewood was with her at her ending, and had written too,
but these letters must have been taken by a privateer in the packet
that brought them; for Esmond knew nothing of their contents until
his return to England.

My Lady Castlewood had left everything to Colonel Esmond, "as a
reparation for the wrong done to him;" 'twas writ in her will.  But
her fortune was not much, for it never had been large, and the
honest viscountess had wisely sunk most of the money she had upon
an annuity which terminated with her life.  However, there was the
house and furniture, plate and pictures at Chelsey, and a sum of
money lying at her merchant's, Sir Josiah Child, which altogether
would realize a sum of near three hundred pounds per annum, so that
Mr. Esmond found himself, if not rich, at least easy for life.
Likewise there were the famous diamonds which had been said to be
worth fabulous sums, though the goldsmith pronounced they would
fetch no more than four thousand pounds.  These diamonds, however,
Colonel Esmond reserved, having a special use for them: but the
Chelsey house, plate, goods, &c., with the exception of a few
articles which he kept back, were sold by his orders; and the sums
resulting from the sale invested in the public securities so as to
realize the aforesaid annual income of three hundred pounds.

Having now something to leave, he made a will and despatched it
home.  The army was now in presence of the enemy; and a great
battle expected every day.  'Twas known that the General-in-Chief
was in disgrace, and the parties at home strong against him, and
there was no stroke this great and resolute player would not
venture to recall his fortune when it seemed desperate.  Frank
Castlewood was with Colonel Esmond; his General having gladly taken
the young nobleman on to his staff.  His studies of fortifications
at Bruxelles were over by this time.  The fort he was besieging had
yielded, I believe, and my lord had not only marched in with flying
colors, but marched out again.  He used to tell his boyish
wickednesses with admirable humor, and was the most charming young
scapegrace in the army.

'Tis needless to say that Colonel Esmond had left every penny of
his little fortune to this boy.  It was the Colonel's firm
conviction that the next battle would put an end to him: for he
felt aweary of the sun, and quite ready to bid that and the earth
farewell.  Frank would not listen to his comrade's gloomy
forebodings, but swore they would keep his birthday at Castlewood
that autumn, after the campaign.  He had heard of the engagement at
home.  "If Prince Eugene goes to London," says Frank, "and Trix can
get hold of him, she'll jilt Ashburnham for his Highness.  I tell
you, she used to make eyes at the Duke of Marlborough, when she was
only fourteen, and ogling poor little Blandford.  I wouldn't marry
her, Harry--no, not if her eyes were twice as big.  I'll take my
fun.  I'll enjoy for the next three years every possible pleasure.
I'll sow my wild oats then, and marry some quiet, steady, modest,
sensible viscountess; hunt my harriers; and settle down at
Castlewood.  Perhaps I'll represent the county--no, damme, YOU
shall represent the county.  You have the brains of the family.  By
the Lord, my dear old Harry, you have the best head and the kindest
heart in all the army; and every man says so--and when the Queen
dies, and the King comes back, why shouldn't you go to the House of
Commons, and be a Minister, and be made a Peer, and that sort of
thing?  YOU be shot in the next action!  I wager a dozen of
Burgundy you are not touched.  Mohun is well of his wound.  He is
always with Corporal John now.  As soon as ever I see his ugly face
I'll spit in it.  I took lessons of Father--of Captain Holt at
Bruxelles.  What a man that is!  He knows everything."  Esmond bade
Frank have a care; that Father Holt's knowledge was rather
dangerous; not, indeed, knowing as yet how far the Father had
pushed his instructions with his young pupil.

The gazetteers and writers, both of the French and English side,
have given accounts sufficient of that bloody battle of Blarignies
or Malplaquet, which was the last and the hardest earned of the
victories of the great Duke of Marlborough.  In that tremendous
combat near upon two hundred and fifty thousand men were engaged,
more than thirty thousand of whom were slain or wounded (the Allies
lost twice as many men as they killed of the French, whom they
conquered): and this dreadful slaughter very likely took place
because a great general's credit was shaken at home, and he thought
to restore it by a victory.  If such were the motives which induced
the Duke of Marlborough to venture that prodigious stake, and
desperately sacrifice thirty thousand brave lives, so that he might
figure once more in a Gazette, and hold his places and pensions a
little longer, the event defeated the dreadful and selfish design,
for the victory was purchased at a cost which no nation, greedy of
glory as it may be, would willingly pay for any triumph.  The
gallantry of the French was as remarkable as the furious bravery of
their assailants.  We took a few score of their flags, and a few
pieces of their artillery; but we left twenty thousand of the
bravest soldiers of the world round about the intrenched lines,
from which the enemy was driven.  He retreated in perfect good
order; the panic-spell seemed to be broke, under which the French
had labored ever since the disaster of Hochstedt; and, fighting now
on the threshold of their country, they showed an heroic ardor of
resistance, such as had never met us in the course of their
aggressive war.  Had the battle been more successful, the conqueror
might have got the price for which he waged it.  As it was, (and
justly, I think,) the party adverse to the Duke in England were
indignant at the lavish extravagance of slaughter, and demanded
more eagerly than ever the recall of a chief whose cupidity and
desperation might urge him further still.  After this bloody fight
of Malplaquet, I can answer for it, that in the Dutch quarters and
our own, and amongst the very regiments and commanders whose
gallantry was most conspicuous upon this frightful day of carnage,
the general cry was, that there was enough of the war.  The French
were driven back into their own boundary, and all their conquests
and booty of Flanders disgorged.  As for the Prince of Savoy, with
whom our Commander-in-Chief, for reasons of his own, consorted more
closely than ever, 'twas known that he was animated not merely by a
political hatred, but by personal rage against the old French King:
the Imperial Generalissimo never forgot the slight put by Lewis
upon the Abbe de Savoie; and in the humiliation or ruin of his most
Christian Majesty, the Holy Roman Emperor found his account.  But
what were these quarrels to us, the free citizens of England and
Holland!  Despot as he was, the French monarch was yet the chief of
European civilization, more venerable in his age and misfortunes
than at the period of his most splendid successes; whilst his
opponent was but a semi-barbarous tyrant, with a pillaging,
murderous horde of Croats and Pandours, composing a half of his
army, filling our camp with their strange figures, bearded like the
miscreant Turks their neighbors, and carrying into Christian
warfare their native heathen habits of rapine, lust, and murder.
Why should the best blood in England and France be shed in order
that the Holy Roman and Apostolic master of these ruffians should
have his revenge over the Christian king?  And it was to this end
we were fighting; for this that every village and family in England
was deploring the death of beloved sons and fathers.  We dared not
speak to each other, even at table, of Malplaquet, so frightful
were the gaps left in our army by the cannon of that bloody action.
'Twas heartrending for an officer who had a heart to look down his
line on a parade-day afterwards, and miss hundreds of faces of
comrades--humble or of high rank--that had gathered but yesterday
full of courage and cheerfulness round the torn and blackened
flags.  Where were our friends?  As the great Duke reviewed us,
riding along our lines with his fine suite of prancing aides-de-camp and generals, stopping here and there to thank an officer with
those eager smiles and bows of which his Grace was always lavish,
scarce a huzzah could be got for him, though Cadogan, with an oath,
rode up and cried--"D--n you, why don't you cheer?"  But the men
had no heart for that: not one of them but was thinking, "Where's
my comrade?--where's my brother that fought by me, or my dear
captain that led me yesterday?"  'Twas the most gloomy pageant I
ever looked on; and the "Te Deum" sung by our chaplains, the most
woful and dreary satire.

Esmond's General added one more to the many marks of honor which he
had received in the front of a score of battles, and got a wound in
the groin, which laid him on his back; and you may be sure he
consoled himself by abusing the Commander-in-Chief, as he lay
groaning,--"Corporal John's as fond of me," he used to say, "as
King David was of General Uriah; and so he always gives me the post
of danger."  He persisted, to his dying day, in believing that the
Duke intended he should be beat at Wynendael, and sent him
purposely with a small force, hoping that he might be knocked on
the head there.  Esmond and Frank Castlewood both escaped without
hurt, though the division which our General commanded suffered even
more than any other, having to sustain not only the fury of the
enemy's cannonade, which was very hot and well served, but the
furious and repeated charges of the famous Maison du Roy, which we
had to receive and beat off again and again, with volleys of shot
and hedges of iron, and our four lines of musqueteers and pikemen.
They said the King of England charged us no less than twelve times
that day, along with the French Household.  Esmond's late regiment,
General Webb's own Fusileers, served in the division which their
colonel commanded.  The General was thrice in the centre of the
square of the Fusileers, calling the fire at the French charges,
and, after the action, his Grace the Duke of Berwick sent his
compliments to his old regiment and their Colonel for their
behavior on the field.

We drank my Lord Castlewood's health and majority, the 25th of
September, the army being then before Mons: and here Colonel Esmond
was not so fortunate as he had been in actions much more dangerous,
and was hit by a spent ball just above the place where his former
wound was, which caused the old wound to open again, fever,
spitting of blood, and other ugly symptoms, to ensue; and, in a
word, brought him near to death's door.  The kind lad, his kinsman,
attended his elder comrade with a very praiseworthy
affectionateness and care until he was pronounced out of danger by
the doctors, when Frank went off, passed the winter at Bruxelles,
and besieged, no doubt, some other fortress there.  Very few lads
would have given up their pleasures so long and so gayly as Frank
did; his cheerful prattle soothed many long days of Esmond's pain
and languor.  Frank was supposed to be still at his kinsman's
bedside for a month after he had left it, for letters came from his
mother at home full of thanks to the younger gentleman for his care
of his elder brother (so it pleased Esmond's mistress now
affectionately to style him); nor was Mr. Esmond in a hurry to
undeceive her, when the good young fellow was gone for his
Christmas holiday.  It was as pleasant to Esmond on his couch to
watch the young man's pleasure at the idea of being free, as to
note his simple efforts to disguise his satisfaction on going away.
There are days when a flask of champagne at a cabaret, and a red-cheeked partner to share it, are too strong temptations for any
young fellow of spirit.  I am not going to play the moralist, and
cry "Fie."  For ages past, I know how old men preach, and what
young men practise; and that patriarchs have had their weak moments
too, long since Father Noah toppled over after discovering the
vine.  Frank went off, then, to his pleasures at Bruxelles, in
which capital many young fellows of our army declared they found
infinitely greater diversion even than in London: and Mr. Henry
Esmond remained in his sick-room, where he writ a fine comedy, that
his mistress pronounced to be sublime, and that was acted no less
than three successive nights in London in the next year.

Here, as he lay nursing himself, ubiquitous Mr. Holt reappeared,
and stopped a whole month at Mons, where he not only won over
Colonel Esmond to the King's side in politics (that side being
always held by the Esmond family); but where he endeavored to
reopen the controversial question between the churches once more,
and to recall Esmond to that religion in which, in his infancy, he
had been baptized.  Holt was a casuist, both dexterous and learned,
and presented the case between the English church and his own in
such a way that those who granted his premises ought certainly to
allow his conclusions.  He touched on Esmond's delicate state of
health, chance of dissolution, and so forth; and enlarged upon the
immense benefits that the sick man was likely to forego--benefits
which the church of England did not deny to those of the Roman
communion, as how should she, being derived from that church, and
only an offshoot from it?  But Mr. Esmond said that his church was
the church of his country, and to that he chose to remain faithful:
other people were welcome to worship and to subscribe any other set
of articles, whether at Rome or at Augsburg.  But if the good
Father meant that Esmond should join the Roman communion for fear
of consequences, and that all England ran the risk of being damned
for heresy, Esmond, for one, was perfectly willing to take his
chance of the penalty along with the countless millions of his
fellow-countrymen, who were bred in the same faith, and along with
some of the noblest, the truest, the purest, the wisest, the most
pious and learned men and women in the world.

As for the political question, in that Mr. Esmond could agree with
the Father much more readily, and had come to the same conclusion,
though, perhaps, by a different way.  The right divine, about which
Dr. Sacheverel and the High Church party in England were just now
making a bother, they were welcome to hold as they chose.  If
Richard Cromwell, and his father before him had been crowned and
anointed (and bishops enough would have been found to do it), it
seemed to Mr. Esmond that they would have had the right divine just
as much as any Plantagenet, or Tudor, or Stuart.  But the desire of
the country being unquestionably for an hereditary monarchy, Esmond
thought an English king out of St. Germains was better and fitter
than a German prince from Herrenhausen, and that if he failed to
satisfy the nation, some other Englishman might be found to take
his place; and so, though with no frantic enthusiasm, or worship of
that monstrous pedigree which the Tories chose to consider divine,
he was ready to say, "God save King James!" when Queen Anne went
the way of kings and commoners.

"I fear, Colonel, you are no better than a republican at heart,"
says the priest with a sigh.

"I am an Englishman," says Harry, "and take my country as I find
her.  The will of the nation being for church and king, I am for
church and king too; but English church and English king; and that
is why your church isn't mine, though your king is."

Though they lost the day at Malplaquet, it was the French who were
elated by that action, whilst the conquerors were dispirited, by
it; and the enemy gathered together a larger army than ever, and
made prodigious efforts for the next campaign.  Marshal Berwick was
with the French this year; and we heard that Mareschal Villars was
still suffering of his wound, was eager to bring our Duke to
action, and vowed he would fight us in his coach.  Young Castlewood
came flying back from Bruxelles, as soon as he heard that fighting
was to begin; and the arrival of the Chevalier de St. George was
announced about May.  "It's the King's third campaign, and it's
mine," Frank liked saying.  He was come back a greater Jacobite
than ever, and Esmond suspected that some fair conspirators at
Bruxelles had been inflaming the young man's ardor.  Indeed, he
owned that he had a message from the Queen, Beatrix's godmother,
who had given her name to Frank's sister the year before he and his
sovereign were born.

However desirous Marshal Villars might be to fight, my Lord Duke
did not seem disposed to indulge him this campaign.  Last year his
Grace had been all for the Whigs and Hanoverians; but finding, on
going to England, his country cold towards himself, and the people
in a ferment of High Church loyalty, the Duke comes back to his
army cooled towards the Hanoverians, cautious with the
Imperialists, and particularly civil and polite towards the
Chevalier de St. George.  'Tis certain that messengers and letters
were continually passing between his Grace and his brave nephew,
the Duke of Berwick, in the opposite camp.  No man's caresses were
more opportune than his Grace's, and no man ever uttered
expressions of regard and affection more generously.  He professed
to Monsieur de Torcy, so Mr. St. John told the writer, quite an
eagerness to be cut in pieces for the exiled Queen and her family;
nay more, I believe, this year he parted with a portion of the most
precious part of himself--his money--which he sent over to the
royal exiles.  Mr. Tunstal, who was in the Prince's service, was
twice or thrice in and out of our camp; the French, in theirs of
Arlieu and about Arras.  A little river, the Canihe I think 'twas
called, (but this is writ away from books and Europe; and the only
map the writer hath of these scenes of his youth, bears no mark of
this little stream,) divided our pickets from the enemy's.  Our
sentries talked across the stream, when they could make themselves
understood to each other, and when they could not, grinned, and
handed each other their brandy-flasks or their pouches of tobacco.
And one fine day of June, riding thither with the officer who
visited the outposts, (Colonel Esmond was taking an airing on
horseback, being too weak for military duty,) they came to this
river, where a number of English and Scots were assembled, talking
to the good-natured enemy on the other side.

Esmond was especially amused with the talk of one long fellow, with
a great curling red moustache, and blue eyes, that was half a dozen
inches taller than his swarthy little comrades on the French side
of the stream, and being asked by the Colonel, saluted him, and
said that he belonged to the Royal Cravats.

From his way of saying "Royal Cravat," Esmond at once knew that the
fellow's tongue had first wagged on the banks of the Liffey, and
not the Loire; and the poor soldier--a deserter probably--did not
like to venture very deep into French conversation, lest his
unlucky brogue should peep out.  He chose to restrict himself to
such few expressions in the French language as he thought he had
mastered easily; and his attempt at disguise was infinitely
amusing.  Mr. Esmond whistled Lillibullero, at which Teague's eyes
began to twinkle, and then flung him a dollar, when the poor boy
broke out with a "God bless--that is, Dieu benisse votre honor,"
that would infallibly have sent him to the provost-marshal had he
been on our side of the river.

Whilst this parley was going on, three officers on horseback, on
the French side, appeared at some little distance, and stopped as
if eying us, when one of them left the other two, and rode close up
to us who were by the stream.  "Look, look!" says the Royal Cravat,
with great agitation, "pas lui, that's he; not him, l'autre," and
pointed to the distant officer on a chestnut horse, with a cuirass
shining in the sun, and over it a broad blue ribbon.

"Please to take Mr. Hamilton's services to my Lord Marlborough--my
Lord Duke," says the gentleman in English: and, looking to see that
the party were not hostilely disposed, he added, with a smile,
"There's a friend of yours, gentlemen, yonder; he bids me to say
that he saw some of your faces on the 11th of September last year."

As the gentleman spoke, the other two officers rode up, and came
quite close.  We knew at once who it was.  It was the King, then
two-and-twenty years old, tall and slim, with deep brown eyes, that
looked melancholy, though his lips wore a smile.  We took off our
hats and saluted him.  No man, sure, could see for the first time,
without emotion, the youthful inheritor of so much fame and
misfortune.  It seemed to Mr. Esmond that the Prince was not unlike
young Castlewood, whose age and figure he resembled.  The Chevalier
de St. George acknowledged the salute, and looked at us hard.  Even
the idlers on our side of the river set up a hurrah.  As for the
Royal Cravat, he ran to the Prince's stirrup, knelt down and kissed
his boot, and bawled and looked a hundred ejaculations and
blessings.  The prince bade the aide-de-camp give him a piece of
money; and when the party saluting us had ridden away, Cravat spat
upon the piece of gold by way of benediction, and swaggered away,
pouching his coin and twirling his honest carroty moustache.

The officer in whose company Esmond was, the same little captain of
Handyside's regiment, Mr. Sterne, who had proposed the garden at
Lille, when my Lord Mohun and Esmond had their affair, was an
Irishman too, and as brave a little soul as ever wore a sword.
"Bedad," says Roger Sterne, "that long fellow spoke French so
beautiful that I shouldn't have known he wasn't a foreigner, till
he broke out with his hulla-ballooing, and only an Irish calf can
bellow like that."  And Roger made another remark in his wild way,
in which there was sense as well as absurdity--"If that young
gentleman," says he, "would but ride over to our camp, instead of
Villars's, toss up his hat and say, 'Here am I, the King, who'll
follow me?' by the Lord, Esmond, the whole army would rise and
carry him home again, and beat Villars, and take Paris by the way."

The news of the Prince's visit was all through the camp quickly,
and scores of ours went down in hopes to see him.  Major Hamilton,
whom we had talked with, sent back by a trumpet several silver
pieces for officers with us.  Mr. Esmond received one of these; and
that medal, and a recompense not uncommon amongst Princes, were the
only rewards he ever had from a Royal person, whom he endeavored
not very long after to serve.

Esmond quitted the army almost immediately after this, following
his general home; and, indeed, being advised to travel in the fine
weather and attempt to take no further part in the campaign.  But
he heard from the army, that of the many who crowded to see the
Chevalier de St. George, Frank Castlewood had made himself most
conspicuous: my Lord Viscount riding across the little stream
bareheaded to where the Prince was, and dismounting and kneeling
before him to do him homage.  Some said that the Prince had
actually knighted him, but my lord denied that statement, though he
acknowledged the rest of the story, and said:--"From having been
out of favor with Corporal John," as he called the Duke, "before
his Grace warned him not to commit those follies, and smiled on him
cordially ever after."

"And he was so kind to me," Frank writ, "that I thought I would put
in a good word for Master Harry, but when I mentioned your name he
looked as black as thunder, and said he had never heard of you."




CHAPTER II.

I GO HOME, AND HARP ON THE OLD STRING.


After quitting Mons and the army, and as he was waiting for a
packet at Ostend, Esmond had a letter from his young kinsman
Castlewood at Bruxelles, conveying intelligence whereof Frank
besought him to be the bearer to London, and which caused Colonel
Esmond no small anxiety.

The young scapegrace, being one-and-twenty years old, and being
anxious to sow his "wild otes," as he wrote, had married
Mademoiselle de Wertheim, daughter of Count de Wertheim,
Chamberlain to the Emperor, and having a post in the Household of
the Governor of the Netherlands.  "P.S.," the young gentleman
wrote: "Clotilda is OLDER THAN ME, which perhaps may be objected to
her: but I am so OLD A RAIK that the age makes no difference, and I
am DETERMINED to reform.  We were married at St. Gudule, by Father
Holt.  She is heart and soul for the GOOD CAUSE.  And here the cry
is Vif-le-Roy, which my mother will JOIN IN, and Trix TOO.  Break
this news to 'em gently: and tell Mr. Finch, my agent, to press the
people for their rents, and send me the RYNO anyhow.  Clotilda
sings, and plays on the Spinet BEAUTIFULLY.  She is a fair beauty.
And if it's a son, you shall stand GODFATHER.  I'm going to leave
the army, having had ENUF OF SOLDERING; and my Lord Duke RECOMMENDS
me.  I shall pass the winter here: and stop at least until Clo's
lying in.  I call her OLD CLO, but nobody else shall.  She is the
cleverest woman in all Bruxelles: understanding painting, music,
poetry, and perfect at COOKERY AND PUDDENS.  I borded with the
Count, that's how I came to know her.  There are four Counts her
brothers.  One an Abbey--three with the Prince's army.  They have a
lawsuit for AN IMMENCE FORTUNE: but are now in a PORE WAY.  Break
this to mother, who'll take anything from YOU.  And write, and bid
Finch write AMEDIATELY.  Hostel de l'Aigle Noire, Bruxelles,
Flanders."

So Frank had married a Roman Catholic lady, and an heir was
expected, and Mr. Esmond was to carry this intelligence to his
mistress at London.  'Twas a difficult embassy; and the Colonel
felt not a little tremor as he neared the capital.

He reached his inn late, and sent a messenger to Kensington to
announce his arrival and visit the next morning.  The messenger
brought back news that the Court was at Windsor, and the fair
Beatrix absent and engaged in her duties there.  Only Esmond's
mistress remained in her house at Kensington.  She appeared in
court but once in the year; Beatrix was quite the mistress and
ruler of the little mansion, inviting the company thither, and
engaging in every conceivable frolic of town pleasure.  Whilst her
mother, acting as the young lady's protectress and elder sister,
pursued her own path, which was quite modest and secluded.

As soon as ever Esmond was dressed (and he had been awake long
before the town), he took a coach for Kensington, and reached it so
early that he met his dear mistress coming home from morning
prayers.  She carried her prayer-book, never allowing a footman to
bear it, as everybody else did: and it was by this simple sign
Esmond knew what her occupation had been.  He called to the
coachman to stop, and jumped out as she looked towards him.  She
wore her hood as usual, and she turned quite pale when she saw him.
To feel that kind little hand near to his heart seemed to give him
strength.  They were soon at the door of her ladyship's house--and
within it.

With a sweet sad smile she took his hand and kissed it.

"How ill you have been: how weak you look, my dear Henry," she
said.

'Tis certain the Colonel did look like a ghost, except that ghosts
do not look very happy, 'tis said.  Esmond always felt so on
returning to her after absence, indeed whenever he looked in her
sweet kind face.

"I am come back to be nursed by my family," says he.  "If Frank had
not taken care of me after my wound, very likely I should have gone
altogether."

"Poor Frank, good Frank!" says his mother.  "You'll always be kind
to him, my lord," she went on.  "The poor child never knew he was
doing you a wrong."

"My lord!" cries out Colonel Esmond.  "What do you mean, dear
lady?"

"I am no lady," says she; "I am Rachel Esmond, Francis Esmond's
widow, my lord.  I cannot bear that title.  Would we never had
taken it from him who has it now.  But we did all in our power,
Henry: we did all in our power; and my lord and I--that is--"

"Who told you this tale, dearest lady?" asked the Colonel.

"Have you not had the letter I writ you?  I writ to you at Mons
directly I heard it," says Lady Esmond.

"And from whom?" again asked Colonel Esmond--and his mistress then
told him that on her death-bed the Dowager Countess, sending for
her, had presented her with this dismal secret as a legacy.  "'Twas
very malicious of the Dowager," Lady Esmond said, "to have had it
so long, and to have kept the truth from me."  "Cousin Rachel," she
said,--and Esmond's mistress could not forbear smiling as she told
the story--"Cousin Rachel," cries the Dowager, "I have sent for
you, as the doctors say I may go off any day in this dysentery; and
to ease my conscience of a great load that has been on it.  You
always have been a poor creature and unfit for great honor, and
what I have to say won't, therefore, affect you so much.  You must
know, Cousin Rachel, that I have left my house, plate, and
furniture, three thousand pounds in money, and my diamonds that my
late revered Saint and Sovereign, King James, presented me with, to
my Lord Viscount Castlewood."

"To my Frank?" says Lady Castlewood; "I was in hopes--"

To Viscount Castlewood, my dear; Viscount Castlewood and Baron
Esmond of Shandon in the Kingdom of Ireland, Earl and Marquis of
Esmond under patent of his Majesty King James the Second, conferred
upon my husband the late Marquis--for I am Marchioness of Esmond
before God and man."

"And have you left poor Harry nothing, dear Marchioness?" asks Lady
Castlewood (she hath told me the story completely since with her
quiet arch way; the most charming any woman ever had: and I set
down the narrative here at length, so as to have done with it).
"And have you left poor Harry nothing?" asks my dear lady: "for you
know, Henry," she says with her sweet smile, "I used always to pity
Esau--and I think I am on his side--though papa tried very hard to
convince me the other way."

"Poor Harry!" says the old lady.  "So you want something left to
poor Harry: he,--he! (reach me the drops, cousin).  Well, then, my
dear, since you want poor Harry to have a fortune, you must
understand that ever since the year 1691, a week after the battle
of the Boyne, where the Prince of Orange defeated his royal
sovereign and father, for which crime he is now suffering in flames
(ugh! ugh!) Henry Esmond hath been Marquis of Esmond and Earl of
Castlewood in the United Kingdom, and Baron and Viscount Castlewood
of Shandon in Ireland, and a Baronet--and his eldest son will be,
by courtesy, styled Earl of Castlewood--he! he!  What do you think
of that, my dear?"

"Gracious mercy! how long have you known this?" cries the other
lady (thinking perhaps that the old Marchioness was wandering in
her wits).

"My husband, before he was converted, was a wicked wretch," the
sick sinner continued.  "When he was in the Low Countries he
seduced a weaver's daughter; and added to his wickedness by
marrying her.  And then he came to this country and married me--a
poor girl--a poor innocent young thing--I say,"--"though she was
past forty, you know, Harry, when she married: and as for being
innocent"--"Well," she went on, "I knew nothing of my lord's
wickedness for three years after our marriage, and after the burial
of our poor little boy I had it done over again, my dear: I had
myself married by Father Holt in Castlewood chapel, as soon as ever
I heard the creature was dead--and having a great illness then,
arising from another sad disappointment I had, the priest came and
told me that my lord had a son before our marriage, and that the
child was at nurse in England; and I consented to let the brat be
brought home, and a queer little melancholy child it was when it
came.

"Our intention was to make a priest of him: and he was bred for
this, until you perverted him from it, you wicked woman.  And I had
again hopes of giving an heir to my lord, when he was called away
upon the King's business, and died fighting gloriously at the Boyne
water.

"Should I be disappointed--I owed your husband no love, my dear,
for he had jilted me in the most scandalous way and I thought there
would be time to declare the little weaver's son for the true heir.
But I was carried off to prison, where your husband was so kind to
me--urging all his friends to obtain my release, and using all his
credit in my favor--that I relented towards him, especially as my
director counselled me to be silent; and that it was for the good
of the King's service that the title of our family should continue
with your husband the late viscount, whereby his fidelity would be
always secured to the King.  And a proof of this is, that a year
before your husband's death, when he thought of taking a place
under the Prince of Orange, Mr. Holt went to him, and told him what
the state of the matter was, and obliged him to raise a large sum
for his Majesty; and engaged him in the true cause so heartily,
that we were sure of his support on any day when it should be
considered advisable to attack the usurper.  Then his sudden death
came; and there was a thought of declaring the truth.  But 'twas
determined to be best for the King's service to let the title still
go with the younger branch; and there's no sacrifice a Castlewood
wouldn't make for that cause, my dear.

"As for Colonel Esmond, he knew the truth already."  ("And then,
Harry," my mistress said, "she told me of what had happened at my
dear husband's death-bed").  "He doth not intend to take the title,
though it belongs to him.  But it eases my conscience that you
should know the truth, my dear.  And your son is lawfully Viscount
Castlewood so long as his cousin doth not claim the rank."

This was the substance of the Dowager's revelation.  Dean Atterbury
had knowledge of it, Lady Castlewood said, and Esmond very well
knows how: that divine being the clergyman for whom the late lord
had sent on his death-bed: and when Lady Castlewood would instantly
have written to her son, and conveyed the truth to him, the Dean's
advice was that a letter should be writ to Colonel Esmond rather;
that the matter should be submitted to his decision, by which alone
the rest of the family were bound to abide.

"And can my dearest lady doubt what that will be?" says the Colonel.

"It rests with you, Harry, as the head of our house."

"It was settled twelve years since, by my dear lord's bedside,"
says Colonel Esmond.  "The children must know nothing of this.
Frank and his heirs after him must bear our name.  'Tis his
rightfully; I have not even a proof of that marriage of my father
and mother, though my poor lord, on his death-bed, told me that
Father Holt had brought such a proof to Castlewood.  I would not
seek it when I was abroad.  I went and looked at my poor mother's
grave in her convent.  What matter to her now?  No court of law on
earth, upon my mere word, would deprive my Lord Viscount and set me
up.  I am the head of the house, dear lady; but Frank is Viscount
of Castlewood still.  And rather than disturb him, I would turn
monk, or disappear in America."

As he spoke so to his dearest mistress, for whom he would have been
willing to give up his life, or to make any sacrifice any day, the
fond creature flung herself down on her knees before him, and
kissed both his hands in an outbreak of passionate love and
gratitude, such as could not but melt his heart, and make him feel
very proud and thankful that God had given him the power to show
his love for her, and to prove it by some little sacrifice on his
own part.  To be able to bestow benefits or happiness on those one
loves is sure the greatest blessing conferred upon a man--and what
wealth or name, or gratification of ambition or vanity, could
compare with the pleasure Esmond now had of being able to confer
some kindness upon his best and dearest friends?

"Dearest saint," says he--"purest soul, that has had so much to
suffer, that has blest the poor lonely orphan with such a treasure
of love.  'Tis for me to kneel, not for you: 'tis for me to be
thankful that I can make you happy.  Hath my life any other aim?
Blessed be God that I can serve you!  What pleasure, think you,
could all the world give me compared to that?"

"Don't raise me," she said, in a wild way, to Esmond, who would
have lifted her.  "Let me kneel--let me kneel, and--and--worship
you."

Before such a partial judge as Esmond's dear mistress owned herself
to be, any cause which he might plead was sure to be given in his
favor; and accordingly he found little difficulty in reconciling
her to the news whereof he was bearer, of her son's marriage to a
foreign lady, Papist though she was.  Lady Castlewood never could
be brought to think so ill of that religion as other people in
England thought of it: she held that ours was undoubtedly a branch
of the Catholic church, but that the Roman was one of the main
stems on which, no doubt, many errors had been grafted (she was,
for a woman, extraordinarily well versed in this controversy,
having acted, as a girl, as secretary to her father, the late dean,
and written many of his sermons, under his dictation); and if Frank
had chosen to marry a lady of the church of south Europe, as she
would call the Roman communion, there was no need why she should
not welcome her as a daughter-in-law: and accordingly she wrote to
her new daughter a very pretty, touching letter (as Esmond thought,
who had cognizance of it before it went), in which the only hint of
reproof was a gentle remonstrance that her son had not written to
herself, to ask a fond mother's blessing for that step which he was
about taking.  "Castlewood knew very well," so she wrote to her
son, "that she never denied him anything in her power to give, much
less would she think of opposing a marriage that was to make his
happiness, as she trusted, and keep him out of wild courses, which
had alarmed her a good deal:" and she besought him to come quickly
to England, to settle down in his family house of Castlewood ("It
is his family house," says she, to Colonel Esmond, "though only his
own house by your forbearance") and to receive the accompt of her
stewardship during his ten years' minority.  By care and frugality,
she had got the estate into a better condition than ever it had
been since the Parliamentary wars; and my lord was now master of a
pretty, small income, not encumbered of debts, as it had been,
during his father's ruinous time.  "But in saving my son's
fortune," says she, "I fear I have lost a great part of my hold on
him."  And, indeed, this was the case: her ladyship's daughter
complaining that their mother did all for Frank, and nothing for
her; and Frank himself being dissatisfied at the narrow, simple way
of his mother's living at Walcote, where he had been brought up
more like a poor parson's son than a young nobleman that was to
make a figure in the world.  'Twas this mistake in his early
training, very likely, that set him so eager upon pleasure when he
had it in his power; nor is he the first lad that has been spoiled
by the over-careful fondness of women.  No training is so useful
for children, great or small, as the company of their betters in
rank or natural parts; in whose society they lose the overweening
sense of their own importance, which stay-at-home people very
commonly learn.

But, as a prodigal that's sending in a schedule of his debts to his
friends, never puts all down, and, you may be sure, the rogue keeps
back some immense swingeing bill, that he doesn't dare to own; so
the poor Frank had a very heavy piece of news to break to his
mother, and which he hadn't the courage to introduce into his first
confession.  Some misgivings Esmond might have, upon receiving
Frank's letter, and knowing into what hands the boy had fallen; but
whatever these misgivings were, he kept them to himself, not caring
to trouble his mistress with any fears that might be groundless.

However, the next mail which came from Bruxelles, after Frank had
received his mother's letters there, brought back a joint
composition from himself and his wife, who could spell no better
than her young scapegrace of a husband, full of expressions of
thanks, love, and duty to the Dowager Viscountess, as my poor lady
now was styled; and along with this letter (which was read in a
family council, namely, the Viscountess, Mistress Beatrix, and the
writer of this memoir, and which was pronounced to be vulgar by the
maid of honor, and felt to be so by the other two), there came a
private letter for Colonel Esmond from poor Frank, with another
dismal commission for the Colonel to execute, at his best
opportunity; and this was to announce that Frank had seen fit, "by
the exhortation of Mr. Holt, the influence of his Clotilda, and the
blessing of heaven and the saints," says my lord, demurely, "to
change his religion, and be received into the bosom of that church
of which his sovereign, many of his family, and the greater part of
the civilized world, were members."  And his lordship added a
postscript, of which Esmond knew the inspiring genius very well,
for it had the genuine twang of the Seminary, and was quite unlike
poor Frank's ordinary style of writing and thinking; in which he
reminded Colonel Esmond that he too was, by birth, of that church;
and that his mother and sister should have his lordship's prayers
to the saints (an inestimable benefit, truly!) for their conversion.

If Esmond had wanted to keep this secret, he could not; for a day
or two after receiving this letter, a notice from Bruxelles
appeared in the Post-Boy and other prints, announcing that "a young
Irish lord, the Viscount C-stlew--d, just come to his majority, and
who had served the last campaigns with great credit, as aide-de-camp to his Grace the Duke of Marlborough, had declared for the
Popish religion at Bruxelles, and had walked in a procession
barefoot, with a wax-taper in his hand."  The notorious Mr. Holt,
who had been employed as a Jacobite agent during the last reign,
and many times pardoned by King William, had been, the Post-Boy
said, the agent of this conversion.

