summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/2511-h/2511-h.htm
blob: 4f857ee1e9de281b520ca8e116387cf6b55c9359 (plain) 
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
9353
9354
9355
9356
9357
9358
9359
9360
9361
9362
9363
9364
9365
9366
9367
9368
9369
9370
9371
9372
9373
9374
9375
9376
9377
9378
9379
9380
9381
9382
9383
9384
9385
9386
9387
9388
9389
9390
9391
9392
9393
9394
9395
9396
9397
9398
9399
9400
9401
9402
9403
9404
9405
9406
9407
9408
9409
9410
9411
9412
9413
9414
9415
9416
9417
9418
9419
9420
9421
9422
9423
9424
9425
9426
9427
9428
9429
9430
9431
9432
9433
9434
9435
9436
9437
9438
9439
9440
9441
9442
9443
9444
9445
9446
9447
9448
9449
9450
9451
9452
9453
9454
9455
9456
9457
9458
9459
9460
9461
9462
9463
9464
9465
9466
9467
9468
9469
9470
9471
9472
9473
9474
9475
9476
9477
9478
9479
9480
9481
9482
9483
9484
9485
9486
9487
9488
9489
9490
9491
9492
9493
9494
9495
9496
9497
9498
9499
9500
9501
9502
9503
9504
9505
9506
9507
9508
9509
9510
9511
9512
9513
9514
9515
9516
9517
9518
9519
9520
9521
9522
9523
9524
9525
9526
9527
9528
9529
9530
9531
9532
9533
9534
9535
9536
9537
9538
9539
9540
9541
9542
9543
9544
9545
9546
9547
9548
9549
9550
9551
9552
9553
9554
9555
9556
9557
9558
9559
9560
9561
9562
9563
9564
9565
9566
9567
9568
9569
9570
9571
9572
9573
9574
9575
9576
9577
9578
9579
9580
9581
9582
9583
9584
9585
9586
9587
9588
9589
9590
9591
9592
9593
9594
9595
9596
9597
9598
9599
9600
9601
9602
9603
9604
9605
9606
9607
9608
9609
9610
9611
9612
9613
9614
9615
9616
9617
9618
9619
9620
9621
9622
9623
9624
9625
9626
9627
9628
9629
9630
9631
9632
9633
9634
9635
9636
9637
9638
9639
9640
9641
9642
9643
9644
9645
9646
9647
9648
9649
9650
9651
9652
9653
9654
9655
9656
9657
9658
9659
9660
9661
9662
9663
9664
9665
9666
9667
9668
9669
9670
9671
9672
9673
9674
9675
9676
9677
9678
9679
9680
9681
9682
9683
9684
9685
9686
9687
9688
9689
9690
9691
9692
9693
9694
9695
9696
9697
9698
9699
9700
9701
9702
9703
9704
9705
9706
9707
9708
9709
9710
9711
9712
9713
9714
9715
9716
9717
9718
9719
9720
9721
9722
9723
9724
9725
9726
9727
9728
9729
9730
9731
9732
9733
9734
9735
9736
9737
9738
9739
9740
9741
9742
9743
9744
9745
9746
9747
9748
9749
9750
9751
9752
9753
9754
9755
9756
9757
9758
9759
9760
9761
9762
9763
9764
9765
9766
9767
9768
9769
9770
9771
9772
9773
9774
9775
9776
9777
9778
9779
9780
9781
9782
9783
9784
9785
9786
9787
9788
9789
9790
9791
9792
9793
9794
9795
9796
9797
9798
9799
9800
9801
9802
9803
9804
9805
9806
9807
9808
9809
9810
9811
9812
9813
9814
9815
9816
9817
9818
9819
9820
9821
9822
9823
9824
9825
9826
9827
9828
9829
9830
9831
9832
9833
9834
9835
9836
9837
9838
9839
9840
9841
9842
9843
9844
9845
9846
9847
9848
9849
9850
9851
9852
9853
9854
9855
9856
9857
9858
9859
9860
9861
9862
9863
9864
9865
9866
9867
9868
9869
9870
9871
9872
9873
9874
9875
9876
9877
9878
9879
9880
9881
9882
9883
9884
9885
9886
9887
9888
9889
9890
9891
9892
9893
9894
9895
9896
9897
9898
9899
9900
9901
9902
9903
9904
9905
9906
9907
9908
9909
9910
9911
9912
9913
9914
9915
9916
9917
9918
9919
9920
9921
9922
9923
9924
9925
9926
9927
9928
9929
9930
9931
9932
9933
9934
9935
9936
9937
9938
9939
9940
9941
9942
9943
9944
9945
9946
9947
9948
9949
9950
9951
9952
9953
9954
9955
9956
9957
9958
9959
9960
9961
9962
9963
9964
9965
9966
9967
9968
9969
9970
9971
9972
9973
9974
9975
9976
9977
9978
9979
9980
9981
9982
9983
9984
9985
9986
9987
9988
9989
9990
9991
9992
9993
9994
9995
9996
9997
9998
9999
10000
10001
10002
10003
10004
10005
10006
10007
10008
10009
10010
10011
10012
10013
10014
10015
10016
10017
10018
10019
10020
10021
10022
10023
10024
10025
10026
10027
10028
10029
10030
10031
10032
10033
10034
10035
10036
10037
10038
10039
10040
10041
10042
10043
10044
10045
10046
10047
10048
10049
10050
10051
10052
10053
10054
10055
10056
10057
10058
10059
10060
10061
10062
10063
10064
10065
10066
10067
10068
10069
10070
10071
10072
10073
10074
10075
10076
10077
10078
10079
10080
10081
10082
10083
10084
10085
10086
10087
10088
10089
10090
10091
10092
10093
10094
10095
10096
10097
10098
10099
10100
10101
10102
10103
10104
10105
10106
10107
10108
10109
10110
10111
10112
10113
10114
10115
10116
10117
10118
10119
10120
10121
10122
10123
10124
10125
10126
10127
10128
10129
10130
10131
10132
10133
10134
10135
10136
10137
10138
10139
10140
10141
10142
10143
10144
10145
10146
10147
10148
10149
10150
10151
10152
10153
10154
10155
10156
10157
10158
10159
10160
10161
10162
10163
10164
10165
10166
10167
10168
10169
10170
10171
10172
10173
10174
10175
10176
10177
10178
10179
10180
10181
10182
10183
10184
10185
10186
10187
10188
10189
10190
10191
10192
10193
10194
10195
10196
10197
10198
10199
10200
10201
10202
10203
10204
10205
10206
10207
10208
10209
10210
10211
10212
10213
10214
10215
10216
10217
10218
10219
10220
10221
10222
10223
10224
10225
10226
10227
10228
10229
10230
10231
10232
10233
10234
10235
10236
10237
10238
10239
10240
10241
10242
10243
10244
10245
10246
10247
10248
10249
10250
10251
10252
10253
10254
10255
10256
10257
10258
10259
10260
10261
10262
10263
10264
10265
10266
10267
10268
10269
10270
10271
10272
10273
10274
10275
10276
10277
10278
10279
10280
10281
10282
10283
10284
10285
10286
10287
10288
10289
10290
10291
10292
10293
10294
10295
10296
10297
10298
10299
10300
10301
10302
10303
10304
10305
10306
10307
10308
10309
10310
10311
10312
10313
10314
10315
10316
10317
10318
10319
10320
10321
10322
10323
10324
10325
10326
10327
10328
10329
10330
10331
10332
10333
10334
10335
10336
10337
10338
10339
10340
10341
10342
10343
10344
10345
10346
10347
10348
10349
10350
10351
10352
10353
10354
10355
10356
10357
10358
10359
10360
10361
10362
10363
10364
10365
10366
10367
10368
10369
10370
10371
10372
10373
10374
10375
10376
10377
10378
10379
10380
10381
10382
10383
10384
10385
10386
10387
10388
10389
10390
10391
10392
10393
10394
10395
10396
10397
10398
10399
10400
10401
10402
10403
10404
10405
10406
10407
10408
10409
10410
10411
10412
10413
10414
10415
10416
10417
10418
10419
10420
10421
10422
10423
10424
10425
10426
10427
10428
10429
10430
10431
10432
10433
10434
10435
10436
10437
10438
10439
10440
10441
10442
10443
10444
10445
10446
10447
10448
10449
10450
10451
10452
10453
10454
10455
10456
10457
10458
10459
10460
10461
10462
10463
10464
10465
10466
10467
10468
10469
10470
10471
10472
10473
10474
10475
10476
10477
10478
10479
10480
10481
10482
10483
10484
10485
10486
10487
10488
10489
10490
10491
10492
10493
10494
10495
10496
10497
10498
10499
10500
10501
10502
10503
10504
10505
10506
10507
10508
10509
10510
10511
10512
10513
10514
10515
10516
10517
10518
10519
10520
10521
10522
10523
10524
10525
10526
10527
10528
10529
10530
10531
10532
10533
10534
10535
10536
10537
10538
10539
10540
10541
10542
10543
10544
10545
10546
10547
10548
10549
10550
10551
10552
10553
10554
10555
10556
10557
10558
10559
10560
10561
10562
10563
10564
10565
10566
10567
10568
10569
10570
10571
10572
10573
10574
10575
10576
10577
10578
10579
10580
10581
10582
10583
10584
10585
10586
10587
10588
10589
10590
10591
10592
10593
10594
10595
10596
10597
10598
10599
10600
10601
10602
10603
10604
10605
10606
10607
10608
10609
10610
10611
10612
10613
10614
10615
10616
10617
10618
10619
10620
10621
10622
10623
10624
10625
10626
10627
10628
10629
10630
10631
10632
10633
10634
10635
10636
10637
10638
10639
10640
10641
10642
10643
10644
10645
10646
10647
10648
10649
10650
10651
10652
10653
10654
10655
10656
10657
10658
10659
10660
10661
10662
10663
10664
10665
10666
10667
10668
10669
10670
10671
10672
10673
10674
10675
10676
10677
10678
10679
10680
10681
10682
10683
10684
10685
10686
10687
10688
10689
10690
10691
10692
10693
10694
10695
10696
10697
10698
10699
10700
10701
10702
10703
10704
10705
10706
10707
10708
10709
10710
10711
10712
10713
10714
10715
10716
10717
10718
10719
10720
10721
10722
10723
10724
10725
10726
10727
10728
10729
10730
10731
10732
10733
10734
10735
10736
10737
10738
10739
10740
10741
10742
10743
10744
10745
10746
10747
10748
10749
10750
10751
10752
10753
10754
10755
10756
10757
10758
10759
10760
10761
10762
10763
10764
10765
10766
10767
10768
10769
10770
10771
10772
10773
10774
10775
10776
10777
10778
10779
10780
10781
10782
10783
10784
10785
10786
10787
10788
10789
10790
10791
10792
10793
10794
10795
10796
10797
10798
10799
10800
10801
10802
10803
10804
10805
10806
10807
10808
10809
10810
10811
10812
10813
10814
10815
10816
10817
10818
10819
10820
10821
10822
10823
10824
10825
10826
10827
10828
10829
10830
10831
10832
10833
10834
10835
10836
10837
10838
10839
10840
10841
10842
10843
10844
10845
10846
10847
10848
10849
10850
10851
10852
10853
10854
10855
10856
10857
10858
10859
10860
10861
10862
10863
10864
10865
10866
10867
10868
10869
10870
10871
10872
10873
10874
10875
10876
10877
10878
10879
10880
10881
10882
10883
10884
10885
10886
10887
10888
10889
10890
10891
10892
10893
10894
10895
10896
10897
10898
10899
10900
10901
10902
10903
10904
10905
10906
10907
10908
10909
10910
10911
10912
10913
10914
10915
10916
10917
10918
10919
10920
10921
10922
10923
10924
10925
10926
10927
10928
10929
10930
10931
10932
10933
10934
10935
10936
10937
10938
10939
10940
10941
10942
10943
10944
10945
10946
10947
10948
10949
10950
10951
10952
10953
10954
10955
10956
10957
10958
10959
10960
10961
10962
10963
10964
10965
10966
10967
10968
10969
10970
10971
10972
10973
10974
10975
10976
10977
10978
10979
10980
10981
10982
10983
10984
10985
10986
10987
10988
10989
10990
10991
10992
10993
10994
10995
10996
10997
10998
10999
11000
11001
11002
11003
11004
11005
11006
11007
11008
11009
11010
11011
11012
11013
11014
11015
11016
11017
11018
11019
11020
11021
11022
11023
11024
11025
11026
11027
11028
11029
11030
11031
11032
11033
11034
11035
11036
11037
11038
11039
11040
11041
11042
11043
11044
11045
11046
11047
11048
11049
11050
11051
11052
11053
11054
11055
11056
11057
11058
11059
11060
11061
11062
11063
11064
11065
11066
11067
11068
11069
11070
11071
11072
11073
11074
11075
11076
11077
11078
11079
11080
11081
11082
11083
11084
11085
11086
11087
11088
11089
11090
11091
11092
11093
11094
11095
11096
11097
11098
11099
11100
11101
11102
11103
11104
11105
11106
11107
11108
11109
11110
11111
11112
11113
11114
11115
11116
11117
11118
11119
11120
11121
11122
11123
11124
11125
11126
11127
11128
11129
11130
11131
11132
11133
11134
11135
11136
11137
11138
11139
11140
11141
11142
11143
11144
11145
11146
11147
11148
11149
11150
11151
11152
11153
11154
11155
11156
11157
11158
11159
11160
11161
11162
11163
11164
11165
11166
11167
11168
11169
11170
11171
11172
11173
11174
11175
11176
11177
11178
11179
11180
11181
11182
11183
11184
11185
11186
11187
11188
11189
11190
11191
11192
11193
11194
11195
11196
11197
11198
11199
11200
11201
11202
11203
11204
11205
11206
11207
11208
11209
11210
11211
11212
11213
11214
11215
11216
11217
11218
11219
11220
11221
11222
11223
11224
11225
11226
11227
11228
11229
11230
11231
11232
11233
11234
11235
11236
11237
11238
11239
11240
11241
11242
11243
11244
11245
11246
11247
11248
11249
11250
11251
11252
11253
11254
11255
11256
11257
11258
11259
11260
11261
11262
11263
11264
11265
11266
11267
11268
11269
11270
11271
11272
11273
11274
11275
11276
11277
11278
11279
11280
11281
11282
11283
11284
11285
11286
11287
11288
11289
11290
11291
11292
11293
11294
11295
11296
11297
11298
11299
11300
11301
11302
11303
11304
11305
11306
11307
11308
11309
11310
11311
11312
11313
11314
11315
11316
11317
11318
11319
11320
11321
11322
11323
11324
11325
11326
11327
11328
11329
11330
11331
11332
11333
11334
11335
11336
11337
11338
11339
11340
11341
11342
11343
11344
11345
11346
11347
11348
11349
11350
11351
11352
11353
11354
11355
11356
11357
11358
11359
11360
11361
11362
11363
11364
11365
11366
11367
11368
11369
11370
11371
11372
11373
11374
11375
11376
11377
11378
11379
11380
11381
11382
11383
11384
11385
11386
11387
11388
11389
11390
11391
11392
11393
11394
11395
11396
11397
11398
11399
11400
11401
11402
11403
11404
11405
11406
11407
11408
11409
11410
11411
11412
11413
11414
11415
11416
11417
11418
11419
11420
11421
11422
11423
11424
11425
11426
11427
11428
11429
11430
11431
11432
11433
11434
11435
11436
11437
11438
11439
11440
11441
11442
11443
11444
11445
11446
11447
11448
11449
11450
11451
11452
11453
11454
11455
11456
11457
11458
11459
11460
11461
11462
11463
11464
11465
11466
11467
11468
11469
11470
11471
11472
11473
11474
11475
11476
11477
11478
11479
11480
11481
11482
11483
11484
11485
11486
11487
11488
11489
11490
11491
11492
11493
11494
11495
11496
11497
11498
11499
11500
11501
11502
11503
11504
11505
11506
11507
11508
11509
11510
11511
11512
11513
11514
11515
11516
11517
11518
11519
11520
11521
11522
11523
11524
11525
11526
11527
11528
11529
11530
11531
11532
11533
11534
11535
11536
11537
11538
11539
11540
11541
11542
11543
11544
11545
11546
11547
11548
11549
11550
11551
11552
11553
11554
11555
11556
11557
11558
11559
11560
11561
11562
11563
11564
11565
11566
11567
11568
11569
11570
11571
11572
11573
11574
11575
11576
11577
11578
11579
11580
11581
11582
11583
11584
11585
11586
11587
11588
11589
11590
11591
11592
11593
11594
11595
11596
11597
11598
11599
11600
11601
11602
11603
11604
11605
11606
11607
11608
11609
11610
11611
11612
11613
11614
11615
11616
11617
11618
11619
11620
11621
11622
11623
11624
11625
11626
11627
11628
11629
11630
11631
11632
11633
11634
11635
11636
11637
11638
11639
11640
11641
11642
11643
11644
11645
11646
11647
11648
11649
11650
11651
11652
11653
11654
11655
11656
11657
11658
11659
11660
11661
11662
11663
11664
11665
11666
11667
11668
11669
11670
11671
11672
11673
11674
11675
11676
11677
11678
11679
11680
11681
11682
11683
11684
11685
11686
11687
11688
11689
11690
11691
11692
11693
11694
11695
11696
11697
11698
11699
11700
11701
11702
11703
11704
11705
11706
11707
11708
11709
11710
11711
11712
11713
11714
11715
11716
11717
11718
11719
11720
11721
11722
11723
11724
11725
11726
11727
11728
11729
11730
11731
11732
11733
11734
11735
11736
11737
11738
11739
11740
11741
11742
11743
11744
11745
11746
11747
11748
11749
11750
11751
11752
11753
11754
11755
11756
11757
11758
11759
11760
11761
11762
11763
11764
11765
11766
11767
11768
11769
11770
11771
11772
11773
11774
11775
11776
11777
11778
11779
11780
11781
11782
11783
11784
11785
11786
11787
11788
11789
11790
11791
11792
11793
11794
11795
11796
11797
11798
11799
11800
11801
11802
11803
11804
11805
11806
11807
11808
11809
11810
11811
11812
11813
11814
11815
11816
11817
11818
11819
11820
11821
11822
11823
11824
11825
11826
11827
11828
11829
11830
11831
11832
11833
11834
11835
11836
11837
11838
11839
11840
11841
11842
11843
11844
11845
11846
11847
11848
11849
11850
11851
11852
11853
11854
11855
11856
11857
11858
11859
11860
11861
11862
11863
11864
11865
11866
11867
11868
11869
11870
11871
11872
11873
11874
11875
11876
11877
11878
11879
11880
11881
11882
11883
11884
11885
11886
11887
11888
11889
11890
11891
11892
11893
11894
11895
11896
11897
11898
11899
11900
11901
11902
11903
11904
11905
11906
11907
11908
11909
11910
11911
11912
11913
11914
11915
11916
11917
11918
11919
11920
11921
11922
11923
11924
11925
11926
11927
11928
11929
11930
11931
11932
11933
11934
11935
11936
11937
11938
11939
11940
11941
11942
11943
11944
11945
11946
11947
11948
11949
11950
11951
11952
11953
11954
11955
11956
11957
11958
11959
11960
11961
11962
11963
11964
11965
11966
11967
11968
11969
11970
11971
11972
11973
11974
11975
11976
11977
11978
11979
11980
11981
11982
11983
11984
11985
11986
11987
11988
11989
11990
11991
11992
11993
11994
11995
11996
11997
11998
11999
12000
12001
12002
12003
12004
12005
12006
12007
12008
12009
12010
12011
12012
12013
12014
12015
12016
12017
12018
12019
12020
12021
12022
12023
12024
12025
12026
12027
12028
12029
12030
12031
12032
12033
12034
12035
12036
12037
12038
12039
12040
12041
12042
12043
12044
12045
12046