The Lady Castlewood was as much cast down by this news as Miss
Beatrix was indignant at it.  "So," says she, "Castlewood is no
longer a home for us, mother.  Frank's foreign wife will bring her
confessor, and there will be frogs for dinner; and all Tusher's and
my grandfather's sermons are flung away upon my brother.  I used to
tell you that you killed him with the catechism, and that he would
turn wicked as soon as he broke from his mammy's leading-strings.
Oh, mother, you would not believe that the young scapegrace was
playing you tricks, and that sneak of a Tusher was not a fit guide
for him.  Oh, those parsons, I hate 'em all!" says Mistress
Beatrix, clapping her hands together; "yes, whether they wear
cassocks and buckles, or beards and bare feet.  There's a horrid
Irish wretch who never misses a Sunday at Court, and who pays me
compliments there, the horrible man; and if you want to know what
parsons are, you should see his behavior, and hear him talk of his
own cloth.  They're all the same, whether they're bishops, or
bonzes, or Indian fakirs.  They try to domineer, and they frighten
us with kingdom come; and they wear a sanctified air in public, and
expect us to go down on our knees and ask their blessing; and they
intrigue, and they grasp, and they backbite, and they slander worse
than the worst courtier or the wickedest old woman.  I heard this
Mr. Swift sneering at my Lord Duke of Marlborough's courage the
other day.  He! that Teague from Dublin! because his Grace is not
in favor, dares to say this of him; and he says this that it may
get to her Majesty's ear, and to coax and wheedle Mrs. Masham.
They say the Elector of Hanover has a dozen of mistresses in his
court at Herrenhausen, and if he comes to be king over us, I wager
that the bishops and Mr. Swift, that wants to be one, will coax and
wheedle them.  Oh, those priests and their grave airs!  I'm sick of
their square toes and their rustling cassocks.  I should like to go
to a country where there was not one, or turn Quaker, and get rid
of 'em; and I would, only the dress is not becoming, and I've much
too pretty a figure to hide it.  Haven't I, cousin?" and here she
glanced at her person and the looking-glass, which told her rightly
that a more beautiful shape and face never were seen.

"I made that onslaught on the priests," says Miss Beatrix,
afterwards, "in order to divert my poor dear mother's anguish about
Frank.  Frank is as vain as a girl, cousin.  Talk of us girls being
vain, what are WE to you?  It was easy to see that the first woman
who chose would make a fool of him, or the first robe--I count a
priest and a woman all the same.  We are always caballing; we are
not answerable for the fibs we tell; we are always cajoling and
coaxing, or threatening; and we are always making mischief, Colonel
Esmond--mark my word for that, who know the world, sir, and have to
make my way in it.  I see as well as possible how Frank's marriage
hath been managed.  The Count, our papa-in-law, is always away at
the coffee-house.  The Countess, our mother, is always in the
kitchen looking after the dinner.  The Countess, our sister, is at
the spinet.  When my lord comes to say he is going on the campaign,
the lovely Clotilda bursts into tears, and faints--so; he catches
her in his arms--no, sir, keep your distance, cousin, if you
please--she cries on his shoulder, and he says, 'Oh, my divine, my
adored, my beloved Clotilda, are you sorry to part with me?'  'Oh,
my Francisco,' says she, 'oh my lord!' and at this very instant
mamma and a couple of young brothers, with moustaches and long
rapiers, come in from the kitchen, where they have been eating
bread and onions.  Mark my word, you will have all this woman's
relations at Castlewood three months after she has arrived there.
The old count and countess, and the young counts and all the little
countesses her sisters.  Counts! every one of these wretches says
he is a count.  Guiscard, that stabbed Mr. Harvey, said he was a
count; and I believe he was a barber.  All Frenchmen are barbers--Fiddledee! don't contradict me--or else dancing-masters, or else
priests."  And so she rattled on.

"Who was it taught YOU to dance, Cousin Beatrix?" says the Colonel.

She laughed out the air of a minuet, and swept a low curtsy, coming
up to the recover with the prettiest little foot in the world
pointed out.  Her mother came in as she was in this attitude; my
lady had been in her closet, having taken poor Frank's conversion
in a very serious way; the madcap girl ran up to her mother, put
her arms round her waist, kissed her, tried to make her dance, and
said: "Don't be silly, you kind little mamma, and cry about Frank
turning Papist.  What a figure he must be, with a white sheet and a
candle, walking in a procession barefoot!"  And she kicked off her
little slippers (the wonderfullest little shoes with wonderful tall
red heels: Esmond pounced upon one as it fell close beside him),
and she put on the drollest little moue, and marched up and down
the room holding Esmond's cane by way of taper.  Serious as her
mood was, Lady Castlewood could not refrain from laughing; and as
for Esmond he looked on with that delight with which the sight of
this fair creature always inspired him: never had he seen any woman
so arch, so brilliant, and so beautiful.

Having finished her march, she put out her foot for her slipper.
The Colonel knelt down: "If you will be Pope I will turn Papist,"
says he; and her Holiness gave him gracious leave to kiss the
little stockinged foot before he put the slipper on.

Mamma's feet began to pat on the floor during this operation, and
Beatrix, whose bright eyes nothing escaped, saw that little mark of
impatience.  She ran up and embraced her mother, with her usual cry
of, "Oh, you silly little mamma: your feet are quite as pretty as
mine," says she: "they are, cousin, though she hides 'em; but the
shoemaker will tell you that he makes for both off the same last."

"You are taller than I am, dearest," says her mother, blushing over
her whole sweet face--"and--and it is your hand, my dear, and not
your foot he wants you to give him;" and she said it with a
hysteric laugh, that had more of tears than laughter in it; laying
her head on her daughter's fair shoulder, and hiding it there.
They made a very pretty picture together, and looked like a pair of
sisters--the sweet simple matron seeming younger than her years,
and her daughter, if not older, yet somehow, from a commanding
manner and grace which she possessed above most women, her mother's
superior and protectress.

"But oh!" cries my mistress, recovering herself after this scene,
and returning to her usual sad tone, "'tis a shame that we should
laugh and be making merry on a day when we ought to be down on our
knees and asking pardon."

"Asking pardon for what?" says saucy Mrs. Beatrix--"because Frank
takes it into his head to fast on Fridays and worship images?  You
know if you had been born a Papist, mother, a Papist you would have
remained to the end of your days.  'Tis the religion of the King
and of some of the best quality.  For my part, I'm no enemy to it,
and think Queen Bess was not a penny better than Queen Mary."

"Hush, Beatrix!  Do not jest with sacred things, and remember of
what parentage you come," cries my lady.  Beatrix was ordering her
ribbons, and adjusting her tucker, and performing a dozen
provokingly pretty ceremonies, before the glass.  The girl was no
hypocrite at least.  She never at that time could be brought to
think but of the world and her beauty; and seemed to have no more
sense of devotion than some people have of music, that cannot
distinguish one air from another.  Esmond saw this fault in her, as
he saw many others--a bad wife would Beatrix Esmond make, he
thought, for any man under the degree of a Prince.  She was born to
shine in great assemblies, and to adorn palaces, and to command
everywhere--to conduct an intrigue of politics, or to glitter in a
queen's train.  But to sit at a homely table, and mend the
stockings of a poor man's children! that was no fitting duty for
her, or at least one that she wouldn't have broke her heart in
trying to do.  She was a princess, though she had scarce a shilling
to her fortune; and one of her subjects--the most abject and
devoted wretch, sure, that ever drivelled at a woman's knees--was
this unlucky gentleman; who bound his good sense, and reason, and
independence, hand and foot, and submitted them to her.

And who does not know how ruthlessly women will tyrannize when they
are let to domineer? and who does not know how useless advice is?
I could give good counsel to my descendants, but I know they'll
follow their own way, for all their grandfather's sermon.  A man
gets his own experience about women, and will take nobody's
hearsay; nor, indeed, is the young fellow worth a fig that would.
'Tis I that am in love with my mistress, not my old grandmother
that counsels me: 'tis I that have fixed the value of the thing I
would have, and know the price I would pay for it.  It may be
worthless to you, but 'tis all my life to me.  Had Esmond possessed
the Great Mogul's crown and all his diamonds, or all the Duke of
Marlborough's money, or all the ingots sunk at Vigo, he would have
given them all for this woman.  A fool he was, if you will; but so
is a sovereign a fool, that will give half a principality for a
little crystal as big as a pigeon's egg, and called a diamond: so
is a wealthy nobleman a fool, that will face danger or death, and
spend half his life, and all his tranquillity, caballing for a blue
ribbon; so is a Dutch merchant a fool, that hath been known to pay
ten thousand crowns for a tulip.  There's some particular prize we
all of us value, and that every man of spirit will venture his life
for.  With this, it may be to achieve a great reputation for
learning; with that, to be a man of fashion, and the admiration of
the town; with another, to consummate a great work of art or
poetry, and go to immortality that way; and with another, for a
certain time of his life, the sole object and aim is a woman.

Whilst Esmond was under the domination of this passion, he
remembers many a talk he had with his intimates, who used to rally
Our Knight of the Rueful Countenance at his devotion, whereof he
made no disguise, to Beatrix; and it was with replies such as the
above he met his friends' satire.  "Granted, I am a fool," says he,
"and no better than you; but you are no better than I.  You have
your folly you labor for; give me the charity of mine.  What
flatteries do you, Mr. St. John, stoop to whisper in the ears of a
queen's favorite?  What nights of labor doth not the laziest man in
the world endure, foregoing his bottle, and his boon companions,
foregoing Lais, in whose lap he would like to be yawning, that he
may prepare a speech full of lies, to cajole three hundred stupid
country-gentlemen in the House of Commons, and get the hiccupping
cheers of the October Club!  What days will you spend in your
jolting chariot."  (Mr. Esmond often rode to Windsor, and
especially, of later days, with the secretary.)  "What hours will
you pass on your gouty feet--and how humbly will you kneel down to
present a despatch--you, the proudest man in the world, that has
not knelt to God since you were a boy, and in that posture whisper,
flatter, adore almost, a stupid woman, that's often boozy with too
much meat and drink, when Mr. Secretary goes for his audience!  If
my pursuit is vanity, sure yours is too."  And then the Secretary,
would fly out in such a rich flow of eloquence, as this pen cannot
pretend to recall; advocating his scheme of ambition, showing the
great good he would do for his country when he was the undisputed
chief of it; backing his opinion with a score of pat sentences from
Greek and Roman authorities (of which kind of learning he made
rather an ostentatious display), and scornfully vaunting the very
arts and meannesses by which fools were to be made to follow him,
opponents to be bribed or silenced, doubters converted, and enemies
overawed.

"I am Diogenes," says Esmond, laughing, "that is taken up for a
ride in Alexander's chariot.  I have no desire to vanquish Darius
or to tame Bucephalus.  I do not want what you want, a great name
or a high place: to have them would bring me no pleasure.  But my
moderation is taste, not virtue; and I know that what I do want is
as vain as that which you long after.  Do not grudge me my vanity,
if I allow yours; or rather, let us laugh at both indifferently,
and at ourselves, and at each other."

"If your charmer holds out," says St. John, "at this rate she may
keep you twenty years besieging her, and surrender by the time you
are seventy, and she is old enough to be a grandmother.  I do not
say the pursuit of a particular woman is not as pleasant a pastime
as any other kind of hunting," he added; "only, for my part, I find
the game won't run long enough.  They knock under too soon--that's
the fault I find with 'em."

"The game which you pursue is in the habit of being caught, and
used to being pulled down," says Mr. Esmond.

"But Dulcinea del Toboso is peerless, eh?" says the other.  "Well,
honest Harry, go and attack windmills--perhaps thou art not more
mad than other people," St. John added, with a sigh.




CHAPTER III.

A PAPER OUT OF THE "SPECTATOR."


Doth any young gentleman of my progeny, who may read his old
grandfather's papers, chance to be presently suffering under the
passion of Love?  There is a humiliating cure, but one that is easy
and almost specific for the malady--which is, to try an alibi.
Esmond went away from his mistress and was cured a half-dozen
times; he came back to her side, and instantly fell ill again of
the fever.  He vowed that he could leave her and think no more of
her, and so he could pretty well, at least, succeed in quelling
that rage and longing he had whenever he was with her; but as soon
as he returned he was as bad as ever again.  Truly a ludicrous and
pitiable object, at least exhausting everybody's pity but his
dearest mistress's, Lady Castlewood's, in whose tender breast he
reposed all his dreary confessions, and who never tired of hearing
him and pleading for him.

Sometimes Esmond would think there was hope.  Then again he would
be plagued with despair, at some impertinence or coquetry of his
mistress.  For days they would be like brother and sister, or the
dearest friends--she, simple, fond, and charming--he, happy beyond
measure at her good behavior.  But this would all vanish on a
sudden.  Either he would be too pressing, and hint his love, when
she would rebuff him instantly, and give his vanity a box on the
ear; or he would be jealous, and with perfect good reason, of some
new admirer that had sprung up, or some rich young gentleman newly
arrived in the town, that this incorrigible flirt would set her
nets and baits to draw in.  If Esmond remonstrated, the little
rebel would say--"Who are you?  I shall go my own way, sirrah, and
that way is towards a husband, and I don't want YOU on the way.  I
am for your betters, Colonel, for your betters: do you hear that?
You might do if you had an estate and were younger; only eight
years older than I, you say! pish, you are a hundred years older.
You are an old, old Graveairs, and I should make you miserable,
that would be the only comfort I should have in marrying you.  But
you have not money enough to keep a cat decently after you have
paid your man his wages, and your landlady her bill.  Do you think
I am going to live in a lodging, and turn the mutton at a string
whilst your honor nurses the baby?  Fiddlestick, and why did you
not get this nonsense knocked out of your head when you were in the
wars?  You are come back more dismal and dreary than ever.  You and
mamma are fit for each other.  You might be Darby and Joan, and
play cribbage to the end of your lives."

"At least you own to your worldliness, my poor Trix," says her
mother.

"Worldliness.  Oh, my pretty lady!  Do you think that I am a child
in the nursery, and to be frightened by Bogey!  Worldliness, to be
sure; and pray, madam, where is the harm of wishing to be
comfortable?  When you are gone, you dearest old woman, or when I
am tired of you and have run away from you, where shall I go?
Shall I go and be head nurse to my Popish sister-in-law, take the
children their physic, and whip 'em, and put 'em to bed when they
are naughty?  Shall I be Castlewood's upper servant, and perhaps
marry Tom Tusher?  Merci!  I have been long enough Frank's humble
servant.  Why am I not a man?  I have ten times his brains, and had
I worn the--well, don't let your ladyship be frightened--had I worn
a sword and periwig instead of this mantle and commode to which
nature has condemned me--(though 'tis a pretty stuff, too--Cousin
Esmond! you will go to the Exchange to-morrow, and get the exact
counterpart of this ribbon, sir; do you hear?)--I would have made
our name talked about.  So would Graveairs here have made something
out of our name if he had represented it.  My Lord Graveairs would
have done very well.  Yes, you have a very pretty way, and would
have made a very decent, grave speaker."  And here she began to
imitate Esmond's way of carrying himself and speaking to his face,
and so ludicrously that his mistress burst out a-laughing, and even
he himself could see there was some likeness in the fantastical
malicious caricature.

"Yes," says she, "I solemnly vow, own, and confess, that I want a
good husband.  Where's the harm of one?  My face is my fortune.
Who'll come?--buy, buy, buy!  I cannot toil, neither can I spin,
but I can play twenty-three games on the cards.  I can dance the
last dance, I can hunt the stag, and I think I could shoot flying.
I can talk as wicked as any woman of my years, and know enough
stories to amuse a sulky husband for at least one thousand and one
nights.  I have a pretty taste for dress, diamonds, gambling, and
old China.  I love sugar-plums, Malines lace (that you brought me,
cousin, is very pretty), the opera, and everything that is useless
and costly.  I have got a monkey and a little black boy--Pompey,
sir, go and give a dish of chocolate to Colonel Graveairs,--and a
parrot and a spaniel, and I must have a husband.  Cupid, you hear?"

"Iss, Missis!" says Pompey, a little grinning negro Lord
Peterborrow gave her, with a bird of Paradise in his turbant, and a
collar with his mistress's name on it.

"Iss, Missis!" says Beatrix, imitating the child.  "And if husband
not come, Pompey must go fetch one."

And Pompey went away grinning with his chocolate tray as Miss
Beatrix ran up to her mother and ended her sally of mischief in her
common way, with a kiss--no wonder that upon paying such a penalty
her fond judge pardoned her.


When Mr. Esmond came home, his health was still shattered; and he
took a lodging near to his mistresses, at Kensington, glad enough
to be served by them, and to see them day after day.  He was
enabled to see a little company--and of the sort he liked best.
Mr. Steele and Mr. Addison both did him the honor to visit him; and
drank many a glass of good claret at his lodging, whilst their
entertainer, through his wound, was kept to diet drink and gruel.
These gentlemen were Whigs, and great admirers of my Lord Duke of
Marlborough; and Esmond was entirely of the other party.  But their
different views of politics did not prevent the gentlemen from
agreeing in private, nor from allowing, on one evening when
Esmond's kind old patron, Lieutenant-General Webb, with a stick and
a crutch, hobbled up to the Colonel's lodging (which was prettily
situate at Knightsbridge, between London and Kensington, and
looking over the Gardens), that the Lieutenant-General was a noble
and gallant soldier--and even that he had been hardly used in the
Wynendael affair.  He took his revenge in talk, that must be
confessed; and if Mr. Addison had had a mind to write a poem about
Wynendael, he might have heard from the commander's own lips the
story a hundred times over.

Mr. Esmond, forced to be quiet, betook himself to literature for a
relaxation, and composed his comedy, whereof the prompter's copy
lieth in my walnut escritoire, sealed up and docketed, "The
Faithful Fool, a Comedy, as it was performed by her Majesty's
Servants."  'Twas a very sentimental piece; and Mr. Steele, who had
more of that kind of sentiment than Mr. Addison, admired it, whilst
the other rather sneered at the performance; though he owned that,
here and there, it contained some pretty strokes.  He was bringing
out his own play of "Cato" at the time, the blaze of which quite
extinguished Esmond's farthing candle; and his name was never put
to the piece, which was printed as by a Person of Quality.  Only
nine copies were sold, though Mr. Dennis, the great critic, praised
it, and said 'twas a work of great merit; and Colonel Esmond had
the whole impression burned one day in a rage, by Jack Lockwood,
his man.

All this comedy was full of bitter satiric strokes against a
certain young lady.  The plot of the piece was quite a new one.  A
young woman was represented with a great number of suitors,
selecting a pert fribble of a peer, in place of the hero (but ill-acted, I think, by Mr. Wilks, the Faithful Fool,) who persisted in
admiring her.  In the fifth act, Teraminta was made to discover the
merits of Eugenio (the F. F.), and to feel a partiality for him too
late; for he announced that he had bestowed his hand and estate
upon Rosaria, a country lass, endowed with every virtue.  But it
must be owned that the audience yawned through the play; and that
it perished on the third night, with only half a dozen persons to
behold its agonies.  Esmond and his two mistresses came to the
first night, and Miss Beatrix fell asleep; whilst her mother, who
had not been to a play since King James the Second's time, thought
the piece, though not brilliant, had a very pretty moral.

Mr. Esmond dabbled in letters, and wrote a deal of prose and verse
at this time of leisure.  When displeased with the conduct of Miss
Beatrix, he would compose a satire, in which he relieved his mind.
When smarting under the faithlessness of women, he dashed off a
copy of verses, in which he held the whole sex up to scorn.  One
day, in one of these moods, he made a little joke, in which
(swearing him to secrecy) he got his friend Dick Steele to help
him; and, composing a paper, he had it printed exactly like
Steele's paper, and by his printer, and laid on his mistress's
breakfast-table the following--

/*
  /                        "SPECTATOR.

"No. 341.                                 "Tuesday, April 1, 1712.

           Mutato nomine de te Fabula narratur.--HORACE.
           Thyself the morain of the fable see.--CREECH.
*/

"Jocasta is known as a woman of learning and fashion, and as one of
the most amiable persons of this court and country.  She is at home
two mornings of the week, and all the wits and a few of the
beauties of London flock to her assemblies.  When she goes abroad
to Tunbridge or the Bath, a retinue of adorers rides the journey
with her; and besides the London beaux, she has a crowd of admirers
at the Wells, the polite amongst the natives of Sussex and Somerset
pressing round her tea-tables, and being anxious for a nod from her
chair.  Jocasta's acquaintance is thus very numerous.  Indeed, 'tis
one smart writer's work to keep her visiting-book--a strong footman
is engaged to carry it; and it would require a much stronger head
even than Jocasta's own to remember the names of all her dear
friends.

"Either at Epsom Wells or at Tunbridge (for of this important
matter Jocasta cannot be certain) it was her ladyship's fortune to
become acquainted with a young gentleman, whose conversation was so
sprightly, and manners amiable, that she invited the agreeable
young spark to visit her if ever he came to London, where her house
in Spring Garden should be open to him.  Charming as he was, and
without any manner of doubt a pretty fellow, Jocasta hath such a
regiment of the like continually marching round her standard, that
'tis no wonder her attention is distracted amongst them.  And so,
though this gentleman made a considerable impression upon her, and
touched her heart for at least three-and-twenty minutes, it must be
owned that she has forgotten his name.  He is a dark man, and may
be eight-and-twenty years old.  His dress is sober, though of rich
materials.  He has a mole on his forehead over his left eye; has a
blue ribbon to his cane and sword, and wears his own hair.

"Jocasta was much flattered by beholding her admirer (for that
everybody admires who sees her is a point which she never can for a
moment doubt) in the next pew to her at St. James's Church last
Sunday; and the manner in which he appeared to go to sleep during
the sermon--though from under his fringed eyelids it was evident he
was casting glances of respectful rapture towards Jocasta--deeply
moved and interested her.  On coming out of church, he found his
way to her chair, and made her an elegant bow as she stepped into
it.  She saw him at Court afterwards, where he carried himself with
a most distinguished air, though none of her acquaintances knew his
name; and the next night he was at the play, where her ladyship was
pleased to acknowledge him from the side-box.

"During the whole of the comedy she racked her brains so to
remember his name that she did not hear a word of the piece: and
having the happiness to meet him once more in the lobby of the
playhouse, she went up to him in a flutter, and bade him remember
that she kept two nights in the week, and that she longed to see
him at Spring Garden.

"He appeared on Tuesday, in a rich suit, showing a very fine taste
both in the tailor and wearer; and though a knot of us were
gathered round the charming Jocasta, fellows who pretended to know
every face upon the town, not one could tell the gentleman's name
in reply to Jocasta's eager inquiries, flung to the right and left
of her as he advanced up the room with a bow that would become a
duke.

"Jocasta acknowledged this salute with one of those smiles and
curtsies of which that lady hath the secret.  She curtsies with a
languishing air, as if to say, 'You are come at last.  I have been
pining for you:' and then she finishes her victim with a killing
look, which declares: 'O Philander! I have no eyes but for you.'
Camilla hath as good a curtsy perhaps, and Thalestris much such
another look; but the glance and the curtsy together belong to
Jocasta of all the English beauties alone.

"'Welcome to London, sir,' says she.  'One can see you are from the
country by your looks.'  She would have said 'Epsom,' or
'Tunbridge,' had she remembered rightly at which place she had met
the stranger; but, alas! she had forgotten.

"The gentleman said, 'he had been in town but three days; and one
of his reasons for coming hither was to have the honor of paying
his court to Jocasta.'

"She said, 'the waters had agreed with her but indifferently.'

"'The waters were for the sick,' the gentleman said: 'the young and
beautiful came but to make them sparkle.  And as the clergyman read
the service on Sunday,' he added, 'your ladyship reminded me of the
angel that visited the pool.'  A murmur of approbation saluted this
sally.  Manilio, who is a wit when he is not at cards, was in such
a rage that he revoked when he heard it.

"Jocasta was an angel visiting the waters; but at which of the
Bethesdas?  She was puzzled more and more; and, as her way always
is, looked the more innocent and simple, the more artful her
intentions were.

"'We were discoursing,' says she, 'about spelling of names and
words when you came.  Why should we say goold and write gold, and
call china chayney, and Cavendish Candish, and Cholmondeley
Chumley?  If we call Pulteney Poltney, why shouldn't we call
poultry pultry--and--'

"'Such an enchantress as your ladyship,' says he, 'is mistress of
all sorts of spells.'  But this was Dr. Swift's pun, and we all
knew it.

"'And--and how do you spell your name?' says she, coming to the
point at length; for this sprightly conversation had lasted much
longer than is here set down, and been carried on through at least
three dishes of tea.

"'Oh, madam,' says he, 'I SPELL MY NAME WITH THE Y.'  And laying
down his dish, my gentleman made another elegant bow, and was gone
in a moment.

"Jocasta hath had no sleep since this mortification, and the
stranger's disappearance.  If balked in anything, she is sure to
lose her health and temper; and we, her servants, suffer, as usual,
during the angry fits of our Queen.  Can you help us, Mr.
Spectator, who know everything, to read this riddle for her, and
set at rest all our minds?  We find in her list, Mr. Berty, Mr.
Smith, Mr. Pike, Mr. Tyler--who may be Mr. Bertie, Mr. Smyth, Mr.
Pyke, Mr. Tiler, for what we know.  She hath turned away the clerk
of her visiting-book, a poor fellow with a great family of
children.  Read me this riddle, good Mr. Shortface, and oblige your
admirer--OEDIPUS."


"THE TRUMPET COFFEE-HOUSE, WHITEHALL.

MR. SPECTATOR,--I am a gentleman but little acquainted with the
town, though I have had a university education, and passed some
years serving my country abroad, where my name is better known than
in the coffee-house and St. James's.

"Two years since my uncle died, leaving me a pretty estate in the
county of Kent; and being at Tunbridge Wells last summer, after my
mourning was over, and on the look-out, if truth must be told, for
some young lady who would share with me the solitude of my great
Kentish house, and be kind to my tenantry (for whom a woman can do
a great deal more good than the best-intentioned man can), I was
greatly fascinated by a young lady of London, who was the toast of
all the company at the Wells.  Every one knows Saccharissa's
beauty; and I think, Mr. Spectator, no one better than herself.

"My table-book informs me that I danced no less than seven-and-twenty sets with her at the Assembly.  I treated her to the fiddles
twice.  I was admitted on several days to her lodging, and received
by her with a great deal of distinction, and, for a time, was
entirely her slave.  It was only when I found, from common talk of
the company at the Wells, and from narrowly watching one, who I
once thought of asking the most sacred question a man can put to a
woman, that I became aware how unfit she was to be a country
gentleman's wife; and that this fair creature was but a heartless
worldly jilt, playing with affections that she never meant to
return, and, indeed, incapable of returning them.  'Tis admiration
such women want, not love that touches them; and I can conceive, in
her old age, no more wretched creature than this lady will be, when
her beauty hath deserted her, when her admirers have left her, and
she hath neither friendship nor religion to console her.

"Business calling me to London, I went to St. James's Church last
Sunday, and there opposite me sat my beauty of the Wells.  Her
behavior during the whole service was so pert, languishing, and
absurd; she flirted her fan, and ogled and eyed me in a manner so
indecent, that I was obliged to shut my eyes, so as actually not to
see her, and whenever I opened them beheld hers (and very bright
they are) still staring at me.  I fell in with her afterwards at
Court, and at the playhouse; and here nothing would satisfy her but
she must elbow through the crowd and speak to me, and invite me to
the assembly, which she holds at her house, not very far from
Ch-r-ng Cr-ss.

"Having made her a promise to attend, of course I kept my promise;
and found the young widow in the midst of a half-dozen of card
tables, and a crowd of wits and admirers.  I made the best bow I
could, and advanced towards her; and saw by a peculiar puzzled look
in her face, though she tried to hide her perplexity, that she had
forgotten even my name.

"Her talk, artful as it was, convinced me that I had guessed
aright.  She turned the conversation most ridiculously upon the
spelling of names and words; and I replied with as ridiculous
fulsome compliments as I could pay her: indeed, one in which I
compared her to an angel visiting the sick wells, went a little too
far; nor should I have employed it, but that the allusion came from
the Second Lesson last Sunday, which we both had heard, and I was
pressed to answer her.

"Then she came to the question, which I knew was awaiting me, and
asked how I SPELT my name?  'Madam,' says I, turning on my heel, 'I
spell it with a Y.'  And so I left her, wondering at the light-heartedness of the town-people, who forget and make friends so
easily, and resolved to look elsewhere for a partner for your
constant reader,

"CYMON WYLDOATS."

"You know my real name, Mr. Spectator, in which there is no such a
letter as HUPSILON.  But if the lady, whom I have called
Saccharissa, wonders that I appear no more at the tea-tables, she
is hereby respectfully informed the reason Y."


The above is a parable, whereof the writer will now expound the
meaning.  Jocasta was no other than Miss Esmond, Maid of Honor to
her Majesty.  She had told Mr. Esmond this little story of having
met a gentleman somewhere, and forgetting his name, when the
gentleman, with no such malicious intentions as those of "Cymon" in
the above fable, made the answer simply as above; and we all
laughed to think how little Mistress Jocasta-Beatrix had profited
by her artifice and precautions.

As for Cymon, he was intended to represent yours and her very
humble servant, the writer of the apologue and of this story, which
we had printed on a "Spectator" paper at Mr. Steele's office,
exactly as those famous journals were printed, and which was laid
on the table at breakfast in place of the real newspaper.  Mistress
Jocasta, who had plenty of wit, could not live without her
Spectator to her tea; and this sham Spectator was intended to
convey to the young woman that she herself was a flirt, and that
Cymon was a gentleman of honor and resolution, seeing all her
faults, and determined to break the chains once and for ever.

For though enough hath been said about this love-business already--enough, at least, to prove to the writer's heirs what a silly fond
fool their old grandfather was, who would like them to consider him
as a very wise old gentleman; yet not near all has been told
concerning this matter, which, if it were allowed to take in
Esmond's journal the space it occupied in his time, would weary his
kinsmen and women of a hundred years' time beyond all endurance;
and form such a diary of folly and drivelling, raptures and rage,
as no man of ordinary vanity would like to leave behind him.

The truth is, that, whether she laughed at him or encouraged him;
whether she smiled or was cold, and turned her smiles on another;
worldly and ambitious, as he knew her to be; hard and careless, as
she seemed to grow with her court life, and a hundred admirers that
came to her and left her; Esmond, do what he would, never could get
Beatrix out of his mind; thought of her constantly at home or away.
If he read his name in a Gazette, or escaped the shot of a cannon-ball or a greater danger in the campaign, as has happened to him
more than once, the instant thought after the honor achieved or the
danger avoided, was, "What will SHE say of it?"  "Will this
distinction or the idea of this peril elate her or touch her, so as
to be better inclined towards me?"  He could no more help this
passionate fidelity of temper than he could help the eyes he saw
with--one or the other seemed a part of his nature; and knowing
every one of her faults as well as the keenest of her detractors,
and the folly of an attachment to such a woman, of which the
fruition could never bring him happiness for above a week, there
was yet a charm about this Circe from which the poor deluded
gentleman could not free himself; and for a much longer period than
Ulysses (another middle-aged officer, who had travelled much, and
been in the foreign wars,) Esmond felt himself enthralled and
besotted by the wiles of this enchantress.  Quit her!  He could no
more quit her, as the Cymon of this story was made to quit his
false one, than he could lose his consciousness of yesterday.  She
had but to raise her finger, and he would come back from ever so
far; she had but to say I have discarded such and such an adorer,
and the poor infatuated wretch would be sure to come and roder
about her mother's house, willing to be put on the ranks of
suitors, though he knew he might be cast off the next week.  If he
were like Ulysses in his folly, at least she was in so far like
Penelope that she had a crowd of suitors, and undid day after day
and night after night the handiwork of fascination and the web of
coquetry with which she was wont to allure and entertain them.

Part of her coquetry may have come from her position about the
Court, where the beautiful maid of honor was the light about which
a thousand beaux came and fluttered; where she was sure to have a
ring of admirers round her, crowding to listen to her repartees as
much as to admire her beauty; and where she spoke and listened to
much free talk, such as one never would have thought the lips or
ears of Rachel Castlewood's daughter would have uttered or heard.
When in waiting at Windsor or Hampton, the Court ladies and
gentlemen would be making riding parties together; Mrs. Beatrix in
a horseman's coat and hat, the foremost after the stag-hounds and
over the park fences, a crowd of young fellows at her heels.  If
the English country ladies at this time were the most pure and
modest of any ladies in the world--the English town and court
ladies permitted themselves words and behavior that were neither
modest nor pure; and claimed, some of them, a freedom which those
who love that sex most would never wish to grant them.  The
gentlemen of my family that follow after me (for I don't encourage
the ladies to pursue any such studies), may read in the works of
Mr. Congreve, and Dr. Swift and others, what was the conversation
and what the habits of our time.

The most beautiful woman in England in 1712, when Esmond returned
to this country, a lady of high birth, and though of no fortune to
be sure, with a thousand fascinations of wit and manners, Beatrix
Esmond was now six-and-twenty years old, and Beatrix Esmond still.
Of her hundred adorers she had not chosen one for a husband; and
those who had asked had been jilted by her; and more still had left
her.  A succession of near ten years' crops of beauties had come up
since her time, and had been reaped by proper HUSBANDmen, if we may
make an agricultural simile, and had been housed comfortably long
ago.  Her own contemporaries were sober mothers by this time; girls
with not a tithe of her charms, or her wit, having made good
matches, and now claiming precedence over the spinster who but
lately had derided and outshone them.  The young beauties were
beginning to look down on Beatrix as an old maid, and sneer, and
call her one of Charles II.'s ladies, and ask whether her portrait
was not in the Hampton Court Gallery?  But still she reigned, at
least in one man's opinion, superior over all the little misses
that were the toasts of the young lads; and in Esmond's eyes was
ever perfectly lovely and young.

Who knows how many were nearly made happy by possessing her, or,
rather, how many were fortunate in escaping this siren?  'Tis a
marvel to think that her mother was the purest and simplest woman
in the whole world, and that this girl should have been born from
her.  I am inclined to fancy, my mistress, who never said a harsh
word to her children (and but twice or thrice only to one person),
must have been too fond and pressing with the maternal authority;
for her son and her daughter both revolted early; nor after their
first flight from the nest could they ever be brought back quite to
the fond mother's bosom.  Lady Castlewood, and perhaps it was as
well, knew little of her daughter's life and real thoughts.  How
was she to apprehend what passes in Queen's ante-chambers and at
Court tables?  Mrs. Beatrix asserted her own authority so
resolutely that her mother quickly gave in.  The maid of honor had
her own equipage; went from home and came back at her own will: her
mother was alike powerless to resist her or to lead her, or to
command or to persuade her.

She had been engaged once, twice, thrice, to be married, Esmond
believed.  When he quitted home, it hath been said, she was
promised to my Lord Ashburnham, and now, on his return, behold his
lordship was just married to Lady Mary Butler, the Duke of
Ormonde's daughter, and his fine houses, and twelve thousand a year
of fortune, for which Miss Beatrix had rather coveted him, was out
of her power.  To her Esmond could say nothing in regard to the
breaking of this match; and, asking his mistress about it, all Lady
Castlewood answered was: "do not speak to me about it, Harry.  I
cannot tell you how or why they parted, and I fear to inquire.  I
have told you before, that with all her kindness, and wit, and
generosity, and that sort of splendor of nature she has, I can say
but little good of poor Beatrix, and look with dread at the
marriage she will form.  Her mind is fixed on ambition only, and
making a great figure; and, this achieved, she will tire of it as
she does of everything.  Heaven help her husband, whoever he shall
be!  My Lord Ashburnham was a most excellent young man, gentle and
yet manly, of very good parts, so they told me, and as my little
conversation would enable me to judge: and a kind temper--kind and
enduring I'm sure he must have been, from all that he had to
endure.  But he quitted her at last, from some crowning piece of
caprice or tyranny of hers; and now he has married a young woman
that will make him a thousand times happier than my poor girl ever
could."

The rupture, whatever its cause was, (I heard the scandal, but
indeed shall not take pains to repeat at length in this diary the
trumpery coffee-house story,) caused a good deal of low talk; and
Mr. Esmond was present at my lord's appearance at the Birthday with
his bride, over whom the revenge that Beatrix took was to look so
imperial and lovely that the modest downcast young lady could not
appear beside her, and Lord Ashburnham, who had his reasons for
wishing to avoid her, slunk away quite shamefaced, and very early.
This time his Grace the Duke of Hamilton, whom Esmond had seen
about her before, was constant at Miss Beatrix's side: he was one
of the most splendid gentlemen of Europe, accomplished by books, by
travel, by long command of the best company, distinguished as a
statesman, having been ambassador in King Williamn's time, and a
noble speaker in the Scots' Parliament, where he had led the party
that was against the Union, and though now five or six and forty
years of age, a gentleman so high in stature, accomplished in wit,
and favored in person, that he might pretend to the hand of any
Princess in Europe.