12047
12048
12049
12050
12051
12052
12053
12054
12055
12056
12057
12058
12059
12060
12061
12062
12063
12064
12065
12066
12067
12068
12069
12070
12071
12072
12073
12074
12075
12076
12077
12078
12079
12080
12081
12082
12083
12084
12085
12086
12087
12088
12089
12090
12091
12092
12093
12094
12095
12096
12097
12098
12099
12100
12101
12102
12103
12104
12105
12106
12107
12108
12109
12110
12111
12112
12113
12114
12115
12116
12117
12118
12119
12120
12121
12122
12123
12124
12125
12126
12127
12128
12129
12130
12131
12132
12133
12134
12135
12136
12137
12138
12139
12140
12141
12142
12143
12144
12145
12146
12147
12148
12149
12150
12151
12152
12153
12154
12155
12156
12157
12158
12159
12160
12161
12162
12163
12164
12165
12166
12167
12168
12169
12170
12171
12172
12173
12174
12175
12176
12177
12178
12179
12180
12181
12182
12183
12184
12185
12186
12187
12188
12189
12190
12191
12192
12193
12194
12195
12196
12197
12198
12199
12200
12201
12202
12203
12204
12205
12206
12207
12208
12209
12210
12211
12212
12213
12214
12215
12216
12217
12218
12219
12220
12221
12222
12223
12224
12225
12226
12227
12228
12229
12230
12231
12232
12233
12234
12235
12236
12237
12238
12239
12240
12241
12242
12243
12244
12245
12246
12247
12248
12249
12250
12251
12252
12253
12254
12255
12256
12257
12258
12259
12260
12261
12262
12263
12264
12265
12266
12267
12268
12269
12270
12271
12272
12273
12274
12275
12276
12277
12278
12279
12280
12281
12282
12283
12284
12285
12286
12287
12288
12289
12290
12291
12292
12293
12294
12295
12296
12297
12298
12299
12300
12301
12302
12303
12304
12305
12306
12307
12308
12309
12310
12311
12312
12313
12314
12315
12316
12317
12318
12319
12320
12321
12322
12323
12324
12325
12326
12327
12328
12329
12330
12331
12332
12333
12334
12335
12336
12337
12338
12339
12340
12341
12342
12343
12344
12345
12346
12347
12348
12349
12350
12351
12352
12353
12354
12355
12356
12357
12358
12359
12360
12361
12362
12363
12364
12365
12366
12367
12368
12369
12370
12371
12372
12373
12374
12375
12376
12377
12378
12379
12380
12381
12382
12383
12384
12385
12386
12387
12388
12389
12390
12391
12392
12393
12394
12395
12396
12397
12398
12399
12400
12401
12402
12403
12404
12405
12406
12407
12408
12409
12410
12411
12412
12413
12414
12415
12416
12417
12418
12419
12420
12421
12422
12423
12424
12425
12426
12427
12428
12429
12430
12431
12432
12433
12434
12435
12436
12437
12438
12439
12440
12441
12442
12443
12444
12445
12446
12447
12448
12449
12450
12451
12452
12453
12454
12455
12456
12457
12458
12459
12460
12461
12462
12463
12464
12465
12466
12467
12468
12469
12470
12471
12472
12473
12474
12475
12476
12477
12478
12479
12480
12481
12482
12483
12484
12485
12486
12487
12488
12489
12490
12491
12492
12493
12494
12495
12496
12497
12498
12499
12500
12501
12502
12503
12504
12505
12506
12507
12508
12509
12510
12511
12512
12513
12514
12515
12516
12517
12518
12519
12520
12521
12522
12523
12524
12525
12526
12527
12528
12529
12530
12531
12532
12533
12534
12535
12536
12537
12538
12539
12540
12541
12542
12543
12544
12545
12546
12547
12548
12549
12550
12551
12552
12553
12554
12555
12556
12557
12558
12559
12560
12561
12562
12563
12564
12565
12566
12567
12568
12569
12570
12571
12572
12573
12574
12575
12576
12577
12578
12579
12580
12581
12582
12583
12584
12585
12586
12587
12588
12589
12590
12591
12592
12593
12594
12595
12596
12597
12598
12599
12600
12601
12602
12603
12604
12605
12606
12607
12608
12609
12610
12611
12612
12613
12614
12615
12616
12617
12618
12619
12620
12621
12622
12623
12624
12625
12626
12627
12628
12629
12630
12631
12632
12633
12634
12635
12636
12637
12638
12639
12640
12641
12642
12643
12644
12645
12646
12647
12648
12649
12650
12651
12652
12653
12654
12655
12656
12657
12658
12659
12660
12661
12662
12663
12664
12665
12666
12667
12668
12669
12670
12671
12672
12673
12674
12675
12676
12677
12678
12679
12680
12681
12682
12683
12684
12685
12686
12687
12688
12689
12690
12691
12692
12693
12694
12695
12696
12697
12698
12699
12700
12701
12702
12703
12704
12705
12706
12707
12708
12709
12710
12711
12712
12713
12714
12715
12716
12717
12718
12719
12720
12721
12722
12723
12724
12725
12726
12727
12728
12729
12730
12731
12732
12733
12734
12735
12736
12737
12738
12739
12740
12741
12742
12743
12744
12745
12746
12747
12748
12749
12750
12751
12752
12753
12754
12755
12756
12757
12758
12759
12760
12761
12762
12763
12764
12765
12766
12767
12768
12769
12770
12771
12772
12773
12774
12775
12776
12777
12778
12779
12780
12781
12782
12783
12784
12785
12786
12787
12788
12789
12790
12791
12792
12793
12794
12795
12796
12797
12798
12799
12800
12801
12802
12803
12804
12805
12806
12807
12808
12809
12810
12811
12812
12813
12814
12815
12816
12817
12818
12819
12820
12821
12822
12823
12824
12825
12826
12827
12828
12829
12830
12831
12832
12833
12834
12835
12836
12837
12838
12839
12840
12841
12842
12843
12844
12845
12846
12847
12848
12849
12850
12851
12852
12853
12854
12855
12856
12857
12858
12859
12860
12861
12862
12863
12864
12865
12866
12867
12868
12869
12870
12871
12872
12873
12874
12875
12876
12877
12878
12879
12880
12881
12882
12883
12884
12885
12886
12887
12888
12889
12890
12891
12892
12893
12894
12895
12896
12897
12898
12899
12900
12901
12902
12903
12904
12905
12906
12907
12908
12909
12910
12911
12912
12913
12914
12915
12916
12917
12918
12919
12920
12921
12922
12923
12924
12925
12926
12927
12928
12929
12930
12931
12932
12933
12934
12935
12936
12937
12938
12939
12940
12941
12942
12943
12944
12945
12946
12947
12948
12949
12950
12951
12952
12953
12954
12955
12956
12957
12958
12959
12960
12961
12962
12963
12964
12965
12966
12967
12968
12969
12970
12971
12972
12973
12974
12975
12976
12977
12978
12979
12980
12981
12982
12983
12984
12985
12986
12987
12988
12989
12990
12991
12992
12993
12994
12995
12996
12997
12998
12999
13000
13001
13002
13003
13004
13005
13006
13007
13008
13009
13010
13011
13012
13013
13014
13015
13016
13017
13018
13019
13020
13021
13022
13023
13024
13025
13026
13027
13028
13029
13030
13031
13032
13033
13034
13035
13036
13037
13038
13039
13040
13041
13042
13043
13044
13045
13046
13047
13048
13049
13050
13051
13052
13053
13054
13055
13056
13057
13058
13059
13060
13061
13062
13063
13064
13065
13066
13067
13068
13069
13070
13071
13072
13073
13074
13075
13076
13077
13078
13079
13080
13081
13082
13083
13084
13085
13086
13087
13088
13089
13090
13091
13092
13093
13094
13095
13096
13097
13098
13099
13100
13101
13102
13103
13104
13105
13106
13107
13108
13109
13110
13111
13112
13113
13114
13115
13116
13117
13118
13119
13120
13121
13122
13123
13124
13125
13126
13127
13128
13129
13130
13131
13132
13133
13134
13135
13136
13137
13138
13139
13140
13141
13142
13143
13144
13145
13146
13147
13148
13149
13150
13151
13152
13153
13154
13155
13156
13157
13158
13159
13160
13161
13162
13163
13164
13165
13166
13167
13168
13169
13170
13171
13172
13173
13174
13175
13176
13177
13178
13179
13180
13181
13182
13183
13184
13185
13186
13187
13188
13189
13190
13191
13192
13193
13194
13195
13196
13197
13198
13199
13200
13201
13202
13203
13204
13205
13206
13207
13208
13209
13210
13211
13212
13213
13214
13215
13216
13217
13218
13219
13220
13221
13222
13223
13224
13225
13226
13227
13228
13229
13230
13231
13232
13233
13234
13235
13236
13237
13238
13239
13240
13241
13242
13243
13244
13245
13246
13247
13248
13249
13250
13251
13252
13253
13254
13255
13256
13257
13258
13259
13260
13261
13262
13263
13264
13265
13266
13267
13268
13269
13270
13271
13272
13273
13274
13275
13276
13277
13278
13279
13280
13281
13282
13283
13284
13285
13286
13287
13288
13289
13290
13291
13292
13293
13294
13295
13296
13297
13298
13299
13300
13301
13302
13303
13304
13305
13306
13307
13308
13309
13310
13311
13312
13313
13314
13315
13316
13317
13318
13319
13320
13321
13322
13323
13324
13325
13326
13327
13328
13329
13330
13331
13332
13333
13334
13335
13336
13337
13338
13339
13340
13341
13342
13343
13344
13345
13346
13347
13348
13349
13350
13351
13352
13353
13354
13355
13356
13357
13358
13359
13360
13361
13362
13363
13364
13365
13366
13367
13368
13369
13370
13371
13372
13373
13374
13375
13376
13377
13378
13379
13380
13381
13382
13383
13384
13385
13386
13387
13388
13389
13390
13391
13392
13393
13394
13395
13396
13397
13398
13399
13400
13401
13402
13403
13404
13405
13406
13407
13408
13409
13410
13411
13412
13413
13414
13415
13416
13417
13418
13419
13420
13421
13422
13423
13424
13425
13426
13427
13428
13429
13430
13431
13432
13433
13434
13435
13436
13437
13438
13439
13440
13441
13442
13443
13444
13445
13446
13447
13448
13449
13450
13451
13452
13453
13454
13455
13456
13457
13458
13459
13460
13461
13462
13463
13464
13465
13466
13467
13468
13469
13470
13471
13472
13473
13474
13475
13476
13477
13478
13479
13480
13481
13482
13483
13484
13485
13486
13487
13488
13489
13490
13491
13492
13493
13494
13495
13496
13497
13498
13499
13500
13501
13502
13503
13504
13505
13506
13507
13508
13509
13510
13511
13512
13513
13514
13515
13516
13517
13518
13519
13520
13521
13522
13523
13524
13525
13526
13527
13528
13529
13530
13531
13532
13533
13534
13535
13536
13537
13538
13539
13540
13541
13542
13543
13544
13545
13546
13547
13548
13549
13550
13551
13552
13553
13554
13555
13556
13557
13558
13559
13560
13561
13562
13563
13564
13565
13566
13567
13568
13569
13570
13571
13572
13573
13574
13575
13576
13577
13578
13579
13580
13581
13582
13583
13584
13585
13586
13587
13588
13589
13590
13591
13592
13593
13594
13595
13596
13597
13598
13599
13600
13601
13602
13603
13604
13605
13606
13607
13608
13609
13610
13611
13612
13613
13614
13615
13616
13617
13618
13619
13620
13621
13622
13623
13624
13625
13626
13627
13628
13629
13630
13631
13632
13633
13634
13635
13636
13637
13638
13639
13640
13641
13642
13643
13644
13645
13646
13647
13648
13649
13650
13651
13652
13653
13654
13655
13656
13657
13658
13659
13660
13661
13662
13663
13664
13665
13666
13667
13668
13669
13670
13671
13672
13673
13674
13675
13676
13677
13678
13679
13680
13681
13682
13683
13684
13685
13686
13687
13688
13689
13690
13691
13692
13693
13694
13695
13696
13697
13698
13699
13700
13701
13702
13703
13704
13705
13706
13707
13708
13709
13710
13711
13712
13713
13714
13715
13716
13717
13718
13719
13720
13721
13722
13723
13724
13725
13726
13727
13728
13729
13730
13731
13732
13733
13734
13735
13736
13737
13738
13739
13740
13741
13742
13743
13744
13745
13746
13747
13748
13749
13750
13751
13752
13753
13754
13755
13756
13757
13758
13759
13760
13761
13762
13763
13764
13765
13766
13767
13768
13769
13770
13771
13772
13773
13774
13775
13776
13777
13778
13779
13780
13781
13782
13783
13784
13785
13786
13787
13788
13789
13790
13791
13792
13793
13794
13795
13796
13797
13798
13799
13800
13801
13802
13803
13804
13805
13806
13807
13808
13809
13810
13811
13812
13813
13814
13815
13816
13817
13818
13819
13820
13821
13822
13823
13824
13825
13826
13827
13828
13829
13830
13831
13832
13833
13834
13835
13836
13837
13838
13839
13840
13841
13842
13843
13844
13845
13846
13847
13848
13849
13850
13851
13852
13853
13854
13855
13856
13857
13858
13859
13860
13861
13862
13863
13864
13865
13866
13867
13868
13869
13870
13871
13872
13873
13874
13875
13876
13877
13878
13879
13880
13881
13882
13883
13884
13885
13886
13887
13888
13889
13890
13891
13892
13893
13894
13895
13896
13897
13898
13899
13900
13901
13902
13903
13904
13905
13906
13907
13908
13909
13910
13911
13912
13913
13914
13915
13916
13917
13918
13919
13920
13921
13922
13923
13924
13925
13926
13927
13928
13929
13930
13931
13932
13933
13934
13935
13936
13937
13938
13939
13940
13941
13942
13943
13944
13945
13946
13947
13948
13949
13950
13951
13952
13953
13954
13955
13956
13957
13958
13959
13960
13961
13962
13963
13964
13965
13966
13967
13968
13969
13970
13971
13972
13973
13974
13975
13976
13977
13978
13979
13980
13981
13982
13983
13984
13985
13986
13987
13988
13989
13990
13991
13992
13993
13994
13995
13996
13997
13998
13999
14000
14001
14002
14003
14004
14005
14006
14007
14008
14009
14010
14011
14012
14013
14014
14015
14016
14017
14018
14019
14020
14021
14022
14023
14024
14025
14026
14027
14028
14029
14030
14031
14032
14033
14034
14035
14036
14037
14038
14039
14040
14041
14042
14043
14044
14045
14046
14047
14048
14049
14050
14051
14052
14053
14054
14055
14056
14057
14058
14059
14060
14061
14062
14063
14064
14065
14066
14067
14068
14069
14070
14071
14072
14073
14074
14075
14076
14077
14078
14079
14080
14081
14082
14083
14084
14085
14086
14087
14088
14089
14090
14091
14092
14093
14094
14095
14096
14097
14098
14099
14100
14101
14102
14103
14104
14105
14106
14107
14108
14109
14110
14111
14112
14113
14114
14115
14116
14117
14118
14119
14120
14121
14122
14123
14124
14125
14126
14127
14128
14129
14130
14131
14132
14133
14134
14135
14136
14137
14138
14139
14140
14141
14142
14143
14144
14145
14146
14147
14148
14149
14150
14151
14152
14153
14154
14155
14156
14157
14158
14159
14160
14161
14162
14163
14164
14165
14166
14167
14168
14169
14170
14171
14172
14173
14174
14175
14176
14177
14178
14179
14180
14181
14182
14183
14184
14185
14186
14187
14188
14189
14190
14191
14192
14193
14194
14195
14196
14197
14198
14199
14200
14201
14202
14203
14204
14205
14206
14207
14208
14209
14210
14211
14212
14213
14214
14215
14216
14217
14218
14219
14220
14221
14222
14223
14224
14225
14226
14227
14228
14229
14230
14231
14232
14233
14234
14235
14236
14237
14238
14239
14240
14241
14242
14243
14244
14245
14246
14247
14248
14249
14250
14251
14252
14253
14254
14255
14256
14257
14258
14259
14260
14261
14262
14263
14264
14265
14266
14267
14268
14269
14270
14271
14272
14273
14274
14275
14276
14277
14278
14279
14280
14281
14282
14283
14284
14285
14286
14287
14288
14289
14290
14291
14292
14293
14294
14295
14296
14297
14298
14299
14300
14301
14302
14303
14304
14305
14306
14307
14308
14309
14310
14311
14312
14313
14314
14315
14316
14317
14318
14319
14320
14321
14322
14323
14324
14325
14326
14327
14328
14329
14330
14331
14332
14333
14334
14335
14336
14337
14338
14339
14340
14341
14342
14343
14344
14345
14346
14347
14348
14349
14350
14351
14352
14353
14354
14355
14356
14357
14358
14359
14360
14361
14362
14363
14364
14365
14366
14367
14368
14369
14370
14371
14372
14373
14374
14375
14376
14377
14378
14379
14380
14381
14382
14383
14384
14385
14386
14387
14388
14389
14390
14391
14392
14393
14394
14395
14396
14397
14398
14399
14400
14401
14402
14403
14404
14405
14406
14407
14408
14409
14410
14411
14412
14413
14414
14415
14416
14417
14418
14419
14420
14421
14422
14423
14424
14425
14426
14427
14428
14429
14430
14431
14432
14433
14434
14435
14436
14437
14438
14439
14440
14441
14442
14443
14444
14445
14446
14447
14448
14449
14450
14451
14452
14453
14454
14455
14456
14457
14458
14459
14460
14461
14462
14463
14464
14465
14466
14467
14468
14469
14470
14471
14472
14473
14474
14475
14476
14477
14478
14479
14480
14481
14482
14483
14484
14485
14486
14487
14488
14489
14490
14491
14492
14493
14494
14495
14496
14497
14498
14499
14500
14501
14502
14503
14504
14505
14506
14507
14508
14509
14510
14511
14512
14513
14514
14515
14516
14517
14518
14519
14520
14521
14522
14523
14524
14525
14526
14527
14528
14529
14530
14531
14532
14533
14534
14535
14536
14537
14538
14539
14540
14541
14542
14543
14544
14545
14546
14547
14548
14549
14550
14551
14552
14553
14554
14555
14556
14557
14558
14559
14560
14561
14562
14563
14564
14565
14566
14567
14568
14569
14570
14571
14572
14573
14574
14575
14576
14577
14578
14579
14580
14581
14582
14583
14584
14585
14586
14587
14588
14589
14590
14591
14592
14593
14594
14595
14596
14597
14598
14599
14600
14601
14602
14603
14604
14605
14606
14607
14608
14609
14610
14611
14612
14613
14614
14615
14616
14617
14618
14619
14620
14621
14622
14623
14624
14625
14626
14627
14628
14629
14630
14631
14632
14633
14634
14635
14636
14637
14638
14639
14640
14641
14642
14643
14644
14645
14646
14647
14648
14649
14650
14651
14652
14653
14654
14655
14656
14657
14658
14659
14660
14661
14662
14663
14664
14665
14666
14667
14668
14669
14670
14671
14672
14673
14674
14675
14676
14677
14678
14679
14680
14681
14682
14683
14684
14685
14686
14687
14688
14689
14690
14691
14692
14693
14694
14695
14696
14697
14698
14699
14700
14701
14702
14703
14704
14705
14706
14707
14708
14709
14710
14711
14712
14713
14714
14715
14716
14717
14718
14719
14720
14721
14722
14723
14724
14725
14726
14727
14728
14729
14730
14731
14732
14733
14734
14735
14736
14737
14738
14739
14740
14741
14742
14743
14744
14745
14746
14747
14748
14749
14750
14751
14752
14753
14754
14755
14756
14757
14758
14759
14760
14761
14762
14763
14764
14765
14766
14767
14768
14769
14770
14771
14772
14773
14774
14775
14776
14777
14778
14779
14780
14781
14782
14783
14784
14785
14786
14787
14788
14789
14790
14791
14792
14793
14794
14795
14796
14797
14798
14799
14800
14801
14802
14803
14804
14805
14806
14807
14808
14809
14810
14811
14812
14813
14814
14815
14816
14817
14818
14819
14820
14821
14822
14823
14824
14825
14826
14827
14828
14829
14830
14831
14832
14833
14834
14835
14836
14837
14838
14839
14840
14841
14842
14843
14844
14845
14846
14847
14848
14849
14850
14851
14852
14853
14854
14855
14856
14857
14858
14859
14860
14861
14862
14863
14864
14865
14866
14867
14868
14869
14870
14871
14872
14873
14874
14875
14876
14877
14878
14879
14880
14881
14882
14883
14884
14885
14886
14887
14888
14889
14890
14891
14892
14893
14894
14895
14896
14897
14898
14899
14900
14901
14902
14903
14904
14905
14906
14907
14908
14909
14910
14911
14912
14913
14914
14915
14916
14917
14918
14919
14920
14921
14922
14923
14924
14925
14926
14927
14928
14929
14930
14931
14932
14933
14934
14935
14936
14937
14938
14939
14940
14941
14942
14943
14944
14945
14946
14947
14948
14949
14950
14951
14952
14953
14954
14955
14956
14957
14958
14959
14960
14961
14962
14963
14964
14965
14966
14967
14968
14969
14970
14971
14972
14973
14974
14975
14976
14977
14978
14979
14980
14981
14982
14983
14984
14985
14986
14987
14988
14989
14990
14991
14992
14993
14994
14995
14996
14997
14998
14999
15000
15001
15002
15003
15004
15005
15006
15007
15008
15009
15010
15011
15012
15013
15014
15015
15016
15017
15018
15019
15020
15021
15022
15023
15024
15025
15026
15027
15028
15029
15030
15031
15032
15033
15034
15035
15036
15037
15038
15039
15040
15041
15042
15043
15044
15045
15046
15047
15048
15049
15050
15051
15052
15053
15054
15055
15056
15057
15058
15059
15060
15061
15062
15063
15064
15065
15066
15067
15068
15069
15070
15071
15072
15073
15074
15075
15076
15077
15078
15079
15080
15081
15082
15083
15084
15085
15086
15087
15088
15089
15090
15091
15092
15093
15094
15095
15096
15097
15098
15099
15100
15101
15102
15103
15104
15105
15106
15107
15108
15109
15110
15111
15112
15113
15114
15115
15116
15117
15118
15119
15120
15121
15122
15123
15124
15125
15126
15127
15128
15129
15130
15131
15132
15133
15134
15135
15136
15137
15138
15139
15140
15141
15142
15143
15144
15145
15146
15147
15148
15149
15150
15151
15152
15153
15154
15155
15156
15157
15158
15159
15160
15161
15162
15163
15164
15165
15166
15167
15168
15169
15170
15171
15172
15173
15174
15175
15176
15177
15178
15179
15180
15181
15182
15183
15184
15185
15186
15187
15188
15189
15190
15191
15192
15193
15194
15195
15196
15197
15198
15199
15200
15201
15202
15203
15204
15205
15206
15207
15208
15209
15210
15211
15212
15213
15214
15215
15216
15217
15218
15219
15220
15221
15222
15223
15224
15225
15226
15227
15228
15229
15230
15231
15232
15233
15234
15235
15236
15237
15238
15239
15240
15241
15242
15243
15244
15245
15246
15247
15248
15249
15250
15251
15252
15253
15254
15255
15256
15257
15258
15259
15260
15261
15262
15263
15264
15265
15266
15267
15268
15269
15270
15271
15272
15273
15274
15275
15276
15277
15278
15279
15280
15281
15282
15283
15284
15285
15286
15287
15288
15289
15290
15291
15292
15293
15294
15295
15296
15297
15298
15299
15300
15301
15302
15303
15304
15305
15306
15307
15308
15309
15310
15311
15312
15313
15314
15315
15316
15317
15318
15319
15320
15321
15322
15323
15324
15325
15326
15327
15328
15329
15330
15331
15332
15333
15334
15335
15336
15337
15338
15339
15340
15341
15342
15343
15344
15345
15346
15347
15348
15349
15350
15351
15352
15353
15354
15355
15356
15357
15358
15359
15360
15361
15362
15363
15364
15365
15366
15367
15368
15369
15370
15371
15372
15373
15374
15375
15376
15377
15378
15379
15380
15381
15382
15383
15384
15385
15386
15387
15388
15389
15390
15391
15392
15393
15394
15395
15396
15397
15398
15399
15400
15401
15402
15403
15404
15405
15406
15407
15408
15409
15410
15411
15412
15413
15414
15415
15416
15417
15418
15419
15420
15421
15422
15423
15424
15425
15426
15427
15428
15429
15430
15431
15432
15433
15434
15435
15436
15437
15438
15439
15440
15441
15442
15443
15444
15445
15446
15447
15448
15449
15450
15451
15452
15453
15454
15455
15456
15457
15458
15459
15460
15461
15462
15463
15464
15465
15466
15467
15468
15469
15470
15471
15472
15473
15474
15475
15476
15477
15478
15479
15480
15481
15482
15483
15484
15485
15486
15487
15488
15489
15490
15491
15492
15493
15494
15495
15496
15497
15498
15499
15500
15501
15502
15503
15504
15505
15506
15507
15508
15509
15510
15511
15512
15513
15514
15515
15516
15517
15518
15519
15520
15521
15522
15523
15524
15525
15526
15527
15528
15529
15530
15531
15532
15533
15534
15535
15536
15537
15538
15539
15540
15541
15542
15543
15544
15545
15546
15547
15548
15549
15550
15551
15552
15553
15554
15555
15556
15557
15558
15559
15560
15561
15562
15563
15564
15565
15566
15567
15568
15569
15570
15571
15572
15573
15574
15575
15576
15577
15578
15579
15580
15581
15582
15583
15584
15585
15586
15587
15588
15589
15590
15591
15592
15593
15594
15595
15596
15597
15598
15599
15600
15601
15602
15603
15604
15605
15606
15607
15608
15609
15610
15611
15612
15613
15614
15615
15616
15617
15618
15619
15620
15621
15622
15623
15624
15625
15626
15627
15628
15629
15630
15631
15632
15633
15634
15635
15636
15637
15638
15639
15640
15641
15642
15643
15644
15645
15646
15647
15648
15649
15650
15651
15652
15653
15654
15655
15656
15657
15658
15659
15660
15661
15662
15663
15664
15665
15666
15667
15668
15669
15670
15671
15672
15673
15674
15675
15676
15677
15678
15679
15680
15681
15682
15683
15684
15685
15686
15687
15688
15689
15690
15691
15692
15693
15694
15695
15696
15697
15698
15699
15700
15701
15702
15703
15704
15705
15706
15707
15708
15709
15710
15711
15712
15713
15714
15715
15716
15717
15718
15719
15720
15721
15722
15723
15724
15725
15726
15727
15728
15729
15730
15731
15732
15733
15734
15735
15736
15737
15738
15739
15740
15741
15742
15743
15744
15745
15746
15747
15748
15749
15750
15751
15752
15753
15754
15755
15756
15757
15758
15759
15760
15761
15762
15763
15764
15765
15766
15767
15768
15769
15770
15771
15772
15773
15774
15775
15776
15777
15778
15779
15780
15781
15782
15783
15784
15785
15786
15787
15788
15789
15790
15791
15792
15793
15794
15795
15796
15797
15798
15799
15800
15801
15802
15803
15804
15805
15806
15807
15808
15809
15810
15811
15812
15813
15814
15815
15816
15817
15818
15819
15820
15821
15822
15823
15824
15825
15826
15827
15828
15829
15830
15831
15832
15833
15834
15835
15836
15837
15838
15839
15840
15841
15842
15843
15844
15845
15846
15847
15848
15849
15850
15851
15852
15853
15854
15855
15856
15857
15858
15859
15860
15861
15862
15863
15864
15865
15866
15867
15868
15869
15870
15871
15872
15873
15874
15875
15876
15877
15878
15879
15880
15881
15882
15883
15884
15885
15886
15887
15888
15889
15890
15891
15892
15893
15894
15895
15896
15897
15898
15899
15900
15901
15902
15903
15904
15905
15906
15907
15908
15909
15910
15911
15912
15913
15914
15915
15916
15917
15918
15919
15920
15921
15922
15923
15924
15925
15926
15927
15928
15929
15930
15931
15932
15933
15934
15935
15936
15937
15938
15939
15940
15941
15942
15943
15944
15945
15946
15947
15948
15949
15950
15951
15952
15953
15954
15955
15956
15957
15958
15959
15960
15961
15962
15963
15964
15965
15966
15967
15968
15969
15970
15971
15972
15973
15974
15975
15976
15977
15978
15979
15980
15981
15982
15983
15984
15985
15986
15987
15988
15989
15990
15991
15992
15993
15994
15995
15996
15997
15998
15999
16000
16001
16002
16003
16004
16005
16006
16007
16008
16009
16010
16011
16012
16013
16014
16015
16016
16017
16018
16019
16020
16021
16022
16023
16024
16025
16026
16027
16028
16029
16030
16031
16032
16033
16034
16035
16036
16037
16038
16039
16040
16041
16042
16043
16044
16045
16046
16047
16048
16049
16050
16051
16052
16053
16054
16055
16056
16057
16058
16059
16060
16061
16062
16063
16064
16065
16066
16067
16068
16069
16070
16071
16072
16073
16074
16075
16076
16077
16078
16079
16080
16081
16082
16083
16084
16085
16086
16087
16088
16089
16090
16091
16092
16093
16094
16095
16096
16097
16098
16099
16100
16101
16102
16103
16104
16105
16106
16107
16108
16109
16110
16111
16112
16113
16114
16115
16116
16117
16118
16119
16120
16121
16122
16123
16124
16125
16126
16127
16128
16129
16130
16131
16132
16133
16134
16135
16136
16137
16138
16139
16140
16141
16142
16143
16144
16145
16146
16147
16148
16149
16150
16151
16152
16153
16154
16155
16156
16157
16158
16159
16160
16161
16162
16163
16164
16165
16166
16167
16168
16169
16170
16171
16172
16173
16174
16175
16176
16177
16178
16179
16180
16181
16182
16183
16184
16185
16186
16187
16188
16189
16190
16191
16192
16193
16194
16195
16196
16197
16198
16199
16200
16201
16202
16203
16204
16205
16206
16207
16208
16209
16210
16211
16212
16213
16214
16215
16216
16217
16218
16219
16220
16221
16222
16223
16224
16225
16226
16227
16228
16229
16230
16231
16232
16233
16234
16235
16236
16237
16238
16239
16240
16241
16242
16243
16244
16245
16246
16247
16248
16249
16250
16251
16252
16253
16254
16255
16256
16257
16258
16259
16260
16261
16262
16263
16264
16265
16266
16267
16268
16269
16270
16271
16272
16273
16274
16275
16276
16277
16278
16279
16280
16281
16282
16283
16284
16285
16286
16287
16288
16289
16290
16291
16292
16293
16294
16295
16296
16297
16298
16299
16300
16301
16302
16303
16304
16305
16306
16307
16308
16309
16310
16311
16312
16313
16314
16315
16316
16317
16318
16319
16320
16321
16322
16323
16324
16325
16326
16327
16328
16329
16330
16331
16332
16333
16334
16335
16336
16337
16338
16339
16340
16341
16342
16343
16344
16345
16346
16347
16348
16349
16350
16351
16352
16353
16354
16355
16356
16357
16358
16359
16360
16361
16362
16363
16364
16365
16366
16367
16368
16369
16370
16371
16372
16373
16374
16375
16376
16377
16378
16379
16380
16381
16382
16383
16384
16385
16386
16387
16388
16389
16390
16391
16392
16393
16394
16395
16396
16397
16398
16399
16400
16401
16402
16403
16404
16405
16406
16407
16408
16409
16410
16411
16412
16413
16414
16415
16416
16417
16418
16419
16420
16421
16422
16423
16424
16425
16426
16427
16428
16429
16430
16431
16432
16433
16434
16435
16436
16437
16438
16439
16440
16441
16442
16443
16444
16445
16446
16447
16448
16449
16450
16451
16452
16453
16454
16455
16456
16457
16458
16459
16460
16461
16462
16463
16464
16465
16466
16467
16468
16469
16470
16471
16472
16473
16474
16475
16476
16477
16478
16479
16480
16481
16482
16483
16484
16485
16486
16487
16488
16489
16490
16491
16492
16493
16494
16495
16496
16497
16498
16499
16500
16501
16502
16503
16504
16505
16506
16507
16508
16509
16510
16511
16512
16513
16514
16515
16516
16517
16518
16519
16520
16521
16522
16523
16524
16525
16526
16527
16528
16529
16530
16531
16532
16533
16534
16535
16536
16537
16538
16539
16540
16541
16542
16543
16544
16545
16546
16547
16548
16549
16550
16551
16552
16553
16554
16555
16556
16557
16558
16559
16560
16561
16562
16563
16564
16565
16566
16567
16568
16569
16570
16571
16572
16573
16574
16575
16576
16577
16578
16579
16580
16581
16582
16583
16584
16585
16586
16587
16588
16589
16590
16591
16592
16593
16594
16595
16596
16597
16598
16599
16600
16601
16602
16603
16604
16605
16606
16607
16608
16609
16610
16611
16612
16613
16614
16615
16616
16617
16618
16619
16620
16621
16622
16623
16624
16625
16626
16627
16628
16629
16630
16631
16632
16633
16634
16635
16636
16637
16638
16639
16640
16641
16642
16643
16644
16645
16646
16647
16648
16649
16650
16651
16652
16653
16654
16655
16656
16657
16658
16659
16660
16661
16662
16663
16664
16665
16666
16667
16668
16669
16670
16671
16672
16673
16674
16675
16676
16677
16678
16679
16680
16681
16682
16683
16684
16685
16686
16687
16688
16689
16690
16691
16692
16693
16694
16695
16696
16697
16698
16699
16700
16701
16702
16703
16704
16705
16706
16707
16708
16709
16710
16711
16712
16713
16714
16715
16716
16717
16718
16719
16720
16721
16722
16723
16724
16725
16726
16727
16728
16729
16730
16731
16732
16733
16734
16735
16736
16737
16738
16739
16740
16741
16742
16743
16744
16745
16746
16747
16748
16749
16750
16751
16752
16753
16754
16755
16756
16757
16758
16759
16760
16761
16762
16763
16764
16765
16766
16767
16768
16769
16770
16771
16772
16773
16774
16775
16776
16777
16778
16779
16780
16781
16782
16783
16784
16785
16786
16787
16788
16789
16790
16791
16792
16793
16794
16795
16796
16797
16798
16799
16800
16801
16802
16803
16804
16805
16806
16807
16808
16809
16810
16811
16812
16813
16814
16815
16816
16817
16818
16819
16820
16821
16822
16823
16824
16825
16826
16827
16828
16829
16830
16831
16832
16833
16834
16835
16836
16837
16838
16839
16840
16841
16842
16843
16844
16845
16846
16847
16848
16849
16850
16851
16852
16853
16854
16855
16856
16857
16858
16859
16860
16861
16862
16863
16864
16865
16866
16867
16868
16869
16870
16871
16872
16873
16874
16875
16876
16877
16878
16879
16880
16881
16882
16883
16884
16885
16886
16887
16888
16889
16890
16891
16892
16893
16894
16895
16896
16897
16898
16899
16900
16901
16902
16903
16904
16905
16906
16907
16908
16909
16910
16911
16912
16913
16914
16915
16916
16917
16918
16919
16920
16921
16922
16923
16924
16925
16926
16927
16928
16929
16930
16931
16932
16933
16934
16935
16936
16937
16938
16939
16940
16941
16942
16943
16944
16945
16946
16947
16948
16949
16950
16951
16952
16953
16954
16955
16956
16957
16958
16959
16960
16961
16962
16963
16964
16965
16966
16967
16968
16969
16970
16971
16972
16973
16974
16975
16976
16977
16978
16979
16980
16981
16982
16983
16984
16985
16986
16987
16988
16989
16990
16991
16992
16993
16994
16995
16996
16997
16998
16999
17000
17001
17002
17003
17004
17005
17006
17007
17008
17009
17010
17011
17012
17013
17014
17015
17016
17017
17018
17019
17020
17021
17022
17023
17024
17025
17026
17027
17028
17029
17030
17031
17032
17033
17034
17035
17036
17037
17038
17039
17040
17041
17042
17043
17044
17045
17046
17047
17048
17049
17050
17051
17052
17053
17054
17055
17056
17057
17058
17059
17060
17061
17062
17063
17064
17065
17066
17067
17068
17069
17070
17071
17072
17073
17074
17075
17076
17077
17078
17079
17080
17081
17082
17083
17084
17085
17086
17087
17088
17089
17090
17091
17092
17093
17094
17095
17096
17097
17098
17099
17100
17101
17102
17103
17104
17105
17106
17107
17108
17109
17110
17111
17112
17113
17114
17115
17116
17117
17118
17119
17120
17121
17122
17123
17124
17125
17126
17127
17128
17129
17130
17131
17132
17133
17134
17135
17136
17137
17138
17139
17140
17141
17142
17143
17144
17145
17146
17147
17148
17149
17150
17151
17152
17153
17154
17155
17156
17157
17158
17159
17160
17161
17162
17163
17164
17165
17166
17167
17168
17169
17170
17171
17172
17173
17174
17175
17176
17177
17178
17179
17180
17181
17182
17183
17184
17185
17186
17187
17188
17189
17190
17191
17192
17193
17194
17195
17196
17197
17198
17199
17200
17201
17202
17203
17204
17205
17206
17207
17208
17209
17210
17211
17212
17213
17214
17215
17216
17217
17218
17219
17220
17221
17222
17223
17224
17225
17226
17227
17228
17229
17230
17231
17232
17233
17234
17235
17236
17237
17238
17239
17240
17241
17242
17243
17244
17245
17246
17247
17248
17249
17250
17251
17252
17253
17254
17255
17256
17257
17258
17259
17260
17261
17262
17263
17264
17265
17266
17267
17268
17269
17270
17271
17272
17273
17274
17275
17276
17277
17278
17279
17280
17281
17282