"Should you like the Duke for a cousin?" says Mr. Secretary St.
John, whispering to Colonel Esmond in French; "it appears that the
widower consoles himself."

But to return to our little Spectator paper and the conversation
which grew out of it.  Miss Beatrix at first was quite BIT (as the
phrase of that day was) and did not "smoke" the authorship of the
story; indeed Esmond had tried to imitate as well as he could Mr.
Steele's manner (as for the other author of the Spectator, his
prose style I think is altogether inimitable); and Dick, who was
the idlest and best-natured of men, would have let the piece pass
into his journal and go to posterity as one of his own
lucubrations, but that Esmond did not care to have a lady's name
whom he loved sent forth to the world in a light so unfavorable.
Beatrix pished and psha'd over the paper; Colonel Esmond watching
with no little interest her countenance as she read it.

"How stupid your friend Mr. Steele becomes!" cries Miss Beatrix.
"Epsom and Tunbridge!  Will he never have done with Epsom and
Tunbridge, and with beaux at church, and Jocastas and Lindamiras?
Why does he not call women Nelly and Betty, as their godfathers and
godmothers did for them in their baptism?"

"Beatrix.  Beatrix!" says her mother, "speak gravely of grave
things."

"Mamma thinks the Church Catechism came from heaven, I believe,"
says Beatrix, with a laugh, "and was brought down by a bishop from
a mountain.  Oh, how I used to break my heart over it!  Besides, I
had a Popish godmother, mamma; why did you give me one?"

"I gave you the Queen's name," says her mother blushing.  "And a
very pretty name it is," said somebody else.

Beatrix went on reading--"Spell my name with a Y--why, you wretch,"
says she, turning round to Colonel Esmond, "you have been telling
my story to Mr. Steele--or stop--you have written the paper
yourself to turn me into ridicule.  For shame, sir!"

Poor Mr. Esmond felt rather frightened, and told a truth, which was
nevertheless an entire falsehood.  "Upon my honor," says he, "I
have not even read the Spectator of this morning."  Nor had he, for
that was not the Spectator, but a sham newspaper put in its place.

She went on reading: her face rather flushed as she read.  "No,"
she says, "I think you couldn't have written it.  I think it must
have been Mr. Steele when he was drunk--and afraid of his horrid
vulgar wife.  Whenever I see an enormous compliment to a woman, and
some outrageous panegyric about female virtue, I always feel sure
that the Captain and his better half have fallen out over-night,
and that he has been brought home tipsy, or has been found out in--"

"Beatrix!" cries the Lady Castlewood.

"Well, mamma!  Do not cry out before you are hurt.  I am not going
to say anything wrong.  I won't give you more annoyance than you
can help, you pretty kind mamma.  Yes, and your little Trix is a
naughty little Trix, and she leaves undone those things which she
ought to have done, and does those things which she ought not to
have done, and there's--well now--I won't go on.  Yes, I will,
unless you kiss me."  And with this the young lady lays aside her
paper, and runs up to her mother and performs a variety of embraces
with her ladyship, saying as plain as eyes could speak to Mr.
Esmond--"There, sir: would not YOU like to play the very same
pleasant game?"

"Indeed, madam, I would," says he.

"Would what?" asked Miss Beatrix.

"What you meant when you looked at me in that provoking way,"
answers Esmond.

"What a confessor!" cries Beatrix, with a laugh.

"What is it Henry would like, my dear?" asks her mother, the kind
soul, who was always thinking what we would like, and how she could
please us.

The girl runs up to her--"Oh, you silly kind mamma," she says,
kissing her again, "that's what Harry would like;" and she broke
out into a great joyful laugh; and Lady Castlewood blushed as
bashful as a maid of sixteen.

"Look at her, Harry," whispers Beatrix, running up, and speaking in
her sweet low tones.  "Doesn't the blush become her?  Isn't she
pretty?  She looks younger than I am, and I am sure she is a
hundred million thousand times better."

Esmond's kind mistress left the room, carrying her blushes away
with her.

"If we girls at Court could grow such roses as that," continues
Beatrix, with her laugh, "what wouldn't we do to preserve 'em?
We'd clip their stalks and put 'em in salt and water.  But those
flowers don't bloom at Hampton Court and Windsor, Henry."  She
paused for a minute, and the smile fading away from her April face,
gave place to a menacing shower of tears; "Oh, how good she is,
Harry," Beatrix went on to say.  "Oh, what a saint she is!  Her
goodness frightens me.  I'm not fit to live with her.  I should be
better I think if she were not so perfect.  She has had a great
sorrow in her life, and a great secret; and repented of it.  It
could not have been my father's death.  She talks freely about
that; nor could she have loved him very much--though who knows what
we women do love, and why?"

"What, and why, indeed," says Mr. Esmond.

"No one knows," Beatrix went on, without noticing this interruption
except by a look, "what my mother's life is.  She hath been at
early prayer this morning; she passes hours in her closet; if you
were to follow her thither, you would find her at prayers now.  She
tends the poor of the place--the horrid dirty poor!  She sits
through the curate's sermons--oh, those dreary sermons!  And you
see on a beau dire; but good as they are, people like her are not
fit to commune with us of the world.  There is always, as it were,
a third person present, even when I and my mother are alone.  She
can't be frank with me quite; who is always thinking of the next
world, and of her guardian angel, perhaps that's in company.  Oh,
Harry, I'm jealous of that guardian angel!" here broke out Mistress
Beatrix.  "It's horrid, I know; but my mother's life is all for
heaven, and mine--all for earth.  We can never be friends quite;
and then, she cares more for Frank's little finger than she does
for me--I know she does: and she loves you, sir, a great deal too
much; and I hate you for it.  I would have had her all to myself;
but she wouldn't.  In my childhood, it was my father she loved--(oh, how could she?  I remember him kind and handsome, but so
stupid, and not being able to speak after drinking wine).  And then
it was Frank; and now, it is heaven and the clergyman.  How I would
have loved her!  From a child I used to be in a rage that she loved
anybody but me; but she loved you all better--all, I know she did.
And now, she talks of the blessed consolation of religion.  Dear
soul! she thinks she is happier for believing, as she must, that we
are all of us wicked and miserable sinners; and this world is only
a pied-a-terre for the good, where they stay for a night, as we do,
coming from Walcote, at that great, dreary, uncomfortable Hounslow
Inn, in those horrid beds--oh, do you remember those horrid beds?--and the chariot comes and fetches them to heaven the next morning."

"Hush, Beatrix," says Mr. Esmond.

"Hush, indeed.  You are a hypocrite, too, Henry, with your grave
airs and your glum face.  We are all hypocrites.  O dear me!  We
are all alone, alone, alone," says poor Beatrix, her fair breast
heaving with a sigh.

"It was I that writ every line of that paper, my dear," says Mr.
Esmond.  "You are not so worldly as you think yourself, Beatrix,
and better than we believe you.  The good we have in us we doubt
of; and the happiness that's to our hand we throw away.  You bend
your ambition on a great marriage and establishment--and why?
You'll tire of them when you win them; and be no happier with a
coronet on your coach--"

"Than riding pillion with Lubin to market," says Beatrix.  "Thank
you, Lubin!"

"I'm a dismal shepherd, to be sure," answers Esmond, with a blush;
"and require a nymph that can tuck my bed-clothes up, and make me
water-gruel.  Well, Tom Lockwood can do that.  He took me out of
the fire upon his shoulders, and nursed me through my illness as
love will scarce ever do.  Only good wages, and a hope of my
clothes, and the contents of my portmanteau.  How long was it that
Jacob served an apprenticeship for Rachel?"

"For mamma?" says Beatrix.  "It is mamma your honor wants, and that
I should have the happiness of calling you papa?"

Esmond blushed again.  "I spoke of a Rachel that a shepherd courted
five thousand years ago; when shepherds were longer lived than now.
And my meaning was, that since I saw you first after our
separation--a child you were then . . ."

"And I put on my best stockings to captivate you, I remember,
sir . . ."

"You have had my heart ever since then, such as it was; and such as
you were, I cared for no other woman.  What little reputation I
have won, it was that you might be pleased with it: and indeed, it
is not much; and I think a hundred fools in the army have got and
deserved quite as much.  Was there something in the air of that
dismal old Castlewood that made us all gloomy, and dissatisfied,
and lonely under its ruined old roof?  We were all so, even when
together and united, as it seemed, following our separate schemes,
each as we sat round the table."

"Dear, dreary old place!" cries Beatrix.  "Mamma hath never had the
heart to go back thither since we left it, when--never mind how
many years ago."  And she flung back her curls, and looked over her
fair shoulder at the mirror superbly, as if she said, "Time, I defy
you."

"Yes," says Esmond, who had the art, as she owned, of divining many
of her thoughts.  "You can afford to look in the glass still; and
only be pleased by the truth it tells you.  As for me, do you know
what my scheme is?  I think of asking Frank to give me the
Virginian estate King Charles gave our grandfather.  (She gave a
superb curtsy, as much as to say, 'Our grandfather, indeed!  Thank
you, Mr. Bastard.')  Yes, I know you are thinking of my bar-sinister, and so am I.  A man cannot get over it in this country;
unless, indeed, he wears it across a king's arms, when 'tis a
highly honorable coat; and I am thinking of retiring into the
plantations, and building myself a wigwam in the woods, and
perhaps, if I want company, suiting myself with a squaw.  We will
send your ladyship furs over for the winter; and, when you are old,
we'll provide you with tobacco.  I am not quite clever enough, or
not rogue enough--I know not which--for the Old World.  I may make
a place for myself in the New, which is not so full; and found a
family there.  When you are a mother yourself, and a great lady,
perhaps I shall send you over from the plantation some day a little
barbarian that is half Esmond half Mohock, and you will be kind to
him for his father's sake, who was, after all, your kinsman; and
whom you loved a little."

"What folly you are talking, Harry," says Miss Beatrix, looking
with her great eyes.

"'Tis sober earnest," says Esmond.  And, indeed, the scheme had
been dwelling a good deal in his mind for some time past, and
especially since his return home, when he found how hopeless, and
even degrading to himself, his passion was.  "No," says he, then:
"I have tried half a dozen times now.  I can bear being away from
you well enough; but being with you is intolerable" (another low
curtsy on Mistress Beatrix's part), "and I will go.  I have enough
to buy axes and guns for my men, and beads and blankets for the
savages; and I'll go and live amongst them."

"Mon ami," she says quite kindly, and taking Esmond's hand, with an
air of great compassion, "you can't think that in our position
anything more than our present friendship is possible.  You are our
elder brother--as such we view you, pitying your misfortune, not
rebuking you with it.  Why, you are old enough and grave enough to
be our father.  I always thought you a hundred years old, Harry,
with your solemn face and grave air.  I feel as a sister to you,
and can no more.  Isn't that enough, sir?"  And she put her face
quite close to his--who knows with what intention?

"It's too much," says Esmond, turning away.  "I can't bear this
life, and shall leave it.  I shall stay, I think, to see you
married, and then freight a ship, and call it the 'Beatrix,' and
bid you all . . ."

Here the servant, flinging the door open, announced his Grace the
Duke of Hamilton, and Esmond started back with something like an
imprecation on his lips, as the nobleman entered, looking splendid
in his star and green ribbon.  He gave Mr. Esmond just that
gracious bow which he would have given to a lackey who fetched him
a chair or took his hat, and seated himself by Miss Beatrix, as the
poor Colonel went out of the room with a hang-dog look.

Esmond's mistress was in the lower room as he passed down stairs.
She often met him as he was coming away from Beatrix; and she
beckoned him into the apartment.

"Has she told you, Harry?" Lady Castlewood said.

"She has been very frank--very," says Esmond.

"But--but about what is going to happen?"

"What is going to happen?" says he, his heart beating.

"His Grace the Duke of Hamilton has proposed to her," says my lady.
"He made his offer yesterday.  They will marry as soon as his
mourning is over; and you have heard his Grace is appointed
Ambassador to Paris; and the Ambassadress goes with him."




CHAPTER IV.

BEATRIX'S NEW SUITOR.


The gentleman whom Beatrix had selected was, to be sure, twenty
years older than the Colonel, with whom she quarrelled for being
too old; but this one was but a nameless adventurer, and the other
the greatest duke in Scotland, with pretensions even to a still
higher title.  My Lord Duke of Hamilton had, indeed, every merit
belonging to a gentleman, and he had had the time to mature his
accomplishments fully, being upwards of fifty years old when Madam
Beatrix selected him for a bridegroom.  Duke Hamilton, then Earl of
Arran, had been educated at the famous Scottish university of
Glasgow, and, coming to London, became a great favorite of Charles
the Second, who made him a lord of his bedchamber, and afterwards
appointed him ambassador to the French king, under whom the Earl
served two campaigns as his Majesty's aide-de-camp; and he was
absent on this service when King Charles died.

King James continued my lord's promotion--made him Master of the
Wardrobe and Colonel of the Royal Regiment of Horse; and his
lordship adhered firmly to King James, being of the small company
that never quitted that unfortunate monarch till his departure out
of England; and then it was, in 1688 namely, that he made the
friendship with Colonel Francis Esmond, that had always been, more
or less, maintained in the two families.

The Earl professed a great admiration for King William always, but
never could give him his allegiance; and was engaged in more than
one of the plots in the late great King's reign which always ended
in the plotters' discomfiture, and generally in their pardon, by
the magnanimity of the King.  Lord Arran was twice prisoner in the
Tower during this reign, undauntedly saying, when offered his
release, upon parole not to engage against King William, that he
would not give his word, because "he was sure he could not keep
it;" but, nevertheless, he was both times discharged without any
trial; and the King bore this noble enemy so little malice, that
when his mother, the Duchess of Hamilton, of her own right,
resigned her claim on her husband's death, the Earl was, by patent
signed at Loo, 1690, created Duke of Hamilton, Marquis of
Clydesdale, and Earl of Arran, with precedency from the original
creation.  His Grace took the oaths and his seat in the Scottish
parliament in 1700: was famous there for his patriotism and
eloquence, especially in the debates about the Union Bill, which
Duke Hamilton opposed with all his strength, though he would not go
the length of the Scottish gentry, who were for resisting it by
force of arms.  'Twas said he withdrew his opposition all of a
sudden, and in consequence of letters from the King at St.
Germains, who entreated him on his allegiance not to thwart the
Queen his sister in this measure; and the Duke, being always bent
upon effecting the King's return to his kingdom through a
reconciliation between his Majesty and Queen Anne, and quite averse
to his landing with arms and French troops, held aloof, and kept
out of Scotland during the time when the Chevalier de St. George's
descent from Dunkirk was projected, passing his time in England in
his great estate in Staffordshire.

When the Whigs went out of office in 1710, the Queen began to show
his Grace the very greatest marks of her favor.  He was created
Duke of Brandon and Baron of Dutton in England; having the Thistle
already originally bestowed on him by King James the Second, his
Grace was now promoted to the honor of the Garter--a distinction so
great and illustrious, that no subject hath ever borne them
hitherto together.  When this objection was made to her Majesty,
she was pleased to say, "Such a subject as the Duke of Hamilton has
a pre-eminent claim to every mark of distinction which a crowned
head can confer.  I will henceforth wear both orders myself."

At the Chapter held at Windsor in October, 1712, the Duke and other
knights, including Lord-Treasurer, the new-created Earl of Oxford
and Mortimer, were installed; and a few days afterwards his Grace
was appointed Ambassador-Extraordinary to France, and his
equipages, plate, and liveries commanded, of the most sumptuous
kind, not only for his Excellency the Ambassador, but for her
Excellency the Ambassadress, who was to accompany him.  Her arms
were already quartered on the coach panels, and her brother was to
hasten over on the appointed day to give her away.

His lordship was a widower, having married, in 1698, Elizabeth,
daughter of Digby Lord Gerard, by which marriage great estates came
into the Hamilton family; and out of these estates came, in part,
that tragic quarrel which ended the Duke's career.


From the loss of a tooth to that of a mistress there's no pang that
is not bearable.  The apprehension is much more cruel than the
certainty; and we make up our mind to the misfortune when 'tis
irremediable, part with the tormentor, and mumble our crust on
t'other side of the jaws.  I think Colonel Esmond was relieved when
a ducal coach and six came and whisked his charmer away out of his
reach, and placed her in a higher sphere.  As you have seen the
nymph in the opera-machine go up to the clouds at the end of the
piece where Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, and all the divine company of
Olympians are seated, and quaver out her last song as a goddess: so
when this portentous elevation was accomplished in the Esmond
family, I am not sure that every one of us did not treat the divine
Beatrix with special honors; at least the saucy little beauty
carried her head with a toss of supreme authority, and assumed a
touch-me-not air, which all her friends very good-humoredly bowed to.

An old army acquaintance of Colonel Esmond's, honest Tom Trett, who
had sold his company, married a wife, and turned merchant in the
city, was dreadfully gloomy for a long time, though living in a
fine house on the river, and carrying on a great trade to all
appearance.  At length Esmond saw his friend's name in the Gazette
as a bankrupt; and a week after this circumstance my bankrupt walks
into Mr. Esmond's lodging with a face perfectly radiant with good-humor, and as jolly and careless as when they had sailed from
Southampton ten years before for Vigo.  "This bankruptcy," says
Tom, "has been hanging over my head these three years; the thought
hath prevented my sleeping, and I have looked at poor Polly's head
on t'other pillow, and then towards my razor on the table, and
thought to put an end to myself, and so give my woes the slip.  But
now we are bankrupts: Tom Trett pays as many shillings in the pound
as he can; his wife has a little cottage at Fulham, and her fortune
secured to herself.  I am afraid neither of bailiff nor of
creditor: and for the last six nights have slept easy."  So it was
that when Fortune shook her wings and left him, honest Tom cuddled
himself up in his ragged virtue, and fell asleep.

Esmond did not tell his friend how much his story applied to Esmond
too; but he laughed at it, and used it; and having fairly struck
his docket in this love transaction, determined to put a cheerful
face on his bankruptcy.  Perhaps Beatrix was a little offended at
his gayety.  "Is this the way, sir, that you receive the
announcement of your misfortune," says she, "and do you come
smiling before me as if you were glad to be rid of me?"

Esmond would not be put off from his good-humor, but told her the
story of Tom Trett and his bankruptcy.  "I have been hankering
after the grapes on the wall," says he, "and lost my temper because
they were beyond my reach; was there any wonder?  They're gone now,
and another has them--a taller man than your humble servant has won
them."  And the Colonel made his cousin a low bow.

"A taller man, Cousin Esmond!" says she.  "A man of spirit would
have sealed the wall, sir, and seized them!  A man of courage would
have fought for 'em, not gaped for 'em."

"A Duke has but to gape and they drop into his mouth," says Esmond,
with another low bow.

"Yes, sir," says she, "a Duke IS a taller man than you.  And why
should I not be grateful to one such as his Grace, who gives me his
heart and his great name?  It is a great gift he honors me with; I
know 'tis a bargain between us; and I accept it, and will do my
utmost to perform my part of it.  'Tis no question of sighing and
philandering between a noble man of his Grace's age and a girl who
hath little of that softness in her nature.  Why should I not own
that I am ambitious, Harry Esmond; and if it be no sin in a man to
covet honor, why should a woman too not desire it?  Shall I be
frank with you, Harry, and say that if you had not been down on
your knees, and so humble, you might have fared better with me?  A
woman of my spirit, cousin, is to be won by gallantry, and not by
sighs and rueful faces.  All the time you are worshipping and
singing hymns to me, I know very well I am no goddess, and grow
weary of the incense.  So would you have been weary of the goddess
too--when she was called Mrs. Esmond, and got out of humor because
she had not pin-money enough, and was forced to go about in an old
gown.  Eh! cousin, a goddess in a mob-cap, that has to make her
husband's gruel, ceases to be divine--I am sure of it.  I should
have been sulky and scolded; and of all the proud wretches in the
world Mr. Esmond is the proudest, let me tell him that.  You never
fall into a passion; but you never forgive, I think.  Had you been
a great man, you might have been good-humored; but being nobody,
sir, you are too great a man for me; and I'm afraid of you, cousin--there! and I won't worship you, and you'll never be happy except
with a woman who will.  Why, after I belonged to you, and after one
of my tantrums, you would have put the pillow over my head some
night, and smothered me, as the black man does the woman in the
play that you're so fond of.  What's the creature's name?--Desdemona.  You would, you little black-dyed Othello!"

"I think I should, Beatrix," says the Colonel.

"And I want no such ending.  I intend to live to be a hundred, and
to go to ten thousand routs and balls, and to play cards every
night of my life till the year eighteen hundred.  And I like to be
the first of my company, sir; and I like flattery and compliments,
and you give me none; and I like to be made to laugh, sir, and
who's to laugh at YOUR dismal face, I should like to know? and I
like a coach-and six or a coach-and-eight; and I like diamonds, and
a new gown every week; and people to say--'That's the Duchess--How
well her Grace looks--Make way for Madame l'Ambassadrice
d'Angleterre--Call her Excellency's people'--that's what I like.
And as for you, you want a woman to bring your slippers and cap,
and to sit at your feet, and cry, 'O caro! O bravo!' whilst you
read your Shakespeares and Miltons and stuff.  Mamma would have
been the wife for you, had you been a little older, though you look
ten years older than she does--you do, you glum-faced, blue-bearded
little old man!  You might have sat, like Darby and Joan, and
flattered each other; and billed and cooed like a pair of old
pigeons on a perch.  I want my wings and to use them, sir."  And
she spread out her beautiful arms, as if indeed she could fly off
like the pretty "Gawrie," whom the man in the story was enamored of.

"And what will your Peter Wilkins say to your flight?" says Esmond,
who never admired this fair creature more than when she rebelled
and laughed at him.

"A duchess knows her place," says she, with a laugh.  "Why, I have
a son already made for me, and thirty years old (my Lord Arran),
and four daughters.  How they will scold, and what a rage they will
be in, when I come to take the head of the table!  But I give them
only a month to be angry; at the end of that time they shall love
me every one, and so shall Lord Arran, and so shall all his Grace's
Scots vassals and followers in the Highlands.  I'm bent on it; and
when I take a thing in my head, 'tis done.  His Grace is the
greatest gentleman in Europe, and I'll try and make him happy; and,
when the King comes back, you may count on my protection, Cousin
Esmond--for come back the King will and shall; and I'll bring him
back from Versailles, if he comes under my hoop."

"I hope the world will make you happy, Beatrix," says Esmond, with
a sigh.  "You'll be Beatrix till you are my Lady Duchess--will you
not?  I shall then make your Grace my very lowest bow."

"None of these sighs and this satire, cousin," she says.  "I take
his Grace's great bounty thankfully--yes, thankfully; and will wear
his honors becomingly.  I do not say he hath touched my heart; but
he has my gratitude, obedience, admiration--I have told him that,
and no more; and with that his noble heart is content.  I have told
him all--even the story of that poor creature that I was engaged
to--and that I could not love; and I gladly gave his word back to
him, and jumped for joy to get back my own.  I am twenty-five years
old."

"Twenty-six, my dear," says Esmond.

"Twenty-five, sir--I choose to be twenty-five; and in eight years
no man hath ever touched my heart.  Yes--you did once, for a
little, Harry, when you came back after Lille, and engaging with
that murderer Mohun, and saving Frank's life.  I thought I could
like you; and mamma begged me hard, on her knees, and I did--for a
day.  But the old chill came over me, Henry, and the old fear of
you and your melancholy; and I was glad when you went away, and
engaged with my Lord Ashburnham, that I might hear no more of you,
that's the truth.  You are too good for me, somehow.  I could not
make you happy, and should break my heart in trying, and not being
able to love you.  But if you had asked me when we gave you the
sword, you might have had me, sir, and we both should have been
miserable by this time.  I talked with that silly lord all night
just to vex you and mamma, and I succeeded, didn't I?  How frankly
we can talk of these things!  It seems a thousand years ago: and,
though we are here sitting in the same room, there is a great wall
between us.  My dear, kind, faithful, gloomy old cousin!  I can
like now, and admire you too, sir, and say that you are brave, and
very kind, and very true, and a fine gentleman for all--for all
your little mishap at your birth," says she, wagging her arch head.

"And now, sir," says she, with a curtsy, "we must have no more talk
except when mamma is by, as his Grace is with us; for he does not
half like you, cousin, and is jealous as the black man in your
favorite play."

Though the very kindness of the words stabbed Mr. Esmond with the
keenest pang, he did not show his sense of the wound by any look of
his (as Beatrix, indeed, afterwards owned to him), but said, with a
perfect command of himself and an easy smile, "The interview must
not end yet, my dear, until I have had my last word.  Stay, here
comes your mother" (indeed she came in here with her sweet anxious
face, and Esmond going up kissed her hand respectfully).  "My dear
lady may hear, too, the last words, which are no secrets, and are
only a parting benediction accompanying a present for your marriage
from an old gentleman your guardian; for I feel as if I was the
guardian of all the family, and an old old fellow that is fit to be
the grandfather of you all; and in this character let me make my
Lady Duchess her wedding present.  They are the diamonds my
father's widow left me.  I had thought Beatrix might have had them
a year ago; but they are good enough for a duchess, though not
bright enough for the handsomest woman in the world."  And he took
the case out of his pocket in which the jewels were, and presented
them to his cousin.

She gave a cry of delight, for the stones were indeed very
handsome, and of great value; and the next minute the necklace was
where Belinda's cross is in Mr. Pope's admirable poem, and
glittering on the whitest and most perfectly-shaped neck in all
England.

The girl's delight at receiving these trinkets was so great, that
after rushing to the looking-glass and examining the effect they
produced upon that fair neck which they surrounded, Beatrix was
running back with her arms extended, and was perhaps for paying her
cousin with a price, that he would have liked no doubt to receive
from those beautiful rosy lips of hers, but at this moment the door
opened, and his Grace the bridegroom elect was announced.

He looked very black upon Mr. Esmond, to whom he made a very low
bow indeed, and kissed the hand of each lady in his most
ceremonious manner.  He had come in his chair from the palace hard
by, and wore his two stars of the Garter and the Thistle.

"Look, my Lord Duke," says Mistress Beatrix, advancing to him, and
showing the diamonds on her breast.

"Diamonds," says his Grace.  "Hm! they seem pretty."

"They are a present on my marriage," says Beatrix.

"From her Majesty?" asks the Duke.  "The Queen is very good."

"From my cousin Henry--from our cousin Henry"--cry both the ladies
in a breath.

"I have not the honor of knowing the gentleman.  I thought that my
Lord Castlewood had no brother: and that on your ladyship's side
there were no nephews."

"From our cousin, Colonel Henry Esmond, my lord," says Beatrix,
taking the Colonel's hand very bravely,--"who was left guardian to
us by our father, and who has a hundred times shown his love and
friendship for our family."

"The Duchess of Hamilton receives no diamonds but from her husband,
madam," says the Duke--"may I pray you to restore these to Mr.
Esmond?"

"Beatrix Esmond may receive a present from our kinsman and
benefactor, my Lord Duke," says Lady Castlewood, with an air of
great dignity.  "She is my daughter yet: and if her mother
sanctions the gift--no one else hath the right to question it."

"Kinsman and benefactor!" says the Duke.  "I know of no kinsman:
and I do not choose that my wife should have for benefactor a--"

"My lord!" says Colonel Esmond.

"I am not here to bandy words," says his Grace: "frankly I tell you
that your visits to this house are too frequent, and that I choose
no presents for the Duchess of Hamilton from gentlemen that bear a
name they have no right to."

"My lord!" breaks out Lady Castlewood, "Mr. Esmond hath the best
right to that name of any man in the world: and 'tis as old and as
honorable as your Grace's."

My Lord Duke smiled, and looked as if Lady Castlewood was mad, that
was so talking to him.

"If I called him benefactor," said my mistress, "it is because he
has been so to us--yes, the noblest, the truest, the bravest, the
dearest of benefactors.  He would have saved my husband's life from
Mohun's sword.  He did save my boy's, and defended him from that
villain.  Are those no benefits?"

"I ask Colonel Esmond's pardon," says his Grace, if possible more
haughty than before.  "I would say not a word that should give him
offence, and thank him for his kindness to your ladyship's family.
My Lord Mohun and I are connected, you know, by marriage--though
neither by blood nor friendship; but I must repeat what I said,
that my wife can receive no presents from Colonel Esmond."

"My daughter may receive presents from the Head of our House: my
daughter may thankfully take kindness from her father's, her
mother's, her brother's dearest friend; and be grateful for one
more benefit besides the thousand we owe him," cries Lady Esmond.
"What is a string of diamond stones compared to that affection he
hath given us--our dearest preserver and benefactor?  We owe him
not only Frank's life, but our all--yes, our all," says my
mistress, with a heightened color and a trembling voice.  "The
title we bear is his, if he would claim it.  'Tis we who have no
right to our name: not he that's too great for it.  He sacrificed
his name at my dying lord's bedside--sacrificed it to my orphan
children; gave up rank and honor because he loved us so nobly.  His
father was Viscount of Castlewood and Marquis of Esmond before him;
and he is his father's lawful son and true heir, and we are the
recipients of his bounty, and he the chief of a house that's as old
as your own.  And if he is content to forego his name that my child
may bear it, we love him and honor him and bless him under whatever
name he bears"--and here the fond and affectionate creature would
have knelt to Esmond again, but that he prevented her; and Beatrix,
running up to her with a pale face and a cry of alarm, embraced her
and said, "Mother, what is this?"

"'Tis a family secret, my Lord Duke," says Colonel Esmond: "poor
Beatrix knew nothing of it; nor did my lady till a year ago.  And I
have as good a right to resign my title as your Grace's mother to
abdicate hers to you."

"I should have told everything to the Duke of Hamilton," said my
mistress, "had his Grace applied to me for my daughter's hand, and
not to Beatrix.  I should have spoken with you this very day in
private, my lord, had not your words brought about this sudden
explanation--and now 'tis fit Beatrix should hear it; and know, as
I would have all the world know, what we owe to our kinsman and
patron."

And then in her touching way, and having hold of her daughter's
hand, and speaking to her rather than my Lord Duke, Lady Castlewood
told the story which you know already--lauding up to the skies her
kinsman's behavior.  On his side Mr. Esmond explained the reasons
that seemed quite sufficiently cogent with him, why the succession
in the family, as at present it stood, should not be disturbed; and
he should remain as he was, Colonel Esmond.

"And Marquis of Esmond, my lord," says his Grace, with a low bow.
"Permit me to ask your lordship's pardon for words that were
uttered in ignorance; and to beg for the favor of your friendship.
To be allied to you, sir, must be an honor under whatever name you
are known" (so his Grace was pleased to say); "and in return for
the splendid present you make my wife, your kinswoman, I hope you
will please to command any service that James Douglas can perform.
I shall never be easy until I repay you a part of my obligations at
least; and ere very long, and with the mission her Majesty hath
given me," says the Duke, "that may perhaps be in my power.  I
shall esteem it as a favor, my lord, if Colonel Esmond will give
away the bride."

"And if he will take the usual payment in advance, he is welcome,"
says Beatrix, stepping up to him; and, as Esmond kissed her, she
whispered, "Oh, why didn't I know you before?"

My Lord Duke was as hot as a flame at this salute, but said never a
word: Beatrix made him a proud curtsy, and the two ladies quitted
the room together.

"When does your Excellency go for Paris?" asks Colonel Esmond.

"As soon after the ceremony as may be," his Grace answered.  "'Tis
fixed for the first of December: it cannot be sooner.  The equipage
will not be ready till then.  The Queen intends the embassy should
be very grand--and I have law business to settle.  That ill-omened
Mohun has come, or is coming, to London again: we are in a lawsuit
about my late Lord Gerard's property; and he hath sent to me to
meet him."




CHAPTER V.

MOHUN APPEARS FOR THE LAST TIME IN THIS HISTORY.


Besides my Lord Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, who for family
reasons had kindly promised his protection and patronage to Colonel
Esmond, he had other great friends in power now, both able and
willing to assist him, and he might, with such allies, look forward
to as fortunate advancement in civil life at home as he had got
rapid promotion abroad.  His Grace was magnanimous enough to offer
to take Mr. Esmond as secretary on his Paris embassy, but no doubt
he intended that proposal should be rejected; at any rate, Esmond
could not bear the thoughts of attending his mistress farther than
the church-door after her marriage, and so declined that offer
which his generous rival made him.

Other gentlemen in power were liberal at least of compliments and
promises to Colonel Esmond.  Mr. Harley, now become my Lord Oxford
and Mortimer, and installed Knight of the Garter on the same day as
his Grace of Hamilton had received the same honor, sent to the
Colonel to say that a seat in Parliament should be at his disposal
presently, and Mr. St. John held out many flattering hopes of
advancement to the Colonel when he should enter the House.
Esmond's friends were all successful, and the most successful and
triumphant of all was his dear old commander, General Webb, who was
now appointed Lieutenant-General of the Land Forces, and received
with particular honor by the Ministry, by the Queen, and the people
out of doors, who huzza'd the brave chief when they used to see him
in his chariot going to the House or to the Drawing-room, or
hobbling on foot to his coach from St. Stephen's upon his glorious
old crutch and stick, and cheered him as loud as they had ever done
Marlborough.

That great Duke was utterly disgraced; and honest old Webb dated
all his Grace's misfortunes from Wynendael, and vowed that Fate
served the traitor right.  Duchess Sarah had also gone to ruin; she
had been forced to give up her keys, and her places, and her
pensions:--"Ah, ah!" says Webb, "she would have locked up three
millions of French crowns with her keys had I but been knocked on
the head, but I stopped that convoy at Wynendael."  Our enemy
Cardonnel was turned out of the House of Commons (along with Mr.
Walpole) for malversation of public money.  Cadogan lost his place
of Lieutenant of the Tower.  Marlborough's daughters resigned their
posts of ladies of the bedchamber; and so complete was the Duke's
disgrace, that his son-in-law, Lord Bridgewater, was absolutely
obliged to give up his lodgings at St. James's, and had his half-pension, as Master of the Horse, taken away.  But I think the
lowest depth of Marlborough's fall was when he humbly sent to ask
General Webb when he might wait upon him; he who had commanded the
stout old General, who had injured him and sneered at him, who had
kept him dangling in his ante-chamber, who could not even after his
great service condescend to write him a letter in his own hand.
The nation was as eager for peace as ever it had been hot for war.
The Prince of Savoy came amongst us, had his audience of the Queen,
and got his famous Sword of Honor, and strove with all his force to
form a Whig party together, to bring over the young Prince of
Hanover to do anything which might prolong the war, and consummate
the ruin of the old sovereign whom he hated so implacably.  But the
nation was tired of the struggle: so completely wearied of it that
not even our defeat at Denain could rouse us into any anger, though
such an action so lost two years before would have set all England
in a fury.  'Twas easy to see that the great Marlborough was not
with the army.  Eugene was obliged to fall back in a rage, and
forego the dazzling revenge of his life.  'Twas in vain the Duke's
side asked, "Would we suffer our arms to be insulted?  Would we not
send back the only champion who could repair our honor?"  The
nation had had its bellyful of fighting; nor could taunts or
outcries goad up our Britons any more.

For a statesman that was always prating of liberty, and had the
grandest philosophic maxims in his mouth, it must be owned that Mr.
St. John sometimes rather acted like a Turkish than a Greek
philosopher, and especially fell foul of one unfortunate set of
men, the men of letters, with a tyranny a little extraordinary in a
man who professed to respect their calling so much.  The literary
controversy at this time was very bitter, the Government side was
the winning one, the popular one, and I think might have been the
merciful one.  'Twas natural that the opposition should be peevish
and cry out: some men did so from their hearts, admiring the Duke
of Marlborough's prodigious talents, and deploring the disgrace of
the greatest general the world ever knew: 'twas the stomach that
caused other patriots to grumble, and such men cried out because
they were poor, and paid to do so.  Against these my Lord
Bolingbroke never showed the slightest mercy, whipping a dozen into
prison or into the pillory without the least commiseration.

From having been a man of arms Mr. Esmond had now come to be a man
of letters, but on a safer side than that in which the above-cited
poor fellows ventured their liberties and ears.  There was no
danger on ours, which was the winning side; besides, Mr. Esmond
pleased himself by thinking that he writ like a gentleman if he did
not always succeed as a wit.

Of the famous wits of that age, who have rendered Queen Anne's
reign illustrious, and whose works will be in all Englishmen's
hands in ages yet to come, Mr. Esmond saw many, but at public
places chiefly; never having a great intimacy with any of them,
except with honest Dick Steele and Mr. Addison, who parted company
with Esmond, however, when that gentleman became a declared Tory,
and lived on close terms with the leading persons of that party.
Addison kept himself to a few friends, and very rarely opened
himself except in their company.  A man more upright and
conscientious than he it was not possible to find in public life,
and one whose conversation was so various, easy, and delightful.
Writing now in my mature years, I own that I think Addison's
politics were the right, and were my time to come over again, I
would be a Whig in England and not a Tory; but with people that
take a side in politics, 'tis men rather than principles that
commonly bind them.  A kindness or a slight puts a man under one
flag or the other, and he marches with it to the end of the
campaign.  Esmond's master in war was injured by Marlborough, and
hated him: and the lieutenant fought the quarrels of his leader.
Webb coming to London was used as a weapon by Marlborough's enemies
(and true steel he was, that honest chief); nor was his aide-de-camp, Mr. Esmond, an unfaithful or unworthy partisan.  'Tis strange
here, and on a foreign soil, and in a land that is independent in
all but the name, (for that the North American colonies shall
remain dependants on yonder little island for twenty years more, I
never can think,) to remember how the nation at home seemed to give
itself up to the domination of one or other aristocratic party, and
took a Hanoverian king, or a French one, according as either
prevailed.  And while the Tories, the October club gentlemen, the
High Church parsons that held by the Church of England, were for
having a Papist king, for whom many of their Scottish and English
leaders, firm churchmen all, laid down their lives with admirable
loyalty and devotion; they were governed by men who had notoriously
no religion at all, but used it as they would use any opinion for
the purpose of forwarding their own ambition.  The Whigs, on the
other hand, who professed attachment to religion and liberty too,
were compelled to send to Holland or Hanover for a monarch around
whom they could rally.  A strange series of compromises is that
English History; compromise of principle, compromise of party,
compromise of worship!  The lovers of English freedom and
independence submitted their religious consciences to an Act of
Parliament; could not consolidate their liberty without sending to
Zell or the Hague for a king to live under; and could not find
amongst the proudest people in the world a man speaking their own
language, and understanding their laws, to govern them.  The Tory
and High Church patriots were ready to die in defence of a Papist
family that had sold us to France; the great Whig nobles, the
sturdy republican recusants who had cut off Charles Stuart's head
for treason, were fain to accept a king whose title came to him
through a royal grandmother, whose own royal grandmother's head had
fallen under Queen Bess's hatchet.  And our proud English nobles
sent to a petty German town for a monarch to come and reign in
London and our prelates kissed the ugly hands of his Dutch
mistresses, and thought it no dishonor.  In England you can but
belong to one party or t'other, and you take the house you live in
with all its encumbrances, its retainers, its antique discomforts,
and ruins even; you patch up, but you never build up anew.  Will we
of the new world submit much longer, even nominally, to this
ancient British superstition?  There are signs of the times which
make me think that ere long we shall care as little about King
George here, and peers temporal and peers spiritual, as we do for
King Canute or the Druids.

This chapter began about the wits, my grandson may say, and hath
wandered very far from their company.  The pleasantest of the wits
I knew were the Doctors Garth and Arbuthnot, and Mr. Gay, the
author of "Trivia," the most charming kind soul that ever laughed
at a joke or cracked a bottle.  Mr. Prior I saw, and he was the
earthen pot swimming with the pots of brass down the stream, and
always and justly frightened lest he should break in the voyage.  I
met him both at London and Paris, where he was performing piteous
congees to the Duke of Shrewsbury, not having courage to support
the dignity which his undeniable genius and talent had won him, and
writing coaxing letters to Secretary St. John, and thinking about
his plate and his place, and what on earth should become of him
should his party go out.  The famous Mr. Congreve I saw a dozen of
times at Button's, a splendid wreck of a man, magnificently
attired, and though gouty, and almost blind, bearing a brave face
against fortune.

The great Mr. Pope (of whose prodigious genius I have no words to
express my admiration) was quite a puny lad at this time, appearing
seldom in public places.  There were hundreds of men, wits, and
pretty fellows frequenting the theatres and coffee-houses of that
day--whom "nunc perscribere longum est."  Indeed I think the most
brilliant of that sort I ever saw was not till fifteen years
afterwards, when I paid my last visit in England, and met young
Harry Fielding, son of the Fielding that served in Spain and
afterwards in Flanders with us, and who for fun and humor seemed to
top them all.  As for the famous Dr. Swift, I can say of him, "Vidi
tantum."  He was in London all these years up to the death of the
Queen; and in a hundred public places where I saw him, but no more;
he never missed Court of a Sunday, where once or twice he was
pointed out to your grandfather.  He would have sought me out
eagerly enough had I been a great man with a title to my name, or a
star on my coat.  At Court the Doctor had no eyes but for the very
greatest.  Lord Treasurer and St. John used to call him Jonathan,
and they paid him with this cheap coin for the service they took of
him.  He writ their lampoons, fought their enemies, flogged and
bullied in their service, and it must be owned with a consummate
skill and fierceness.  'Tis said he hath lost his intellect now,
and forgotten his wrongs and his rage against mankind.  I have
always thought of him and of Marlborough as the two greatest men of
that age.  I have read his books (who doth not know them?) here in
our calm woods, and imagine a giant to myself as I think of him, a
lonely fallen Prometheus, groaning as the vulture tears him.
Prometheus I saw, but when first I ever had any words with him, the
giant stepped out of a sedan chair in the Poultry, whither he had
come with a tipsy Irish servant parading before him, who announced
him, bawling out his Reverence's name, whilst his master below was
as yet haggling with the chairman.  I disliked this Mr. Swift, and
heard many a story about him, of his conduct to men, and his words
to women.  He could flatter the great as much as he could bully the
weak; and Mr. Esmond, being younger and hotter in that day than
now, was determined, should he ever meet this dragon, not to run
away from his teeth and his fire.

Men have all sorts of motives which carry them onwards in life, and
are driven into acts of desperation, or it may be of distinction,
from a hundred different causes.  There was one comrade of
Esmond's, an honest little Irish lieutenant of Handyside's, who
owed so much money to a camp sutler, that he began to make love to
the man's daughter, intending to pay his debt that way; and at the
battle of Malplaquet, flying away from the debt and lady too, he
rushed so desperately on the French lines, that he got his company;
and came a captain out of the action, and had to marry the sutler's
daughter after all, who brought him his cancelled debt to her
father as poor Roger's fortune.  To run out of the reach of bill
and marriage, he ran on the enemy's pikes; and as these did not
kill him he was thrown back upon t'other horn of his dilemma.  Our
great Duke at the same battle was fighting, not the French, but the
Tories in England; and risking his life and the army's, not for his
country but for his pay and places; and for fear of his wife at
home, that only being in life whom he dreaded.  I have asked about
men in my own company, (new drafts of poor country boys were
perpetually coming over to us during the wars, and brought from the
ploughshare to the sword,) and found that a half of them under the
flags were driven thither on account of a woman: one fellow was
jilted by his mistress and took the shilling in despair; another
jilted the girl, and fled from her and the parish to the tents
where the law could not disturb him.  Why go on particularizing?
What can the sons of Adam and Eve expect, but to continue in that
course of love and trouble their father and mother set out on?  Oh,
my grandson! I am drawing nigh to the end of that period of my
history, when I was acquainted with the great world of England and
Europe; my years are past the Hebrew poet's limit, and I say unto
thee, all my troubles and joys too, for that matter, have come from
a woman; as thine will when thy destined course begins.  'Twas a
woman that made a soldier of me, that set me intriguing afterwards;
I believe I would have spun smocks for her had she so bidden me;
what strength I had in my head I would have given her; hath not
every man in his degree had his Omphale and Delilah?  Mine befooled
me on the banks of the Thames, and in dear old England; thou mayest
find thine own by Rappahannock.

To please that woman then I tried to distinguish myself as a
soldier, and afterwards as a wit and a politician; as to please
another I would have put on a black cassock and a pair of bands,
and had done so but that a superior fate intervened to defeat that
project.  And I say, I think the world is like Captain Esmond's
company I spoke of anon; and could you see every man's career in
life, you would find a woman clogging him; or clinging round his
march and stopping him; or cheering him and goading him: or
beckoning him out of her chariot, so that he goes up to her, and
leaves the race to be run without him or bringing him the apple,
and saying "Eat;" or fetching him the daggers and whispering "Kill!
yonder lies Duncan, and a crown, and an opportunity."

Your grandfather fought with more effect as a politician than as a
wit: and having private animosities and grievances of his own and
his General's against the great Duke in command of the army, and
more information on military matters than most writers, who had
never seen beyond the fire of a tobacco-pipe at "Wills's," he was
enabled to do good service for that cause which he embarked in, and
for Mr. St. John and his party.  But he disdained the abuse in
which some of the Tory writers indulged; for instance, Dr. Swift,
who actually chose to doubt the Duke of Marlborough's courage, and
was pleased to hint that his Grace's military capacity was
doubtful: nor were Esmond's performances worse for the effect they
were intended to produce, (though no doubt they could not injure
the Duke of Marlborough nearly so much in the public eyes as the
malignant attacks of Swift did, which were carefully directed so as
to blacken and degrade him,) because they were writ openly and
fairly by Mr. Esmond, who made no disguise of them, who was now out
of the army, and who never attacked the prodigious courage and
talents, only the selfishness and rapacity, of the chief.

The Colonel then, having writ a paper for one of the Tory journals,
called the Post-Boy, (a letter upon Bouchain, that the town talked
about for two whole days, when the appearance of an Italian singer
supplied a fresh subject for conversation,) and having business at
the Exchange, where Mistress Beatrix wanted a pair of gloves or a
fan very likely, Esmond went to correct his paper, and was sitting
at the printer's, when the famous Doctor Swift came in, his Irish
fellow with him that used to walk before his chair, and bawled out
his master's name with great dignity.

Mr. Esmond was waiting for the printer too, whose wife had gone to
the tavern to fetch him, and was meantime engaged in drawing a
picture of a soldier on horseback for a dirty little pretty boy of
the printer's wife, whom she had left behind her.

"I presume you are the editor of the Post-Boy, sir?" says the
Doctor, in a grating voice that had an Irish twang; and he looked
at the Colonel from under his two bushy eyebrows with a pair of
very clear blue eyes.  His complexion was muddy, his figure rather
fat, his chin double.  He wore a shabby cassock, and a shabby hat
over his black wig, and he pulled out a great gold watch, at which
he looks very fierce.

"I am but a contributor, Doctor Swift," says Esmond, with the
little boy still on his knee.  He was sitting with his back in the
window, so that the Doctor could not see him.

"Who told you I was Dr. Swift?" says the Doctor, eying the other
very haughtily.

"Your Reverence's valet bawled out your name," says the Colonel.
"I should judge you brought him from Ireland?"

"And pray, sir, what right have you to judge whether my servant
came from Ireland or no?  I want to speak with your employer, Mr.
Leach.  I'll thank ye go fetch him."

"Where's your papa, Tommy?" asks the Colonel of the child, a smutty
little wretch in a frock.

Instead of answering, the child begins to cry; the Doctor's
appearance had no doubt frightened the poor little imp.

"Send that squalling little brat about his business, and do what I
bid ye, sir," says the Doctor.

"I must finish, the picture first for Tommy," says the Colonel,
laughing.  "Here, Tommy, will you have your Pandour with whiskers
or without?"

"Whisters," says Tommy, quite intent on the picture.

"Who the devil are ye, sir?" cries the Doctor; "are ye a printer's
man or are ye not?" he pronounced it like NAUGHT.

"Your reverence needn't raise the devil to ask who I am," says
Colonel Esmond.  "Did you ever hear of Doctor Faustus, little
Tommy? or Friar Bacon, who invented gunpowder, and set the Thames
on fire?"

Mr. Swift turned quite red, almost purple.  "I did not intend any
offence, sir," says he.

"I dare say, sir, you offended without meaning," says the other,
dryly.

"Who are ye, sir?  Do you know who I am, sir?  You are one of the
pack of Grub Street scribblers that my friend Mr. Secretary hath
laid by the heels.  How dare ye, sir, speak to me in this tone?"
cries the Doctor, in a great fume.

"I beg your honor's humble pardon if I have offended your honor,"
says Esmond in a tone of great humility.  "Rather than be sent to
the Compter, or be put in the pillory, there's nothing I wouldn't
do.  But Mrs. Leach, the printer's lady, told me to mind Tommy
whilst she went for her husband to the tavern, and I daren't leave
the child lest he should fall into the fire; but if your Reverence
will hold him--"

"I take the little beast!" says the Doctor, starting back.  "I am
engaged to your betters, fellow.  Tell Mr. Leach that when he makes
an appointment with Dr. Swift he had best keep it, do ye hear?  And
keep a respectful tongue in your head, sir, when you address a
person like me."

"I'm but a poor broken-down soldier," says the Colonel, "and I've
seen better days, though I am forced now to turn my hand to
writing.  We can't help our fate, sir."

"You're the person that Mr. Leach hath spoken to me of, I presume.
Have the goodness to speak civilly when you are spoken to--and tell
Leach to call at my lodgings in Bury Street, and bring the papers
with him to-night at ten o'clock.  And the next time you see me,
you'll know me, and be civil, Mr. Kemp."

Poor Kemp, who had been a lieutenant at the beginning of the war,
and fallen into misfortune, was the writer of the Post-Boy, and now
took honest Mr. Leach's pay in place of her Majesty's.  Esmond had
seen this gentleman, and a very ingenious, hardworking honest
fellow he was, toiling to give bread to a great family, and
watching up many a long winter night to keep the wolf from his
door.  And Mr. St. John, who had liberty always on his tongue, had
just sent a dozen of the opposition writers into prison, and one
actually into the pillory, for what he called libels, but libels
not half so violent as those writ on our side.  With regard to this
very piece of tyranny, Esmond had remonstrated strongly with the
Secretary, who laughed and said the rascals were served quite
right; and told Esmond a joke of Swift's regarding the matter.
Nay, more, this Irishman, when St. John was about to pardon a poor
wretch condemned to death for rape, absolutely prevented the
Secretary from exercising this act of good-nature, and boasted that
he had had the man hanged; and great as the Doctor's genius might
be, and splendid his ability, Esmond for one would affect no love
for him, and never desired to make his acquaintance.  The Doctor
was at Court every Sunday assiduously enough, a place the Colonel
frequented but rarely, though he had a great inducement to go there
in the person of a fair maid of honor of her Majesty's; and the
airs and patronage Mr. Swift gave himself, forgetting gentlemen of
his country whom he knew perfectly, his loud talk at once insolent
and servile, nay, perhaps his very intimacy with Lord Treasurer and
the Secretary, who indulged all his freaks and called him Jonathan,
you may be sure, were remarked by many a person of whom the proud
priest himself took no note, during that time of his vanity and
triumph.

'Twas but three days after the 15th of November, 1712 (Esmond minds
him well of the date), that he went by invitation to dine with his
General, the foot of whose table he used to take on these festive
occasions, as he had done at many a board, hard and plentiful,
during the campaign.  This was a great feast, and of the latter
sort; the honest old gentleman loved to treat his friends
splendidly: his Grace of Ormonde, before he joined his army as
generalissimo, my Lord Viscount Bolingbroke, one of her Majesty's
Secretaries of State, my Lord Orkney, that had served with us
abroad, being of the party.  His Grace of Hamilton, Master of the
Ordnance, and in whose honor the feast had been given, upon his
approaching departure as Ambassador to Paris, had sent an excuse to
General Webb at two o'clock, but an hour before the dinner: nothing
but the most immediate business, his Grace said, should have
prevented him having the pleasure of drinking a parting glass to
the health of General Webb.  His absence disappointed Esmond's old
chief, who suffered much from his wounds besides; and though the
company was grand, it was rather gloomy.  St. John came last, and
brought a friend with him: "I'm sure," says my General, bowing very
politely, "my table hath always a place for Dr. Swift."

Mr. Esmond went up to the Doctor with a bow and a smile:--"I gave
Dr. Swift's message," says he, "to the printer: I hope he brought
your pamphlet to your lodgings in time."  Indeed poor Leach had
come to his house very soon after the Doctor left it, being brought
away rather tipsy from the tavern by his thrifty wife; and he
talked of Cousin Swift in a maudlin way, though of course Mr.
Esmond did not allude to this relationship.  The Doctor scowled,
blushed, and was much confused, and said scarce a word during the
whole of dinner.  A very little stone will sometimes knock down
these Goliaths of wit; and this one was often discomfited when met
by a man of any spirit; he took his place sulkily, put water in his
wine that the others drank plentifully, and scarce said a word.

The talk was about the affairs of the day, or rather about persons
than affairs: my Lady Marlborough's fury, her daughters in old
clothes and mob-caps looking out from their windows and seeing the
company pass to the Drawing-room; the gentleman-usher's horror when
the Prince of Savoy was introduced to her Majesty in a tie-wig, no
man out of a full-bottomed periwig ever having kissed the Royal
hand before; about the Mohawks and the damage they were doing,
rushing through the town, killing and murdering.  Some one said the
ill-omened face of Mohun had been seen at the theatre the night
before, and Macartney and Meredith with him.  Meant to be a feast,
the meeting, in spite of drink and talk, was as dismal as a
funeral.  Every topic started subsided into gloom.  His Grace of
Ormonde went away because the conversation got upon Denain, where
we had been defeated in the last campaign.  Esmond's General was
affected at the allusion to this action too, for his comrade of
Wynendael, the Count of Nassau Woudenbourg, had been slain there.
Mr. Swift, when Esmond pledged him, said he drank no wine, and took
his hat from the peg and went away, beckoning my Lord Bolingbroke
to follow him; but the other bade him take his chariot and save his
coach-hire--he had to speak with Colonel Esmond; and when the rest
of the company withdrew to cards, these two remained behind in the
dark.

Bolingbroke always spoke freely when he had drunk freely.  His
enemies could get any secret out of him in that condition; women
were even employed to ply him, and take his words down.  I have
heard that my Lord Stair, three years after, when the Secretary
fled to France and became the Pretender's Minister, got all the
information he wanted by putting female spies over St. John in his
cups.  He spoke freely now:--"Jonathan knows nothing of this for
certain, though he suspects it, and by George, Webb will take an
Archbishopric, and Jonathan a--no,--damme--Jonathan will take an
Arch-bishopric from James, I warrant me, gladly enough.  Your Duke
hath the string of the whole matter in his hand," the Secretary
went on.  "We have that which will force Marlborough to keep his
distance, and he goes out of London in a fortnight.  Prior hath his
business; he left me this morning, and mark me, Harry, should fate
carry off our august, our beloved, our most gouty and plethoric
Queen, and Defender of the Faith, la bonne cause triomphera.  A la
sante de la bonne cause!  Everything good comes from France.  Wine
comes from France; give us another bumper to the bonne cause."  We
drank it together.

"Will the bonne cause turn Protestant?" asked Mr. Esmond.

"No, hang it," says the other, "he'll defend our Faith as in duty
bound, but he'll stick by his own.  The Hind and the Panther shall
run in the same car, by Jove.  Righteousness and peace shall kiss
each other: and we'll have Father Massillon to walk down the aisle
of St. Paul's, cheek by jowl with Dr. Sacheverel.  Give us more
wine; here's a health to the bonne cause, kneeling--damme, let's
drink it kneeling."  He was quite flushed and wild with wine as he
was talking.

"And suppose," says Esmond, who always had this gloomy apprehension,
"the bonne cause should give us up to the French, as his father
and uncle did before him?"

"Give us up to the French!" starts up Bolingbroke; "is there any
English gentleman that fears that?  You who have seen Blenheim and
Ramillies, afraid of the French!  Your ancestors and mine, and
brave old Webb's yonder, have met them in a hundred fields, and our
children will be ready to do the like.  Who's he that wishes for
more men from England?  My Cousin Westmoreland?  Give us up to the
French, pshaw!"

"His uncle did," says Mr. Esmond.

"And what happened to his grandfather?" broke out St. John, filling
out another bumper.  "Here's to the greatest monarch England ever
saw; here's to the Englishman that made a kingdom of her.  Our
great King came from Huntingdon, not Hanover; our fathers didn't
look for a Dutchman to rule us.  Let him come and we'll keep him,
and we'll show him Whitehall.  If he's a traitor let us have him
here to deal with him; and then there are spirits here as great as
any that have gone before.  There are men here that can look at
danger in the face and not be frightened at it.  Traitor! treason!
what names are these to scare you and me?  Are all Oliver's men
dead, or his glorious name forgotten in fifty years?  Are there no
men equal to him, think you, as good--ay, as good?  God save the
King! and, if the monarchy fails us, God save the British Republic!"

He filled another great bumper, and tossed it up and drained it
wildly, just as the noise of rapid carriage-wheels approaching was
stopped at our door, and after a hurried knock and a moment's
interval, Mr. Swift came into the hall, ran up stairs to the room
we were dining in, and entered it with a perturbed face.  St. John,
excited with drink, was making some wild quotation out of Macbeth,
but Swift stopped him.

"Drink no more, my lord, for God's sake!" says he.  "I come with
the most dreadful news."

"Is the Queen dead?" cries out Bolingbroke, seizing on a water-glass.

"No, Duke Hamilton is dead: he was murdered an hour ago by Mohun
and Macartney; they had a quarrel this morning; they gave him not
so much time as to write a letter.  He went for a couple of his
friends, and he is dead, and Mohun, too, the bloody villain, who
was set on him.  They fought in Hyde Park just before sunset; the
Duke killed Mohun, and Macartney came up and stabbed him, and the
dog is fled.  I have your chariot below; send to every part of the
country and apprehend that villain; come to the Duke's house and
see if any life be left in him."

"Oh, Beatrix, Beatrix," thought Esmond, "and here ends my poor
girl's ambition!"




CHAPTER VI.

POOR BEATRIX.


There had been no need to urge upon Esmond the necessity of a
separation between him and Beatrix: Fate had done that completely;
and I think from the very moment poor Beatrix had accepted the
Duke's offer, she began to assume the majestic air of a Duchess,
nay, Queen Elect, and to carry herself as one sacred and removed
from us common people.  Her mother and kinsman both fell into her
ways, the latter scornfully perhaps, and uttering his usual gibes
at her vanity and his own.  There was a certain charm about this
girl of which neither Colonel Esmond nor his fond mistress could
forego the fascination; in spite of her faults and her pride and
wilfulness, they were forced to love her; and, indeed, might be set
down as the two chief flatterers of the brilliant creature's court.

Who, in the course of his life, hath not been so bewitched, and
worshipped some idol or another?  Years after this passion hath
been dead and buried, along with a thousand other worldly cares and
ambitions, he who felt it can recall it out of its grave, and
admire, almost as fondly as he did in his youth, that lovely
queenly creature.  I invoke that beautiful spirit from the shades
and love her still; or rather I should say such a past is always
present to a man; such a passion once felt forms a part of his
whole being, and cannot be separated from it; it becomes a portion
of the man of to-day, just as any great faith or conviction, the
discovery of poetry, the awakening of religion, ever afterwards
influence him; just as the wound I had at Blenheim, and of which I
wear the scar, hath become part of my frame and influenced my whole
body, nay, spirit subsequently, though 'twas got and healed forty
years ago.  Parting and forgetting!  What faithful heart can do
these?  Our great thoughts, our great affections, the Truths of our
life, never leave us.  Surely, they cannot separate from our
consciousness; shall follow it whithersoever that shall go; and are
of their nature divine and immortal.

With the horrible news of this catsstrophe, which was confirmed by
the weeping domestics at the Duke's own door, Esmond rode homewards
as quick as his lazy coach would carry him, devising all the time
how he should break the intelligence to the person most concerned
in it; and if a satire upon human vanity could be needed, that poor
soul afforded it in the altered company and occupations in which
Esmond found her.  For days before, her chariot had been rolling
the street from mercer to toyshop--from goldsmith to laceman: her
taste was perfect, or at least the fond bridegroom had thought so,
and had given her entire authority over all tradesmen, and for all
the plate, furniture and equipages, with which his Grace the
Ambassador wished to adorn his splendid mission.  She must have her
picture by Kneller, a duchess not being complete without a
portrait, and a noble one he made, and actually sketched in, on a
cushion, a coronet which she was about to wear.  She vowed she
would wear it at King James the Third's coronation, and never a
princess in the land would have become ermine better.  Esmond found
the ante-chamber crowded with milliners and toyshop women,
obsequious goldsmiths with jewels, salvers, and tankards; and
mercers' men with hangings, and velvets, and brocades.  My Lady
Duchess elect was giving audience to one famous silversmith from
Exeter Change, who brought with him a great chased salver, of which
he was pointing out the beauties as Colonel Esmond entered.
"Come," says she, "cousin, and admire the taste of this pretty
thing."  I think Mars and Venus were lying in the golden bower,
that one gilt Cupid carried off the war-god's casque--another his
sword--another his great buckler, upon which my Lord Duke
Hamilton's arms with ours were to be engraved--and a fourth was
kneeling down to the reclining goddess with the ducal coronet in
her hands, God help us!  The next time Mr. Esmond saw that piece of
plate, the arms were changed, the ducal coronet had been replaced
by a viscount's; it formed part of the fortune of the thrifty
goldsmith's own daughter, when she married my Lord Viscount
Squanderfield two years after.

"Isn't this a beautiful piece?" says Beatrix, examining it, and she
pointed out the arch graces of the Cupids, and the fine carving of
the languid prostrate Mars.  Esmond sickened as he thought of the
warrior dead in his chamber, his servants and children weeping
around him; and of this smiling creature attiring herself, as it
were, for that nuptial death-bed.  "'Tis a pretty piece of vanity,"
says he, looking gloomily at the beautiful creature: there were
flambeaux in the room lighting up the brilliant mistress of it.
She lifted up the great gold salver with her fair arms.

"Vanity!" says she, haughtily.  "What is vanity in you, sir, is
propriety in me.  You ask a Jewish price for it, Mr. Graves; but
have it I will, if only to spite Mr. Esmond."

"Oh, Beatrix, lay it down!" says Mr. Esmond.  "Herodias! you know
not what you carry in the charger."

She dropped it with a clang; the eager goldsmith running to seize
his fallen ware.  The lady's face caught the fright from Esmond's
pale countenance, and her eyes shone out like beacons of alarm:--"What is it, Henry!" says she, running to him, and seizing both his
hands.  "What do you mean by your pale face and gloomy tones?"

"Come away, come away!" says Esmond, leading her: she clung
frightened to him, and he supported her upon his heart, bidding the
scared goldsmith leave them.  The man went into the next apartment,
staring with surprise, and hugging his precious charger.

"Oh, my Beatrix, my sister!" says Esmond, still holding in his arms
the pallid and affrighted creature, "you have the greatest courage
of any woman in the world; prepare to show it now, for you have a
dreadful trial to bear."

She sprang away from the friend who would have protected her:--"Hath he left me?" says she.  "We had words this morning: he was
very gloomy, and I angered him: but he dared not, he dared not!"
As she spoke a burning blush flushed over her whole face and bosom.
Esmond saw it reflected in the glass by which she stood, with
clenched hands, pressing her swelling heart.

"He has left you," says Esmond, wondering that rage rather than
sorrow was in her looks.

"And he is alive," cried Beatrix, "and you bring me this
commission!  He has left me, and you haven't dared to avenge me!
You, that pretend to be the champion of our house, have let me
suffer this insult!  Where is Castlewood?  I will go to my
brother."

"The Duke is not alive, Beatrix," said Esmond.

She looked at her cousin wildly, and fell back to the wall as
though shot in the breast:--"And you come here, and--and--you
killed him?"

"No; thank heaven!" her kinsman said.  "The blood of that noble
heart doth not stain my sword!  In its last hour it was faithful to
thee, Beatrix Esmond.  Vain and cruel woman! kneel and thank the
awful heaven which awards life and death, and chastises pride, that
the noble Hamilton died true to you; at least that 'twas not your
quarrel, or your pride, or your wicked vanity, that drove him to
his fate.  He died by the bloody sword which already had drank your
own father's blood.  O woman, O sister! to that sad field where two
corpses are lying--for the murderer died too by the hand of the man
he slew--can you bring no mourners but your revenge and your
vanity?  God help and pardon thee, Beatrix, as he brings this awful
punishment to your hard and rebellious heart."

Esmond had scarce done speaking, when his mistress came in.  The
colloquy between him and Beatrix had lasted but a few minutes,
during which time Esmond's servant had carried the disastrous news
through the household.  The army of Vanity Fair, waiting without,
gathered up all their fripperies and fled aghast.  Tender Lady
Castlewood had been in talk above with Dean Atterbury, the pious
creature's almoner and director; and the Dean had entered with her
as a physician whose place was at a sick-bed.  Beatrix's mother
looked at Esmond and ran towards her daughter, with a pale face and
open heart and hands, all kindness and pity.  But Beatrix passed
her by, nor would she have any of the medicaments of the spiritual
physician.  "I am best in my own room and by myself," she said.
Her eyes were quite dry; nor did Esmond ever see them otherwise,
save once, in respect to that grief.  She gave him a cold hand as
she went out: "Thank you, brother," she said, in a low voice, and
with a simplicity more touching than tears; "all you have said is
true and kind, and I will go away and ask pardon."  The three
others remained behind, and talked over the dreadful story.  It
affected Dr. Atterbury more even than us, as it seemed.  The death
of Mohun, her husband's murderer, was more awful to my mistress
than even the Duke's unhappy end.  Esmond gave at length what
particulars he knew of their quarrel, and the cause of it.  The two
noblemen had long been at war with respect to the Lord Gerard's
property, whose two daughters my Lord Duke and Mohun had married.
They had met by appointment that day at the lawyer's in Lincoln's
Inn Fields; had words which, though they appeared very trifling to
those who heard them, were not so to men exasperated by long and
previous enmity.  Mohun asked my Lord Duke where he could see his
Grace's friends, and within an hour had sent two of his own to
arrange this deadly duel.  It was pursued with such fierceness, and
sprung from so trifling a cause, that all men agreed at the time
that there was a party, of which these three notorious brawlers
were but agents, who desired to take Duke Hamilton's life away.
They fought three on a side, as in that tragic meeting twelve years
back, which hath been recounted already, and in which Mohun
performed his second murder.  They rushed in, and closed upon each
other at once without any feints or crossing of swords even, and
stabbed one at the other desperately, each receiving many wounds;
and Mohun having his death-wound, and my Lord Duke lying by him,
Macartney came up and stabbed his Grace as he lay on the ground,
and gave him the blow of which he died.  Colonel Macartney denied
this, of which the horror and indignation of the whole kingdom
would nevertheless have him guilty, and fled the country, whither
he never returned.

What was the real cause of the Duke Hamilton's death?--a paltry
quarrel that might easily have been made up, and with a ruffian so
low, base, profligate, and degraded with former crimes and repeated
murders, that a man of such renown and princely rank as my Lord
Duke might have disdained to sully his sword with the blood of such
a villain.  But his spirit was so high that those who wished his
death knew that his courage was like his charity, and never turned
any man away; and he died by the hands of Mohun, and the other two
cut-throats that were set on him.  The Queen's ambassador to Paris
died, the loyal and devoted servant of the House of Stuart, and a
Royal Prince of Scotland himself, and carrying the confidence, the
repentance of Queen Anne along with his own open devotion, and the
good-will of millions in the country more, to the Queen's exiled
brother and sovereign.

That party to which Lord Mohun belonged had the benefit of his
service, and now were well rid of such a ruffian.  He, and
Meredith, and Macartney, were the Duke of Marlborough's men; and
the two colonels had been broke but the year before for drinking
perdition to the Tories.  His Grace was a Whig now and a
Hanoverian, and as eager for war as Prince Eugene himself.  I say
not that he was privy to Duke Hamilton's death, I say that his
party profited by it; and that three desperate and bloody
instruments were found to effect that murder.

As Esmond and the Dean walked away from Kensington discoursing of
this tragedy, and how fatal it was to the cause which they both had
at heart, the street-criers were already out with their broadsides,
shouting through the town the full, true, and horrible account of
the death of Lord Mohun and Duke Hamilton in a duel.  A fellow had
got to Kensington, and was crying it in the square there at very
early morning, when Mr. Esmond happened to pass by.  He drove the
man from under Beatrix's very window, whereof the casement had been
set open.  The sun was shining though 'twas November: he had seen
the market-carts rolling into London, the guard relieved at the
palace, the laborers trudging to their work in the gardens between
Kensington and the City--the wandering merchants and hawkers
filling the air with their cries.  The world was going to its
business again, although dukes lay dead and ladies mourned for
them; and kings, very likely, lost their chances.  So night and day
pass away, and to-morrow comes, and our place knows us not.  Esmond
thought of the courier, now galloping on the North road to inform
him, who was Earl of Arran yesterday, that he was Duke of Hamilton
to-day, and of a thousand great schemes, hopes, ambitions, that
were alive in the gallant heart, beating a few hours since, and now
in a little dust quiescent.




CHAPTER VII.

I VISIT CASTLEWOOD ONCE MORE.


Thus, for a third time, Beatrix's ambitious hopes were
circumvented, and she might well believe that a special malignant
fate watched and pursued her, tearing her prize out of her hand
just as she seemed to grasp it, and leaving her with only rage and
grief for her portion.  Whatever her feelings might have been of
anger or of sorrow, (and I fear me that the former emotion was that
which most tore her heart,) she would take no confidant, as people
of softer natures would have done under such a calamity; her mother
and her kinsman knew that she would disdain their pity, and that to
offer it would be but to infuriate the cruel wound which fortune
had inflicted.  We knew that her pride was awfully humbled and
punished by this sudden and terrible blow; she wanted no teaching
of ours to point out the sad moral of her story.  Her fond mother
could give but her prayers, and her kinsman his faithful friendship
and patience to the unhappy, stricken creature; and it was only by
hints, and a word or two uttered months afterwards, that Beatrix
showed she understood their silent commiseration, and on her part
was secretly thankful for their forbearance.  The people about the
Court said there was that in her manner which frightened away
scoffing and condolence: she was above their triumph and their
pity, and acted her part in that dreadful tragedy greatly and
courageously; so that those who liked her least were yet forced to
admire her.  We, who watched her after her disaster, could not but
respect the indomitable courage and majestic calm with which she
bore it.  "I would rather see her tears than her pride," her mother
said, who was accustomed to bear her sorrows in a very different
way, and to receive them as the stroke of God, with an awful
submission and meekness.  But Beatrix's nature was different to
that tender parent's; she seemed to accept her grief and to defy
it; nor would she allow it (I believe not even in private and in
her own chamber) to extort from her the confession of even a tear
of humiliation or a cry of pain.  Friends and children of our race,
who come after me, in which way will you bear your trials?  I know
one that prays God will give you love rather than pride, and that
the Eye all-seeing shall find you in the humble place.  Not that we
should judge proud spirits otherwise than charitably.  'Tis nature
hath fashioned some for ambition and dominion, as it hath formed
others for obedience and gentle submission.  The leopard follows
his nature as the lamb does, and acts after leopard law; she can
neither help her beauty, nor her courage, nor her cruelty; nor a
single spot on her shining coat; nor the conquering spirit which
impels her; nor the shot which brings her down.

During that well-founded panic the Whigs had, lest the Queen should
forsake their Hanoverian Prince, bound by oaths and treaties as she
was to him, and recall her brother, who was allied to her by yet
stronger ties of nature and duty; the Prince of Savoy, and the
boldest of that party of the Whigs, were for bringing the young
Duke of Cambridge over, in spite of the Queen, and the outcry of
her Tory servants, arguing that the Electoral Prince, a Peer and
Prince of the Blood-Royal of this Realm too, and in the line of
succession to the crown, had, a right to sit in the Parliament
whereof he was a member, and to dwell in the country which he one
day was to govern.  Nothing but the strongest ill will expressed by
the Queen, and the people about her, and menaces of the Royal
resentment, should this scheme be persisted in, prevented it from
being carried into effect.