17283
17284
17285
17286
17287
17288
17289
17290
17291
17292
17293
17294
17295
17296
17297
17298
17299
17300
17301
17302
17303
17304
17305
17306
17307
17308
17309
17310
17311
17312
17313
17314
17315
17316
17317
17318
17319
17320
17321
17322
17323
17324
17325
17326
17327
17328
17329
17330
17331
17332
17333
17334
17335
17336
17337
17338
17339
17340
17341
17342
17343
17344
17345
17346
17347
17348
17349
17350
17351
17352
17353
17354
17355
17356
17357
17358
17359
17360
17361
17362
17363
17364
17365
17366
17367
17368
17369
17370
17371
17372
17373
17374
17375
17376
17377
17378
17379
17380
17381
17382
17383
17384
17385
17386
17387
17388
17389
17390
17391
17392
17393
17394
17395
17396
17397
17398
17399
17400
17401
17402
17403
17404
17405
17406
17407
17408
17409
17410
17411
17412
17413
17414
17415
17416
17417
17418
17419
17420
17421
17422
17423
17424
17425
17426
17427
17428
17429
17430
17431
17432
17433
17434
17435
17436
17437
17438
17439
17440
17441
17442
17443
17444
17445
17446
17447
17448
17449
17450
17451
17452
17453
17454
17455
17456
17457
17458
17459
17460
17461
17462
17463
17464
17465
17466
17467
17468
17469
17470
17471
17472
17473
17474
17475
17476
17477
17478
17479
17480
17481
17482
17483
17484
17485
17486
17487
17488
17489
17490
17491
17492
17493
17494
17495
17496
17497
17498
17499
17500
17501
17502
17503
17504
17505
17506
17507
17508
17509
17510
17511
17512
17513
17514
17515
17516
17517
17518
17519
17520
17521
17522
17523
17524
17525
17526
17527
17528
17529
17530
17531
17532
17533
17534
17535
17536
17537
17538
17539
17540
17541
17542
17543
17544
17545
17546
17547
17548
17549
17550
17551
17552
17553
17554
17555
17556
17557
17558
17559
17560
17561
17562
17563
17564
17565
17566
17567
17568
17569
17570
17571
17572
17573
17574
17575
17576
17577
17578
17579
17580
17581
17582
17583
17584
17585
17586
17587
17588
17589
17590
17591
17592
17593
17594
17595
17596
17597
17598
17599
17600
17601
17602
17603
17604
17605
17606
17607
17608
17609
17610
17611
17612
17613
17614
17615
17616
17617
17618
17619
17620
17621
17622
17623
17624
17625
17626
17627
17628
17629
17630
17631
17632
17633
17634
17635
17636
17637
17638
17639
17640
17641
17642
17643
17644
17645
17646
17647
17648
17649
17650
17651
17652
17653
17654
17655
17656
17657
17658
17659
17660
17661
17662
17663
17664
17665
17666
17667
17668
17669
17670
17671
17672
17673
17674
17675
17676
17677
17678
17679
17680
17681
17682
17683
17684
17685
17686
17687
17688
17689
17690
17691
17692
17693
17694
17695
17696
17697
17698
17699
17700
17701
17702
17703
17704
17705
17706
17707
17708
17709
17710
17711
17712
17713
17714
17715
17716
17717
17718
17719
17720
17721
17722
17723
17724
17725
17726
17727
17728
17729
17730
17731
17732
17733
17734
17735
17736
17737
17738
17739
17740
17741
17742
17743
17744
17745
17746
17747
17748
17749
17750
17751
17752
17753
17754
17755
17756
17757
17758
17759
17760
17761
17762
17763
17764
17765
17766
17767
17768
17769
17770
17771
17772
17773
17774
17775
17776
17777
17778
17779
17780
17781
17782
17783
17784
17785
17786
17787
17788
17789
17790
17791
17792
17793
17794
17795
17796
17797
17798
17799
17800
17801
17802
17803
17804
17805
17806
17807
17808
17809
17810
17811
17812
17813
17814
17815
17816
17817
17818
17819
17820
17821
17822
17823
17824
17825
17826
17827
17828
17829
17830
17831
17832
17833
17834
17835
17836
17837
17838
17839
17840
17841
17842
17843
17844
17845
17846
17847
17848
17849
17850
17851
17852
17853
17854
17855
17856
17857
17858
17859
17860
17861
17862
17863
17864
17865
17866
17867
17868
17869
17870
17871
17872
17873
17874
17875
17876
17877
17878
17879
17880
17881
17882
17883
17884
17885
17886
17887
17888
17889
17890
17891
17892
17893
17894
17895
17896
17897
17898
17899
17900
17901
17902
17903
17904
17905
17906
17907
17908
17909
17910
17911
17912
17913
17914
17915
17916
17917
17918
17919
17920
17921
17922
17923
17924
17925
17926
17927
17928
17929
17930
17931
17932
17933
17934
17935
17936
17937
17938
17939
17940
17941
17942
17943
17944
17945
17946
17947
17948
17949
17950
17951
17952
17953
17954
17955
17956
17957
17958
17959
17960
17961
17962
17963
17964
17965
17966
17967
17968
17969
17970
17971
17972
17973
17974
17975
17976
17977
17978
17979
17980
17981
17982
17983
17984
17985
17986
17987
17988
17989
17990
17991
17992
17993
17994
17995
17996
17997
17998
17999
18000
18001
18002
18003
18004
18005
18006
18007
18008
18009
18010
18011
18012
18013
18014
18015
18016
18017
18018
18019
18020
18021
18022
18023
18024
18025
18026
18027
18028
18029
18030
18031
18032
18033
18034
18035
18036
18037
18038
18039
18040
18041
18042
18043
18044
18045
18046
18047
18048
18049
18050
18051
18052
18053
18054
18055
18056
18057
18058
18059
18060
18061
18062
18063
18064
18065
18066
18067
18068
18069
18070
18071
18072
18073
18074
18075
18076
18077
18078
18079
18080
18081
18082
18083
18084
18085
18086
18087
18088
18089
18090
18091
18092
18093
18094
18095
18096
18097
18098
18099
18100
18101
18102
18103
18104
18105
18106
18107
18108
18109
18110
18111
18112
18113
18114
18115
18116
18117
18118
18119
18120
18121
18122
18123
18124
18125
18126
18127
18128
18129
18130
18131
18132
18133
18134
18135
18136
18137
18138
18139
18140
18141
18142
18143
18144
18145
18146
18147
18148
18149
18150
18151
18152
18153
18154
18155
18156
18157
18158
18159
18160
18161
18162
18163
18164
18165
18166
18167
18168
18169
18170
18171
18172
18173
18174
18175
18176
18177
18178
18179
18180
18181
18182
18183
18184
18185
18186
18187
18188
18189
18190
18191
18192
18193
18194
18195
18196
18197
18198
18199
18200
18201
18202
18203
18204
18205
18206
18207
18208
18209
18210
18211
18212
18213
18214
18215
18216
18217
18218
18219
18220
18221
18222
18223
18224
18225
18226
18227
18228
18229
18230
18231
18232
18233
18234
18235
18236
18237
18238
18239
18240
18241
18242
18243
18244
18245
18246
18247
18248
18249
18250
18251
18252
18253
18254
18255
18256
18257
18258
18259
18260
18261
18262
18263
18264
18265
18266
18267
18268
18269
18270
18271
18272
18273
18274
18275
18276
18277
18278
18279
18280
18281
18282
18283
18284
18285
18286
18287
18288
18289
18290
18291
18292
18293
18294
18295
18296
18297
18298
18299
18300
18301
18302
18303
18304
18305
18306
18307
18308
18309
18310
18311
18312
18313
18314
18315
18316
18317
18318
18319
18320
18321
18322
18323
18324
18325
18326
18327
18328
18329
18330
18331
18332
18333
18334
18335
18336
18337
18338
18339
18340
18341
18342
18343
18344
18345
18346
18347
18348
18349
18350
18351
18352
18353
18354
18355
18356
18357
18358
18359
18360
18361
18362
18363
18364
18365
18366
18367
18368
18369
18370
18371
18372
18373
18374
18375
18376
18377
18378
18379
18380
18381
18382
18383
18384
18385
18386
18387
18388
18389
18390
18391
18392
18393
18394
18395
18396
18397
18398
18399
18400
18401
18402
18403
18404
18405
18406
18407
18408
18409
18410
18411
18412
18413
18414
18415
18416
18417
18418
18419
18420
18421
18422
18423
18424
18425
18426
18427
18428
18429
18430
18431
18432
18433
18434
18435
18436
18437
18438
18439
18440
18441
18442
18443
18444
18445
18446
18447
18448
18449
18450
18451
18452
18453
18454
18455
18456
18457
18458
18459
18460
18461
18462
18463
18464
18465
18466
18467
18468
18469
18470
18471
18472
18473
18474
18475
18476
18477
18478
18479
18480
18481
18482
18483
18484
18485
18486
18487
18488
18489
18490
18491
18492
18493
18494
18495
18496
18497
18498
18499
18500
18501
18502
18503
18504
18505
18506
18507
18508
18509
18510
18511
18512
18513
18514
18515
18516
18517
18518
18519
18520
18521
18522
18523
18524
18525
18526
18527
18528
18529
18530
18531
18532
18533
18534
18535
18536
18537
18538
18539
18540
18541
18542
18543
18544
18545
18546
18547
18548
18549
18550
18551
18552
18553
18554
18555
18556
18557
18558
18559
18560
18561
18562
18563
18564
18565
18566
18567
18568
18569
18570
18571
18572
18573
18574
18575
18576
18577
18578
18579
18580
18581
18582
18583
18584
18585
18586
18587
18588
18589
18590
18591
18592
18593
18594
18595
18596
18597
18598
18599
18600
18601
18602
18603
18604
18605
18606
18607
18608
18609
18610
18611
18612
18613
18614
18615
18616
18617
18618
18619
18620
18621
18622
18623
18624
18625
18626
18627
18628
18629
18630
18631
18632
18633
18634
18635
18636
18637
18638
18639
18640
18641
18642
18643
18644
18645
18646
18647
18648
18649
18650
18651
18652
18653
18654
18655
18656
18657
18658
18659
18660
18661
18662
18663
18664
18665
18666
18667
18668
18669
18670
18671
18672
18673
18674
18675
18676
18677
18678
18679
18680
18681
18682
18683
18684
18685
18686
18687
18688
18689
18690
18691
18692
18693
18694
18695
18696
18697
18698
18699
18700
18701
18702
18703
18704
18705
18706
18707
18708
18709
18710
18711
18712
18713
18714
18715
18716
18717
18718
18719
18720
18721
18722
18723
18724
18725
18726
18727
18728
18729
18730
18731
18732
18733
18734
18735
18736
18737
18738
18739
18740
18741
18742
18743
18744
18745
18746
18747
18748
18749
18750
18751
18752
18753
18754
18755
18756
18757
18758
18759
18760
18761
18762
18763
18764
18765
18766
18767
18768
18769
18770
18771
18772
18773
18774
18775
18776
18777
18778
18779
18780
18781
18782
18783
18784
18785
18786
18787
18788
18789
18790
18791
18792
18793
18794
18795
18796
18797
18798
18799
18800
18801
18802
18803
18804
18805
18806
18807
18808
18809
18810
18811
18812
18813
18814
18815
18816
18817
18818
18819
18820
18821
18822
18823
18824
18825
18826
18827
18828
18829
18830
18831
18832
18833
18834
18835
18836
18837
18838
18839
18840
18841
18842
18843
18844
18845
18846
18847
18848
18849
18850
18851
18852
18853
18854
18855
18856
18857
18858
18859
18860
18861
18862
18863
18864
18865
18866
18867
18868
18869
18870
18871
18872
18873
18874
18875
18876
18877
18878
18879
18880
18881
18882
18883
18884
18885
18886
18887
18888
18889
18890
18891
18892
18893
18894
18895
18896
18897
18898
18899
18900
18901
18902
18903
18904
18905
18906
18907
18908
18909
18910
18911
18912
18913
18914
18915
18916
18917
18918
18919
18920
18921
18922
18923
18924
18925
18926
18927
18928
18929
18930
18931
18932
18933
18934
18935
18936
18937
18938
18939
18940
18941
18942
18943
18944
18945
18946
18947
18948
18949
18950
18951
18952
18953
18954
18955
18956
18957
18958
18959
18960
18961
18962
18963
18964
18965
18966
18967
18968
18969
18970
18971
18972
18973
18974
18975
18976
18977
18978
18979
18980
18981
18982
18983
18984
18985
18986
18987
18988
18989
18990
18991
18992
18993
18994
18995
18996
18997
18998
18999
19000
19001
19002
19003
19004
19005
19006
19007
19008
19009
19010
19011
19012
19013
19014
19015
19016
19017
19018
19019
19020
19021
19022
19023
19024
19025
19026
19027
19028
19029
19030
19031
19032
19033
19034
19035
19036
19037
19038
19039
19040
19041
19042
19043
19044
19045
19046
19047
19048
19049
19050
19051
19052
19053
19054
19055
19056
19057
19058
19059
19060
19061
19062
19063
19064
19065
19066
19067
19068
19069
19070
19071
19072
19073
19074
19075
19076
19077
19078
19079
19080
19081
19082
19083
19084
19085
19086
19087
19088
19089
19090
19091
19092
19093
19094
19095
19096
19097
19098
19099
19100
19101
19102
19103
19104
19105
19106
19107
19108
19109
19110
19111
19112
19113
19114
19115
19116
19117
19118
19119
19120
19121
19122
19123
19124
19125
19126
19127
19128
19129
19130
19131
19132
19133
19134
19135
19136
19137
19138
19139
19140
19141
19142
19143
19144
19145
19146
19147
19148
19149
19150
19151
19152
19153
19154
19155
19156
19157
19158
19159
19160
19161
19162
19163
19164
19165
19166
19167
19168
19169
19170
19171
19172
19173
19174
19175
19176
19177
19178
19179
19180
19181
19182
19183
19184
19185
19186
19187
19188
19189
19190
19191
19192
19193
19194
19195
19196
19197
19198
19199
19200
19201
19202
19203
19204
19205
19206
19207
19208
19209
19210
19211
19212
19213
19214
19215
19216
19217
19218
19219
19220
19221
19222
19223
19224
19225
19226
19227
19228
19229
19230
19231
19232
19233
19234
19235
19236
19237
19238
19239
19240
19241
19242
19243
19244
19245
19246
19247
19248
19249
19250
19251
19252
19253
19254
19255
19256
19257
19258
19259
19260
19261
19262
19263
19264
19265
19266
19267
19268
19269
19270
19271
19272
19273
19274
19275
19276
19277
19278
19279
19280
19281
19282
19283
19284
19285
19286
19287
19288
19289
19290
19291
19292
19293
19294
19295
19296
19297
19298
19299
19300
19301
19302
19303
19304
19305
19306
19307
19308
19309
19310
19311
19312
19313
19314
19315
19316
19317
19318
19319
19320
19321
19322
19323
19324
19325
19326
19327
19328
19329
19330
19331
19332
19333
19334
19335
19336
19337
19338
19339
19340
19341
19342
19343
19344
19345
19346
19347
19348
19349
19350
19351
19352
19353
19354
19355
19356
19357
19358
19359
19360
19361
19362
19363
19364
19365
19366
19367
19368
19369
19370
19371
19372
19373
19374
19375
19376
19377
19378
19379
19380
19381
19382
19383
19384
19385
19386
19387
19388
19389
19390
19391
19392
19393
19394
19395
19396
19397
19398
19399
19400
19401
19402
19403
19404
19405
19406
19407
19408
19409
19410
19411
19412
19413
19414
19415
19416
19417
19418
19419
19420
19421
19422
19423
19424
19425
19426
19427
19428
19429
19430
19431
19432
19433
19434
19435
19436
19437
19438
19439
19440
19441
19442
19443
19444
19445
19446
19447
19448
19449
19450
19451
19452
19453
19454
19455
19456
19457
19458
19459
19460
19461
19462
19463
19464
19465
19466
19467
19468
19469
19470
19471
19472
19473
19474
19475
19476
19477
19478
19479
19480
19481
19482
19483
19484
19485
19486
19487
19488
19489
19490
19491
19492
19493
19494
19495
19496
19497
19498
19499
19500
19501
19502
19503
19504
19505
19506
19507
19508
19509
19510
19511
19512
19513
19514
19515
19516
19517
19518
19519
19520
19521
19522
19523
19524
19525
19526
19527
19528
19529
19530
19531
19532
19533
19534
19535
19536
19537
19538
19539
19540
19541
19542
19543
19544
19545
19546
19547
19548
19549
19550
19551
19552
19553
19554
19555
19556
19557
19558
19559
19560
19561
19562
19563
19564
19565
19566
19567
19568
19569
19570
19571
19572
19573
19574
19575
19576
19577
19578
19579
19580
19581
19582
19583
19584
19585
19586
19587
19588
19589
19590
19591
19592
19593
19594
19595
19596
19597
19598
19599
19600
19601
19602
19603
19604
19605
19606
19607
19608
19609
19610
19611
19612
19613
19614
19615
19616
19617
19618
19619
19620
19621
19622
19623
19624
19625
19626
19627
19628
19629
19630
19631
19632
19633
19634
19635
19636
19637
19638
19639
19640
19641
19642
19643
19644
19645
19646
19647
19648
19649
19650
19651
19652
19653
19654
19655
19656
19657
19658
19659
19660
19661
19662
19663
19664
19665
19666
19667
19668
19669
19670
19671
19672
19673
19674
19675
19676
19677
19678
19679
19680
19681
19682
19683
19684
19685
19686
19687
19688
19689
19690
19691
19692
19693
19694
19695
19696
19697
19698
19699
19700
19701
19702
19703
19704
19705
19706
19707
19708
19709
19710
19711
19712
19713
19714
19715
19716
19717
19718
19719
19720
19721
19722
19723
19724
19725
19726
19727
19728
19729
19730
19731
19732
19733
19734
19735
19736
19737
19738
19739
19740

<!DOCTYPE html
   PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
   "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" >

<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en">
  <head>
 <meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8" />
   <title>
      The History of Henry Esmond, Esq. | Project Gutenberg
    </title>
    <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">

    body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
    .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
    .pagenum   {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal;
               margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%;
               text-align: right;}
    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}

    </style>
  </head>
  <body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 2511 ***</div>
    <h1>
      THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND, ESQ.