The boldest on our side were, in like manner, for having our Prince
into the country.  The undoubted inheritor of the right divine; the
feelings of more than half the nation, of almost all the clergy, of
the gentry of England and Scotland with him; entirely innocent of
the crime for which his father suffered--brave, young, handsome,
unfortunate--who in England would dare to molest the Prince should
he come among us, and fling himself upon British generosity,
hospitality, and honor?  An invader with an army of Frenchmen
behind him, Englishmen of spirit would resist to the death, and
drive back to the shores whence he came; but a Prince, alone, armed
with his right only, and relying on the loyalty of his people, was
sure, many of his friends argued, of welcome, at least of safety,
among us.  The hand of his sister the Queen, of the people his
subjects, never could be raised to do him a wrong.  But the Queen
was timid by nature, and the successive Ministers she had, had
private causes for their irresolution.  The bolder and honester
men, who had at heart the illustrious young exile's cause, had no
scheme of interest of their own to prevent them from seeing the
right done, and, provided only he came as an Englishman, were ready
to venture their all to welcome and defend him.

St. John and Harley both had kind words in plenty for the Prince's
adherents, and gave him endless promises of future support; but
hints and promises were all they could be got to give; and some of
his friends were for measures much bolder, more efficacious, and
more open.  With a party of these, some of whom are yet alive, and
some whose names Mr. Esmond has no right to mention, he found
himself engaged the year after that miserable death of Duke
Hamilton, which deprived the Prince of his most courageous ally in
this country.  Dean Atterbury was one of the friends whom Esmond
may mention, as the brave bishop is now beyond exile and
persecution, and to him, and one or two more, the Colonel opened
himself of a scheme of his own, that, backed by a little resolution
on the Prince's part, could not fail of bringing about the
accomplishment of their dearest wishes.

My young Lord Viscount Castlewood had not come to England to keep
his majority, and had now been absent from the country for several
years.  The year when his sister was to be married and Duke
Hamilton died, my lord was kept at Bruxelles by his wife's lying-in.  The gentle Clotilda could not bear her husband out of her
sight; perhaps she mistrusted the young scapegrace should he ever
get loose from her leading-strings; and she kept him by her side to
nurse the baby and administer posset to the gossips.  Many a laugh
poor Beatrix had had about Frank's uxoriousness: his mother would
have gone to Clotilda when her time was coming, but that the
mother-in-law was already in possession, and the negotiations for
poor Beatrix's marriage were begun.  A few months after the horrid
catastrophe in Hyde Park, my mistress and her daughter retired to
Castlewood, where my lord, it was expected, would soon join them.
But, to say truth, their quiet household was little to his taste;
he could be got to come to Walcote but once after his first
campaign; and then the young rogue spent more than half his time in
London, not appearing at Court or in public under his own name and
title, but frequenting plays, bagnios, and the very worst company,
under the name of Captain Esmond (whereby his innocent kinsman got
more than once into trouble); and so under various pretexts, and in
pursuit of all sorts of pleasures, until he plunged into the lawful
one of marriage, Frank Castlewood had remained away from this
country, and was unknown, save amongst the gentlemen of the army,
with whom he had served abroad.  The fond heart of his mother was
pained by this long absence.  'Twas all that Henry Esmond could do
to soothe her natural mortification, and find excuses for his
kinsman's levity.

In the autumn of the year 1713, Lord Castlewood thought of
returning home.  His first child had been a daughter; Clotilda was
in the way of gratifying his lordship with a second, and the pious
youth thought that, by bringing his wife to his ancestral home, by
prayers to St. Philip of Castlewood, and what not, heaven might be
induced to bless him with a son this time, for whose coming the
expectant mamma was very anxious.

The long-debated peace had been proclaimed this year at the end of
March; and France was open to us.  Just as Frank's poor mother had
made all things ready for Lord Castlewood's reception, and was
eagerly expecting her son, it was by Colonel Esmond's means that
the kind lady was disappointed of her longing, and obliged to defer
once more the darling hope of her heart.

Esmond took horses to Castlewood.  He had not seen its ancient gray
towers and well-remembered woods for nearly fourteen years, and
since he rode thence with my lord, to whom his mistress with her
young children by her side waved an adieu.  What ages seemed to
have passed since then, what years of action and passion, of care,
love, hope, disaster!  The children were grown up now, and had
stories of their own.  As for Esmond, he felt to be a hundred years
old; his dear mistress only seemed unchanged; she looked and
welcomed him quite as of old.  There was the fountain in the court
babbling its familiar music, the old hall and its furniture, the
carved chair my late lord used, the very flagon he drank from.
Esmond's mistress knew he would like to sleep in the little room he
used to occupy; 'twas made ready for him, and wall-flowers and
sweet herbs set in the adjoining chamber, the chaplain's room.

In tears of not unmanly emotion, with prayers of submission to the
awful Dispenser of death and life, of good and evil fortune, Mr.
Esmond passed a part of that first night at Castlewood, lying awake
for many hours as the clock kept tolling (in tones so well
remembered), looking back, as all men will, that revisit their home
of childhood, over the great gulf of time, and surveying himself on
the distant bank yonder, a sad little melancholy boy with his lord
still alive--his dear mistress, a girl yet, her children sporting
around her.  Years ago, a boy on that very bed, when she had
blessed him and called him her knight, he had made a vow to be
faithful and never desert her dear service.  Had he kept that fond
boyish promise?  Yes, before heaven; yes, praise be to God!  His
life had been hers; his blood, his fortune, his name, his whole
heart ever since had been hers and her children's.  All night long
he was dreaming his boyhood over again, and waking fitfully; he
half fancied he heard Father Holt calling to him from the next
chamber, and that he was coming in and out of from the mysterious
window.

Esmond rose up before the dawn, passed into the next room, where
the air was heavy with the odor of the wall-flowers; looked into
the brazier where the papers had been burnt, into the old presses
where Holt's books and papers had been kept, and tried the spring
and whether the window worked still.  The spring had not been
touched for years, but yielded at length, and the whole fabric of
the window sank down.  He lifted it and it relapsed into its frame;
no one had ever passed thence since Holt used it sixteen years ago.

Esmond remembered his poor lord saying, on the last day of his
life, that Holt used to come in and out of the house like a ghost,
and knew that the Father liked these mysteries, and practised such
secret disguises, entrances and exits: this was the way the ghost
came and went, his pupil had always conjectured.  Esmond closed the
casement up again as the dawn was rising over Castlewood village;
he could hear the clinking at the blacksmith's forge yonder among
the trees, across the green, and past the river, on which a mist
still lay sleeping.

Next Esmond opened that long cupboard over the woodwork of the
mantel-piece, big enough to hold a man, and in which Mr. Holt used
to keep sundry secret properties of his.  The two swords he
remembered so well as a boy, lay actually there still, and Esmond
took them out and wiped them, with a strange curiosity of emotion.
There were a bundle of papers here, too, which no doubt had been
left at Holt's last visit to the place, in my Lord Viscount's life,
that very day when the priest had been arrested and taken to Hexham
Castle.  Esmond made free with these papers, and found treasonable
matter of King William's reign, the names of Charnock and Perkins,
Sir John Fenwick and Sir John Friend, Rookwood and Lodwick, Lords
Montgomery and Allesbury, Clarendon and Yarmouth, that had all been
engaged in plots against the usurper; a letter from the Duke of
Berwick too, and one from the King at St. Germains, offering to
confer upon his trusty and well-beloved Francis Viscount Castlewood
the titles of Earl and Marquis of Esmond, bestowed by patent royal,
and in the fourth year of his reign, upon Thomas Viscount
Castlewood and the heirs-male of his body, in default of which
issue the ranks and dignities were to pass to Francis aforesaid.

This was the paper, whereof my lord had spoken, which Holt showed
him the very day he was arrested, and for an answer to which he
would come back in a week's time.  I put these papers hastily into
the crypt whence I had taken them, being interrupted by a tapping
of a light finger at the ring of the chamber-door: 'twas my kind
mistress, with her face full of love and welcome.  She, too, had
passed the night wakefuly, no doubt; but neither asked the other
how the hours had been spent.  There are things we divine without
speaking, and know though they happen out of our sight.  This fond
lady hath told me that she knew both days when I was wounded
abroad.  Who shall say how far sympathy reaches, and how truly love
can prophesy?  "I looked into your room," was all she said; "the
bed was vacant, the little old bed!  I knew I should find you
here."  And tender and blushing faintly with a benediction in her
eyes, the gentle creature kissed him.

They walked out, hand-in-hand, through the old court, and to the
terrace-walk, where the grass was glistening with dew, and the
birds in the green woods above were singing their delicious
choruses under the blushing morning sky.  How well all things were
remembered!  The ancient towers and gables of the hall darkling
against the east, the purple shadows on the green slopes, the
quaint devices and carvings of the dial, the forest-crowned
heights, the fair yellow plain cheerful with crops and corn, the
shining river rolling through it towards the pearly hills beyond;
all these were before us, along with a thousand beautiful memories
of our youth, beautiful and sad, but as real and vivid in our minds
as that fair and always-remembered scene our eyes beheld once more.
We forget nothing.  The memory sleeps, but wakens again; I often
think how it shall be when, after the last sleep of death, the
reveillee shall arouse us for ever, and the past in one flash of
self-consciousness rush back, like the soul revivified.

The house would not be up for some hours yet, (it was July, and the
dawn was only just awake,) and here Esmond opened himself to his
mistress, of the business he had in hand, and what part Frank was
to play in it.  He knew he could confide anything to her, and that
the fond soul would die rather than reveal it; and bidding her keep
the secret from all, he laid it entirely before his mistress
(always as staunch a little loyalist as any in the kingdom), and
indeed was quite sure that any plan, of his was secure of her
applause and sympathy.  Never was such a glorious scheme to her
partial mind, never such a devoted knight to execute it.  An hour
or two may have passed whilst they were having their colloquy.
Beatrix came out to them just as their talk was over; her tall
beautiful form robed in sable (which she wore without ostentation
ever since last year's catastrophe), sweeping over the green
terrace, and casting its shadows before her across the grass.

She made us one of her grand curtsies smiling, and called us "the
young people."  She was older, paler, and more majestic than in the
year before; her mother seemed the youngest of the two.  She never
once spoke of her grief, Lady Castlewood told Esmond, or alluded,
save by a quiet word or two, to the death of her hopes.

When Beatrix came back to Castlewood she took to visiting all the
cottages and all the sick.  She set up a school of children, and
taught singing to some of them.  We had a pair of beautiful old
organs in Castlewood Church, on which she played admirably, so that
the music there became to be known in the country for many miles
round, and no doubt people came to see the fair organist as well as
to hear her.  Parson Tusher and his wife were established at the
vicarage, but his wife had brought him no children wherewith Tom
might meet his enemies at the gate.  Honest Tom took care not to
have many such, his great shovel-hat was in his hand for everybody.
He was profuse of bows and compliments.  He behaved to Esmond as if
the Colonel had been a Commander-in-Chief; he dined at the hall
that day, being Sunday, and would not partake of pudding except
under extreme pressure.  He deplored my lord's perversion, but
drank his lordship's health very devoutly; and an hour before at
church sent the Colonel to sleep, with a long, learned, and
refreshing sermon.

Esmond's visit home was but for two days; the business he had in
hand calling him away and out of the country.  Ere he went, he saw
Beatrix but once alone, and then she summoned him out of the long
tapestry room, where he and his mistress were sitting, quite as in
old times, into the adjoining chamber, that had been Viscountess
Isabel's sleeping apartment, and where Esmond perfectly well
remembered seeing the old lady sitting up in the bed, in her night-rail, that morning when the troop of guard came to fetch her.  The
most beautiful woman in England lay in that bed now, whereof the
great damask hangings were scarce faded since Esmond saw them last.

Here stood Beatrix in her black robes, holding a box in her hand;
'twas that which Esmond had given her before her marriage, stamped
with a coronet which the disappointed girl was never to wear; and
containing his aunt's legacy of diamonds.

"You had best take these with you, Harry," says she; "I have no
need of diamonds any more."  There was not the least token of
emotion in her quiet low voice.  She held out the black shagreen
case with her fair arm, that did not shake in the least.  Esmond
saw she wore a black velvet bracelet on it, with my Lord Duke's
picture in enamel; he had given it her but three days before he
fell.

Esmond said the stones were his no longer, and strove to turn off
that proffered restoration with a laugh: "Of what good," says he,
"are they to me?  The diamond loop to his hat did not set off
Prince Eugene, and will not make my yellow face look any handsomer."

"You will give them to your wife, cousin," says she.  "My cousin,
your wife has a lovely complexion and shape."

"Beatrix," Esmond burst out, the old fire flaming out as it would
at times, "will you wear those trinkets at your marriage?  You
whispered once you did not know me: you know me better now: how I
sought, what I have sighed for, for ten years, what foregone!"

"A price for your constancy, my lord!" says she; "such a preux
chevalier wants to be paid.  Oh fie, cousin!"

"Again," Esmond spoke out, "if I do something you have at heart;
something worthy of me and you; something that shall make me a name
with which to endow you; will you take it?  There was a chance for
me once, you said; is it impossible to recall it?  Never shake your
head, but hear me; say you will hear me a year hence.  If I come
back to you and bring you fame, will that please you?  If I do what
you desire most--what he who is dead desired most--will that soften
you?"

"What is it, Henry?" says she, her face lighting up; "what mean
you?"

"Ask no questions," he said; "wait, and give me but time; if I
bring back that you long for, that I have a thousand times heard
you pray for, will you have no reward for him who has done you that
service?  Put away those trinkets, keep them: it shall not be at my
marriage, it shall not be at yours; but if man can do it, I swear a
day shall come when there shall be a feast in your house, and you
shall be proud to wear them.  I say no more now; put aside these
words, and lock away yonder box until the day when I shall remind
you of both.  All I pray of you now is, to wait and to remember."

"You are going out of the country?" says Beatrix, in some agitation.

"Yes, to-morrow," says Esmond.

"To Lorraine, cousin?" says Beatrix, laying her hand on his arm;
'twas the hand on which she wore the Duke's bracelet.  "Stay,
Harry!" continued she, with a tone that had more despondency in it
than she was accustomed to show.  "Hear a last word.  I do love
you.  I do admire you--who would not, that has known such love as
yours has been for us all?  But I think I have no heart; at least I
have never seen the man that could touch it; and, had I found him,
I would have followed him in rags had he been a private soldier, or
to sea, like one of those buccaneers you used to read to us about
when we were children.  I would do anything for such a man, bear
anything for him: but I never found one.  You were ever too much of
a slave to win my heart; even my Lord Duke could not command it.  I
had not been happy had I married him.  I knew that three months
after our engagement--and was too vain to break it.  Oh, Harry!  I
cried once or twice, not for him, but with tears of rage because I
could not be sorry for him.  I was frightened to find I was glad of
his death; and were I joined to you, I should have the same sense
of servitude, the same longing to escape.  We should both be
unhappy, and you the most, who are as jealous as the Duke was
himself.  I tried to love him; I tried, indeed I did: affected
gladness when he came: submitted to hear when he was by me, and
tried the wife's part I thought I was to play for the rest of my
days.  But half an hour of that complaisance wearied me, and what
would a lifetime be?  My thoughts were away when he was speaking;
and I was thinking, Oh that this man would drop my hand, and rise
up from before my feet!  I knew his great and noble qualities,
greater and nobler than mine a thousand times, as yours are,
cousin, I tell you, a million and a million times better.  But
'twas not for these I took him.  I took him to have a great place
in the world, and I lost it.  I lost it, and do not deplore him--and I often thought, as I listened to his fond vows and ardent
words, Oh, if I yield to this man, and meet THE OTHER, I shall hate
him and leave him!  I am not good, Harry: my mother is gentle and
good like an angel.  I wonder how she should have had such a child.
She is weak, but she would die rather than do a wrong; I am
stronger than she, but I would do it out of defiance.  I do not
care for what the parsons tell me with their droning sermons: I
used to see them at court as mean and as worthless as the meanest
woman there.  Oh, I am sick and weary of the world!  I wait but for
one thing, and when 'tis done, I will take Frank's religion and
your poor mother's, and go into a nunnery, and end like her.  Shall
I wear the diamonds then?--they say the nuns wear their best
trinkets the day they take the veil.  I will put them away as you
bid me; farewell, cousin: mamma is pacing the next room racking her
little head to know what we have been saying.  She is jealous, all
women are.  I sometimes think that is the only womanly quality I
have."

"Farewell.  Farewell, brother."  She gave him her cheek as a
brotherly privilege.  The cheek was as cold as marble.

Esmond's mistress showed no signs of jealousy when he returned to
the room where she was.  She had schooled herself so as to look
quite inscrutably, when she had a mind.  Amongst her other feminine
qualities she had that of being a perfect dissembler.

He rode away from Castlewood to attempt the task he was bound on,
and stand or fall by it; in truth his state of mind was such, that
he was eager for some outward excitement to counteract that gnawing
malady which he was inwardly enduring.




CHAPTER VIII.

I TRAVEL TO FRANCE AND BRING HOME A PORTRAIT OF RIGAUD.


Mr. Esmond did not think fit to take leave at Court, or to inform
all the world of Pall Mall and the coffee-houses, that he was about
to quit England; and chose to depart in the most private manner
possible.  He procured a pass as for a Frenchman, through Dr.
Atterbury, who did that business for him, getting the signature
even from Lord Bolingbroke's office, without any personal
application to the Secretary.  Lockwood, his faithful servant, he
took with him to Castlewood, and left behind there: giving out ere
he left London that he himself was sick, and gone to Hampshire for
country air, and so departed as silently as might be upon his
business.

As Frank Castlewood's aid was indispensable for Mr. Esmond's
scheme, his first visit was to Bruxelles (passing by way of
Antwerp, where the Duke of Marlborough was in exile), and in the
first-named place Harry found his dear young Benedict, the married
man, who appeared to be rather out of humor with his matrimonial
chain, and clogged with the obstinate embraces which Clotilda kept
round his neck.  Colonel Esmond was not presented to her; but
Monsieur Simon was, a gentleman of the Royal Cravat (Esmond
bethought him of the regiment of his honest Irishman, whom he had
seen that day after Malplaquet, when he first set eyes on the young
King); and Monsieur Simon was introduced to the Viscountess
Castlewood, nee Comptesse Wertheim; to the numerous counts, the
Lady Clotilda's tall brothers; to her father the chamberlain; and
to the lady his wife, Frank's mother-in-law, a tall and majestic
person of large proportions, such as became the mother of such a
company of grenadiers as her warlike sons formed.  The whole race
were at free quarters in the little castle nigh to Bruxelles which
Frank had taken; rode his horses; drank his wine; and lived easily
at the poor lad's charges.  Mr. Esmond had always maintained a
perfect fluency in the French, which was his mother tongue; and if
this family (that spoke French with the twang which the Flemings
use) discovered any inaccuracy in Mr. Simon's pronunciation, 'twas
to be attributed to the latter's long residence in England, where
he had married and remained ever since he was taken prisoner at
Blenheim.  His story was perfectly pat; there were none there to
doubt it save honest Frank, and he was charmed with his kinsman's
scheme, when he became acquainted with it; and, in truth, always
admired Colonel Esmond with an affectionate fidelity, and thought
his cousin the wisest and best of all cousins and men.  Frank
entered heart and soul into the plan, and liked it the better as it
was to take him to Paris, out of reach of his brothers, his father,
and his mother-in-law, whose attentions rather fatigued him.

Castlewood, I have said, was born in the same year as the Prince of
Wales; had not a little of the Prince's air, height, and figure;
and, especially since he had seen the Chevalier de St. George on
the occasion before-named, took no small pride in his resemblance
to a person so illustrious; which likeness he increased by all
means in his power, wearing fair brown periwigs, such as the Prince
wore, and ribbons, and so forth, of the Chevalier's color.

This resemblance was, in truth, the circumstance on which Mr.
Esmond's scheme was founded; and having secured Frank's secrecy and
enthusiasm, he left him to continue his journey, and see the other
personages on whom its success depended.  The place whither Mr.
Simon next travelled was Bar, in Lorraine, where that merchant
arrived with a consignment of broadcloths, valuable laces from
Malines, and letters for his correspondent there.

Would you know how a prince, heroic from misfortunes, and descended
from a line of kings, whose race seemed to be doomed like the
Atridae of old--would you know how he was employed, when the envoy
who came to him through danger and difficulty beheld him for the
first time?  The young king, in a flannel jacket, was at tennis
with the gentlemen of his suite, crying out after the balls, and
swearing like the meanest of his subjects.  The next time Mr.
Esmond saw him, 'twas when Monsieur Simon took a packet of laces to
Miss Oglethorpe: the Prince's ante-chamber in those days, at which
ignoble door men were forced to knock for admission to his Majesty.
The admission was given, the envoy found the King and the mistress
together; the pair were at cards and his Majesty was in liquor.  He
cared more for three honors than three kingdoms; and a half-dozen
glasses of ratafia made him forget all his woes and his losses, his
father's crown, and his grandfather's head.

Mr. Esmond did not open himself to the Prince then.  His Majesty
was scarce in a condition to hear him; and he doubted whether a
King who drank so much could keep a secret in his fuddled head; or
whether a hand that shook so, was strong enough to grasp at a
crown.  However, at last, and after taking counsel with the
Prince's advisers, amongst whom were many gentlemen, honest and
faithful, Esmond's plan was laid before the King, and her actual
Majesty Queen Oglethorpe, in council.  The Prince liked the scheme
well enough; 'twas easy and daring, and suited to his reckless
gayety and lively youthful spirit.  In the morning after he had
slept his wine off, he was very gay, lively, and agreeable.  His
manner had an extreme charm of archness, and a kind simplicity;
and, to do her justice, her Oglethorpean Majesty was kind, acute,
resolute, and of good counsel; she gave the Prince much good advice
that he was too weak to follow, and loved him with a fidelity which
he returned with an ingratitude quite Royal.

Having his own forebodings regarding his scheme should it ever be
fulfilled, and his usual sceptic doubts as to the benefit which
might accrue to the country by bringing a tipsy young monarch back
to it, Colonel Esmond had his audience of leave and quiet.
Monsieur Simon took his departure.  At any rate the youth at Bar
was as good as the older Pretender at Hanover; if the worst came to
the worst, the Englishman could be dealt with as easy as the
German.  Monsieur Simon trotted on that long journey from Nancy to
Paris, and saw that famous town, stealthily and like a spy, as in
truth he was; and where, sure, more magnificence and more misery is
heaped together, more rags and lace, more filth and gilding, than
in any city in this world.  Here he was put in communication with
the King's best friend, his half brother, the famous Duke of
Berwick; Esmond recognized him as the stranger who had visited
Castlewood now near twenty years ago.  His Grace opened to him when
he found that Mr. Esmond was one of Webb's brave regiment, that had
once been his Grace's own.  He was the sword and buckler indeed of
the Stuart cause: there was no stain on his shield except the bar
across it, which Marlborough's sister left him.  Had Berwick been
his father's heir, James the Third had assuredly sat on the English
throne.  He could dare, endure, strike, speak, be silent.  The fire
and genius, perhaps, he had not (that were given to baser men), but
except these he had some of the best qualities of a leader.  His
Grace knew Esmond's father and history; and hinted at the latter in
such a way as made the Colonel to think he was aware of the
particulars of that story.  But Esmond did not choose to enter on
it, nor did the Duke press him.  Mr. Esmond said, "No doubt he
should come by his name if ever greater people came by theirs."

What confirmed Esmond in his notion that the Duke of Berwick knew
of his case was, that when the Colonel went to pay his duty at St.
Germains, her Majesty once addressed him by the title of Marquis.
He took the Queen the dutiful remembrances of her goddaughter, and
the lady whom, in the days of her prosperity, her Majesty had
befriended.  The Queen remembered Rachel Esmond perfectly well, had
heard of my Lord Castlewood's conversion, and was much edified by
that act of heaven in his favor.  She knew that others of that
family had been of the only true church too: "Your father and your
mother, M. le Marquis," her Majesty said (that was the only time
she used the phrase).  Monsieur Simon bowed very low, and said he
had found other parents than his own, who had taught him
differently; but these had only one king: on which her Majesty was
pleased to give him a medal blessed by the Pope, which had been
found very efficacious in cases similar to his own, and to promise
she would offer up prayers for his conversion and that of the
family: which no doubt this pious lady did, though up to the
present moment, and after twenty-seven years, Colonel Esmond is
bound to say that neither the medal nor the prayers have had the
slightest known effect upon his religious convictions.

As for the splendors of Versailles, Monsieur Simon, the merchant,
only beheld them as a humble and distant spectator, seeing the old
King but once, when he went to feed his carps; and asking for no
presentation at his Majesty's Court.

By this time my Lord Viscount Castlewood was got to Paris, where,
as the London prints presently announced, her ladyship was brought
to bed of a son and heir.  For a long while afterwards she was in a
delicate state of health, and ordered by the physicians not to
travel; otherwise 'twas well known that the Viscount Castlewood
proposed returning to England, and taking up his residence at his
own seat.

Whilst he remained at Paris, my Lord Castlewood had his picture
done by the famous French painter, Monsieur Rigaud, a present for
his mother in London; and this piece Monsieur Simon took back with
him when he returned to that city, which he reached about May, in
the year 1714, very soon after which time my Lady Castlewood and
her daughter, and their kinsman, Colonel Esmond, who had been at
Castlewood all this time, likewise returned to London; her ladyship
occupying her house at Kensington, Mr. Esmond returning to his
lodgings at Knightsbridge, nearer the town, and once more making
his appearance at all public places, his health greatly improved by
his long stay in the country.

The portrait of my lord, in a handsome gilt frame, was hung up in
the place of honor in her ladyship's drawing-room.  His lordship
was represented in his scarlet uniform of Captain of the Guard,
with a light brown periwig, a cuirass under his coat, a blue
ribbon, and a fall of Bruxelles lace.  Many of her ladyship's
friends admired the piece beyond measure, and flocked to see it;
Bishop Atterbury, Mr. Lesly, good old Mr. Collier, and others
amongst the clergy, were delighted with the performance, and many
among the first quality examined and praised it; only I must own
that Doctor Tusher happening to come up to London, and seeing the
picture, (it was ordinarily covered by a curtain, but on this day
Miss Beatrix happened to be looking at it when the Doctor arrived,)
the Vicar of Castlewood vowed he could not see any resemblance in
the piece to his old pupil, except, perhaps, a little about the
chin and the periwig; but we all of us convinced him that he had
not seen Frank for five years or more; that he knew no more about
the Fine Arts than a ploughboy, and that he must be mistaken; and
we sent him home assured that the piece was an excellent likeness.
As for my Lord Bolingbroke, who honored her ladyship with a visit
occasionally, when Colonel Esmond showed him the picture he burst
out laughing, and asked what devilry he was engaged on?  Esmond
owned simply that the portrait was not that of Viscount Castlewood;
besought the Secretary on his honor to keep the secret; said that
the ladies of the house were enthusiastic Jacobites, as was well
known; and confessed that the picture was that of the Chevalier St.
George.

The truth is, that Mr. Simon, waiting upon Lord Castlewood one day
at Monsieur Rigaud's whilst his lordship was sitting for his
picture, affected to be much struck with a piece representing the
Chevalier, whereof the head only was finished, and purchased it of
the painter for a hundred crowns.  It had been intended, the artist
said, for Miss Oglethorpe, the Prince's mistress, but that young
lady quitting Paris, had left the work on the artist's hands; and
taking this piece home, when my lord's portrait arrived, Colonel
Esmond, alias Monsieur Simon, had copied the uniform and other
accessories from my lord's picture to fill up Rigaud's incomplete
canvas: the Colonel all his life having been a practitioner of
painting, and especially followed it during his long residence in
the cities of Flanders, among the masterpieces of Van Dyck and
Rubens.  My grandson hath the piece, such as it is, in Virginia
now.

At the commencement of the month of June, Miss Beatrix Esmond, and
my Lady Viscountess, her mother, arrived from Castlewood; the
former to resume her services at Court, which had been interrupted
by the fatal catastrophe of Duke Hamilton's death.  She once more
took her place, then, in her Majesty's suite and at the Maids'
table, being always a favorite with Mrs. Masham, the Queen's chief
woman, partly perhaps on account of their bitterness against the
Duchess of Marlborough, whom Miss Beatrix loved no better than her
rival did.  The gentlemen about the Court, my Lord Bolingbroke
amongst others, owned that the young lady had come back handsomer
than ever, and that the serious and tragic air which her face now
involuntarily wore became her better than her former smiles and
archness.

All the old domestics at the little house of Kensington Square were
changed; the old steward that had served the family any time these
five-and-twenty years, since the birth of the children of the
house, was despatched into the kingdom of Ireland to see my lord's
estate there: the housekeeper, who had been my lady's woman time
out of mind, and the attendant of the young children, was sent away
grumbling to Walcote, to see to the new painting and preparing of
that house, which my Lady Dowager intended to occupy for the
future, giving up Castlewood to her daughter-in-law that might be
expected daily from France.  Another servant the Viscountess had
was dismissed too--with a gratuity--on the pretext that her
ladyship's train of domestics must be diminished; so, finally,
there was not left in the household a single person who had
belonged to it during the time my young Lord Castlewood was yet at
home.

For the plan which Colonel Esmond had in view, and the stroke he
intended, 'twas necessary that the very smallest number of persons
should be put in possession of his secret.  It scarce was known,
except to three or four out of his family, and it was kept to a
wonder.

On the 10th of June, 1714, there came by Mr. Prior's messenger from
Paris a letter from my Lord Viscount Castlewood to his mother,
saying that he had been foolish in regard of money matters, that he
was ashamed to own he had lost at play, and by other extravagances;
and that instead of having great entertainments as he had hoped at
Castlewood this year, he must live as quiet as he could, and make
every effort to be saving.  So far every word of poor Frank's
letter was true, nor was there a doubt that he and his tall
brothers-in-law had spent a great deal more than they ought, and
engaged the revenues of the Castlewood property, which the fond
mother had husbanded and improved so carefully during the time of
her guardianship.

His "Clotilda," Castlewood went on to say, "was still delicate, and
her physicians thought her lying-in had best take place at Paris.
He should come without her ladyship, and be at his mother's house
about the 17th or 18th day of June, proposing to take horse from
Paris immediately, and bringing but a single servant with him; and
he requested that the lawyers of Gray's inn might be invited to
meet him with their account, and the land-steward come from
Castlewood with his, so that he might settle with them speedily,
raise a sum of money whereof he stood in need, and be back to his
viscountess by the time of her lying-in."  Then his lordship gave
some of the news of the town, sent his remembrance to kinsfolk, and
so the letter ended.  'Twas put in the common post, and no doubt
the French police and the English there had a copy of it, to which
they were exceeding welcome.

Two days after another letter was despatched by the public post of
France, in the same open way, and this, after giving news of the
fashion at Court there, ended by the following sentences, in which,
but for those that had the key, 'twould be difficult for any man to
find any secret lurked at all:--


"(The King will take) medicine on Thursday.  His Majesty is better
than he hath been of late, though incommoded by indigestion from
his too great appetite.  Madame Maintenon continues well.  They
have performed a play of Mons. Racine at St. Cyr.  The Duke of
Shrewsbury and Mr. Prior, our envoy, and all the English nobility
here were present at it.  (The Viscount Castlewood's passports)
were refused to him, 'twas said; his lordship being sued by a
goldsmith for Vaisselle plate, and a pearl necklace supplied to
Mademoiselle Meruel of the French Comedy.  'Tis a pity such news
should get abroad (and travel to England) about our young nobility
here.  Mademoiselle Meruel has been sent to the Fort l'Evesque;
they say she has ordered not only plate, but furniture, and a
chariot and horses (under that lord's name), of which extravagance
his unfortunate Viscountess knows nothing.

"(His Majesty will be) eighty-two years of age on his next
birthday.  The Court prepares to celebrate it with a great feast.
Mr. Prior is in a sad way about their refusing at home to send him
his plate.  All here admired my Lord Viscount's portrait, and said
it was a masterpiece of Rigaud.  Have you seen it?  It is (at the
Lady Castlewood's house in Kensington Square).  I think no English
painter could produce such a piece.

"Our poor friend the Abbe hath been at the Bastile, but is now
transported to the Conciergerie (where his friends may visit him.
They are to ask for) a remission of his sentence soon.  Let us hope
the poor rogue will have repented in prison.

"(The Lord Castlewood) has had the affair of the plate made up, and
departs for England.

"Is not this a dull letter?  I have a cursed headache with drinking
with Mat and some more over-night, and tipsy or sober am

"Thine ever ----."


All this letter, save some dozen of words which I have put above
between brackets, was mere idle talk, though the substance of the
letter was as important as any letter well could be.  It told those
that had the key, that The King will take the Viscount Castlewood's
passports and travel to England under that lord's name.  His
Majesty will be at the Lady Castlewood's house in Kensington
Square, where his friends may visit him; they are to ask for the
Lord Castlewood.  This note may have passed under Mr. Prior's eyes,
and those of our new allies the French, and taught them nothing;
though it explains sufficiently to persons in London what the event
was which was about to happen, as 'twill show those who read my
memoirs a hundred years hence, what was that errand on which
Colonel Esmond of late had been busy.  Silently and swiftly to do
that about which others were conspiring, and thousands of Jacobites
all over the country clumsily caballing; alone to effect that which
the leaders here were only talking about; to bring the Prince of
Wales into the country openly in the face of all, under Bolingbroke's
very eyes, the walls placarded with the proclamation signed with
the Secretary's name, and offering five hundred pounds reward for
his apprehension: this was a stroke, the playing and winning of
which might well give any adventurous spirit pleasure: the loss
of the stake might involve a heavy penalty, but all our family were
eager to risk that for the glorious chance of winning the game.

Nor shall it be called a game, save perhaps with the chief player,
who was not more or less sceptical than most public men with whom
he had acquaintance in that age.  (Is there ever a public man in
England that altogether believes in his party?  Is there one,
however doubtful, that will not fight for it?)  Young Frank was
ready to fight without much thinking, he was a Jacobite as his
father before him was; all the Esmonds were Royalists.  Give him
but the word, he would cry, "God save King James!" before the
palace guard, or at the Maypole in the Strand; and with respect to
the women, as is usual with them, 'twas not a question of party but
of faith; their belief was a passion; either Esmond's mistress or
her daughter would have died for it cheerfully.  I have laughed
often, talking of King William's reign, and said I thought Lady
Castlewood was disappointed the King did not persecute the family
more; and those who know the nature of women may fancy for
themselves, what needs not here be written down, the rapture with
which these neophytes received the mystery when made known to them;
the eagerness with which they looked forward to its completion; the
reverence which they paid the minister who initiated them into that
secret Truth, now known only to a few, but presently to reign over
the world.  Sure there is no bound to the trustingness of women.
Look at Arria worshipping the drunken clodpate of a husband who
beats her; look at Cornelia treasuring as a jewel in her maternal
heart the oaf her son; I have known a woman preach Jesuit's bark,
and afterwards Dr. Berkeley's tar-water, as though to swallow them
were a divine decree, and to refuse them no better than blasphemy.

On his return from France Colonel Esmond put himself at the head of
this little knot of fond conspirators.  No death or torture he knew
would frighten them out of their constancy.  When he detailed his
plan for bringing the King back, his elder mistress thought that
that Restoration was to be attributed under heaven to the
Castlewood family and to its chief, and she worshipped and loved
Esmond, if that could be, more than ever she had done.  She doubted
not for one moment of the success of his scheme, to mistrust which
would have seemed impious in her eyes.  And as for Beatrix, when
she became acquainted with the plan, and joined it, as she did with
all her heart, she gave Esmond one of her searching bright looks.
"Ah, Harry," says she, "why were you not the head of our house?
You are the only one fit to raise it; why do you give that silly
boy the name and the honor?  But 'tis so in the world; those get
the prize that don't deserve or care for it.  I wish I could give
you YOUR silly prize, cousin, but I can't; I have tried, and I
can't."  And she went away, shaking her head mournfully, but
always, it seemed to Esmond, that her liking and respect for him
was greatly increased, since she knew what capability he had both
to act and bear; to do and to forego.




CHAPTER IX.

THE ORIGINAL OF THE PORTRAIT COMES TO ENGLAND.


'Twas announced in the family that my Lord Castlewood would arrive,
having a confidential French gentleman in his suite, who acted as
secretary to his lordship, and who, being a Papist, and a foreigner
of a good family, though now in rather a menial place, would have
his meals served in his chamber, and not with the domestics of the
house.  The Viscountess gave up her bedchamber contiguous to her
daughter's, and having a large convenient closet attached to it, in
which a bed was put up, ostensibly for Monsieur Baptiste, the
Frenchman; though, 'tis needless to say, when the doors of the
apartments were locked, and the two guests retired within it, the
young viscount became the servant of the illustrious Prince whom he
entertained, and gave up gladly the more convenient and airy
chamber and bed to his master.  Madam Beatrix also retired to the
upper region, her chamber being converted into a sitting-room for
my lord.  The better to carry the deceit, Beatrix affected to
grumble before the servants, and to be jealous that she was turned
out of her chamber to make way for my lord.

No small preparations were made, you may be sure, and no slight
tremor of expectation caused the hearts of the gentle ladies of
Castlewood to flutter, before the arrival of the personages who
were about to honor their house.  The chamber was ornamented with
flowers; the bed covered with the very finest of linen; the two
ladies insisting on making it themselves, and kneeling down at the
bedside and kissing the sheets out of respect for the web that was
to hold the sacred person of a King.  The toilet was of silver and
crystal; there was a copy of "Eikon Basilike" laid on the writing-table; a portrait of the martyred King hung always over the mantel,
having a sword of my poor Lord Castlewood underneath it, and a
little picture or emblem which the widow loved always to have
before her eyes on waking, and in which the hair of her lord and
her two children was worked together.  Her books of private
devotions, as they were all of the English Church, she carried away
with her to the upper apartment, which she destined for herself.
The ladies showed Mr. Esmond, when they were completed, the fond
preparations they had made.  'Twas then Beatrix knelt down and
kissed the linen sheets.  As for her mother, Lady Castlewood made a
curtsy at the door, as she would have done to the altar on entering
a church, and owned that she considered the chamber in a manner
sacred.

The company in the servants' hall never for a moment supposed that
these preparations were made for any other person than the young
viscount, the lord of the house, whom his fond mother had been for
so many years without seeing.  Both ladies were perfect housewives,
having the greatest skill in the making of confections, scented
waters, &c., and keeping a notable superintendence over the
kitchen.  Calves enough were killed to feed an army of prodigal
sons, Esmond thought, and laughed when he came to wait on the
ladies, on the day when the guests were to arrive, to find two
pairs of the finest and roundest arms to be seen in England (my
Lady Castlewood was remarkable for this beauty of her person),
covered with flour up above the elbows, and preparing paste, and
turning rolling-pins in the housekeeper's closet.  The guest would
not arrive till supper-time, and my lord would prefer having that
meal in his own chamber.  You may be sure the brightest plate of
the house was laid out there, and can understand why it was that
the ladies insisted that they alone would wait upon the young chief
of the family.

Taking horse, Colonel Esmond rode rapidly to Rochester, and there
awaited the King in that very town where his father had last set
his foot on the English shore.  A room had been provided at an inn
there for my Lord Castlewood and his servant; and Colonel Esmond
timed his ride so well that he had scarce been half an hour in the
place, and was looking over the balcony into the yard of the inn,
when two travellers rode in at the inn gate, and the Colonel
running down, the next moment embraced his dear young lord.

My lord's companion, acting the part of a domestic, dismounted, and
was for holding the viscount's stirrup; but Colonel Esmond, calling
to his own man, who was in the court, bade him take the horses and
settle with the lad who had ridden the post along with the two
travellers, crying out in a cavalier tone in the French language to
my lord's companion, and affecting to grumble that my lord's fellow
was a Frenchman, and did not know the money or habits of the
country:--"My man will see to the horses, Baptiste," says Colonel
Esmond: "do you understand English?"  "Very leetle!"  "So, follow
my lord and wait upon him at dinner in his own room."  The landlord
and his people came up presently bearing the dishes; 'twas well
they made a noise and stir in the gallery, or they might have found
Colonel Esmond on his knee before Lord Castlewood's servant,
welcoming his Majesty to his kingdom, and kissing the hand of the
King.  We told the landlord that the Frenchman would wait on his
master; and Esmond's man was ordered to keep sentry in the gallery
without the door.  The Prince dined with a good appetite, laughing
and talking very gayly, and condescendingly bidding his two
companions to sit with him at table.  He was in better spirits than
poor Frank Castlewood, who Esmond thought might be woe-begone on
account of parting with his divine Clotilda; but the Prince wishing
to take a short siesta after dinner, and retiring to an inner
chamber where there was a bed, the cause of poor Frank's discomfiture
came out; and bursting into tears, with many expressions of fondness,
friendship, and humiliation, the faithful lad gave his kinsman to
understand that he now knew all the truth, and the sacrifices
which Colonel Esmond had made for him.

Seeing no good in acquainting poor Frank with that secret, Mr.
Esmond had entreated his mistress also not to reveal it to her son.
The Prince had told the poor lad all as they were riding from
Dover: "I had as lief he had shot me, cousin," Frank said: "I knew
you were the best, and the bravest, and the kindest of all men" (so
the enthusiastic young fellow went on); "but I never thought I owed
you what I do, and can scarce bear the weight of the obligation."

"I stand in the place of your father," says Mr. Esmond, kindly,
"and sure a father may dispossess himself in favor of his son.  I
abdicate the twopenny crown, and invest you with the kingdom of
Brentford; don't be a fool and cry; you make a much taller and
handsomer viscount than ever I could."  But the fond boy, with
oaths and protestations, laughter and incoherent outbreaks of
passionate emotion, could not be got, for some little time, to put
up with Esmond's raillery; wanted to kneel down to him, and kissed
his hand; asked him and implored him to order something, to bid
Castlewood give his own life or take somebody else's; anything, so
that he might show his gratitude for the generosity Esmond showed
him.

"The K---, HE laughed," Frank said, pointing to the door where the
sleeper was, and speaking in a low tone.  "I don't think he should
have laughed as he told me the story.  As we rode along from Dover,
talking in French, he spoke about you, and your coming to him at
Bar; he called you 'le grand serieux,' Don Bellianis of Greece, and
I don't know what names; mimicking your manner" (here Castlewood
laughed himself)--"and he did it very well.  He seems to sneer at
everything.  He is not like a king: somehow Harry, I fancy you are
like a king.  He does not seem to think what a stake we are all
playing.  He would have stopped at Canterbury to run after a
barmaid there, had I not implored him to come on.  He hath a house
at Chaillot, where he used to go and bury himself for weeks away
from the Queen, and with all sorts of bad company," says Frank,
with a demure look; "you may smile, but I am not the wild fellow I
was; no, no, I have been taught better," says Castlewood devoutly,
making a sign on his breast.

"Thou art my dear brave boy," says Colonel Esmond, touched at the
young fellow's simplicity, "and there will be a noble gentleman at
Castlewood so long as my Frank is there."

The impetuous young lad was for going down on his knees again, with
another explosion of gratitude, but that we heard the voice from
the next chamber of the august sleeper, just waking, calling out:--"Eh, La-Fleur, un verre d'eau!"  His Majesty came out yawning:--"A
pest," says he, "upon your English ale, 'tis so strong that, ma
foi, it hath turned my head."

The effect of the ale was like a spur upon our horses, and we rode
very quickly to London, reaching Kensington at nightfall.  Mr.
Esmond's servant was left behind at Rochester, to take care of the
tired horses, whilst we had fresh beasts provided along the road.
And galloping by the Prince's side the Colonel explained to the
Prince of Wales what his movements had been; who the friends were
that knew of the expedition; whom, as Esmond conceived, the Prince
should trust; entreating him, above all, to maintain the very
closest secrecy until the time should come when his Royal Highness
should appear.  The town swarmed with friends of the Prince's
cause; there were scores of correspondents with St. Germains;
Jacobites known and secret; great in station and humble; about the
Court and the Queen; in the Parliament, Church, and among the
merchants in the City.  The Prince had friends numberless in the
army, in the Privy Council, and the Officers of State.  The great
object, as it seemed, to the small band of persons who had
concerted that bold stroke, who had brought the Queen's brother
into his native country, was, that his visit should remain unknown
till the proper time came, when his presence should surprise
friends and enemies alike; and the latter should be found so
unprepared and disunited, that they should not find time to attack
him.  We feared more from his friends than from his enemies.  The
lies and tittle-tattle sent over to St. Germains by the Jacobite
agents about London, had done an incalculable mischief to his
cause, and wofully misguided him, and it was from these especially,
that the persons engaged in the present venture were anxious to
defend the chief actor in it.*

/*
     * The managers were the Bishop, who cannot be hurt by having
     his name mentioned, a very active and loyal Nonconformist
     Divine, a lady in the highest favor at Court, with whom
     Beatrix Esmond had communication, and two noblemen of the
     greatest rank, and a member of the House of Commons, who was
     implicated in more transactions than one in behalf of the
     Stuart family.
*/

The party reached London by nightfall, leaving their horses at the
Posting-House over against Westminster, and being ferried over the
water, where Lady Esmond's coach was already in waiting.  In
another hour we were all landed at Kensington, and the mistress of
the house had that satisfaction which her heart had yearned after
for many years, once more to embrace her son, who, on his side,
with all his waywardness, ever retained a most tender affection for
his parent.

She did not refrain from this expression of her feeling, though the
domestics were by, and my Lord Castlewood's attendant stood in the
hall.  Esmond had to whisper to him in French to take his hat off.
Monsieur Baptiste was constantly neglecting his part with an
inconceivable levity: more than once on the ride to London, little
observations of the stranger, light remarks, and words betokening
the greatest ignorance of the country the Prince came to govern,
had hurt the susceptibility of the two gentlemen forming his
escort; nor could either help owning in his secret mind that they
would have had his behavior otherwise, and that the laughter and
the lightness, not to say license, which characterized his talk,
scarce befitted such a great Prince, and such a solemn occasion.
Not but that he could act at proper times with spirit and dignity.
He had behaved, as we all knew, in a very courageous manner on the
field.  Esmond had seen a copy of the letter the Prince had writ
with his own hand when urged by his friends in England to abjure
his religion, and admired that manly and magnanimous reply by which
he refused to yield to the temptation.  Monsieur Baptiste took off
his hat, blushing at the hint Colonel Esmond ventured to give him,
and said:--"Tenez, elle est jolie, la petite mere.  Foi de
Chevalier! elle est charmante; mais l'autre, qui est cette nymphe,
cet astre qui brille, cette Diane qui descend sur nous?"  And he
started back, and pushed forward, as Beatrix was descending the
stair.  She was in colors for the first time at her own house; she
wore the diamonds Esmond gave her; it had been agreed between them,
that she should wear these brilliants on the day when the King
should enter the house, and a Queen she looked, radiant in charms,
and magnificent and imperial in beauty.

Castlewood himself was startled by that beauty and splendor; he
stepped back and gazed at his sister as though he had not been
aware before (nor was he very likely) how perfectly lovely she was,
and I thought blushed as he embraced her.  The Prince could not
keep his eyes off her; he quite forgot his menial part, though he
had been schooled to it, and a little light portmanteau prepared
expressly that he should carry it.  He pressed forward before my
Lord Viscount.  'Twas lucky the servants' eyes were busy in other
directions, or they must have seen that this was no servant, or at
least a very insolent and rude one.

Again Colonel Esmond was obliged to cry out, "Baptiste," in a loud
imperious voice, "have a care to the valise;" at which hint the
wilful young man ground his teeth together with something very like
a curse between them, and then gave a brief look of anything but
pleasure to his Mentor.  Being reminded, however, he shouldered the
little portmanteau, and carried it up the stair, Esmond preceding
him, and a servant with lighted tapers.  He flung down his burden
sulkily in the bedchamber:--"A Prince that will wear a crown must
wear a mask," says Mr. Esmond in French.

"Ah peste! I see how it is," says Monsieur Baptiste, continuing the
talk in French.  "The Great Serious is seriously"--"alarmed for
Monsieur Baptiste," broke in the Colonel.  Esmond neither liked the
tone with which the Prince spoke of the ladies, nor the eyes with
which he regarded them.

The bedchamber and the two rooms adjoining it, the closet and the
apartment which was to be called my lord's parlor, were already
lighted and awaiting their occupier; and the collation laid for my
lord's supper.  Lord Castlewood and his mother and sister came up
the stair a minute afterwards, and, so soon as the domestics had
quitted the apartment, Castlewood and Esmond uncovered, and the two
ladies went down on their knees before the Prince, who graciously
gave a hand to each.  He looked his part of Prince much more
naturally than that of servant, which he had just been trying, and
raised them both with a great deal of nobility, as well as kindness
in his air.  "Madam," says he, "my mother will thank your ladyship
for your hospitality to her son; for you, madam," turning to
Beatrix, "I cannot bear to see so much beauty in such a posture.
You will betray Monsieur Baptiste if you kneel to him; sure 'tis
his place rather to kneel to you."

A light shone out of her eyes; a gleam bright enough to kindle
passion in any breast.  There were times when this creature was so
handsome, that she seemed, as it were, like Venus revealing herself
a goddess in a flash of brightness.  She appeared so now; radiant,
and with eyes bright with a wonderful lustre.  A pang, as of rage
and jealousy, shot through Esmond's heart, as he caught the look
she gave the Prince; and he clenched his hand involuntarily and
looked across to Castlewood, whose eyes answered his alarm-signal,
and were also on the alert.  The Prince gave his subjects an
audience of a few minutes, and then the two ladies and Colonel
Esmond quitted the chamber.  Lady Castlewood pressed his hand as
they descended the stair, and the three went down to the lower
rooms, where they waited awhile till the travellers above should be
refreshed and ready for their meal.

Esmond looked at Beatrix, blazing with her jewels on her beautiful
neck.  "I have kept my word," says he: "And I mine," says Beatrix,
looking down on the diamonds.

"Were I the Mogul Emperor," says the Colonel, "you should have all
that were dug out of Golconda."

"These are a great deal too good for me," says Beatrix, dropping
her head on her beautiful breast,--"so are you all, all!"  And when
she looked up again, as she did in a moment, and after a sigh, her
eyes, as they gazed at her cousin, wore that melancholy and
inscrutable look which 'twas always impossible to sound.

When the time came for the supper, of which we were advertised by a
knocking overhead, Colonel Esmond and the two ladies went to the
upper apartment, where the Prince already was, and by his side the
young Viscount, of exactly the same age, shape, and with features
not dissimilar, though Frank's were the handsomer of the two.  The
Prince sat down and bade the ladies sit.  The gentlemen remained
standing: there was, indeed, but one more cover laid at the table:--"Which of you will take it?" says he.

"The head of our house," says Lady Castlewood, taking her son's
hand, and looking towards Colonel Esmond with a bow and a great
tremor of the voice; "the Marquis of Esmond will have the honor of
serving the King."

"I shall have the honor of waiting on his Royal Highness," says
Colonel Esmond, filling a cup of wine, and, as the fashion of that
day was, he presented it to the King on his knee.

"I drink to my hostess and her family," says the Prince, with no
very well-pleased air; but the cloud passed immediately off his
face, and he talked to the ladies in a lively, rattling strain,
quite undisturbed by poor Mr. Esmond's yellow countenance, that, I
dare say, looked very glum.

When the time came to take leave, Esmond marched homewards to his
lodgings, and met Mr. Addison on the road that night, walking to a
cottage he had at Fulham, the moon shining on his handsome serene
face:--"What cheer, brother?" says Addison, laughing: "I thought it
was a footpad advancing in the dark, and behold 'tis an old friend.
We may shake hands, Colonel, in the dark, 'tis better than fighting
by daylight.  Why should we quarrel, because I am a Whig and thou
art a Tory?  Turn thy steps and walk with me to Fulham, where there
is a nightingale still singing in the garden, and a cool bottle in
a cave I know of; you shall drink to the Pretender if you like, and
I will drink my liquor my own way: I have had enough of good
liquor?--no, never!  There is no such word as enough as a stopper
for good wine.  Thou wilt not come?  Come any day, come soon.  You
know I remember Simois and the Sigeia tellus, and the praelia mixta
mero, mixta mero," he repeated, with ever so slight a touch of
merum in his voice, and walked back a little way on the road with
Esmond, bidding the other remember he was always his friend, and
indebted to him for his aid in the "Campaign" poem.  And very
likely Mr. Under-Secretary would have stepped in and taken t'other
bottle at the Colonel's lodging, had the latter invited him, but
Esmond's mood was none of the gayest, and he bade his friend an
inhospitable good-night at the door.

"I have done the deed," thought he, sleepless, and looking out into
the night; "he is here, and I have brought him; he and Beatrix are
sleeping under the same roof now.  Whom did I mean to serve in
bringing him?  Was it the Prince? was it Henry Esmond?  Had I not
best have joined the manly creed of Addison yonder, that scouts the
old doctrine of right divine, that boldly declares that Parliament
and people consecrate the Sovereign, not bishops, nor genealogies,
nor oils, nor coronations."  The eager gaze of the young Prince,
watching every movement of Beatrix, haunted Esmond and pursued him.
The Prince's figure appeared before him in his feverish dreams many
times that night.  He wished the deed undone for which he had
labored so.  He was not the first that has regretted his own act,
or brought about his own undoing.  Undoing?  Should he write that
word in his late years?  No, on his knees before heaven, rather be
thankful for what then he deemed his misfortune, and which hath
caused the whole subsequent happiness of his life.

Esmond's man, honest John Lockwood, had served his master and the
family all his life, and the Colonel knew that he could answer for
John's fidelity as for his own.  John returned with the horses from
Rochester betimes the next morning, and the Colonel gave him to
understand that on going to Kensington, where he was free of the
servants' hall, and indeed courting Miss Beatrix's maid, he was to
ask no questions, and betray no surprise, but to vouch stoutly that
the young gentleman he should see in a red coat there was my Lord
Viscount Castlewood, and that his attendant in gray was Monsieur
Baptiste the Frenchman.  He was to tell his friends in the kitchen
such stories as he remembered of my Lord Viscount's youth at
Castlewood; what a wild boy he was; how he used to drill Jack and
cane him, before ever he was a soldier; everything, in fine, he
knew respecting my Lord Viscount's early days.  Jack's ideas of
painting had not been much cultivated during his residence in
Flanders with his master; and, before my young lord's return, he
had been easily got to believe that the picture brought over from
Paris, and now hanging in Lady Castlewood's drawing-room, was a
perfect likeness of her son, the young lord.  And the domestics
having all seen the picture many times, and catching but a
momentary imperfect glimpse of the two strangers on the night of
their arrival, never had a reason to doubt the fidelity of the
portrait; and next day, when they saw the original of the piece
habited exactly as he was represented in the painting, with the
same periwig, ribbons, and uniform of the Guard, quite naturally
addressed the gentleman as my Lord Castlewood, my Lady
Viscountess's son.

The secretary of the night previous was now the viscount; the
viscount wore the secretary's gray frock; and John Lockwood was
instructed to hint to the world below stairs that my lord being a
Papist, and very devout in that religion, his attendant might be no
other than his chaplain from Bruxelles; hence, if he took his meals
in my lord's company there was little reason for surprise.  Frank
was further cautioned to speak English with a foreign accent, which
task he performed indifferently well, and this caution was the more
necessary because the Prince himself scarce spoke our language like
a native of the island: and John Lockwood laughed with the folks
below stairs at the manner in which my lord, after five years
abroad, sometimes forgot his own tongue, and spoke it like a
Frenchman.  "I warrant," says he, "that, with the English beef and
beer, his lordship will soon get back the proper use of his mouth;"
and, to do his new lordship justice, he took to beer and beef very
kindly.

The Prince drank so much, and was so loud and imprudent in his talk
after his drink, that Esmond often trembled for him.  His meals
were served as much as possible in his own chamber, though
frequently he made his appearance in Lady Castlewood's parlor and
drawing-room, calling Beatrix "sister," and her ladyship "mother,"
or "madam" before the servants.  And, choosing to act entirely up
to the part of brother and son, the Prince sometimes saluted Mrs.
Beatrix and Lady Castlewood with a freedom which his secretary did
not like, and which, for his part, set Colonel Esmond tearing with
rage.

The guests had not been three days in the house when poor Jack
Lockwood came with a rueful countenance to his master, and said:
"My Lord--that is the gentleman--has been tampering with Mrs. Lucy
(Jack's sweetheart), and given her guineas and a kiss."  I fear
that Colonel Esmond's mind was rather relieved than otherwise when
he found that the ancillary beauty was the one whom the Prince had
selected.  His royal tastes were known to lie that way, and
continued so in after life.  The heir of one of the greatest names,
of the greatest kingdoms, and of the greatest misfortunes in
Europe, was often content to lay the dignity of his birth and grief
at the wooden shoes of a French chambermaid, and to repent
afterwards (for he was very devout) in ashes taken from the dust-pan.  'Tis for mortals such as these that nations suffer, that
parties struggle, that warriors fight and bleed.  A year afterwards
gallant heads were falling, and Nithsdale in escape, and
Derwentwater on the scaffold; whilst the heedless ingrate, for whom
they risked and lost all, was tippling with his seraglio of
mistresses in his petite maison of Chaillot.

Blushing to be forced to bear such an errand, Esmond had to go to
the Prince and warn him that the girl whom his Highness was bribing
was John Lockwood's sweetheart, an honest resolute man, who had
served in six campaigns, and feared nothing, and who knew that the
person calling himself Lord Castlewood was not his young master:
and the Colonel besought the Prince to consider what the effect of
a single man's jealousy might be, and to think of other designs he
had in hand, more important than the seduction of a waiting-maid,
and the humiliation of a brave man.

Ten times, perhaps, in the course of as many days, Mr. Esmond had
to warn the royal young adventurer of some imprudence or some
freedom.  He received these remonstrances very testily, save
perhaps in this affair of poor Lockwood's, when he deigned to burst
out a-laughing, and said, "What! the soubrette has peached to the
amoureux, and Crispin is angry, and Crispin has served, and Crispin
has been a corporal, has he?  Tell him we will reward his valor
with a pair of colors, and recompense his fidelity."

Colonel Esmond ventured to utter some other words of entreaty, but
the Prince, stamping imperiously, cried out, "Assez, milord: je
m'ennuye a la preche; I am not come to London to go to the sermon."
And he complained afterwards to Castlewood, that "le petit jaune,
le noir Colonel, le Marquis Misanthrope" (by which facetious names
his Royal Highness was pleased to designate Colonel Esmond),
"fatigued him with his grand airs and virtuous homilies."

The Bishop of Rochester, and other gentlemen engaged in the
transaction which had brought the Prince over, waited upon his
Royal Highness, constantly asking for my Lord Castlewood on their
arrival at Kensington, and being openly conducted to his Royal
Highness in that character, who received them either in my lady's
drawing-room below, or above in his own apartment; and all implored
him to quit the house as little as possible, and to wait there till
the signal should be given for him to appear.  The ladies
entertained him at cards, over which amusement he spent many hours
in each day and night.  He passed many hours more in drinking,
during which time he would rattle and talk very agreeably, and
especially if the Colonel was absent, whose presence always seemed
to frighten him; and the poor "Colonel Noir" took that hint as a
command accordingly, and seldom intruded his black face upon the
convivial hours of this august young prisoner.  Except for those
few persons of whom the porter had the list, Lord Castlewood was
denied to all friends of the house who waited on his lordship.  The
wound he had received had broke out again from his journey on
horseback, so the world and the domestics were informed.  And
Doctor A----,* his physician (I shall not mention his name, but he
was physician to the Queen, of the Scots nation, and a man
remarkable for his benevolence as well as his wit), gave orders
that he should be kept perfectly quiet until the wound should heal.
With this gentleman, who was one of the most active and influential
of our party, and the others before spoken of, the whole secret
lay; and it was kept with so much faithfulness, and the story we
told so simple and natural, that there was no likelihood of a
discovery except from the imprudence of the Prince himself, and an
adventurous levity that we had the greatest difficulty to control.
As for Lady Castlewood, although she scarce spoke a word, 'twas
easy to gather from her demeanor, and one or two hints she dropped,
how deep her mortification was at finding the hero whom she had
chosen to worship all her life (and whose restoration had formed
almost the most sacred part of her prayers), no more than a man,
and not a good one.  She thought misfortune might have chastened
him; but that instructress had rather rendered him callous than
humble.  His devotion, which was quite real, kept him from no sin
he had a mind to.  His talk showed good-humor, gayety, even wit
enough; but there was a levity in his acts and words that he had
brought from among those libertine devotees with whom he had been
bred, and that shocked the simplicity and purity of the English
lady, whose guest he was.  Esmond spoke his mind to Beatrix pretty
freely about the Prince, getting her brother to put in a word of
warning.  Beatrix was entirely of their opinion; she thought he was
very light, very light and reckless; she could not even see the
good looks Colonel Esmond had spoken of.  The Prince had bad teeth,
and a decided squint.  How could we say he did not squint?  His
eyes were fine, but there was certainly a cast in them.  She
rallied him at table with wonderful wit; she spoke of him
invariably as of a mere boy; she was more fond of Esmond than ever,
praised him to her brother, praised him to the Prince, when his
Royal Highness was pleased to sneer at the Colonel, and warmly
espoused his cause: "And if your Majesty does not give him the
Garter his father had, when the Marquis of Esmond comes to your
Majesty's court, I will hang myself in my own garters, or will cry
my eyes out."  "Rather than lose those," says the Prince, "he shall
be made Archbishop and Colonel of the Guard" (it was Frank
Castlewood who told me of this conversation over their supper).

/*
     * There can be very little doubt that the Doctor mentioned
     by my dear father was the famous Dr. Arbuthnot.--R. E. W.
*/

"Yes," cries she, with one of her laughs--I fancy I hear it now.
Thirty years afterwards I hear that delightful music.  "Yes, he
shall be Archbishop of Esmond and Marquis of Canterbury."

"And what will your ladyship be?" says the Prince; "you have but to
choose your place."

"I," says Beatrix, "will be mother of the maids to the Queen of his
Majesty King James the Third--Vive le Roy!" and she made him a
great curtsy, and drank a part of a glass of wine in his honor.

"The Prince seized hold of the glass and drank the last drop of
it," Castlewood said, "and my mother, looking very anxious, rose up
and asked leave to retire.  But that Trix is my mother's daughter,
Harry," Frank continued, "I don't know what a horrid fear I should
have of her.  I wish--I wish this business were over.  You are
older than I am, and wiser, and better, and I owe you everything,
and would die for you--before George I would; but I wish the end of
this were come."

Neither of us very likely passed a tranquil night; horrible doubts
and torments racked Esmond's soul: 'twas a scheme of personal
ambition, a daring stroke for a selfish end--he knew it.  What
cared he, in his heart, who was King?  Were not his very sympathies
and secret convictions on the other side--on the side of People,
Parliament, Freedom?  And here was he, engaged for a Prince that
had scarce heard the word liberty; that priests and women, tyrants
by nature, both made a tool of.  The misanthrope was in no better
humor after hearing that story, and his grim face more black and
yellow than ever.




CHAPTER X.

WE ENTERTAIN A VERY DISTINGUISHED GUEST AT KENSINGTON.


Should any clue be found to the dark intrigues at the latter end of
Queen Anne's time, or any historian be inclined to follow it,
'twill be discovered, I have little doubt, that not one of the
great personages about the Queen had a defined scheme of policy,
independent of that private and selfish interest which each was
bent on pursuing: St. John was for St. John, and Harley for Oxford,
and Marlborough for John Churchill, always; and according as they
could get help from St. Germains or Hanover, they sent over
proffers of allegiance to the Princes there, or betrayed one to the
other: one cause, or one sovereign, was as good as another to them,
so that they could hold the best place under him; and like Lockit
and Peachem, the Newgate chiefs in the "Rogues' Opera," Mr. Gay
wrote afterwards, had each in his hand documents and proofs of
treason which would hang the other, only he did not dare to use the
weapon, for fear of that one which his neighbor also carried in his
pocket.  Think of the great Marlborough, the greatest subject in
all the world, a conqueror of princes, that had marched victorious
over Germany, Flanders, and France, that had given the law to
sovereigns abroad, and been worshipped as a divinity at home,
forced to sneak out of England--his credit, honors, places, all
taken from him; his friends in the army broke and ruined; and
flying before Harley, as abject and powerless as a poor debtor
before a bailiff with a writ.  A paper, of which Harley got
possession, and showing beyond doubt that the Duke was engaged with
the Stuart family, was the weapon with which the Treasurer drove
Marlborough out of the kingdom.  He fled to Antwerp, and began
intriguing instantly on the other side, and came back to England,
as all know, a Whig and a Hanoverian.

Though the Treasurer turned out of the army and office every man,
military or civil, known to be the Duke's friend, and gave the
vacant posts among the Tory party; he, too, was playing the double
game between Hanover and St. Germains, awaiting the expected
catastrophe of the Queen's death to be Master of the State, and
offer it to either family that should bribe him best, or that the
nation should declare for.  Whichever the King was, Harley's object
was to reign over him; and to this end he supplanted the former
famous favorite, decried the actions of the war which had made
Marlborough's name illustrious, and disdained no more than the
great fallen competitor of his, the meanest arts, flatteries,
intimidations, that would secure his power.  If the greatest
satirist the world ever hath seen had writ against Harley, and not
for him, what a history had he left behind of the last years of
Queen Anne's reign!  But Swift, that scorned all mankind, and
himself not the least of all, had this merit of a faithful
partisan, that he loved those chiefs who treated him well, and
stuck by Harley bravely in his fall, as he gallantly had supported
him in his better fortune.

Incomparably more brilliant, more splendid, eloquent, accomplished
than his rival, the great St. John could be as selfish as Oxford
was, and could act the double part as skilfully as ambidextrous
Churchill.  He whose talk was always of liberty, no more shrunk
from using persecution and the pillory against his opponents than
if he had been at Lisbon and Grand Inquisitor.  This lofty patriot
was on his knees at Hanover and St. Germains too; notoriously of no
religion, he toasted Church and Queen as boldly as the stupid
Sacheverel, whom he used and laughed at; and to serve his turn, and
to overthrow his enemy, he could intrigue, coax, bully, wheedle,
fawn on the Court favorite and creep up the back-stair as silently
as Oxford, who supplanted Marlborough, and whom he himself
supplanted.  The crash of my Lord Oxford happened at this very time
whereat my history is now arrived.  He was come to the very last
days of his power, and the agent whom he employed to overthrow the
conqueror of Blenheim, was now engaged to upset the conqueror's
conqueror, and hand over the staff of government to Bolingbroke,
who had been panting to hold it.

In expectation of the stroke that was now preparing, the Irish
regiments in the French service were all brought round about
Boulogne in Picardy, to pass over if need were with the Duke of
Berwick; the soldiers of France no longer, but subjects of James
the Third of England and Ireland King.  The fidelity of the great
mass of the Scots (though a most active, resolute, and gallant Whig
party, admirably and energetically ordered and disciplined, was
known to be in Scotland too) was notoriously unshaken in their
King.  A very great body of Tory clergy, nobility, and gentry, were
public partisans of the exiled Prince; and the indifferents might
be counted on to cry King George or King James, according as either
should prevail.  The Queen, especially in her latter days, inclined
towards her own family.  The Prince was lying actually in London,
within a stone's cast of his sister's palace; the first Minister
toppling to his fall, and so tottering that the weakest push of a
woman's finger would send him down; and as for Bolingbroke, his
successor, we know on whose side his power and his splendid
eloquence would be on the day when the Queen should appear openly
before her Council and say:--"This, my lords, is my brother; here
is my father's heir, and mine after me."

During the whole of the previous year the Queen had had many and
repeated fits of sickness, fever, and lethargy, and her death had
been constantly looked for by all her attendants.  The Elector of
Hanover had wished to send his son, the Duke of Cambridge--to pay
his court to his cousin the Queen, the Elector said;--in truth, to
be on the spot when death should close her career.  Frightened
perhaps to have such a memento mori under her royal eyes, her
Majesty had angrily forbidden the young Prince's coming into
England.  Either she desired to keep the chances for her brother
open yet; or the people about her did not wish to close with the
Whig candidate till they could make terms with him.  The quarrels
of her Ministers before her face at the Council board, the pricks
of conscience very likely, the importunities of her Ministers, and
constant turmoil and agitation round about her, had weakened and
irritated the Princess extremely; her strength was giving way under
these continual trials of her temper, and from day to day it was
expected she must come to a speedy end of them.  Just before
Viscount Castlewood and his companion came from France, her Majesty
was taken ill.  The St. Anthony's fire broke out on the royal legs;
there was no hurry for the presentation of the young lord at Court,
or that person who should appear under his name; and my Lord
Viscount's wound breaking out opportunely, he was kept conveniently
in his chamber until such time as his physician would allow him to
bend his knee before the Queen.  At the commencement of July, that
influential lady, with whom it has been mentioned that our party
had relations, came frequently to visit her young friend, the Maid
of Honor, at Kensington, and my Lord Viscount (the real or
supposititious), who was an invalid at Lady Castlewood's house.

On the 27th day of July, the lady in question, who held the most
intimate post about the Queen, came in her chair from the Palace
hard by, bringing to the little party in Kensington Square
intelligence of the very highest importance.  The final blow had
been struck, and my Lord of Oxford and Mortimer was no longer
Treasurer.  The staff was as yet given to no successor, though my
Lord Bolingbroke would undoubtedly be the man.  And now the time
was come, the Queen's Abigail said: and now my Lord Castlewood
ought to be presented to the Sovereign.

After that scene which Lord Castlewood witnessed and described to
his cousin, who passed such a miserable night of mortification and
jealousy as he thought over the transaction, no doubt the three
persons who were set by nature as protectors over Beatrix came to
the same conclusion, that she must be removed from the presence of
a man whose desires towards her were expressed only too clearly;
and who was no more scrupulous in seeking to gratify them than his
father had been before him.  I suppose Esmond's mistress, her son,
and the Colonel himself, had been all secretly debating this matter
in their minds, for when Frank broke out, in his blunt way, with:--"I think Beatrix had best be anywhere but here,"--Lady Castlewood
said:--"I thank you, Frank, I have thought so, too;" and Mr.
Esmond, though he only remarked that it was not for him to speak,
showed plainly, by the delight on his countenance, how very
agreeable that proposal was to him.

"One sees that you think with us, Henry," says the viscountess,
with ever so little of sarcasm in her tone: "Beatrix is best out of
this house whilst we have our guest in it, and as soon as this
morning's business is done, she ought to quit London."

"What morning's business?" asked Colonel Esmond, not knowing what
had been arranged, though in fact the stroke next in importance to
that of bringing the Prince, and of having him acknowledged by the
Queen, was now being performed at the very moment we three were
conversing together.

The Court-lady with whom our plan was concerted, and who was a chief
agent in it, the Court physician, and the Bishop of Rochester, who
were the other two most active participators in our plan, had held
many councils in our house at Kensington and elsewhere, as to the
means best to be adopted for presenting our young adventurer to his
sister the Queen.  The simple and easy plan proposed by Colonel
Esmond had been agreed to by all parties, which was that on some
rather private day, when there were not many persons about the
Court, the Prince should appear there as my Lord Castlewood, should
be greeted by his sister in waiting, and led by that other lady into
the closet of the Queen.  And according to her Majesty's health or
humor, and the circumstances that might arise during the interview,
it was to be left to the discretion of those present at it, and to
the Prince himself, whether he should declare that it was the
Queen's own brother, or the brother of Beatrix Esmond, who kissed
her Royal hand.  And this plan being determined on, we were all
waiting in very much anxiety for the day and signal of execution.