    </h1>
    <h2>
      A COLONEL IN THE SERVICE OF HER MAJESTY QUEEN ANNE WRITTEN BY HIMSELF<br /><br />
      By William Makepeace Thackeray
    </h2>
    <h4>
      Boston, Estes and Lauriat, Publishers
    </h4>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE WILLIAM BINGHAM, LORD ASHBURTON. <br />
      MY DEAR LORD,
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,
    </p>
    <p>
      Your obliged friend and servant,
    </p>
    <p>
      W. M. THACKERAY.
    </p>
    <p>
      LONDON, October 18, 1852.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a href="#linktablecontents"><big><b>TABLE OF CONTENTS</b></big></a>
      <a id="link2H_PREF">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PREFACE.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      THE ESMONDS OF VIRGINIA.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      And it is since I knew him entirely&mdash;for during my mother's life he
      never quite opened himself to me&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;Were your
      father, Madam,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;to go into the woods, the Indians would elect
      him Sachem;&rdquo; and his lordship was pleased to call me Pocahontas.
    </p>
    <p>
      I did not see our other relative, Bishop Tusher's lady, of whom so much is
      said in my papa's memoirs&mdash;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&mdash;&ldquo;No wonder she became a favorite, for
      the King likes them old and ugly, as his father did before him.&rdquo; On which
      papa said&mdash;&ldquo;All women were alike; that there was never one so
      beautiful as that one; and that we could forgive her everything but her
      beauty.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the first Mrs. Tusher lying sixty miles
      off at Castlewood.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,
    </p>
    <p>
      RACHEL ESMOND WARRINGTON. CASTLEWOOD, VIRGINIA,
    </p>
    <p>
      November 3, 1778.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a id="linktablecontents"></a> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
		<a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE. </a><br /><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>BOOK I. &nbsp;THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND</b> </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a><br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a><br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a><br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> <br /><br /><br />

		<a href="#link2H_4_0018"> <b>BOOK II. &nbsp;CONTAINS MR. ESMOND'S MILITARY LIFE</b> </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER I. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER II. </a><br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER III. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER IV. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER V. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER VI. </a><br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER VII. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER VIII. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER IX. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER X. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XI. </a><br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XII. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XIII. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XIV. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XV. </a><br /><br /><br />

		<a href="#link2H_4_0034"> <b>BOOK III. &nbsp;THE END OF MR. ESMOND'S ADVENTURES IN ENGLAND</b> </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER I. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER II. </a><br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER III. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER IV. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER V. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER VI. </a><br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER VII. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER VIII. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER IX. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER X. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XI. </a><br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XII. </a><br /><br />
		<a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XIII. </a>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h1>
      THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
    </h1>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BOOK I.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME OF HIS LEAVING TRINITY
      COLLEGE, IN CAMBRIDGE.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;on which the exile's unpaid drink is scored up&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      About the King's follower, the Viscount Castlewood&mdash;orphan of his
      son, ruined by his fidelity, bearing many wounds and marks of bravery, old
      and in exile&mdash;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.
      &ldquo;And I shall be deservedly hanged,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF ESMOND OF CASTLEWOOD HALL.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stretched out her hand&mdash;indeed when was it that that hand would
      not stretch out to do an act of kindness, or to protect grief and
      ill-fortune? &ldquo;And this is our kinsman,&rdquo; she said &ldquo;and what is your name,
      kinsman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name is Henry Esmond,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His name is Henry Esmond, sure enough, my lady,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So this is the little priest&rdquo; says my lord, looking down at the lad;
      &ldquo;welcome, kinsman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is saying his prayers to mamma,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Le pauvre enfant, il n'a que nous,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And he shan't want for friends here,&rdquo; says my lord in a kind voice,
      &ldquo;shall he, little Trix?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When my lord and lady were going away thence, the little girl, still
      holding her kinsman by the hand, bade him to come too. &ldquo;Thou wilt always
      forsake an old friend for a new one, Trix,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If thou canst not be happy here,&rdquo; says my lord, looking round at the
      scene, &ldquo;thou art hard to please, Rachel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am happy where you are,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but we were happiest of all at
      Walcote Forest.&rdquo; Then my lord began to describe what was before them to
      his wife, and what indeed little Harry knew better than he&mdash;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. &ldquo;I was but two years old then,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;but take
      forty-six from ninety, and how old shall I be, kinsman Harry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thirty,&rdquo; says his wife, with a laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A great deal too old for you, Rachel,&rdquo; answers my lord, looking fondly
      down at her. Indeed she seemed to be a girl, and was at that time scarce
      twenty years old.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know, Frank, I will do anything to please you,&rdquo; says she, &ldquo;and I
      promise you I will grow older every day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mustn't call papa, Frank; you must call papa my lord now,&rdquo; 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&mdash;but because he was happy, no doubt&mdash;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!
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;&ldquo;and you will come too, kinsman, won't you?&rdquo; she
      said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Harry Esmond blushed: &ldquo;I&mdash;I have supper with Mrs. Worksop,&rdquo; says he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;D&mdash;n it,&rdquo; says my lord, &ldquo;thou shalt sup with us, Harry, to-night!
      Shan't refuse a lady, shall he, Trix?&rdquo;&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No dinner! poor dear child!&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;The King,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you?&rdquo; says she, with a blush; &ldquo;then, sir, you shall teach me and
      Beatrix.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      RELATES HOW FRANCIS, FOURTH VISCOUNT, ARRIVES AT CASTLEWOOD.
    </h3>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;Jack, your sister may be
      so-and-so, but by Jove my wife shan't!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;Mr. Killigrew called her
      the Sybil, the death's-head put up at the King's feast as a memento mori,
      &amp;c.&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;to his twopenny ordinary in Bell
      Yard.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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;* &ldquo;I never,&rdquo; said my
      lady, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * 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.
</pre>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;Lady Isabel! lord-a-mercy, it's Lady Jezebel!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;If she were to take them off,&rdquo; my Lady Sark said, &ldquo;Tom Esmond,
      her husband, would run away with them and pawn them.&rdquo; 'Twas another
      calumny. My Lady Sark was also an exile from Court, and there had been war
      between the two ladies before.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III.
    </h2>
    <p>
      WHITHER IN THE TIME OF THOMAS, THIRD VISCOUNT, I HAD PRECEDED HIM AS PAGE
      TO ISABELLA.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he said so, Bon Papa used to look up from the loom, where he was
      embroidering beautiful silk flowers, and say, &ldquo;Angel! she belongs to the
      Babylonish scarlet woman.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;that he was now to be called Master Harry Esmond&mdash;that
      my Lord Viscount Castlewood was his parrain&mdash;that he was to live at
      the great house of Castlewood, in the province of &mdash;&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;C'est bien ca,&rdquo; he said to the priest after eying the child, and the
      gentleman in black shrugged his shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let Blaise take him out for a holiday,&rdquo; and out for a holiday the boy and
      the valet went. Harry went jumping along; he was glad enough to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;all
      under company of Monsieur Blaise.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must never sing that song any more: do you hear, little mannikin?&rdquo;
       says my Lord Viscount, holding up a finger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But we will try and teach you a better, Harry,&rdquo; Mr. Holt said; and the
      child answered, for he was a docile child, and of an affectionate nature,
      &ldquo;That he loved pretty songs, and would try and learn anything the
      gentleman would tell him.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis well, 'tis well!&rdquo; said Blaise, that night (in his own language) when
      they lay again at an inn. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When shall we come to Castlewood, Monsieur Blaise?&rdquo; says Harry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Parbleu! my lord does not press himself,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;and
      with this one both my lord and Mr. Holt had a few words. &ldquo;This, Harry, is
      Castlewood church,&rdquo; says Mr. Holt, &ldquo;and this is the pillar thereof,
      learned Doctor Tusher. Take off your hat, sirrah, and salute Dr. Tusher!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come up to supper, Doctor,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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, &ldquo;Parbleu, one sees well that my lord is your godfather;&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;an apartment than which Harry
      thought he had never seen anything more grand&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;borrowed curls&mdash;so
      that no wonder little Harry Esmond was scared when he was first presented
      to her&mdash;the kind priest acting as master of the ceremonies at that
      solemn introduction&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I present to your ladyship your kinsman and little page of honor, Master
      Henry Esmond,&rdquo; Mr. Holt said, bowing lowly, with a sort of comical
      humility. &ldquo;Make a pretty bow to my lady, Monsieur; and then another little
      bow, not so low, to Madame Tusher&mdash;the fair priestess of Castlewood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where I have lived and hope to die, sir,&rdquo; says Madame Tusher, giving a
      hard glance at the brat, and then at my lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does my appearance please you, little page?&rdquo; asked the lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He would be very hard to please if it didn't,&rdquo; cried Madame Tusher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have done, you silly Maria,&rdquo; said Lady Castlewood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where I'm attached, I'm attached, Madame&mdash;and I'd die rather than
      not say so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Je meurs ou je m'attache,&rdquo; Mr. Holt said with a polite grin. &ldquo;The ivy
      says so in the picture, and clings to the oak like a fond parasite as it
      is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Parricide, sir!&rdquo; cries Mrs. Tusher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, Tusher&mdash;you are always bickering with Father Holt,&rdquo; cried my
      lady. &ldquo;Come and kiss my hand, child;&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To kiss that hand would make many a pretty fellow happy!&rdquo; cried Mrs.
      Tusher: on which my lady crying out, &ldquo;Go, you foolish Tusher!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Who is that other woman?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;She is fat and round;
      she is more pretty than my Lady Castlewood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is Madame Tusher, the parson's wife of Castlewood. She has a son of
      your age, but bigger than you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why does she like so to kiss my lady's hand. It is not good to kiss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will not marry the French woman, will you? I saw her laughing with
      Blaise in the buttery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I belong to a church that is older and better than the English church,&rdquo;
       Mr. Holt said (making a sign whereof Esmond did not then understand the
      meaning, across his breast and forehead); &ldquo;in our church the clergy do not
      marry. You will understand these things better soon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was not Saint Peter the head of your church?&mdash;Dr. Rabbits of Ealing
      told us so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Father said, &ldquo;Yes, he was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Saint Peter was married, for we heard only last Sunday that his
      wife's mother lay sick of a fever.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Three Castles&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;to
      the lady and lord rather&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;it tasked young
      Harry Esmond's powers of reticence not to say to his young companion,
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      I AM PLACED UNDER A POPISH PRIEST AND BRED TO THAT RELIGION.&mdash;VISCOUNTESS
      CASTLEWOOD.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;who was,
      moreover, brewer, gardener, and woodman&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;'twas rather a dangerous post to play with her
      ladyship&mdash;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 &ldquo;News
      Letter&rdquo; or the &ldquo;Grand Cyrus.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;a point whereof the boy, young as he was,
      was very well assured.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;The Bishops for ever!&rdquo; &ldquo;Down with the Pope!&rdquo; &ldquo;No
      Popery! no Popery! Jezebel, Jezebel!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;For
      God's sake, madam, do not speak or look out of window; sit still.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Flog your way
      through them, the brutes, James, and use your whip!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mob answered with a roaring jeer of laughter, and fresh cries of
      &ldquo;Jezebel! Jezebel!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For Heaven's sake be still!&rdquo; says Mr. Holt; &ldquo;we are not ten paces from
      the 'Bell' archway, where they can shut the gates on us, and keep out this
      canaille.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Ah! you d&mdash;- little yelling Popish bastard,&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You hulking coward!&rdquo; says he; &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Some of the mob cried, &ldquo;Huzzah, my lord!&rdquo; for they knew him, and the
      saddler's man was a known bruiser, near twice as big as my lord Viscount.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make way there,&rdquo; says he (he spoke in a high shrill voice, but with a
      great air of authority). &ldquo;Make way, and let her ladyship's carriage pass.&rdquo;
       The men that were between the coach and the gate of the &ldquo;Bell&rdquo; actually
      did make way, and the horses went in, my lord walking after them with his
      hat on his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he was going in at the gate, through which the coach had just rolled,
      another cry begins, of &ldquo;No Popery&mdash;no Papists!&rdquo; My lord turns round
      and faces them once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God save the King!&rdquo; says he at the highest pitch of his voice. &ldquo;Who dares
      abuse the King's religion? You, you d&mdash;d psalm-singing cobbler, as
      sure as I'm a magistrate of this county I'll commit you!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Bell;&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Bell,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      MY SUPERIORS ARE ENGAGED IN PLOTS FOR THE RESTORATION OF KING JAMES II.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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&mdash;so
      long, that it seemed to him as if the day never would come.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who's there?&rdquo; cried out the boy, who was of a good spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silentium!&rdquo; whispered the other; &ldquo;'tis I, my boy!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Holt laughed, seeing the lad's attention fixed at once on this
      hole. &ldquo;That is right, Harry,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;faithful little famuli, see all
      and say nothing. You are faithful, I know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know I would go to the stake for you,&rdquo; said Harry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't want your head,&rdquo; said the Father, patting it kindly; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know the secret of the cupboard,&rdquo; said he, laughing, &ldquo;and must be
      prepared for other mysteries;&rdquo; and he opened&mdash;but not a secret
      cupboard this time&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If they miss the cupboard,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harry was alarmed at the notion that his friend was about to leave him;
      but &ldquo;No,&rdquo; the priest said, &ldquo;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&mdash;at least not them.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rest of his goods, his small wardrobe, &amp;c. Holt left untouched on
      his shelves and in his cupboard, taking down&mdash;with a laugh, however&mdash;and
      flinging into the brazier, where he only half burned them, some
      theological treatises which he had been writing against the English
      divines. &ldquo;And now,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will not Lockwood let you out, sir?&rdquo; Esmond asked. Holt laughed; he was
      never more gay or good-humored than when in the midst of action or danger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lockwood knows nothing of my being here, mind you,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;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&mdash;stay, why should you not know one secret more? I
      know you will never betray me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I am gone,&rdquo; Father Holt said, &ldquo;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&mdash;where shall we put the key?&mdash;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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, &ldquo;Is King
      Charles up that oak-tree?&rdquo; his duty would have been not to say, Yes&mdash;so
      that the Cromwellians should seize the king and murder him like his father&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;God save the Prince of Orange and the Protestant religion!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are prisoners,&rdquo; says she; &ldquo;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&rdquo; (and she clasped it in her long fingers). &ldquo;The
      blood of the Esmonds will always flow freely for their kings. We are not
      like the Churchills&mdash;the Judases, who kiss their master and betray
      him. We know how to suffer, how even to forgive in the royal cause&rdquo; (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). &ldquo;Let the tyrant of Orange bring his rack and his odious Dutch
      tortures&mdash;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.&rdquo; And she told
      her page, a hundred times at least, of the particulars of the last
      interview which she had with his Majesty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I flung myself before my liege's feet,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;at Salisbury. I
      devoted myself&mdash;my husband&mdash;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&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;There would be a horse-market at
      Newbury next Thursday,&rdquo; and so carry the same message on to the next house
      on his list.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;my lord became the most
      considerable person in our part of the county for the affairs of the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;You are going to&mdash;to ride,&rdquo; says she.