Two mornings after that supper, it being the 27th day of July, the
Bishop of Rochester breakfasting with Lady Castlewood and her
family, and the meal scarce over, Doctor A.'s coach drove up to our
house at Kensington, and the Doctor appeared amongst the party
there, enlivening a rather gloomy company; for the mother and
daughter had had words in the morning in respect to the transactions
of that supper, and other adventures perhaps, and on the day
succeeding.  Beatrix's haughty spirit brooked remonstrances from no
superior, much less from her mother, the gentlest of creatures, whom
the girl commanded rather than obeyed.  And feeling she was wrong,
and that by a thousand coquetries (which she could no more help
exercising on every man that came near her, than the sun can help
shining on great and small) she had provoked the Prince's dangerous
admiration, and allured him to the expression of it, she was only
the more wilful and imperious the more she felt her error.

To this party, the Prince being served with chocolate in his
bedchamber, where he lay late, sleeping away the fumes of his wine,
the Doctor came, and by the urgent and startling nature of his
news, dissipated instantly that private and minor unpleasantry
under which the family of Castlewood was laboring.

He asked for the guest; the guest was above in his own apartment:
he bade Monsieur Baptiste go up to his master instantly, and
requested that MY LORD VISCOUNT CASTLEWOOD would straightway put
his uniform on, and come away in the Doctor's coach now at the
door.

He then informed Madam Beatrix what her part of the comedy was to
be:--"In half an hour," says he, "her Majesty and her favorite lady
will take the air in the Cedar-walk behind the new Banqueting-house.  Her Majesty will be drawn in a garden-chair, Madam Beatrix
Esmond and HER BROTHER, MY LORD VISCOUNT CASTLEWOOD, will be
walking in the private garden, (here is Lady Masham's key,) and
will come unawares upon the Royal party.  The man that draws the
chair will retire, and leave the Queen, the favorite, and the maid
of honor and her brother together; Mistress Beatrix will present
her brother, and then!--and then, my Lord Bishop will pray for the
result of the interview, and his Scots clerk will say Amen!  Quick,
put on your hood, Madam Beatrix; why doth not his Majesty come
down?  Such another chance may not present itself for months again."

The Prince was late and lazy, and indeed had all but lost that
chance through his indolence.  The Queen was actually about to
leave the garden just when the party reached it; the Doctor, the
Bishop, the maid of honor and her brother went off together in the
physician's coach, and had been gone half an hour when Colonel
Esmond came to Kensington Square.

The news of this errand, on which Beatrix was gone, of course for a
moment put all thoughts of private jealousy out of Colonel Esmond's
head.  In half an hour more the coach returned; the Bishop
descended from it first, and gave his arm to Beatrix, who now came
out.  His lordship went back into the carriage again, and the maid
of honor entered the house alone.  We were all gazing at her from
the upper window, trying to read from her countenance the result of
the interview from which she had just come.

She came into the drawing-room in a great tremor and very pale; she
asked for a glass of water as her mother went to meet her, and
after drinking that and putting off her hood, she began to speak--"We may all hope for the best," says she; "it has cost the Queen a
fit.  Her Majesty was in her chair in the Cedar-walk, accompanied
only by Lady ----, when we entered by the private wicket from the
west side of the garden, and turned towards her, the Doctor
following us.  They waited in a side walk hidden by the shrubs, as
we advanced towards the chair.  My heart throbbed so I scarce could
speak; but my Prince whispered, 'Courage, Beatrix,' and marched on
with a steady step.  His face was a little flushed, but he was not
afraid of the danger.  He who fought so bravely at Malplaquet fears
nothing."  Esmond and Castlewood looked at each other at this
compliment, neither liking the sound of it.

"The Prince uncovered," Beatrix continued, "and I saw the Queen
turning round to Lady Masham, as if asking who these two were.  Her
Majesty looked very pale and ill, and then flushed up; the favorite
made us a signal to advance, and I went up, leading my Prince by
the hand, quite close to the chair: 'Your Majesty will give my Lord
Viscount your hand to kiss,' says her lady, and the Queen put out
her hand, which the Prince kissed, kneeling on his knee, he who
should kneel to no mortal man or woman.

"'You have been long from England, my lord,' says the Queen: 'why
were you not here to give a home to your mother and sister?'

"'I am come, Madam, to stay now, if the Queen desires me,' says the
Prince, with another low bow.

"'You have taken a foreign wife, my lord, and a foreign religion;
was not that of England good enough for you?'

"'In returning to my father's church,' says the Prince, 'I do not
love my mother the less, nor am I the less faithful servant of your
majesty.'

"Here," says Beatrix, "the favorite gave me a little signal with
her hand to fall back, which I did, though I died to hear what
should pass; and whispered something to the Queen, which made her
Majesty start and utter one or two words in a hurried manner,
looking towards the Prince, and catching hold with her hand of the
arm of her chair.  He advanced still nearer towards it; he began to
speak very rapidly; I caught the words, 'Father, blessing,
forgiveness,'--and then presently the Prince fell on his knees;
took from his breast a paper he had there, handed it to the Queen,
who, as soon as she saw it, flung up both her arms with a scream,
and took away that hand nearest the Prince, and which he endeavored
to kiss.  He went on speaking with great animation of gesture, now
clasping his hands together on his heart, now opening them as
though to say: 'I am here, your brother, in your power.'  Lady
Masham ran round on the other side of the chair, kneeling too, and
speaking with great energy.  She clasped the Queen's hand on her
side, and picked up the paper her Majesty had let fall.  The Prince
rose and made a further speech as though he would go; the favorite
on the other hand urging her mistress, and then, running back to
the Prince, brought him back once more close to the chair.  Again
he knelt down and took the Queen's hand, which she did not
withdraw, kissing it a hundred times; my lady all the time, with
sobs and supplications, speaking over the chair.  This while the
Queen sat with a stupefied look, crumpling the paper with one hand,
as my Prince embraced the other; then of a sudden she uttered
several piercing shrieks, and burst into a great fit of hysteric
tears and laughter.  'Enough, enough, sir, for this time,' I heard
Lady Masham say: and the chairman, who had withdrawn round the
Banqueting-room, came back, alarmed by the cries.  'Quick,' says
Lady Masham, 'get some help,' and I ran towards the Doctor, who,
with the Bishop of Rochester, came up instantly.  Lady Masham
whispered the Prince he might hope for the very best; and to be
ready to-morrow; and he hath gone away to the Bishop of Rochester's
house, to meet several of his friends there.  And so the great
stroke is struck," says Beatrix, going down on her knees, and
clasping her hands.  "God save the King: God save the King!"

Beatrix's tale told, and the young lady herself calmed somewhat of
her agitation, we asked with regard to the Prince, who was absent
with Bishop Atterbury, and were informed that 'twas likely he might
remain abroad the whole day.  Beatrix's three kinsfolk looked at
one another at this intelligence: 'twas clear the same thought was
passing through the minds of all.

But who should begin to break the news?  Monsieur Baptiste, that is
Frank Castlewood, turned very red, and looked towards Esmond; the
Colonel bit his lips, and fairly beat a retreat into the window: it
was Lady Castlewood that opened upon Beatrix with the news which we
knew would do anything but please her.

"We are glad," says she, taking her daughter's hand, and speaking
in a gentle voice, "that the guest is away."

Beatrix drew back in an instant, looking round her at us three, and
as if divining a danger.  "Why glad?" says she, her breast beginning
to heave; "are you so soon tired of him?"

"We think one of us is devilishly too fond of him," cries out Frank
Castlewood.

"And which is it--you, my lord, or is it mamma, who is jealous
because he drinks my health? or is it the head of the family" (here
she turned with an imperious look towards Colonel Esmond), "who has
taken of late to preach the King sermons?"

"We do not say you are too free with his Majesty."

"I thank you, madam," says Beatrix, with a toss of the head and a
curtsey.

But her mother continued, with very great calmness and dignity--"At
least we have not said so, though we might, were it possible for a
mother to say such words to her own daughter, your father's
daughter."

"Eh? mon pere," breaks out Beatrix, "was no better than other
persons' fathers."  And again she looked towards the Colonel.

We all felt a shock as she uttered those two or three French words;
her manner was exactly imitated from that of our foreign guest.

"You had not learned to speak French a month ago, Beatrix," says
her mother, sadly, "nor to speak ill of your father."

Beatrix, no doubt, saw that slip she had made in her flurry, for
she blushed crimson: "I have learnt to honor the King," says she,
drawing up, "and 'twere as well that others suspected neither his
Majesty nor me."

"If you respected your mother a little more," Frank said, "Trix,
you would do yourself no hurt."

"I am no child," says she, turning round on him; "we have lived
very well these five years without the benefit of your advice or
example, and I intend to take neither now.  Why does not the head
of the house speak?" she went on; "he rules everything here.  When
his chaplain has done singing the psalms, will his lordship deliver
the sermon?  I am tired of the psalms."  The Prince had used almost
the very same words in regard to Colonel Esmond that the imprudent
girl repeated in her wrath.

"You show yourself a very apt scholar, madam," says the Colonel;
and, turning to his mistress, "Did your guest use these words in
your ladyship's hearing, or was it to Beatrix in private that he
was pleased to impart his opinion regarding my tiresome sermon?"

"Have you seen him alone?" cries my lord, starting up with an oath:
"by God, have you seen him alone?"

"Were he here, you wouldn't dare so to insult me; no, you would not
dare!" cries Frank's sister.  "Keep your oaths, my lord, for your
wife; we are not used here to such language.  Till you came, there
used to be kindness between me and mamma, and I cared for her when
you never did, when you were away for years with your horses and
your mistress, and your Popish wife."

"By ---," says my lord, rapping out another oath, "Clotilda is an
angel; how dare you say a word against Clotilda?"

Colonel Esmond could not refrain from a smile, to see how easy
Frank's attack was drawn off by that feint:--"I fancy Clotilda is
not the subject in hand," says Mr. Esmond, rather scornfully; "her
ladyship is at Paris, a hundred leagues off, preparing baby-linen.
It is about my Lord Castlewood's sister, and not his wife, the
question is."

"He is not my Lord Castlewood," says Beatrix, "and he knows he is
not; he is Colonel Francis Esmond's son, and no more, and he wears
a false title; and he lives on another man's land, and he knows
it."  Here was another desperate sally of the poor beleaguered
garrison, and an alerte in another quarter.  "Again, I beg your
pardon," says Esmond.  "If there are no proofs of my claim, I have
no claim.  If my father acknowledged no heir, yours was his lawful
successor, and my Lord Castlewood hath as good a right to his rank
and small estate as any man in England.  But that again is not the
question, as you know very well; let us bring our talk back to it,
as you will have me meddle in it.  And I will give you frankly my
opinion, that a house where a Prince lies all day, who respects no
woman, is no house for a young unmarried lady; that you were better
in the country than here; that he is here on a great end, from
which no folly should divert him; and that having nobly done your
part of this morning, Beatrix, you should retire off the scene
awhile, and leave it to the other actors of the play."

As the Colonel spoke with a perfect calmness and politeness, such
as 'tis to be hoped he hath always shown to women,* his mistress
stood by him on one side of the table, and Frank Castlewood on the
other, hemming in poor Beatrix, that was behind it, and, as it
were, surrounding her with our approaches.

/*
     * My dear father saith quite truly, that his manner towards
     our sex was uniformly courteous.  From my infancy upwards,
     he treated me with an extreme gentleness, as though I was a
     little lady.  I can scarce remember (though I tried him
     often) ever hearing a rough word from him, nor was he less
     grave and kind in his manner to the humblest negresses on
     his estate.  He was familiar with no one except my mother,
     and it was delightful to witness up to the very last days
     the confidence between them.  He was obeyed eagerly by all
     under him; and my mother and all her household lived in a
     constant emulation to please him, and quite a terror lest in
     any way they should offend him.  He was the humblest man
     with all this; the least exacting, the more easily
     contented; and Mr. Benson, our minister at Castlewood, who
     attended him at the last, ever said--"I know not what
     Colonel Esmond's doctrine was, but his life and death were
     those of a devout Christian."--R. E. W.
*/

Having twice sallied out and been beaten back, she now, as I
expected, tried the ultima ratio of women, and had recourse to
tears.  Her beautiful eyes filled with them; I never could bear in
her, nor in any woman, that expression of pain:--"I am alone,"
sobbed she; "you are three against me--my brother, my mother, and
you.  What have I done, that you should speak and look so unkindly
at me?  Is it my fault that the Prince should, as you say, admire
me?  Did I bring him here?  Did I do aught but what you bade me, in
making him welcome?  Did you not tell me that our duty was to die
for him?  Did you not teach me, mother, night and morning to pray
for the King, before even ourselves?  What would you have of me,
cousin, for you are the chief of the conspiracy against me; I know
you are, sir, and that my mother and brother are acting but as you
bid them; whither would you have me go?"

"I would but remove from the Prince," says Esmond, gravely, "a
dangerous temptation; heaven forbid I should say you would yield; I
would only have him free of it.  Your honor needs no guardian,
please God, but his imprudence doth.  He is so far removed from all
women by his rank, that his pursuit of them cannot but be unlawful.
We would remove the dearest and fairest of our family from the
chance of that insult, and that is why we would have you go, dear
Beatrix."

"Harry speaks like a book," says Frank, with one of his oaths,
"and, by ---, every word he saith is true.  You can't help being
handsome, Trix; no more can the Prince help following you.  My
counsel is that you go out of harm's way; for, by the Lord, were
the Prince to play any tricks with you, King as he is, or is to be,
Harry Esmond and I would have justice of him."

"Are not two such champions enough to guard me?" says Beatrix,
something sorrowfully; "sure, with you two watching, no evil could
happen to me."

"In faith, I think not, Beatrix," says Colonel Esmond; "nor if the
Prince knew us would he try."

"But does he know you?" interposed Lady Castlewood, very quiet: "he
comes of a country where the pursuit of kings is thought no
dishonor to a woman.  Let us go, dearest Beatrix.  Shall we go to
Walcote or to Castlewood?  We are best away from the city; and when
the Prince is acknowledged, and our champions have restored him,
and he hath his own house at St. James's or Windsor, we can come
back to ours here.  Do you not think so, Harry and Frank?"

Frank and Harry thought with her, you may be sure.

"We will go, then," says Beatrix, turning a little pale; "Lady
Masham is to give me warning to-night how her Majesty is, and
to-morrow--"

"I think we had best go to-day, my dear," says my Lady Castlewood;
"we might have the coach and sleep at Hounslow, and reach home
to-morrow.  'Tis twelve o'clock; bid the coach, cousin, be ready
at one."

"For shame!" burst out Beatrix, in a passion of tears and
mortification.  "You disgrace me by your cruel precautions; my own
mother is the first to suspect me, and would take me away as my
gaoler.  I will not go with you, mother; I will go as no one's
prisoner.  If I wanted to deceive, do you think I could find no
means of evading you?  My family suspects me.  As those mistrust me
that ought to love me most, let me leave them; I will go, but I
will go alone: to Castlewood, be it.  I have been unhappy there and
lonely enough; let me go back, but spare me at least the
humiliation of setting a watch over my misery, which is a trial I
can't bear.  Let me go when you will, but alone, or not at all.
You three can stay and triumph over my unhappiness, and I will bear
it as I have borne it before.  Let my gaoler-in-chief go order the
coach that is to take me away.  I thank you, Henry Esmond, for your
share in the conspiracy.  All my life long I'll thank you, and
remember you, and you, brother, and you, mother, how shall I show
my gratitude to you for your careful defence of my honor?"

She swept out of the room with the air of an empress, flinging
glances of defiance at us all, and leaving us conquerors of the
field, but scared, and almost ashamed of our victory.  It did
indeed seem hard and cruel that we three should have conspired the
banishment and humiliation of that fair creature.  We looked at
each other in silence: 'twas not the first stroke by many of our
actions in that unlucky time, which, being done, we wished undone.
We agreed it was best she should go alone, speaking stealthily to
one another, and under our breaths, like persons engaged in an act
they felt ashamed in doing.

In a half-hour, it might be, after our talk she came back, her
countenance wearing the same defiant air which it had borne when
she left us.  She held a shagreen-case in her hand; Esmond knew it
as containing his diamonds which he had given to her for her
marriage with Duke Hamilton, and which she had worn so splendidly
on the inauspicious night of the Prince's arrival.  "I have brought
back," says she, "to the Marquis of Esmond the present he deigned
to make me in days when he trusted me better than now.  I will
never accept a benefit or a kindness from Henry Esmond more, and I
give back these family diamonds, which belonged to one king's
mistress, to the gentleman that suspected I would be another.  Have
you been upon your message of coach-caller, my Lord Marquis?  Will
you send your valet to see that I do not run away?"  We were right,
yet, by her manner, she had put us all in the wrong; we were
conquerors, yet the honors of the day seemed to be with the poor
oppressed girl.

That luckless box containing the stones had first been ornamented
with a baron's coronet, when Beatrix was engaged to the young
gentleman from whom she parted, and afterwards the gilt crown of a
duchess figured on the cover, which also poor Beatrix was destined
never to wear.  Lady Castlewood opened the case mechanically and
scarce thinking what she did; and behold, besides the diamonds,
Esmond's present, there lay in the box the enamelled miniature of
the late Duke, which Beatrix had laid aside with her mourning when
the King came into the house; and which the poor heedless thing
very likely had forgotten.

"Do you leave this, too, Beatrix?" says her mother, taking the
miniature out, and with a cruelty she did not very often show; but
there are some moments when the tenderest women are cruel, and some
triumphs which angels can't forego.*

/*
     * This remark shows how unjustly and contemptuously even the
     best of men will sometimes judge of our sex.  Lady
     Castlewood had no intention of triumphing over her daughter;
     but from a sense of duty alone pointed out her deplorable
     wrong.--H. E.
*/

Having delivered this stab, Lady Castlewood was frightened at the
effect of her blow.  It went to poor Beatrix's heart: she flushed
up and passed a handkerchief across her eyes, and kissed the
miniature, and put it into her bosom:--"I had forgot it," says she;
"my injury made me forget my grief: my mother has recalled both to
me.  Farewell, mother; I think I never can forgive you; something
hath broke between us that no tears nor years can repair.  I always
said I was alone; you never loved me, never--and were jealous of me
from the time I sat on my father's knee.  Let me go away, the
sooner the better: I can bear to be with you no more."

"Go, child," says her mother, still very stern; "go and bend your
proud knees and ask forgiveness; go, pray in solitude for humility
and repentance.  'Tis not your reproaches that make me unhappy,
'tis your hard heart, my poor Beatrix; may God soften it, and teach
you one day to feel for your mother."

If my mistress was cruel, at least she never could be got to own as
much.  Her haughtiness quite overtopped Beatrix's; and, if the girl
had a proud spirit, I very much fear it came to her by inheritance.




CHAPTER XI.

OUR GUEST QUITS US AS NOT BEING HOSPITABLE ENOUGH.


Beatrix's departure took place within an hour, her maid going with
her in the post-chaise, and a man armed on the coach-box to prevent
any danger of the road.  Esmond and Frank thought of escorting the
carriage, but she indignantly refused their company, and another
man was sent to follow the coach, and not to leave it till it had
passed over Hounslow Heath on the next day.  And these two forming
the whole of Lady Castlewood's male domestics, Mr. Esmond's
faithful John Lockwood came to wait on his mistress during their
absence, though he would have preferred to escort Mrs. Lucy, his
sweetheart, on her journey into the country.

We had a gloomy and silent meal; it seemed as if a darkness was
over the house, since the bright face of Beatrix had been withdrawn
from it.  In the afternoon came a message from the favorite to
relieve us somewhat from this despondency.  "The Queen hath been
much shaken," the note said; "she is better now, and all things
will go well.  Let MY LORD CASTLEWOOD be ready against we send for
him."

At night there came a second billet: "There hath been a great
battle in Council; Lord Treasurer hath broke his staff, and hath
fallen never to rise again; no successor is appointed.  Lord B----receives a great Whig company to-night at Golden Square.  If he is
trimming, others are true; the Queen hath no more fits, but is
a-bed now, and more quiet.  Be ready against morning, when I still
hope all will be well."

The Prince came home shortly after the messenger who bore this
billet had left the house.  His Royal Highness was so much the
better for the Bishop's liquor, that to talk affairs to him now was
of little service.  He was helped to the Royal bed; he called
Castlewood familiarly by his own name; he quite forgot the part
upon the acting of which his crown, his safety, depended.  'Twas
lucky that my Lady Castlewood's servants were out of the way, and
only those heard him who would not betray him.  He inquired after
the adorable Beatrix, with a royal hiccup in his voice; he was
easily got to bed, and in a minute or two plunged in that deep
slumber and forgetfulness with which Bacchus rewards the votaries
of that god.  We wished Beatrix had been there to see him in his
cups.  We regretted, perhaps, that she was gone.

One of the party at Kensington Square was fool enough to ride to
Hounslow that night, coram latronibus, and to the inn which the
family used ordinarily in their journeys out of London.  Esmond
desired my landlord not to acquaint Madam Beatrix with his coming,
and had the grim satisfaction of passing by the door of the chamber
where she lay with her maid, and of watching her chariot set forth
in the early morning.  He saw her smile and slip money into the
man's hand who was ordered to ride behind the coach as far as
Bagshot.  The road being open, and the other servant armed, it
appeared she dispensed with the escort of a second domestic; and
this fellow, bidding his young mistress adieu with many bows, went
and took a pot of ale in the kitchen, and returned in company with
his brother servant, John Coachman, and his horses, back to London.

They were not a mile out of Hounslow when the two worthies stopped
for more drink, and here they were scared by seeing Colonel Esmond
gallop by them.  The man said in reply to Colonel Esmond's stern
question, that his young mistress had sent her duty; only that, no
other message: she had had a very good night, and would reach
Castlewood by nightfall.  The Colonel had no time for further
colloquy, and galloped on swiftly to London, having business of
great importance there, as my reader very well knoweth.  The
thought of Beatrix riding away from the danger soothed his mind not
a little.  His horse was at Kensington Square (honest Dapple knew
the way thither well enough) before the tipsy guest of last night
was awake and sober.

The account of the previous evening was known all over the town
early next day.  A violent altercation had taken place before the
Queen in the Council Chamber; and all the coffee-houses had their
version of the quarrel.  The news brought my Lord Bishop early to
Kensington Square, where he awaited the waking of his Royal master
above stairs, and spoke confidently of having him proclaimed as
Prince of Wales and heir to the throne before that day was over.
The Bishop had entertained on the previous afternoon certain of the
most influential gentlemen of the true British party.  His Royal
highness had charmed all, both Scots and English, Papists and
Churchmen: "Even Quakers," says he, "were at our meeting; and, if
the stranger took a little too much British punch and ale, he will
soon grow more accustomed to those liquors; and my Lord
Castlewood," says the Bishop with a laugh, "must bear the cruel
charge of having been for once in his life a little tipsy.  He
toasted your lovely sister a dozen times, at which we all laughed,"
says the Bishop, "admiring so much fraternal affection.--Where is
that charming nymph, and why doth she not adorn your ladyship's
tea-table with her bright eyes?"

Her ladyship said, dryly, that Beatrix was not at home that
morning; my Lord Bishop was too busy with great affairs to trouble
himself much about the presence or absence of any lady, however
beautiful.

We were yet at table when Dr. A---- came from the Palace with a
look of great alarm; the shocks the Queen had had the day before
had acted on her severely; he had been sent for, and had ordered
her to be blooded.  The surgeon of Long Acre had come to cup the
Queen, and her Majesty was now more easy and breathed more freely.
What made us start at the name of Mr. Ayme?  "Il faut etre aimable
pour etre aime," says the merry Doctor; Esmond pulled his sleeve,
and bade him hush.  It was to Ayme's house, after his fatal duel,
that my dear Lord Castlewood, Frank's father, had been carried to
die.

No second visit could be paid to the Queen on that day at any rate;
and when our guest above gave his signal that he was awake, the
Doctor, the Bishop, and Colonel Esmond waited upon the Prince's
levee, and brought him their news, cheerful or dubious.  The Doctor
had to go away presently, but promised to keep the Prince constantly
acquainted with what was taking place at the Palace hard by.  His
counsel was, and the Bishop's, that as soon as ever the Queen's
malady took a favorable turn, the Prince should be introduced to her
bedside; the Council summoned; the guard at Kensington and St.
James's, of which two regiments were to be entirely relied on, and
one known not to be hostile, would declare for the Prince, as the
Queen would before the Lords of her Council, designating him as the
heir to her throne.

With locked doors, and Colonel Esmond acting as secretary, the
Prince and his Lordship of Rochester passed many hours of this day,
composing Proclamations and Addresses to the Country, to the Scots,
to the Clergy, to the People of London and England; announcing the
arrival of the exile descendant of three sovereigns, and his
acknowledgment by his sister as heir to the throne.  Every safeguard
for their liberties, the Church and People could ask, was promised
to them.  The Bishop could answer for the adhesion of very many
prelates, who besought of their flocks and brother ecclesiastics to
recognize the sacred right of the future sovereign, and to purge the
country of the sin of rebellion.

During the composition of these papers, more messengers than one
came from the Palace regarding the state of the august patient
there lying.  At mid-day she was somewhat better; at evening the
torpor again seized her, and she wandered in her mind.  At night
Dr. A---- was with us again, with a report rather more favorable:
no instant danger at any rate was apprehended.  In the course of
the last two years her Majesty had had many attacks similar, but
more severe.

By this time we had finished a half-dozen of Proclamations, (the
wording of them so as to offend no parties, and not to give umbrage
to Whigs or Dissenters, required very great caution,) and the young
Prince, who had indeed shown, during a long day's labor, both
alacrity at seizing the information given him, and ingenuity and
skill in turning the phrases which were to go out signed by his
name, here exhibited a good-humor and thoughtfulness that ought to
be set down to his credit.

"Were these papers to be mislaid," says he, "or our scheme to come
to mishap, my Lord Esmond's writing would bring him to a place
where I heartily hope never to see him; and so, by your leave, I
will copy the papers myself, though I am not very strong in
spelling; and if they are found they will implicate none but the
person they most concern;" and so, having carefully copied the
Proclamations out, the Prince burned those in Colonel Esmond's
handwriting: "And now, and now, gentlemen," says he, "let us go to
supper, and drink a glass with the ladies.  My Lord Esmond, you
will sup with us to-night; you have given us of late too little of
your company."

The Prince's meals were commonly served in the chamber which had
been Beatrix's bedroom, adjoining that in which he slept.  And the
dutiful practice of his entertainers was to wait until their Royal
guest bade them take their places at table before they sat down to
partake of the meal.  On this night, as you may suppose, only Frank
Castlewood and his mother were in waiting when the supper was
announced to receive the Prince; who had passed the whole of the
day in his own apartment, with the Bishop as his Minister of State,
and Colonel Esmond officiating as Secretary of his Council.

The Prince's countenance wore an expression by no means pleasant;
when looking towards the little company assembled, and waiting for
him, he did not see Beatrix's bright face there as usual to greet
him.  He asked Lady Esmond for his fair introducer of yesterday:
her ladyship only cast her eyes down, and said quietly, Beatrix
could not be of the supper that night; nor did she show the least
sign of confusion, whereas Castlewood turned red, and Esmond was no
less embarrassed.  I think women have an instinct of dissimulation;
they know by nature how to disguise their emotions far better than
the most consummate male courtiers can do.  Is not the better part
of the life of many of them spent in hiding their feelings, in
cajoling their tyrants, in masking over with fond smiles and artful
gayety, their doubt, or their grief, or their terror?

Our guest swallowed his supper very sulkily; it was not till the
second bottle his Highness began to rally.  When Lady Castlewood
asked leave to depart, he sent a message to Beatrix, hoping she
would be present at the next day's dinner, and applied himself to
drink, and to talk afterwards, for which there was subject in
plenty.

The next day, we heard from our informer at Kensington that the
Queen was somewhat better, and had been up for an hour, though she
was not well enough yet to receive any visitor.

At dinner a single cover was laid for his Royal Highness; and the
two gentlemen alone waited on him.  We had had a consultation in
the morning with Lady Castlewood, in which it had been determined
that, should his Highness ask further questions about Beatrix, he
should be answered by the gentlemen of the house.

He was evidently disturbed and uneasy, looking towards the door
constantly, as if expecting some one.  There came, however, nobody,
except honest John Lockwood, when he knocked with a dish, which
those within took from him; so the meals were always arranged, and
I believe the council in the kitchen were of opinion that my young
lord had brought over a priest, who had converted us all into
Papists, and that Papists were like Jews, eating together, and not
choosing to take their meals in the sight of Christians.

The Prince tried to cover his displeasure; he was but a clumsy
dissembler at that time, and when out of humor could with
difficulty keep a serene countenance; and having made some foolish
attempts at trivial talk, he came to his point presently, and in as
easy a manner as he could, saying to Lord Castlewood, he hoped, he
requested, his lordship's mother and sister would be of the supper
that night.  As the time hung heavy on him, and he must not go
abroad, would not Miss Beatrix hold him company at a game of cards?

At this, looking up at Esmond, and taking the signal from him, Lord
Castlewood informed his Royal Highness* that his sister Beatrix was
not at Kensington; and that her family had thought it best she
should quit the town.

/*
     * In London we addressed the Prince as Royal Highness
     invariably, though the women persisted in giving him the
     title of King.
*/

"Not at Kensington!" says he; "is she ill? she was well yesterday;
wherefore should she quit the town?  Is it at your orders, my lord,
or Colonel Esmond's, who seems the master of this house?"

"Not of this, sir," says Frank very nobly, "only of our house in
the country, which he hath given to us.  This is my mother's house,
and Walcote is my father's, and the Marquis of Esmond knows he hath
but to give his word, and I return his to him."

"The Marquis of Esmond!--the Marquis of Esmond," says the Prince,
tossing off a glass, "meddles too much with my affairs, and
presumes on the service he hath done me.  If you want to carry your
suit with Beatrix, my lord, by blocking her up in gaol, let me tell
you that is not the way to win a woman."

"I was not aware, sir, that I had spoken of my suit to Madam
Beatrix to your Royal Highness."

"Bah, bah, Monsieur! we need not be a conjurer to see that.  It
makes itself seen at all moments.  You are jealous, my lord, and
the maid of honor cannot look at another face without yours
beginning to scowl.  That which you do is unworthy, Monsieur; is
inhospitable--is, is lache, yes, lache: (he spoke rapidly in
French, his rage carrying him away with each phrase:) "I come to
your house; I risk my life; I pass it in ennui; I repose myself on
your fidelity; I have no company but your lordship's sermons or the
conversations of that adorable young lady, and you take her from
me, and you, you rest!  Merci, Monsieur!  I shall thank you when I
have the means; I shall know to recompense a devotion a little
importunate, my lord--a little importunate.  For a month past your
airs of protector have annoyed me beyond measure.  You deign to
offer me the crown, and bid me take it on my knees like King John--eh! I know my history, Monsieur, and mock myself of frowning
barons.  I admire your mistress, and you send her to a Bastile of
the Province; I enter your house, and you mistrust me.  I will
leave it, Monsieur; from to-night I will leave it.  I have other
friends whose loyalty will not be so ready to question mine.  If I
have garters to give away, 'tis to noblemen who are not so ready to
think evil.  Bring me a coach and let me quit this place, or let
the fair Beatrix return to it.  I will not have your hospitality at
the expense of the freedom of that fair creature."

This harangue was uttered with rapid gesticulation such as the
French use, and in the language of that nation.  The Prince
striding up and down the room; his face flushed, and his hands
trembling with anger.  He was very thin and frail from repeated
illness and a life of pleasure.  Either Castlewood or Esmond could
have broke him across their knee, and in half a minute's struggle
put an end to him; and here he was insulting us both, and scarce
deigning to hide from the two, whose honor it most concerned, the
passion he felt for the young lady of our family.  My Lord
Castlewood replied to the Prince's tirade very nobly and simply.

"Sir," says he, "your Royal Highness is pleased to forget that
others risk their lives, and for your cause.  Very few Englishmen,
please God, would dare to lay hands on your sacred person, though
none would ever think of respecting ours.  Our family's lives are
at your service, and everything we have except our honor."

"Honor! bah, sir, who ever thought of hurting your honor?" says the
Prince with a peevish air.

"We implore your Royal Highness never to think of hurting it," says
Lord Castlewood with a low bow.  The night being warm, the windows
were open both towards the Gardens and the Square.  Colonel Esmond
heard through the closed door the voice of the watchman calling the
hour, in the square on the other side.  He opened the door
communicating with the Prince's room; Martin, the servant that had
rode with Beatrix to Hounslow, was just going out of the chamber as
Esmond entered it, and when the fellow was gone, and the watchman
again sang his cry of "Past ten o'clock, and a starlight night,"
Esmond spoke to the Prince in a low voice, and said--"Your Royal
Highness hears that man."

"Apres, Monsieur?" says the Prince.

"I have but to beckon him from the window, and send him fifty
yards, and he returns with a guard of men, and I deliver up to him
the body of the person calling himself James the Third, for whose
capture Parliament hath offered a reward of 500L., as your Royal
Highness saw on our ride from Rochester.  I have but to say the
word, and, by the heaven that made me, I would say it if I thought
the Prince, for his honor's sake, would not desist from insulting
ours.  But the first gentleman of England knows his duty too well
to forget himself with the humblest, or peril his crown for a deed
that were shameful if it were done."

"Has your lordship anything to say," says the Prince, turning to
Frank Castlewood, and quite pale with anger; "any threat or any
insult, with which you would like to end this agreeable night's
entertainment?"

"I follow the head of our house," says Castlewood, bowing gravely.
"At what time shall it please the Prince that we should wait upon
him in the morning?"

"You will wait on the Bishop of Rochester early, you will bid him
bring his coach hither; and prepare an apartment for me in his own
house, or in a place of safety.  The King will reward you handsomely,
never fear, for all you have done in his behalf.  I wish you a good
night, and shall go to bed, unless it pleases the Marquis of Esmond
to call his colleague, the watchman, and that I should pass the
night with the Kensington guard.  Fare you well, be sure I will
remember you.  My Lord Castlewood, I can go to bed to-night without
need of a chamberlain."  And the Prince dismissed us with a grim
bow, locking one door as he spoke, that into the supping-room, and
the other through which we passed, after us.  It led into the small
chamber which Frank Castlewood or MONSIEUR BAPTISTE occupied, and by
which Martin entered when Colonel Esmond but now saw him in the
chamber.

At an early hour next morning the Bishop arrived, and was closeted
for some time with his master in his own apartment, where the
Prince laid open to his counsellor the wrongs which, according to
his version, he had received from the gentlemen of the Esmond
family.  The worthy prelate came out from the conference with an
air of great satisfaction; he was a man full of resources, and of a
most assured fidelity, and possessed of genius, and a hundred good
qualities; but captious and of a most jealous temper, that could
not help exulting at the downfall of any favorite; and he was
pleased in spite of himself to hear that the Esmond Ministry was at
an end.

"I have soothed your guest," says he, coming out to the two
gentlemen and the widow; who had been made acquainted with somewhat
of the dispute of the night before.  (By the version we gave her,
the Prince was only made to exhibit anger because we doubted of his
intentions in respect to Beatrix; and to leave us, because we
questioned his honor.)  "But I think, all things considered, 'tis
as well he should leave this house; and then, my Lady Castlewood,"
says the Bishop, "my pretty Beatrix may come back to it."

"She is quite as well at home at Castlewood," Esmond's mistress
said, "till everything is over."

"You shall have your title, Esmond, that I promise you," says the
good Bishop, assuming the airs of a Prime Minister.  "The Prince
hath expressed himself most nobly in regard of the little
difference of last night, and I promise you he hath listened to my
sermon, as well as to that of other folks," says the Doctor,
archly; "he hath every great and generous quality, with perhaps a
weakness for the sex which belongs to his family, and hath been
known in scores of popular sovereigns from King David downwards."

"My lord, my lord!" breaks out Lady Esmond, "the levity with which
you speak of such conduct towards our sex shocks me, and what you
call weakness I call deplorable sin."

"Sin it is, my dear creature," says the Bishop, with a shrug,
taking snuff; "but consider what a sinner King Solomon was, and in
spite of a thousand of wives too."

"Enough of this, my lord," says Lady Castlewood, with a fine blush,
and walked out of the room very stately.