      &ldquo;Oh, that I might come too&mdash;but in my situation I am forbidden horse
      exercise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We kiss my Lady Marchioness's hand,&rdquo; says Mr. Holt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord, God speed you!&rdquo; she said, stepping up and embracing my lord in a
      grand manner. &ldquo;Mr. Holt, I ask your blessing:&rdquo; and she knelt down for
      that, whilst Mrs. Tusher tossed her head up.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;and they rode out of Castlewood gate.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they crossed the bridge, Harry could see an officer in scarlet ride up
      touching his hat, and address my lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; says he to the officer, &ldquo;we are four to two; will you be so kind as
      to take that road, and leave me go mine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your road is mine, my lord,&rdquo; says the officer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then&mdash;&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fire! fire!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Holt, qui pensait a tout,&rdquo; says Blaise, &ldquo;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,'&mdash;why did he say Marquis to
      M. le Vicomte?&mdash;'we must drink it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The poor gentleman's horse was a better one than that I rode,&rdquo; Blaise
      continues; &ldquo;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&mdash;and says, 'All is done! The Ecossais declared
      an hour too soon&mdash;General Ginckel was down upon them.' The whole
      thing was at an end.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'And we've shot an officer on duty, and let his orderly escape,' says my
      lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he gave Harry the two papers. He read that to himself, which only
      said, &ldquo;Burn the papers in the cupboard, burn this. You know nothing about
      anything.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE ISSUE OF THE PLOTS.&mdash;THE DEATH OF THOMAS, THIRD VISCOUNT OF
      CASTLEWOOD; AND THE IMPRISONMENT OF HIS VISCOUNTESS.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;They will find Isabel of Castlewood is equal to her fate.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell your mistress, little man,&rdquo; says the Captain, kindly, &ldquo;that we must
      speak to her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mistress is ill a-bed,&rdquo; said the page.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What complaint has she?&rdquo; asked the Captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy said, &ldquo;The rheumatism!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rheumatism! that's a sad complaint,&rdquo; continues the good-natured Captain;
      &ldquo;and the coach is in the yard to fetch the Doctor, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; says the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how long has her ladyship been ill?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; says the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When did my lord go away?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yesterday night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With Father Holt?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With Mr. Holt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And which way did they travel?&rdquo; asks the lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They travelled without me,&rdquo; says the page.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must see Lady Castlewood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have orders that nobody goes in to her ladyship&mdash;she is sick,&rdquo;
       says the page; but at this moment Victoire came out. &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; says she;
      and, as if not knowing that any one was near, &ldquo;What's this noise?&rdquo; says
      she. &ldquo;Is this gentleman the Doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stuff! we must see Lady Castlewood,&rdquo; says the lawyer, pushing by.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that the Doctor?&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no use with this deception, madam,&rdquo; Captain Westbury said (for
      so he was named). &ldquo;My duty is to arrest the person of Thomas, Viscount
      Castlewood, a nonjuring peer&mdash;of Robert Tusher, Vicar of Castlewood&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see, sir, that I have the rheumatism, and cannot move,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo;
       Captain Westbury said. &ldquo;Your woman will show me where I am to look;&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before one of the cupboards Victoire flung herself down, stretching out
      her arms, and, with a piercing shriek, cried, &ldquo;Non, jamais, monsieur
      l'officier! Jamais! I will rather die than let you see this wardrobe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;not papers regarding the conspiracy&mdash;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, &ldquo;Is it your commission to insult ladies as well as to
      arrest gentlemen, Captain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These articles are only dangerous when worn by your ladyship,&rdquo; the
      Captain said, with a low bow, and a mock grin of politeness. &ldquo;I have found
      nothing which concerns the Government as yet&mdash;only the weapons with
      which beauty is authorized to kill,&rdquo; says he, pointing to a wig with his
      sword-tip. &ldquo;We must now proceed to search the rest of the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not going to leave that wretch in the room with me,&rdquo; cried my
      lady, pointing to the soldier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can I do, madam? Somebody you must have to smooth your pillow and
      bring your medicine&mdash;permit me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir!&rdquo; screamed out my lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madam, if you are too ill to leave the bed,&rdquo; the Captain then said,
      rather sternly, &ldquo;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 * * *.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here it was her ladyship's turn to shriek, for the Captain, with his fist
      shaking the pillows and bolsters, at last came to &ldquo;burn&rdquo; as they say in
      the play of forfeits, and wrenching away one of the pillows, said, &ldquo;Look!
      did not I tell you so? Here is a pillow stuffed with paper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some villain has betrayed us,&rdquo; cried out my lady, sitting up in the bed,
      showing herself full dressed under her night-rail.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;and the japan-box?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir! you don't strike a MAN when he is down,&rdquo; said my lady, with some
      dignity: &ldquo;can you not spare a woman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your ladyship must please to rise, and let me search the bed,&rdquo; said the
      Captain; &ldquo;there is no more time to lose in bandying talk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a list of gentlemen of the county in Father Holt's hand writing&mdash;Mr.
      Freeman's (King James's) friends&mdash;a similar paper being found among
      those of Sir John Fenwick and Mr. Coplestone, who suffered death for this
      conspiracy.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.*
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * 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.
</pre>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are these?&rdquo; says one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They're written in a foreign language,&rdquo; says the lawyer. &ldquo;What are you
      laughing at, little whelp?&rdquo; adds he, turning round as he saw the boy
      smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Holt said they were sermons,&rdquo; Harry said, &ldquo;and bade me to burn them;&rdquo;
       which indeed was true of those papers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sermons indeed&mdash;it's treason, I would lay a wager,&rdquo; cries the
      lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Egad! it's Greek to me,&rdquo; says Captain Westbury. &ldquo;Can you read it, little
      boy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir, a little,&rdquo; Harry said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then read, and read in English, sir, on your peril,&rdquo; said the lawyer. And
      Harry began to translate:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;and
      here the boy was obliged to stop, the rest of the page being charred by
      the fire: and asked of the lawyer&mdash;&ldquo;Shall I go on, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The lawyer said&mdash;&ldquo;This boy is deeper than he seems: who knows that he
      is not laughing at us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let's have in Dick the Scholar,&rdquo; cried Captain Westbury, laughing: and he
      called to a trooper out of the window&mdash;&ldquo;Ho, Dick, come in here and
      construe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A thick-set soldier, with a square good-humored face, came in at the
      summons, saluting his officer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell us what is this, Dick,&rdquo; says the lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name is Steele, sir,&rdquo; says the soldier. &ldquo;I may be Dick for my friends,
      but I don't name gentlemen of your cloth amongst them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well then, Steele.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Steele, sir, if you please. When you address a gentleman of his
      Majesty's Horse Guards, be pleased not to be so familiar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't know, sir,&rdquo; said the lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How should you? I take it you are not accustomed to meet with gentlemen,&rdquo;
       says the trooper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold thy prate, and read that bit of paper,&rdquo; says Westbury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis Latin,&rdquo; says Dick, glancing at it, and again saluting his officer,
      &ldquo;and from a sermon of Mr. Cudworth's,&rdquo; and he translated the words pretty
      much as Henry Esmond had rendered them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a young scholar you are,&rdquo; says the Captain to the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Depend on't, he knows more than he tells,&rdquo; says the lawyer. &ldquo;I think we
      will pack him off in the coach with old Jezebel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For construing a bit of Latin?&rdquo; said the Captain, very good-naturedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would as lief go there as anywhere,&rdquo; Harry Esmond said, simply, &ldquo;for
      there is nobody to care for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There must have been something touching in the child's voice, or in this
      description of his solitude&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does he say?&rdquo; says the lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Faith, ask Dick himself,&rdquo; cried Captain Westbury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said I was not ignorant of misfortune myself, and had learned to succor
      the miserable, and that's not YOUR trade, Mr. Sheepskin,&rdquo; said the
      trooper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had better leave Dick the Scholar alone, Mr. Corbet,&rdquo; the Captain
      said. And Harry Esmond, always touched by a kind face and kind word, felt
      very grateful to this good-natured champion.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;dear angel,&rdquo; and &ldquo;poor infant,&rdquo; and a hundred other names.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Viscountess, giving him her lean hand to kiss, bade him always be
      faithful to the house of Esmond. &ldquo;If evil should happen to my lord,&rdquo; says
      she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;I am no common soldier,&rdquo; Dick would say, and indeed it was easy
      to see by his learning, breeding, and many accomplishments, that he was
      not. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You hanged as many of ours,&rdquo; interposed Harry; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Faith! there has been too much persecution on both sides: but 'twas you
      taught us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, 'twas the Pagans began it,&rdquo; cried the lad, and began to instance a
      number of saints of the Church, from the proto-martyr downwards&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; says the trooper gravely, &ldquo;the miracles of the first three
      centuries belong to my Church as well as yours, Master Papist,&rdquo; and then
      added, with something of a smile upon his countenance, and a queer look at
      Harry&mdash;&ldquo;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&mdash;every man of
      every nation has done that&mdash;'tis the living up to it that is
      difficult, as I know to my cost,&rdquo; he added with a sigh. &ldquo;And ah!&rdquo; he
      added, &ldquo;my poor lad, I am not strong enough to convince thee by my life&mdash;though
      to die for my religion would give me the greatest of joys&mdash;but I had
      a dear friend in Magdalen College in Oxford; I wish Joe Addison were here
      to convince thee, as he quickly could&mdash;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,&rdquo;&mdash;Dick added with a smile, &ldquo;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&mdash;Dr.
      Cudworth says, 'A good conscience is the best looking-glass of heaven'&mdash;and
      there's serenity in my friend's face which always reflects it&mdash;I wish
      you could see him, Harry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did he do you a great deal of good?&rdquo; asked the lad, simply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He might have done,&rdquo; said the other&mdash;&ldquo;at least he taught me to see
      and approve better things. 'Tis my own fault, deteriora sequi.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem very good,&rdquo; the boy said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not what I seem, alas!&rdquo; answered the trooper&mdash;and indeed, as it
      turned out, poor Dick told the truth&mdash;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&mdash;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, &ldquo;Ah, little
      Papist, I wish Joseph Addison was here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here's news for Frank Esmond,&rdquo; says Captain Westbury; &ldquo;Harry, did you
      ever see Colonel Esmond?&rdquo; And Captain Westbury looked very hard at the boy
      as he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      Harry said he had seen him but once when he was at Hexton, at the ball
      there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And did he say anything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He said what I don't care to repeat,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you love my Lord Castlewood?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wait until I know my mother, sir, to say,&rdquo; the boy answered, his eyes
      filling with tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Something has happened to Lord Castlewood,&rdquo; Captain Westbury said in a
      very grave tone&mdash;&ldquo;something which must happen to us all. He is dead
      of a wound received at the Boyne, fighting for King James.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad my lord fought for the right cause,&rdquo; the boy said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was better to meet death on the field like a man, than face it on
      Tower-hill, as some of them may,&rdquo; continued Mr. Westbury. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
      &ldquo;That was the first sensation of grief,&rdquo; Dick said, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; said Dick kindly, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I AM LEFT AT CASTLEWOOD AN ORPHAN, AND FIND MOST KIND PROTECTORS THERE.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;as what fond
      woman does not?&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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;&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;and what follows? They live
      together, and they dine together, and they say &ldquo;my dear&rdquo; and &ldquo;my love&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Parson
      Harry,&rdquo; as he called young Esmond, by constantly praising his parts and
      admiring his boyish stock of learning.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,
      &ldquo;Fie, my lord, remember my cloth!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      And, as Harry Esmond was her page, he also was called from duty at this
      time. &ldquo;My lord has lived in the army and with soldiers,&rdquo; she would say to
      the lad, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; And very likely she believed so. 'Tis strange what a
      man may do, and a woman yet think him an angel.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You little bastard beggar!&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I'll murder you for this!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And indeed he was big enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bastard or not,&rdquo; said the other, grinding his teeth, &ldquo;I have a couple of
      swords, and if you like to meet me, as a man, on the terrace to-night&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      AFTER GOOD FORTUNE COMES EVIL.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Three Castles,&rdquo; 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&mdash;in the lanes, or by the brook,
      or at the garden-palings, or about Castlewood: it was, &ldquo;Lord, Mr. Henry!&rdquo;
       and &ldquo;how do you do, Nancy?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Doctor Tusher brought the news that the small-pox was at the &ldquo;Three
      Castles,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little Lady Beatrix screamed out at Dr. Tusher's news; and my lord cried
      out, &ldquo;God bless me!&rdquo; 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&mdash;but
      the idea of death by small-pox scared him beyond all other ends. &ldquo;We will
      take the children and ride away to-morrow to Walcote:&rdquo; this was my lord's
      small house, inherited from his mother, near to Winchester.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is the best refuge in case the disease spreads,&rdquo; said Dr. Tusher.
      &ldquo;'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&mdash;I can never go into my
      reading-desk and have that fellow so near me. I WON'T have that man near
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If a parishioner dying in the small-pox sent to you, would you not go?&rdquo;
       asked my lady, looking up from her frame of work, with her calm blue eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the Lord, I wouldn't,&rdquo; said my lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are not in a popish country; and a sick man doth not absolutely need
      absolution and confession,&rdquo; said the Doctor. &ldquo;'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&mdash;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 . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God forbid!&rdquo; cried my lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Amen,&rdquo; continued Dr. Tusher. &ldquo;Amen to that prayer, my very good lord! for
      your sake I would lay my life down&rdquo;&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;and he filled this and emptied
      it too.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When, then, the news was brought that the little boy at the &ldquo;Three
      Castles&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;saying in the French language to Lady
      Castlewood, with whom the young lad had read much, and whom he had
      perfected in this tongue&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where you took my son afterwards,&rdquo; Lady Castlewood said, very angry, and
      turning red. &ldquo;I thank you, sir, for giving him such company. Beatrix,&rdquo; she
      said in English, &ldquo;I forbid you to touch Mr. Esmond. Come away, child&mdash;come
      to your room. Come to your room&mdash;I wish your Reverence good-night&mdash;and
      you, sir, had you not better go back to your friends at the ale-house?&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey-day!&rdquo; says my lord, who was standing by the fireplace&mdash;indeed he
      was in the position to which he generally came by that hour of the evening&mdash;&ldquo;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&mdash;Damme, Lady Castlewood, you look dev'lish handsome in a
      passion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My lord burst out, with a laugh and an oath&mdash;&ldquo;You young slyboots,
      you've been at Nancy Sievewright. D&mdash;- the young hypocrite, who'd
      have thought it in him? I say, Tusher, he's been after&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough, my lord,&rdquo; said my lady, &ldquo;don't insult me with this talk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word,&rdquo; said poor Harry, ready to cry with shame and
      mortification, &ldquo;the honor of that young person is perfectly unstained for
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, of course, of course,&rdquo; says my lord, more and more laughing and
      tipsy. &ldquo;Upon his HONOR, Doctor&mdash;Nancy Sieve&mdash; . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take Mistress Beatrix to bed,&rdquo; my lady cried at this moment to Mrs.