The Prince entered it presently with a smile on his face, and if he
felt any offence against us on the previous night, at present
exhibited none.  He offered a hand to each gentleman with great
courtesy.  "If all your bishops preach so well as Doctor
Atterbury." says he, "I don't know, gentlemen, what may happen to
me.  I spoke very hastily, my lords, last night, and ask pardon of
both of you.  But I must not stay any longer," says he, "giving
umbrage to good friends, or keeping pretty girls away from their
homes.  My Lord Bishop hath found a safe place for me, hard by at a
curate's house, whom the Bishop can trust, and whose wife is so
ugly as to be beyond all danger; we will decamp into those new
quarters, and I leave you, thanking you for a hundred kindnesses
here.  Where is my hostess, that I may bid her farewell; to welcome
her in a house of my own, soon, I trust, where my friends shall
have no cause to quarrel with me."

Lady Castlewood arrived presently, blushing with great grace, and
tears filling her eyes as the Prince graciously saluted her.  She
looked so charming and young, that the doctor, in his bantering
way, could not help speaking of her beauty to the Prince; whose
compliment made her blush, and look more charming still.




CHAPTER XII.

A GREAT SCHEME, AND WHO BALKED IT.


As characters written with a secret ink come out with the
application of fire, and disappear again and leave the paper white,
as soon as it is cool; a hundred names of men, high in repute and
favoring the Prince's cause, that were writ in our private lists,
would have been visible enough on the great roll of the conspiracy,
had it ever been laid open under the sun.  What crowds would have
pressed forward, and subscribed their names and protested their
loyalty, when the danger was over!  What a number of Whigs, now
high in place and creatures of the all-powerful Minister, scorned
Mr. Walpole then!  If ever a match was gained by the manliness and
decision of a few at a moment of danger; if ever one was lost by
the treachery and imbecility of those that had the cards in their
hands, and might have played them, it was in that momentous game
which was enacted in the next three days, and of which the noblest
crown in the world was the stake.

From the conduct of my Lord Bolingbroke, those who were interested
in the scheme we had in hand, saw pretty well that he was not to be
trusted.  Should the Prince prevail, it was his lordship's gracious
intention to declare for him: should the Hanoverian party bring in
their sovereign, who more ready to go on his knee, and cry, "God
Save King George?"  And he betrayed the one Prince and the other;
but exactly at the wrong time.  When he should have struck for King
James, he faltered and coquetted with the Whigs; and having
committed himself by the most monstrous professions of devotion,
which the Elector rightly scorned, he proved the justness of their
contempt for him by flying and taking renegade service with St.
Germains, just when he should have kept aloof: and that Court
despised him, as the manly and resolute men who established the
Elector in England had before done.  He signed his own name to
every accusation of insincerity his enemies made against him; and
the King and the Pretender alike could show proofs of St. John's
treachery under his own hand and seal.

Our friends kept a pretty close watch upon his motions, as on those
of the brave and hearty Whig party, that made little concealment of
theirs.  They would have in the Elector, and used every means in
their power to effect their end.  My Lord Marlborough was now with
them.  His expulsion from power by the Tories had thrown that great
captain at once on the Whig side.  We heard he was coming from
Antwerp; and, in fact, on the day of the Queen's death, he once
more landed on English shore.  A great part of the army was always
with their illustrious leader; even the Tories in it were indignant
at the injustice of the persecution which the Whig officers were
made to undergo.  The chiefs of these were in London, and at the
head of them one of the most intrepid men in the world, the Scots
Duke of Argyle, whose conduct on the second day after that to which
I have now brought down my history, ended, as such honesty and
bravery deserved to end, by establishing the present Royal race on
the English throne.

Meanwhile there was no slight difference of opinion amongst the
councillors surrounding the Prince, as to the plan his Highness
should pursue.  His female Minister at Court, fancying she saw some
amelioration in the Queen, was for waiting a few days, or hours it
might be, until he could be brought to her bedside, and
acknowledged as her heir.  Mr. Esmond was for having him march
thither, escorted by a couple of troops of Horse Guards, and openly
presenting himself to the Council.  During the whole of the night
of the 29th-30th July, the Colonel was engaged with gentlemen of
the military profession, whom 'tis needless here to name; suffice
it to say that several of them had exceeding high rank in the army,
and one of them in especial was a General, who, when he heard the
Duke of Marlborough was coming on the other side, waved his crutch
over his head with a huzzah, at the idea that he should march out
and engage him.  Of the three Secretaries of State, we knew that
one was devoted to us.  The Governor of the Tower was ours; the two
companies on duty at Kensington barrack were safe; and we had
intelligence, very speedy and accurate, of all that took place at
the Palace within.

At noon, on the 30th of July, a message came to the Prince's
friends that the Committee of Council was sitting at Kensington
Palace, their Graces of Ormonde and Shrewsbury, the Archbishop of
Canterbury and the three Secretaries of State, being there
assembled.  In an hour afterwards, hurried news was brought that
the two great Whig Dukes, Argyle and Somerset, had broke into the
Council-chamber without a summons, and taken their seat at table.
After holding a debate there, the whole party proceeded to the
chamber of the Queen, who was lying in great weakness, but still
sensible, and the Lords recommended his Grace of Shrewsbury as the
fittest person to take the vacant place of Lord Treasurer; her
Majesty gave him the staff, as all know.  "And now," writ my
messenger from Court, "NOW OR NEVER IS THE TIME."

Now or never was the time indeed.  In spite of the Whig Dukes, our
side had still the majority in the Council, and Esmond, to whom the
message had been brought, (the personage at Court not being aware
that the Prince had quitted his lodging in Kensington Square,) and
Esmond's gallant young aide-de-camp, Frank Castlewood, putting on
sword and uniform, took a brief leave of their dear lady, who
embraced and blessed them both, and went to her chamber to pray for
the issue of the great event which was then pending.

Castlewood sped to the barrack to give warning to the captain of
the Guard there; and then went to the "King's Arms" tavern at
Kensington, where our friends were assembled, having come by
parties of twos and threes, riding or in coaches, and were got
together in the upper chamber, fifty-three of them; their servants,
who had been instructed to bring arms likewise, being below in the
garden of the tavern, where they were served with drink.  Out of
this garden is a little door that leads into the road of the
Palace, and through this it was arranged that masters and servants
were to march; when that signal was given, and that Personage
appeared, for whom all were waiting.  There was in our company the
famous officer next in command to the Captain-General of the
Forces, his Grace the Duke of Ormonde, who was within at the
Council.  There were with him two more lieutenant-generals, nine
major-generals and brigadiers, seven colonels, eleven Peers of
Parliament, and twenty-one members of the House of Commons.  The
Guard was with us within and without the Palace: the Queen was with
us; the Council (save the two Whig Dukes, that must have
succumbed); the day was our own, and with a beating heart Esmond
walked rapidly to the Mall of Kensington, where he had parted with
the Prince on the night before.  For three nights the Colonel had
not been to bed: the last had been passed summoning the Prince's
friends together, of whom the great majority had no sort of inkling
of the transaction pending until they were told that he was
actually on the spot, and were summoned to strike the blow.  The
night before and after the altercation with the Prince, my
gentleman, having suspicions of his Royal Highness, and fearing
lest he should be minded to give us the slip, and fly off after his
fugitive beauty, had spent, if the truth must be told, at the
"Greyhound" tavern, over against my Lady Castlewood's house in
Kensington Square, with an eye on the door, lest the Prince should
escape from it.  The night before that he had passed in his boots
at the "Crown" at Hounslow, where he must watch forsooth all night,
in order to get one moment's glimpse of Beatrix in the morning.
And fate had decreed that he was to have a fourth night's ride and
wakefulness before his business was ended.

He ran to the curate's house in Kensington Mall, and asked for Mr.
Bates, the name the Prince went by.  The curate's wife said Mr.
Bates had gone abroad very early in the morning in his boots,
saying he was going to the Bishop of Rochester's house at Chelsey.
But the Bishop had been at Kensington himself two hours ago to seek
for Mr. Bates, and had returned in his coach to his own house, when
he heard that the gentleman was gone thither to seek him.

This absence was most unpropitious, for an hour's delay might cost
a kingdom; Esmond had nothing for it but to hasten to the "King's
Arms," and tell the gentlemen there assembled that Mr. George (as
we called the Prince there) was not at home, but that Esmond would
go fetch him; and taking a General's coach that happened to be
there, Esmond drove across the country to Chelsey, to the Bishop's
house there.

The porter said two gentlemen were with his lordship, and Esmond
ran past this sentry up to the locked door of the Bishop's study,
at which he rattled, and was admitted presently.  Of the Bishop's
guests one was a brother prelate, and the other the Abbe G----.

"Where is Mr. George?" says Mr. Esmond; "now is the time."  The
Bishop looked scared: "I went to his lodging," he said, "and they
told me he was come hither.  I returned as quick as coach would
carry me; and he hath not been here."

The Colonel burst out with an oath; that was all he could say to
their reverences; ran down the stairs again, and bidding the
coachman, an old friend and fellow-campaigner, drive as if he was
charging the French with his master at Wynendael--they were back at
Kensington in half an hour.

Again Esmond went to the curate's house.  Mr. Bates had not
returned.  The Colonel had to go with this blank errand to the
gentlemen at the "King's Arms," that were grown very impatient by
this time.

Out of the window of the tavern, and looking over the garden wall,
you can see the green before Kensington Palace, the Palace gate
(round which the Ministers' coaches were standing), and the barrack
building.  As we were looking out from this window in gloomy
discourse, we heard presently trumpets blowing, and some of us ran
to the window of the front-room, looking into the High Street of
Kensington, and saw a regiment of Horse coming.

"It's Ormonde's Guards," says one.

"No, by God, it's Argyle's old regiment!" says my General, clapping
down his crutch.

It was, indeed, Argyle's regiment that was brought from Westminster,
and that took the place of the regiment at Kensington on which we
could rely.

"Oh, Harry!" says one of the generals there present, "you were born
under an unlucky star; I begin to think that there's no Mr. George,
nor Mr. Dragon either.  'Tis not the peerage I care for, for our
name is so ancient and famous, that merely to be called Lord
Lydiard would do me no good; but 'tis the chance you promised me of
fighting Marlborough."

As we were talking, Castlewood entered the room with a disturbed
air.

"What news, Frank?" says the Colonel.  "Is Mr. George coming at
last?"

"Damn him, look here!" says Castlewood, holding out a paper.  "I
found it in the book--the what you call it, 'Eikum Basilikum,'--that villain Martin put it there--he said his young mistress bade
him.  It was directed to me, but it was meant for him I know, and I
broke the seal and read it."

The whole assembly of officers seemed to swim away before Esmond's
eyes as he read the paper; all that was written on it was:--"Beatrix Esmond is sent away to prison, to Castlewood, where she
will pray for happier days."

"Can you guess where he is?" says Castlewood.

"Yes," says Colonel Esmond.  He knew full well, Frank knew full
well: our instinct told whither that traitor had fled.

He had courage to turn to the company and say, "Gentlemen, I fear
very much that Mr. George will not be here to-day; something hath
happened--and--and--I very much fear some accident may befall him,
which must keep him out of the way.  Having had your noon's
draught, you had best pay the reckoning and go home; there can be
no game where there is no one to play it."

Some of the gentlemen went away without a word, others called to
pay their duty to her Majesty and ask for her health.  The little
army disappeared into the darkness out of which it had been called;
there had been no writings, no paper to implicate any man.  Some
few officers and Members of Parliament had been invited over night
to breakfast at the "King's Arms," at Kensington; and they had
called for their bill and gone home.




CHAPTER XIII.

AUGUST 1ST, 1714.


"Does my mistress know of this?" Esmond asked of Frank, as they
walked along.

"My mother found the letter in the book, on the toilet-table.  She
had writ it ere she had left home," Frank said.  "Mother met her on
the stairs, with her hand upon the door, trying to enter, and never
left her after that till she went away.  He did not think of
looking at it there, nor had Martin the chance of telling him.  I
believe the poor devil meant no harm, though I half killed him; he
thought 'twas to Beatrix's brother he was bringing the letter."

Frank never said a word of reproach to me for having brought the
villain amongst us.  As we knocked at the door I said, "When will
the horses be ready?"  Frank pointed with his cane, they were
turning the street that moment.

We went up and bade adieu to our mistress; she was in a dreadful
state of agitation by this time, and that Bishop was with her whose
company she was so fond of.

"Did you tell him, my lord," says Esmond, "that Beatrix was at
Castlewood?"  The Bishop blushed and stammered: "Well," says he,
"I . . ."

"You served the villain right," broke out Mr. Esmond, "and he has
lost a crown by what you told him."

My mistress turned quite white, "Henry, Henry," says she, "do not
kill him."

"It may not be too late," says Esmond; "he may not have gone to
Castlewood; pray God, it is not too late."  The Bishop was breaking
out with some banale phrases about loyalty, and the sacredness of
the Sovereign's person; but Esmond sternly bade him hold his
tongue, burn all papers, and take care of Lady Castlewood; and in
five minutes he and Frank were in the saddle, John Lockwood behind
them, riding towards Castlewood at a rapid pace.

We were just got to Alton, when who should meet us but old
Lockwood, the porter from Castlewood, John's father, walking by the
side of the Hexton flying-coach, who slept the night at Alton.
Lockwood said his young mistress had arrived at home on Wednesday
night, and this morning, Friday, had despatched him with a packet
for my lady at Kensington, saying the letter was of great
importance.

We took the freedom to break it, while Lockwood stared with wonder,
and cried out his "Lord bless me's," and "Who'd a thought it's," at
the sight of his young lord, whom he had not seen these seven
years.

The packet from Beatrix contained no news of importance at all.  It
was written in a jocular strain, affecting to make light of her
captivity.  She asked whether she might have leave to visit Mrs.
Tusher, or to walk beyond the court and the garden wall.  She gave
news of the peacocks, and a fawn she had there.  She bade her
mother send her certain gowns and smocks by old Lockwood; she sent
her duty to a certain Person, if certain other persons permitted
her to take such a freedom; how that, as she was not able to play
cards with him, she hoped he would read good books, such as Doctor
Atterbury's sermons and "Eikon Basilike:" she was going to read
good books; she thought her pretty mamma would like to know she was
not crying her eyes out.

"Who is in the house besides you, Lockwood?" says the Colonel.

"There be the laundry-maid, and the kitchen-maid, Madam Beatrix's
maid, the man from London, and that be all; and he sleepeth in my
lodge away from the maids," says old Lockwood.

Esmond scribbled a line with a pencil on the note, giving it to the
old man, and bidding him go on to his lady.  We knew why Beatrix
had been so dutiful on a sudden, and why she spoke of "Eikon
Basilike."  She writ this letter to put the Prince on the scent,
and the porter out of the way.

"We have a fine moonlight night for riding on," says Esmond;
"Frank, we may reach Castlewood in time yet."  All the way along
they made inquiries at the post-houses, when a tall young gentleman
in a gray suit, with a light brown periwig, just the color of my
lord's, had been seen to pass.  He had set off at six that morning,
and we at three in the afternoon.  He rode almost as quickly as we
had done; he was seven hours a-head of us still when we reached the
last stage.

We rode over Castlewood Downs before the breaking of dawn.  We
passed the very spot where the car was upset fourteen years since,
and Mohun lay.  The village was not up yet, nor the forge lighted,
as we rode through it, passing by the elms, where the rooks were
still roosting, and by the church, and over the bridge.  We got off
our horses at the bridge and walked up to the gate.

"If she is safe," says Frank, trembling, and his honest eyes
filling with tears, "a silver statue to Our Lady!"  He was going to
rattle at the great iron knocker on the oak gate; but Esmond
stopped his kinsman's hand.  He had his own fears, his own hopes,
his own despairs and griefs, too; but he spoke not a word of these
to his companion, or showed any signs of emotion.

He went and tapped at the little window at the porter's lodge,
gently, but repeatedly, until the man came to the bars.

"Who's there?" says he, looking out; it was the servant from
Kensington.

"My Lord Castlewood and Colonel Esmond," we said, from below.
"Open the gate and let us in without any noise."

"My Lord Castlewood?" says the other; "my lord's here, and in bed."

"Open, d--n you," says Castlewood, with a curse.

"I shall open to no one," says the man, shutting the glass window
as Frank drew a pistol.  He would have fired at the porter, but
Esmond again held his hand.

"There are more ways than one," says he, "of entering such a great
house as this."  Frank grumbled that the west gate was half a mile
round.  "But I know of a way that's not a hundred yards off," says
Mr. Esmond; and leading his kinsman close along the wall, and by
the shrubs which had now grown thick on what had been an old moat
about the house, they came to the buttress, at the side of which
the little window was, which was Father Holt's private door.
Esmond climbed up to this easily, broke a pane that had been
mended, and touched the spring inside, and the two gentlemen passed
in that way, treading as lightly as they could; and so going
through the passage into the court, over which the dawn was now
reddening, and where the fountain plashed in the silence.

They sped instantly to the porter's lodge, where the fellow had not
fastened his door that led into the court; and pistol in hand came
upon the terrified wretch, and bade him be silent.  Then they asked
him (Esmond's head reeled, and he almost fell as he spoke) when
Lord Castlewood had arrived?  He said on the previous evening,
about eight of the clock.--"And what then?"--His lordship supped
with his sister.--"Did the man wait?"  Yes, he and my lady's maid
both waited: the other servants made the supper; and there was no
wine, and they could give his lordship but milk, at which he
grumbled; and--and Madam Beatrix kept Miss Lucy always in the room
with her.  And there being a bed across the court in the Chaplain's
room, she had arranged my lord was to sleep there.  Madam Beatrix
had come down stairs laughing with the maids, and had locked
herself in, and my lord had stood for a while talking to her
through the door, and she laughing at him.  And then he paced the
court awhile, and she came again to the upper window; and my lord
implored her to come down and walk in the room; but she would not,
and laughed at him again, and shut the window; and so my lord,
uttering what seemed curses, but in a foreign language, went to the
Chaplain's room to bed.

"Was this all!"--"All," the man swore upon his honor; all as he
hoped to be saved.--"Stop, there was one thing more.  My lord, on
arriving, and once or twice during supper, did kiss his sister, as
was natural, and she kissed him."  At this Esmond ground his teeth
with rage, and wellnigh throttled the amazed miscreant who was
speaking, whereas Castlewood, seizing hold of his cousin's hand,
burst into a great fit of laughter.

"If it amuses thee," says Esmond in French, "that your sister
should be exchanging of kisses with a stranger, I fear poor Beatrix
will give thee plenty of sport."--Esmond darkly thought, how
Hamilton, Ashburnham, had before been masters of those roses that
the young Prince's lips were now feeding on.  He sickened at that
notion.  Her cheek was desecrated, her beauty tarnished; shame and
honor stood between it and him.  The love was dead within him; had
she a crown to bring him with her love, he felt that both would
degrade him.

But this wrath against Beatrix did not lessen the angry feelings of
the Colonel against the man who had been the occasion if not the
cause of the evil.  Frank sat down on a stone bench in the court-yard, and fairly fell asleep, while Esmond paced up and down the
court, debating what should ensue.  What mattered how much or how
little had passed between the Prince and the poor faithless girl?
They were arrived in time perhaps to rescue her person, but not her
mind; had she not instigated the young Prince to come to her;
suborned servants, dismissed others, so that she might communicate
with him?  The treacherous heart within her had surrendered, though
the place was safe; and it was to win this that he had given a
life's struggle and devotion; this, that she was ready to give away
for the bribe of a coronet or a wink of the Prince's eye.

When he had thought his thoughts out he shook up poor Frank from
his sleep, who rose yawning, and said he had been dreaming of
Clotilda.  "You must back me," says Esmond, in what I am going to
do.  I have been thinking that yonder scoundrel may have been
instructed to tell that story, and that the whole of it may be a
lie; if it be, we shall find it out from the gentleman who is
asleep yonder.  See if the door leading to my lady's rooms," (so we
called the rooms at the north-west angle of the house,) "see if the
door is barred as he saith."  We tried; it was indeed as the lackey
had said, closed within.

"It may have been opened and shut afterwards," says poor Esmond;
"the foundress of our family let our ancestor in in that way."

"What will you do, Harry, if--if what that fellow saith should turn
out untrue?"  The young man looked scared and frightened into his
kinsman's face; I dare say it wore no very pleasant expression.

"Let us first go see whether the two stories agree," says Esmond;
and went in at the passage and opened the door into what had been
his own chamber now for wellnigh five-and-twenty years.  A candle
was still burning, and the Prince asleep dressed on the bed--Esmond
did not care for making a noise.  The Prince started up in his bed,
seeing two men in his chamber.  "Qui est la" says he, and took a
pistol from under his pillow.

"It is the Marquis of Esmond," says the Colonel, "come to welcome
his Majesty to his house of Castlewood, and to report of what hath
happened in London.  Pursuant to the King's orders, I passed the
night before last, after leaving his Majesty, in waiting upon the
friends of the King.  It is a pity that his Majesty's desire to see
the country and to visit our poor house should have caused the King
to quit London without notice yesterday, when the opportunity
happened which in all human probability may not occur again; and
had the King not chosen to ride to Castlewood, the Prince of Wales
might have slept at St. James's."

"'Sdeath! gentlemen," says the Prince, starting off his bed,
whereon he was lying in his clothes, "the Doctor was with me
yesterday morning, and after watching by my sister all night, told
me I might not hope to see the Queen."

"It would have been otherwise," says Esmond with another bow; "as,
by this time, the Queen may be dead in spite of the Doctor.  The
Council was met, a new Treasurer was appointed, the troops were
devoted to the King's cause; and fifty loyal gentlemen of the
greatest names of this kingdom were assembled to accompany the
Prince of Wales, who might have been the acknowledged heir of the
throne, or the possessor of it by this time, had your Majesty not
chosen to take the air.  We were ready; there was only one person
that failed us, your Majesty's gracious--"

"Morbleu, Monsieur, you give me too much Majesty," said the Prince,
who had now risen up and seemed to be looking to one of us to help
him to his coat.  But neither stirred.

"We shall take care," says Esmond, "not much oftener to offend in
that particular."

"What mean you, my lord?" says the Prince, and muttered something
about a guet-a-pens, which Esmond caught up.

"The snare, Sir," said he, "was not of our laying; it is not we
that invited you.  We came to avenge, and not to compass, the
dishonor of our family."

"Dishonor!  Morbleu, there has been no dishonor," says the Prince,
turning scarlet, "only a little harmless playing."

"That was meant to end seriously."

"I swear," the Prince broke out impetuously, "upon the honor of a
gentleman, my lords--"

"That we arrived in time.  No wrong hath been done, Frank," says
Colonel Esmond, turning round to young Castlewood, who stood at the
door as the talk was going on.  "See! here is a paper whereon his
Majesty has deigned to commence some verses in honor, or dishonor,
of Beatrix.  Here is 'Madame' and 'Flamme,' 'Cruelle' and
'Rebelle,' and 'Amour' and 'Jour' in the Royal writing and
spelling.  Had the Gracious lover been happy, he had not passed his
time in sighing."  In fact, and actually as he was speaking, Esmond
cast his eyes down towards the table, and saw a paper on which my
young Prince had been scrawling a madrigal, that was to finish his
charmer on the morrow.

"Sir," says the Prince, burning with rage (he had assumed his Royal
coat unassisted by this time), "did I come here to receive
insults?"

"To confer them, may it please your Majesty," says the Colonel,
with a very low bow, "and the gentlemen of our family are come to
thank you."

"Malediction!" says the young man, tears starting into his eyes
with helpless rage and mortification.  "What will you with me,
gentlemen?"

"If your Majesty will please to enter the next apartment," says
Esmond, preserving his grave tone, "I have some papers there which
I would gladly submit to you, and by your permission I will lead
the way;" and, taking the taper up, and backing before the Prince
with very great ceremony, Mr. Esmond passed into the little
Chaplain's room, through which we had just entered into the house:--"Please to set a chair for his Majesty, Frank," says the Colonel
to his companion, who wondered almost as much at this scene, and
was as much puzzled by it, as the other actor in it.  Then going to
the crypt over the mantel-piece, the Colonel opened it, and drew
thence the papers which so long had lain there.

"Here, may it please your Majesty," says he, "is the Patent of
Marquis sent over by your Royal Father at St. Germains to Viscount
Castlewood, my father: here is the witnessed certificate of my
father's marriage to my mother, and of my birth and christening; I
was christened of that religion of which your sainted sire gave all
through life so shining example.  These are my titles, dear Frank,
and this what I do with them: here go Baptism and Marriage, and
here the Marquisate and the August Sign-Manual, with which your
predecessor was pleased to honor our race."  And as Esmond spoke he
set the papers burning in the brazier.  "You will please, sir, to
remember," he continued, "that our family hath ruined itself by
fidelity to yours: that my grandfather spent his estate, and gave
his blood and his son to die for your service; that my dear lord's
grandfather (for lord you are now, Frank, by right and title too)
died for the same cause; that my poor kinswoman, my father's second
wife, after giving away her honor to your wicked perjured race,
sent all her wealth to the King; and got in return, that precious
title that lies in ashes, and this inestimable yard of blue ribbon.
I lay this at your feet and stamp upon it: I draw this sword, and
break it and deny you; and, had you completed the wrong you
designed us, by heaven I would have driven it through your heart,
and no more pardoned you than your father pardoned Monmouth.  Frank
will do the same, won't you, cousin?"

Frank, who had been looking on with a stupid air at the papers, as
they flamed in the old brazier, took out his sword and broke it,
holding his head down:--"I go with my cousin," says he, giving
Esmond a grasp of the hand.  "Marquis or not, by ---, I stand by
him any day.  I beg your Majesty's pardon for swearing; that is--that is--I'm for the Elector of Hanover.  It's all your Majesty's
own fault.  The Queen's dead most likely by this time.  And you
might have been King if you hadn't come dangling after Trix."

"Thus to lose a crown," says the young Prince, starting up, and
speaking French in his eager way; "to lose the loveliest woman in
the world; to lose the loyalty of such hearts as yours, is not
this, my lords, enough of humiliation?--Marquis, if I go on my
knees will you pardon me?--No, I can't do that, but I can offer you
reparation, that of honor, that of gentlemen.  Favor me by crossing
the sword with mine: yours is broke--see, yonder in the armoire are
two;" and the Prince took them out as eager as a boy, and held them
towards Esmond:--"Ah! you will?  Merci, monsieur, merci!"

Extremely touched by this immense mark of condescension and
repentance for wrong done, Colonel Esmond bowed down so low as
almost to kiss the gracious young hand that conferred on him such
an honor, and took his guard in silence.  The swords were no sooner
met, than Castlewood knocked up Esmond's with the blade of his own,
which he had broke off short at the shell; and the Colonel falling
back a step dropped his point with another very low bow, and
declared himself perfectly satisfied.

"Eh bien, Vicomte!" says the young Prince, who was a boy, and a
French boy, "il ne nous reste qu'une chose a faire:" he placed his
sword upon the table, and the fingers of his two hands upon his
breast:--"We have one more thing to do," says he; "you do not
divine it?"  He stretched out his arms:--"Embrassons nous!"

The talk was scarce over when Beatrix entered the room:--What came
she to seek there?  She started and turned pale at the sight of her
brother and kinsman, drawn swords, broken sword-blades, and papers
yet smouldering in the brazier.

"Charming Beatrix," says the Prince, with a blush which became him
very well, "these lords have come a-horseback from London, where my
sister lies in a despaired state, and where her successor makes
himself desired.  Pardon me for my escapade of last evening.  I had
been so long a prisoner, that I seized the occasion of a promenade
on horseback, and my horse naturally bore me towards you.  I found
you a Queen in your little court, where you deigned to entertain
me.  Present my homages to your maids of honor.  I sighed as you
slept, under the window of your chamber, and then retired to seek
rest in my own.  It was there that these gentlemen agreeably roused
me.  Yes, milords, for that is a happy day that makes a Prince
acquainted, at whatever cost to his vanity, with such a noble heart
as that of the Marquis of Esmond.  Mademoiselle, may we take your
coach to town?  I saw it in the hangar, and this poor Marquis must
be dropping with sleep."

"Will it please the King to breakfast before he goes?" was all
Beatrix could say.  The roses had shuddered out of her cheeks; her
eyes were glaring; she looked quite old.  She came up to Esmond and
hissed out a word or two:--"If I did not love you before, cousin,"
says she, "think how I love you now."  If words could stab, no
doubt she would have killed Esmond; she looked at him as if she
could.

But her keen words gave no wound to Mr. Esmond; his heart was too
hard.  As he looked at her, he wondered that he could ever have
loved her.  His love of ten years was over; it fell down dead on
the spot, at the Kensington Tavern, where Frank brought him the
note out of "Eikon Basilike."  The Prince blushed and bowed low, as
she gazed at him, and quitted the chamber.  I have never seen her
from that day.

Horses were fetched and put to the chariot presently.  My lord rode
outside, and as for Esmond he was so tired that he was no sooner in
the carriage than he fell asleep, and never woke till night, as the
coach came into Alton.

As we drove to the "Bell" Inn comes a mitred coach with our old
friend Lockwood beside the coachman.  My Lady Castlewood and the
Bishop were inside; she gave a little scream when she saw us.  The
two coaches entered the inn almost together; the landlord and
people coming out with lights to welcome the visitors.

We in our coach sprang out of it, as soon as ever we saw the dear
lady, and above all, the Doctor in his cassock.  What was the news?
Was there yet time?  Was the Queen alive?  These questions were put
hurriedly, as Boniface stood waiting before his noble guests to bow
them up the stair.

"Is she safe?" was what Lady Castlewood whispered in a flutter to
Esmond.

"All's well, thank God," says he, as the fond lady took his hand
and kissed it, and called him her preserver and her dear.  SHE
wasn't thinking of Queens and crowns.

The Bishop's news was reassuring: at least all was not lost; the
Queen yet breathed, or was alive when they left London, six hours
since.  ("It was Lady Castlewood who insisted on coming," the
Doctor said.)  Argyle had marched up regiments from Portsmouth, and
sent abroad for more; the Whigs were on the alert, a pest on them,
(I am not sure but the Bishop swore as he spoke,) and so too were
our people.  And all might be saved, if only the Prince could be at
London in time.  We called for horses, instantly to return to
London.  We never went up poor crestfallen Boniface's stairs, but
into our coaches again.  The Prince and his Prime Minister in one,
Esmond in the other, with only his dear mistress as a companion.

Castlewood galloped forwards on horseback to gather the Prince's
friends and warn them of his coming.  We travelled through the
night.  Esmond discoursing to his mistress of the events of the
last twenty-four hours; of Castlewood's ride and his; of the
Prince's generous behavior and their reconciliation.  The night
seemed short enough; and the starlit hours passed away serenely in
that fond company.

So we came along the road; the Bishop's coach heading ours; and,
with some delays in procuring horses, we got to Hammersmith about
four o'clock on Sunday morning, the first of August, and half an
hour after, it being then bright day, we rode by my Lady Warwick's
house, and so down the street of Kensington.

Early as the hour was, there was a bustle in the street and many
people moving to and fro.  Round the gate leading to the Palace,
where the guard is, there was especially a great crowd.  And the
coach ahead of us stopped, and the Bishop's man got down to know
what the concourse meant?

There presently came from out of the gate--Horse Guards with their
trumpets, and a company of heralds with their tabards.  The
trumpets blew, and the herald-at-arms came forward and proclaimed
GEORGE, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, France, and Ireland,
King, Defender of the Faith.  And the people shouted God save the
King!

Among the crowd shouting and waving their hats, I caught sight of
one sad face, which I had known all my life, and seen under many
disguises.  It was no other than poor Mr. Holt's, who had slipped
over to England to witness the triumph of the good cause; and now
beheld its enemies victorious, amidst the acclamations of the
English people.  The poor fellow had forgot to huzzah or to take
his hat off, until his neighbors in the crowd remarked his want of
loyalty, and cursed him for a Jesuit in disguise, when he ruefully
uncovered and began to cheer.  Sure he was the most unlucky of men:
he never played a game but he lost it; or engaged in a conspiracy
but 'twas certain to end in defeat.  I saw him in Flanders after
this, whence he went to Rome to the head-quarters of his Order; and
actually reappeared among us in America, very old, and busy, and
hopeful.  I am not sure that he did not assume the hatchet and
moccasins there; and, attired in a blanket and war-paint, skulk
about a missionary amongst the Indians.  He lies buried in our
neighboring province of Maryland now, with a cross over him, and a
mound of earth above him; under which that unquiet spirit is for
ever at peace.


With the sound of King George's trumpets, all the vain hopes of the
weak and foolish young Pretender were blown away; and with that
music, too, I may say, the drama of my own life was ended.  That
happiness, which hath subsequently crowned it, cannot be written in
words; 'tis of its nature sacred and secret, and not to be spoken
of, though the heart be ever so full of thankfulness, save to
Heaven and the One Ear alone--to one fond being, the truest and
tenderest and purest wife ever man was blessed with.  As I think of
the immense happiness which was in store for me, and of the depth
and intensity of that love which, for so many years, hath blessed
me, I own to a transport of wonder and gratitude for such a boon--nay, am thankful to have been endowed with a heart capable of
feeling and knowing the immense beauty and value of the gift which
God hath bestowed upon me.  Sure, love vincit omnia; is
immeasurably above all ambition, more precious than wealth, more
noble than name.  He knows not life who knows not that: he hath not
felt the highest faculty of the soul who hath not enjoyed it.  In
the name of my wife I write the completion of hope, and the summit
of happiness.  To have such a love is the one blessing, in
comparison of which all earthly joy is of no value; and to think of
her, is to praise God.

It was at Bruxelles, whither we retreated after the failure of our
plot--our Whig friends advising us to keep out of the way--that the
great joy of my life was bestowed upon me, and that my dear
mistress became my wife.  We had been so accustomed to an extreme
intimacy and confidence, and had lived so long and tenderly
together, that we might have gone on to the end without thinking of
a closer tie; but circumstances brought about that event which so
prodigiously multiplied my happiness and hers (for which I humbly
thank Heaven), although a calamity befell us, which, I blush to
think, hath occurred more than once in our house.  I know not what
infatuation of ambition urged the beautiful and wayward woman,
whose name hath occupied so many of these pages, and who was served
by me with ten years of such constant fidelity and passion; but
ever after that day at Castlewood, when we rescued her, she
persisted in holding all her family as her enemies, and left us,
and escaped to France, to what a fate I disdain to tell.  Nor was
her son's house a home for my dear mistress; my poor Frank was
weak, as perhaps all our race hath been, and led by women.  Those
around him were imperious, and in a terror of his mother's
influence over him, lest he should recant, and deny the creed which
he had adopted by their persuasion.  The difference of their
religion separated the son and the mother: my dearest mistress felt
that she was severed from her children and alone in the world--alone but for one constant servant on whose fidelity, praised be
Heaven, she could count.  'Twas after a scene of ignoble quarrel on
the part of Frank's wife and mother (for the poor lad had been made
to marry the whole of that German family with whom he had connected
himself), that I found my mistress one day in tears, and then
besought her to confide herself to the care and devotion of one
who, by God's help, would never forsake her.  And then the tender
matron, as beautiful in her Autumn, and as pure as virgins in their
spring, with blushes of love and "eyes of meek surrender," yielded
to my respectful importunity, and consented to share my home.  Let
the last words I write thank her, and bless her who hath blessed
it.

By the kindness of Mr. Addison, all danger of prosecution, and
every obstacle against our return to England, was removed; and my
son Frank's gallantry in Scotland made his peace with the King's
government.  But we two cared no longer to live in England: and
Frank formally and joyfully yielded over to us the possession of
that estate which we now occupy, far away from Europe and its
troubles, on the beautiful banks of the Potomac, where we have
built a new Castlewood, and think with grateful hearts of our old
home.  In our Transatlantic country we have a season, the calmest
and most delightful of the year, which we call the Indian summer: I
often say the autumn of our life resembles that happy and serene
weather, and am thankful for its rest and its sweet sunshine.
Heaven hath blessed us with a child, which each parent loves for
her resemblance to the other.  Our diamonds are turned into ploughs
and axes for our plantations; and into negroes, the happiest and
merriest, I think, in all this country: and the only jewel by which
my wife sets any store, and from which she hath never parted, is
that gold button she took from my arm on the day when she visited
me in prison, and which she wore ever after, as she told me, on the
tenderest heart in the world.