      Tucker her woman, who came in with her ladyship's tea. &ldquo;Put her into my
      room&mdash;no, into yours,&rdquo; she added quickly. &ldquo;Go, my child: go, I say:
      not a word!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      For once her mother took little heed of her sobbing, and continued to
      speak eagerly&mdash;&ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;this young man&mdash;your
      dependant&mdash;told me just now in French&mdash;he was ashamed to speak
      in his own language&mdash;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&mdash;yes, reeking from it&mdash;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&mdash;killed our child. Why was
      he brought in to disgrace our house? Why is he here? Let him go&mdash;let
      him go, I say, to-night, and pollute the place no more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot help my birth, madam,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;nor my other misfortune. And as
      for your boy, if&mdash;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;&rdquo;
       and, sinking down on his knee, Harry Esmond took the rough hand of his
      benefactor and kissed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He wants to go to the ale-house&mdash;let him go,&rdquo; cried my lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm d&mdash;d if he shall,&rdquo; said my lord. &ldquo;I didn't think you could be so
      d&mdash;d ungrateful, Rachel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her reply was to burst into a flood of tears, and to quit the room with a
      rapid glance at Harry Esmond,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was always so,&rdquo; my lord said; &ldquo;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&mdash;- it, look at the maids&mdash;just look at the
      maids in the house&rdquo; (my lord pronounced all the words together&mdash;just-look-at-the-maze-in-the-house:
      jever-see-such-maze?) &ldquo;You wouldn't take a wife out of Castlewood now,
      would you, Doctor?&rdquo; and my lord burst out laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor, who had been looking at my Lord Castlewood from under his
      eyelids, said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said young Esmond, bursting out indignantly, &ldquo;she told me that you
      yourself were a horrid old man, and had offered to kiss her in the dairy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For shame, Henry,&rdquo; cried Doctor Tusher, turning as red as a turkey-cock,
      while my lord continued to roar with laughter. &ldquo;If you listen to the
      falsehoods of an abandoned girl&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is as honest as any woman in England, and as pure for me,&rdquo; cried out
      Henry, &ldquo;and, as kind, and as good. For shame on you to malign her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Far be it from me to do so,&rdquo; cried the Doctor. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is all very true, sir,&rdquo; said Lady Esmond, looking at the young man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis to be feared that he may have brought the infection with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From the ale-house&mdash;yes,&rdquo; said my lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;D&mdash;- it, I forgot when I collared you, boy,&rdquo; cried my lord, stepping
      back. &ldquo;Keep off, Harry my boy; there's no good in running into the wolf's
      jaws, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My lady looked at him with some surprise, and instantly advancing to Henry
      Esmond, took his hand. &ldquo;I beg your pardon, Henry,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I spoke very
      unkindly. I have no right to interfere with you&mdash;with your&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My lord broke out into an oath. &ldquo;Can't you leave the boy alone, my lady?&rdquo;
       She looked a little red, and faintly pressed the lad's hand as she dropped
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no use, my lord,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;Frank was on his knee as he was
      making pictures, and was running constantly from Henry to me. The evil is
      done, if any.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not with me, damme,&rdquo; cried my lord. &ldquo;I've been smoking,&rdquo;&mdash;and he
      lighted his pipe again with a coal&mdash;&ldquo;and it keeps off infection; and
      as the disease is in the village&mdash;plague take it&mdash;I would have
      you leave it. We'll go to-morrow to Walcote, my lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no fear,&rdquo; said my lady; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won't run the risk,&rdquo; said my lord; &ldquo;I'm as bold as any man, but I'll
      not bear that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take Beatrix with you and go,&rdquo; said my lady. &ldquo;For us the mischief is
      done; and Tucker can wait upon us, who has had the disease.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You take care to choose 'em ugly enough,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry,&rdquo; she said, after a pause, in a hard, dry voice,&mdash;&ldquo;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&mdash;quite a child; and I should
      never have thought of treating you otherwise until&mdash;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,)&mdash;and&mdash;and I wish you a
      good-night, Mr. Esmond.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had brought the contagion with him from the &ldquo;Three Castles&rdquo; sure
      enough, and was presently laid up with the smallpox, which spared the hall
      no more than it did the cottage.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I HAVE THE SMALL-POX, AND PREPARE TO LEAVE CASTLEWOOD.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;It was a Providence, for which we all
      ought to be thankful,&rdquo; Doctor Tusher said, &ldquo;that my lady and her son were
      spared, while Death carried off the poor domestics of the house;&rdquo; and
      rebuked Harry for asking, in his simple way, For which we ought to be
      thankful&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the lad broke out
      and said, &ldquo;It IS worse and my mistress is not near so handsome as she
      was;&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is MY bear, and I will not have him baited, Doctor,&rdquo; my lady said,
      patting her hand kindly on the boy's head, as he was still kneeling at her
      feet. &ldquo;How your hair has come off! And mine, too,&rdquo; she added with another
      sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not for myself that I cared,&rdquo; my lady said to Harry, when the
      parson had taken his leave; &ldquo;but AM I very much changed? Alas! I fear 'tis
      too true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madam, you have the dearest, and kindest, and sweetest face in the world,
      I think,&rdquo; the lad said; and indeed he thought and thinks so.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will my lord think so when he comes back?&rdquo; the lady asked with a sigh,
      and another look at her Venice glass. &ldquo;Suppose he should think as you do,
      sir, that I am hideous&mdash;yes, you said hideous&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madam,&rdquo; said Mr. Esmond, &ldquo;Ahasuerus was the Grand Turk, and to change was
      the manner of his country, and according to his law.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are all Grand Turks for that matter,&rdquo; said my lady, &ldquo;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&mdash;is it, my angel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;The Lord
      gave and took away,&rdquo; he said; and he knew what His servant's duty was. He
      wanted for nothing&mdash;less now than ever before, as there were fewer
      mouths to feed. He wished her ladyship and Master Esmond good morning&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;was her reign, too, over? A minute
      would say. My lord came riding over the bridge&mdash;he could be seen from
      the great window, clad in scarlet, and mounted on his gray hackney&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;her son in her hand&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, Harry, boy!&rdquo; my lord said, good-naturedly, &ldquo;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&mdash;ho, ho!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fie! how yellow you look,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;and there are one, two, red holes
      in your face;&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      My lord laughed again, in high good-humor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;D&mdash;- it!&rdquo; said he, with one of his usual oaths, &ldquo;the little slut
      sees everything. She saw the Dowager's paint t'other day, and asked her
      why she wore that red stuff&mdash;didn't you, Trix? and the Tower; and St.
      James's; and the play; and the Prince George, and the Princess Anne&mdash;didn't
      you, Trix?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are both very fat, and smelt of brandy,&rdquo; the child said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Papa roared with laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brandy!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;And how do you know, Miss Pert?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because your lordship smells of it after supper, when I embrace you
      before you go to bed,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now for my lady,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;exceptions
      to men&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a couple of years after that calamity had befallen which had robbed
      Lady Castlewood of a little&mdash;a very little&mdash;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&mdash;pudet haec opprobria
      dicere nobis)&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;my lady in her
      place over against him&mdash;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, &ldquo;D&mdash;-
      it, now my lady is gone, we will have t'other bottle,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Twas after Jason left her, no doubt,&rdquo; 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), &ldquo;that Medea became a learned woman and a great
      enchantress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she could conjure the stars out of heaven,&rdquo; the young tutor added,
      &ldquo;but she could not bring Jason back again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; asked my lady, very angry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed I mean nothing,&rdquo; said the other, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The men who wrote your books,&rdquo; says my lady, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is there no slavery in a convent?&rdquo; says Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At least if women are slaves there, no one sees them,&rdquo; answered the lady.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; And with a curtsy and a smile she would end this sort of
      colloquy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed &ldquo;Mr. Tutor,&rdquo; 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&mdash;when these could
      be got from Esmond's indolent patron.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;not Harry Esmond's, who could
      scarce distinguish between &ldquo;Green Sleeves&rdquo; and &ldquo;Lillibullero;&rdquo; 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&mdash;the two golden heads over the page&mdash;the child's little
      hand, and the mother's beating the time, with their voices rising and
      falling in unison.
    </p>
    <p>
      But if the children were careless, 'twas a wonder how eagerly the mother
      learnt from her young tutor&mdash;and taught him too. The happiest
      instinctive faculty was this lady's&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;oh so bright and clear!&mdash;oh so longed after!&mdash;because
      they are out of reach; as holiday music from withinside a prison wall&mdash;or
      sunshine seen through the bars; more prized because unattainable&mdash;more
      bright because of the contrast of present darkness and solitude, whence
      there is no escape.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;For who knows,&rdquo; said the lady, &ldquo;what
      may happen, and whether we may be able to keep such a learned tutor long?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When my lord heard of the news, he also did not make any very long face.
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; said my
      lord, who was generous with his own, and indeed with other folk's money.
      &ldquo;I wish your aunt would die once a year, Rachel; we could spend your
      money, and all your sisters', too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have but one aunt&mdash;and&mdash;and I have another use for the money,
      my lord,&rdquo; says my lady, turning very red.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another use, my dear; and what do you know about money?&rdquo; cries my lord.
      &ldquo;And what the devil is there that I don't give you which you want!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I intend to give this money&mdash;can't you fancy how, my lord?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My lord swore one of his large oaths that he did not know in the least
      what she meant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I intend it for Harry Esmond to go to college. Cousin Harry,&rdquo; says my
      lady, &ldquo;you mustn't stay longer in this dull place, but make a name to
      yourself, and for us too, Harry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;D&mdash;n it, Harry's well enough here,&rdquo; says my lord, for a moment
      looking rather sulky.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is Harry going away? You don't mean to say you will go away?&rdquo; cry out
      Frank and Beatrix at one breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he will come back: and this will always be his home,&rdquo; cries my lady,
      with blue eyes looking a celestial kindness: &ldquo;and his scholars will always
      love him; won't they?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By G-d, Rachel, you're a good woman!&rdquo; says my lord, seizing my lady's
      hand, at which she blushed very much, and shrank back, putting her
      children before her. &ldquo;I wish you joy, my kinsman,&rdquo; he continued, giving
      Harry Esmond a hearty slap on the shoulder. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have the sorrel, Harry; 'tis a good one. Father says 'tis the best in the
      stable,&rdquo; says little Frank, clapping his hands, and jumping up. &ldquo;Let's
      come and see him in the stable.&rdquo; And the other, in his delight and
      eagerness, was for leaving the room that instant to arrange about his
      journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Lady Castlewood looked after him with sad penetrating glances. &ldquo;He
      wishes to be gone already, my lord,&rdquo; said she to her husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young man hung back abashed. &ldquo;Indeed, I would stay for ever, if your
      ladyship bade me,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And thou wouldst be a fool for thy pains, kinsman,&rdquo; said my lord. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ours, indeed, is but a dull home,&rdquo; cries my lady, with a little of
      sadness and, maybe, of satire, in her voice: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Curse me, Rachel, if I know now whether thou art in earnest or not,&rdquo; said
      my lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In earnest, my lord!&rdquo; says she, still clinging by one of her children.
      &ldquo;Is there much subject here for joke?&rdquo; And she made him a grand curtsy,
      and, giving a stately look to Harry Esmond, which seemed to say,
      &ldquo;Remember; you understand me, though he does not,&rdquo; she left the room with
      her children.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since she found out that confounded Hexton business,&rdquo; my lord said&mdash;&ldquo;and
      be hanged to them that told her!&mdash;she has not been the same woman.
      She, who used to be as humble as a milkmaid, is as proud as a princess,&rdquo;
       says my lord. &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;n it, Polly
      loves a mug of ale, too, and laced with brandy, by Jove!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; said she (and this was the only time when she spoke
      with a tear in her eye, or a tremor in her voice), &ldquo;it may happen in the
      course of nature that I shall be called away from them: and their father&mdash;and&mdash;and
      they will need true friends and protectors. Promise me that you will be
      true to them&mdash;as&mdash;as I think I have been to you&mdash;and a
      mother's fond prayer and blessing go with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So help me God, madam, I will,&rdquo; said Harry Esmond, falling on his knees,
      and kissing the hand of his dearest mistress. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Happy!&rdquo; says she; &ldquo;but indeed I ought to be, with my children, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not happy!&rdquo; cried Esmond (for he knew what her life was, though he and
      his mistress never spoke a word concerning it). &ldquo;If not happiness, it may
      be ease. Let me stay and work for you&mdash;let me stay and be your
      servant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, you are best away,&rdquo; said my lady, laughing, as she put her hand
      on the boy's head for a moment. &ldquo;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&mdash;and if my children want you, or I
      want you, you shall come to us; and I know we may count on you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May heaven forsake me if you may not!&rdquo; Harry said, getting up from his
      knee.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And my knight longs for a dragon this instant that he may fight,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;her knight,&rdquo; and
      often and often he recalled this to his mind, and prayed that he might be
      her true knight, too.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I GO TO CAMBRIDGE, AND DO BUT LITTLE GOOD THERE.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;'Twas the
      only one fit for polite conversation,&rdquo; she condescended to say, &ldquo;and
      suitable to persons of high breeding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Greyhound,&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;at least Harry
      thought so&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Amen!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      I COME HOME FOR A HOLIDAY TO CASTLEWOOD, AND FIND A SKELETON IN THE HOUSE.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has got a moustache!&rdquo; cries out Master Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why does he not wear a peruke like my Lord Mohun?&rdquo; asked Miss Beatrix.
      &ldquo;My lord says that nobody wears their own hair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe you will have to occupy your old chamber,&rdquo; says my lady. &ldquo;I
      hope the housekeeper has got it ready.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, mamma, you have been there ten times these three days yourself!&rdquo;
       exclaims Frank.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she cut some flowers which you planted in my garden&mdash;do you
      remember, ever so many years ago? when I was quite a little girl,&rdquo; cries
      out Miss Beatrix, on tiptoe. &ldquo;And mamma put them in your window.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember when you grew well after you were ill that you used to like
      roses,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;And you are not to be a page any longer, but a gentleman and
      kinsman, and to walk with papa and mamma,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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 &ldquo;I don't think papa is fond of mamma,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shouldn't say that papa is not fond of mamma,&rdquo; said the boy, at this
      confession. &ldquo;Mamma never said so; and mamma forbade you to say it, Miss
      Beatrix.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      '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?&mdash;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&mdash;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!
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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!&mdash;who is to love what is base and
      unlovely? Respect!&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;(indeed, 'twas on the day after
      New Year's Day, and an excess of mince-pie)&mdash;and said with some of
      his usual oaths&mdash;&ldquo;D&mdash;n it, Harry Esmond&mdash;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&mdash;women are&mdash;all
      the same, Harry, all jilts in their hearts. Stick to college&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was my lord's custom to fling out many jokes of this nature, in
      presence of his wife and children, at meals&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;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&mdash;the standard of virtue did not fit him much.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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, &ldquo;Poor children&mdash;poor
      children!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      My lady, with a laugh of cruel bitterness said, &ldquo;I suppose the person at
      Hexton has been ill, or has scolded him&rdquo; (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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the
      little boy, being a child in a petticoat, trotting about&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;never meddling at all), Harry
      would that instant have questioned the truth on't.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;my lady bidding a servant bring her a glass of wine, and
      looking at her husband with one of her sweet smiles, said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord, will you not fill a bumper too, and let me call a toast?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, Rachel?&rdquo; says he, holding out his empty glass to be filled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis the 29th of December,&rdquo; says my lady, with her fond look of
      gratitude: &ldquo;and my toast is, 'Harry&mdash;and God bless him, who saved my
      boy's life!'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;and the lady was not only
      forced to give in, for the other's will was law&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;that her own family had been brought
      up as well as those cherubs. She had never seen such a complexion as dear
      Beatrix's&mdash;though to be sure she had a right to it from father and
      mother&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      MY LORD MOHUN COMES AMONG US FOR NO GOOD.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed,&rdquo; Lady Castlewood said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Psha! your ladyship does not know the world,&rdquo; said her husband; &ldquo;and you
      have always been as squeamish as when you were a miss of fifteen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You found no fault when I was a miss at fifteen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; said my lord,
      slapping the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, Francis, I never thought otherwise,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; he broke out, storming, and his
      face growing red as he clenched his fists and went on. &ldquo;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&mdash;d
      airs; and, I'll swear, tells Frank and Beaty that papa's a reprobate, and
      that they ought to despise me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed and indeed, sir, I never heard her say a word but of respect
      regarding you,&rdquo; Harry Esmond interposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;ever since
      you all of you had the small-pox: and she never forgave me for going
      away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, my lord, though 'twas hard to forgive, I think my mistress
      forgave it,&rdquo; Harry Esmond said; &ldquo;and remember how eagerly she watched your
      lordship's return, and how sadly she turned away when she saw your cold
      looks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damme!&rdquo; cries out my lord; &ldquo;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&mdash;but not useless danger&mdash;no, no. Thank you for
      nothing. And&mdash;you nod your head, and I know very well, Parson Harry,
      what you mean. There was the&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, sir, I do not,&rdquo; says Harry, with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;How well men preach,&rdquo; thought
      the young man, &ldquo;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!&rdquo; Harry's heart was pained within him, to watch the struggles and
      pangs that tore the breast of this kind, manly friend and protector.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, sir,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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&mdash;all jades and heartless. So a man
      dashes a fine vase down, and despises it for being broken. It may be
      worthless&mdash;true: but who had the keeping of it, and who shattered it?
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you ever heard me utter a word in my lord's disparagement?&rdquo; she
      asked hastily, hissing out her words, and stamping her foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, no,&rdquo; Esmond said, looking down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you come to me as his ambassador&mdash;YOU?&rdquo; she continued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would sooner see peace between you than anything else in the world,&rdquo;
       Harry answered, &ldquo;and would go of any embassy that had that end.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So YOU are my lord's go-between?&rdquo; she went on, not regarding this speech.
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's good authority for it, surely,&rdquo; said Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;who leaves our company for that of frequenters of taverns
      and bagnios&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be a proud embassy, and a happy embassy too, could I bring you
      and my lord together,&rdquo; Esmond replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; Lady Castlewood
      continued, still in a sarcastic tone. &ldquo;Perhaps you too have learned to
      love drink, and to hiccup over your wine or punch;&mdash;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&mdash;and lackey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great heavens! madam,&rdquo; cried Harry. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What wrong?&rdquo; she said, looking at Esmond with wild eyes. &ldquo;Well, none&mdash;none
      that you know of, Harry, or could help. Why did you bring back the
      small-pox,&rdquo; she added, after a pause, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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!)&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;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 &ldquo;pish,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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 &ldquo;bright
      particular star,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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;&mdash;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 &ldquo;malicious joy&rdquo; a great poet
      of our own has written so nobly&mdash;who, famous and heroic as he was,
      was not strong enough to resist the torture of women.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;(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)&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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)&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      MY LORD LEAVES US AND HIS EVIL BEHIND HIM.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And when I am a parson,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond, &ldquo;will you give me no custard,
      Beatrix?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&mdash;you are different,&rdquo; Beatrix answered. &ldquo;You are of our blood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father was a parson, as you call him,&rdquo; said my lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But mine is a peer of Ireland,&rdquo; says Mistress Beatrix, tossing her head.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she tossed out of the room, being in one of her flighty humors then.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But men promise more than they are able to perform in marriage,&rdquo; said my
      lady, with a sigh. &ldquo;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&mdash;through the door last night, and&mdash;and before,&rdquo; said my
      lady, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish I could help you, madam,&rdquo; said Harry Esmond, sighing, and wishing
      that unavailingly, and for the thousandth time in his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who can? Only God,&rdquo; said Lady Esmond&mdash;&ldquo;only God, in whose hands we
      are.&rdquo; And so it is, and for his rule over his family, and for his conduct
      to wife and children&mdash;subjects over whom his power is monarchical&mdash;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&mdash;life almost. He is free to punish, to make happy or
      unhappy&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;When thou art old enough,
      thou shalt marry Lord Mohun,&rdquo; Beatrix's father would say: on which the
      girl would pout and say, &ldquo;I would rather marry Tom Tusher.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;I think my lord would rather marry mamma
      than marry me; and is waiting till you die to ask her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;I am sure
      I meant no wrong; I am sure mamma talks a great deal more to Harry Esmond
      than she does to papa&mdash;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;D&mdash;n!&rdquo; cried out my Lord Castlewood, out of all patience. &ldquo;Go out of
      the room, you little viper!&rdquo; and he started up and flung down his cards.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask Lord Mohun what I said to him, Francis,&rdquo; her ladyship said, rising up
      with a scared face, but yet with a great and touching dignity and candor
      in her look and voice. &ldquo;Come away with me, Beatrix.&rdquo; Beatrix sprung up
      too; she was in tears now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dearest mamma, what have I done?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Sure I meant no harm.&rdquo; And
      she clung to her mother, and the pair went out sobbing together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you what your wife said to me, Frank,&rdquo; my Lord Mohun cried.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, it was, Mohun,&rdquo; says my lord in a dry hard voice. &ldquo;Of course
      you are a model of a man: and the world knows what a saint you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My Lord Mohun was separated from his wife, and had had many affairs of
      honor: of which women as usual had been the cause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am no saint, though your wife is&mdash;and I can answer for my actions
      as other people must for their words,&rdquo; said my Lord Mohun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By G&mdash;, my lord, you shall,&rdquo; cried the other, starting up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have another little account to settle first, my lord,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Gracious heavens!&rdquo; he
      said, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Faith, Frank, a man with a gouty toe can't run after other men's wives,&rdquo;
       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, &ldquo;&mdash;&mdash; it, Harry, I believe thee,&rdquo; and so
      this quarrel was over, and the two gentlemen, at swords drawn but just
      now, dropped their points, and shook hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Beati pacifici. &ldquo;Go, bring my lady back,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Thank you, and God bless you, my dear brother Harry,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis time for me to go to roost. I will have my gruel a-bed,&rdquo; said my
      Lord Mohun: and limped off comically on Harry Esmond's arm. &ldquo;By George,
      that woman is a pearl!&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;and 'tis only a pig that wouldn't value
      her. Have you seen the vulgar traipsing orange-girl whom Esmond&rdquo;&mdash;but
      here Mr. Esmond interrupted him, saying, that these were not affairs for
      him to know.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You heard what Mohun said, parson?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That my lady was a saint?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;as if
      willing by his present extreme confidence to make up for any past mistrust
      which his jealousy had shown&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, madam,&rdquo; said Harry, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know he is,&rdquo; says my lady, still with exceeding good-humor; &ldquo;he is not
      only the best player, but the kindest player in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madam, madam!&rdquo; Esmond cried, transported and provoked. &ldquo;Debts of honor
      must be paid some time or other; and my master will be ruined if he goes
      on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Harry, shall I tell you a secret?&rdquo; my lady replied, with kindness and
      pleasure still in her eyes. &ldquo;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&mdash;(and
      herein lies my secret)&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And in God's name, what do you return him for the sacrifice?&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;How, in
      heaven's name, are you to pay him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pay him! With a mother's blessing and a wife's prayers!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;And this is the good meddlers get of
      interfering,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You honor me by giving me your confidence, Mr. Henry Esmond,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; 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&mdash;&ldquo;my lord, I studied medicine at
      Cambridge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, Parson Harry,&rdquo; says he; &ldquo;and are you going to take out a diploma:
      and cure your fellow-students of the&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of the gout,&rdquo; says Harry, interrupting him, and looking him hard in the
      face; &ldquo;I know a good deal about the gout.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope you may never have it. 'Tis an infernal disease,&rdquo; says my lord,
      &ldquo;and its twinges are diabolical. Ah!&rdquo; and he made a dreadful wry face, as
      if he just felt a twinge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your lordship would be much better if you took off all that flannel&mdash;it
      only serves to inflame the toe,&rdquo; Harry continued, looking his man full in
      the face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! it only serves to inflame the toe, does it?&rdquo; says the other, with an
      innocent air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you took off that flannel, and flung that absurd slipper away, and
      wore a boot,&rdquo; continues Harry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You recommend me boots, Mr. Esmond?&rdquo; asks my lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, boots and spurs. I saw your lordship three days ago run down the
      gallery fast enough,&rdquo; Harry goes on. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Sdeath, sir, you dare not say that I don't play fair?&rdquo; cries my lord,
      whipping his horses, which went away at a gallop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are cool when my lord is drunk,&rdquo; Harry continued; &ldquo;your lordship gets
      the better of my patron. I have watched you as I looked up from my books.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You young Argus!&rdquo; says Lord Mohun, who liked Harry Esmond&mdash;and for
      whose company and wit, and a certain daring manner, Harry had a great
      liking too&mdash;&ldquo;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&mdash;always
      would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are playing awful stakes, my lord, in my patron's house,&rdquo; Harry said,
      &ldquo;and more games than are on the cards.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean, sir?&rdquo; cries my lord, turning round, with a flush on his
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean,&rdquo; answers Harry, in a sarcastic tone, &ldquo;that your gout is well&mdash;if
      ever you had it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir!&rdquo; cried my lord, getting hot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And were you appointed to give me this message?&rdquo; cries the Lord Mohun.
      &ldquo;Did Frank Esmond commission you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one did. 'Twas the honor of my family that commissioned me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you are prepared to answer this?&rdquo; cries the other, furiously lashing
      his horses.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite, my lord: your lordship will upset the carriage if you whip so
      hotly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By George, you have a brave spirit!&rdquo; my lord cried out, bursting into a
      laugh. &ldquo;I suppose 'tis that infernal botte de Jesuite that makes you so
      bold,&rdquo; he added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis the peace of the family I love best in the world,&rdquo; Harry Esmond said
      warmly&mdash;&ldquo;'tis the honor of a noble benefactor&mdash;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&mdash;and I don't deny that 'tis in your power to make
      her unhappy. Spare these innocent people, and leave them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the Lord, I believe thou hast an eye to the pretty Puritan thyself,
      Master Harry,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Whisper, Harry. Art thou in love with her thyself? Hath tipsy
      Frank Esmond come by the way of all flesh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord, my lord,&rdquo; cried Harry, his face flushing and his eyes filling as
      he spoke, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Danger, psha!&rdquo; says my lord, giving a cut to the horses, which at this
      minute&mdash;for we were got on to the Downs&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great God! he's dead!&rdquo; says my lord. &ldquo;Ride, some one: fetch a doctor&mdash;stay.
      I'll go home and bring back Tusher; he knows surgery,&rdquo; and my lord, with
      his son after him, galloped away.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When we rode together home, the boy said: &ldquo;We met mamma, who was walking
      on the terrace with the doctor, and papa frightened her, and told her you
      were dead . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I was dead!&rdquo; asks Harry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Musing upon this curious history&mdash;for my Lord Mohun's name was Henry
      too, and they called each other Frank and Harry often&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank heaven, you are safe,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so is Harry too, mamma,&rdquo; says little Frank,&mdash;&ldquo;huzzay!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, my boy! what a fright you have given me!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      WE RIDE AFTER HIM TO LONDON.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;I
      shall see you in London before very long, Mohun,&rdquo; my lord said, with a
      smile, &ldquo;when we will settle our accounts together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not let them trouble you, Frank,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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:&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Lady Castlewood&mdash;she had been laughing all the morning, and
      especially gay and lively before her husband and his guest&mdash;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, &ldquo;Follow them, Harry, I am sure something has gone
      wrong.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He paces his room all night; what is it? Henry, find out what it is,&rdquo;
       Lady Castlewood said constantly to her young dependant. &ldquo;He has sent three
      letters to London,&rdquo; she said, another day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, madam, they were to a lawyer,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;He was only raising money to pay off an old debt on
      the property, which must be discharged.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;There are few men who will make such a
      sacrifice for them,&rdquo; says Mr. Congreve, who knew a part of the sex pretty
      well.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Trumpet,&rdquo; in the Cockpit, Whitehall, a
      house used by the military in his time as a young man, and accustomed by
      his lordship ever since.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought the Lord Mohun had been in Paris!&rdquo; cried Mr. Esmond, in great
      alarm and astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is come back at my invitation,&rdquo; said my Lord Viscount. &ldquo;We have
      accounts to settle together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I pray heaven they are over, sir,&rdquo; says Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, quite,&rdquo; replied the other, looking hard at the young man. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; cried out Esmond, &ldquo;I am sure you are deceiving me, and that
      there is a quarrel between the Lord Mohun and you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quarrel&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where shall we sup, sir?&rdquo; says Harry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;WE! Let some gentlemen wait till they are asked,&rdquo; says my Lord Viscount
      with a laugh. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By G&mdash;! my lord, I will not leave you this night,&rdquo; says Harry
      Esmond. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know that nothing has passed but idle gallantry between Lord Mohun
      and my wife,&rdquo; says my lord, in a thundering voice&mdash;&ldquo;you knew of this
      and did not tell me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew more of it than my dear mistress did herself, sir&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A villain he is, you allow, and would have taken my wife away from me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir, she is as pure as an angel,&rdquo; cried young Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have I said a word against her?&rdquo; shrieks out my lord. &ldquo;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&mdash;and
      now I've lost her, by heaven I love her ten thousand times more than ever
      I did&mdash;yes, when she was as young and as beautiful as an angel&mdash;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&mdash;when I used to fling my head down on
      her little knees and cry like a child on her lap&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, and on my soul, you are wrong, sir,&rdquo; Esmond cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She takes letters from him,&rdquo; cries my lord&mdash;&ldquo;look here, Harry,&rdquo; and
      he pulled out a paper with a brown stain of blood upon it. &ldquo;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&mdash;d comedy jargon.
      'Divine Gloriana&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But she answered none,&rdquo; cries Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's not Mohun's fault,&rdquo; says my lord, &ldquo;and I will be revenged on him,
      as God's in heaven, I will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For a light word or two, will you risk your lady's honor and your
      family's happiness, my lord?&rdquo; Esmond interposed beseechingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Psha&mdash;there shall be no question of my wife's honor,&rdquo; said my lord;
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Harry, my poor boy, you are bred for a parson,&rdquo; says my lord, taking
      Esmond by the hand very kindly; &ldquo;and it were a great pity that you should
      meddle in the matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your lordship thought of being a churchman once,&rdquo; Harry answered, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;And I should have beat him, sir,&rdquo; says Harry,
      laughing. &ldquo;He never could parry that botte I brought from Cambridge. Let
      us have half an hour of it, and rehearse&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By George, Harry, you ought to be the head of the house,&rdquo; says my lord,
      gloomily. &ldquo;You had been a better Lord Castlewood than a lazy sot like me,&rdquo;
       he added, drawing his hand across his eyes, and surveying his kinsman with
      very kind and affectionate glances.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us take our coats off and have half an hour's practice before
      nightfall,&rdquo; says Harry, after thankfully grasping his patron's manly hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are but a little bit of a lad,&rdquo; says my lord, good-humoredly; &ldquo;but,
      in faith, I believe you could do for that fellow. No, my boy,&rdquo; he
      continued, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I shall be by to see fair play?&rdquo; cries Harry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, God bless you&mdash;you shall be by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When is it, sir?&rdquo; says Harry, for he saw that the matter had been
      arranged privately and beforehand by my lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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&mdash;and then, God help us!&mdash;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&mdash;my
      wife will be all the happier when I am gone,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The business was talked over with Mohun before he left home&mdash;Castlewood
      I mean&rdquo;&mdash;my lord went on. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so she is; before heaven, my lord, she is!&rdquo; cries Harry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt, no doubt. They always are,&rdquo; says my lord. &ldquo;No doubt, when she
      heard he was killed, she fainted from accident.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, my lord, MY name is Harry,&rdquo; cried out Esmond, burning red. &ldquo;You told
      my lady, 'Harry was killed!'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damnation! shall I fight you too?&rdquo; shouts my lord in a fury. &ldquo;Are you,
      you little serpent, warmed by my fire, going to sting&mdash;YOU?&mdash;No,
      my boy, you're an honest boy; you are a good boy.&rdquo; (And here he broke from
      rage into tears even more cruel to see.) &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who brought your bowls for you at Castlewood, sir?&rdquo; says Harry, bowing;
      and the three gentlemen sat down and drank of that bottle of sack which
      was prepared for them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Harry is number three,&rdquo; says my lord. &ldquo;You needn't be afraid of him,
      Jack.&rdquo; And the Colonel gave a look, as much as to say, &ldquo;Indeed, he don't
      look as if I need.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;&ldquo;Love in a Wood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Greyhound,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Christian Hero,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;There was no need for more seconds than one,&rdquo; said the Colonel,
      &ldquo;and the Captain or Lord Warwick might easily withdraw.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Psha!&rdquo; says my Lord Mohun (whether wishing
      to save Harry, or not choosing, to try the botte de Jesuite, it is not to
      be known)&mdash;&ldquo;Young gentlemen from college should not play these
      stakes. You are too young.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who dares say I am too young?&rdquo; broke out Harry. &ldquo;Is your lordship
      afraid?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Afraid!&rdquo; cries out Mohun.
    </p>
    <p>
      But my good Lord Viscount saw the move&mdash;&ldquo;I'll play you for ten
      moidores, Mohun,&rdquo; says he. &ldquo;You silly boy, we don't play for groats here
      as you do at Cambridge.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll stake the young gentleman a crown,&rdquo; says the Lord Mohun's captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought crowns were rather scarce with the gentlemen of the army,&rdquo; says
      Harry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do they birch at College?&rdquo; says the Captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They birch fools,&rdquo; says Harry, &ldquo;and they cane bullies, and they fling
      puppies into the water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Faith, then, there's some escapes drowning,&rdquo; says the Captain, who was an
      Irishman; and all the gentlemen began to laugh, and made poor Harry only
      more angry.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;&ldquo;The Deuce take you, Mohun, how damned awkward you
      are. Light the candle, you drawer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damned awkward is a damned awkward expression, my lord,&rdquo; says the other.
      &ldquo;Town gentlemen don't use such words&mdash;or ask pardon if they do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm a country gentleman,&rdquo; says my Lord Viscount.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see it by your manner,&rdquo; says my Lord Mohun. &ldquo;No man shall say damned
      awkward to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fling the words in your face, my lord,&rdquo; says the other; &ldquo;shall I send
      the cards too?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen, gentlemen! before the servants?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough has been said,&rdquo; says Colonel Westbury. &ldquo;Will your lordships meet
      to-morrow morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will my Lord Castlewood withdraw his words?&rdquo; asks the Earl of Warwick.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Lord Castlewood will be &mdash;&mdash; first,&rdquo; says Colonel Westbury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then we have nothing for it. Take notice, gentlemen, there have been
      outrageous words&mdash;reparation asked and refused.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And refused,&rdquo; says my Lord Castlewood, putting on his hat. &ldquo;Where shall
      the meeting be? and when?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since my Lord refuses me satisfaction, which I deeply regret, there is no
      time so good as now,&rdquo; says my Lord Mohun. &ldquo;Let us have chairs and go to
      Leicester Field.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are your lordship and I to have the honor of exchanging a pass or two?&rdquo;
       says Colonel Westbury, with a low bow to my Lord of Warwick and Holland.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is an honor for me,&rdquo; says my lord, with a profound congee, &ldquo;to be
      matched with a gentleman who has been at Mons and Namur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will your Reverence permit me to give you a lesson?&rdquo; says the Captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, nay, gentlemen, two on a side are plenty,&rdquo; says Harry's patron.
      &ldquo;Spare the boy, Captain Macartney,&rdquo; and he shook Harry's hand&mdash;for
      the last time, save one, in his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Standard Tavern.&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      My Lord Mohun was standing over him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you much hurt, Frank?&rdquo; he asked in a hollow voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe I am a dead man,&rdquo; my lord said from the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, not so,&rdquo; says the other; &ldquo;and I call God to witness, Frank
      Esmond, that I would have asked your pardon, had you but given me a
      chance. In&mdash;in the first cause of our falling out, I swear that no
      one was to blame but me, and&mdash;and that my lady&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; says my poor Lord Viscount, lifting himself on his elbow and
      speaking faintly. &ldquo;'Twas a dispute about the cards&mdash;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&mdash;and&mdash;and carry this
      little heart to my wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And here my dear lord felt in his breast for a locket he wore there, and,
      in the act, fell back fainting.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Only Harry Esmond,&rdquo; the hand fell powerless
      down on the coverlet, as Harry came forward, and knelt down and kissed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art all but a priest, Harry,&rdquo; my Lord Viscount gasped out, with a
      faint smile, and pressure of his cold hand. &ldquo;Are they all gone? Let me
      make thee a death-bed confession.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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;&mdash;his humble profession of contrition for his
      faults;&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;Esmond watching him, and taking his dying words
      from his mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the end of an hour&mdash;it may be more&mdash;Mr. Atterbury came out of
      the room, looking very hard at Esmond, and holding a paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is on the brink of God's awful judgment,&rdquo; the priest whispered. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God knows,&rdquo; sobbed out the young man, &ldquo;my dearest lord has only done me
      kindness all his life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The priest put the paper into Esmond's hand. He looked at it. It swam
      before his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis a confession,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis as you please,&rdquo; said Mr. Atterbury.
    </p>
    <p>
      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!&mdash;the scrap of the book that we have read in a
      great grief&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis only a confession, Mr. Atterbury,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us go to him,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Lord Viscount,&rdquo; says Mr. Atterbury, &ldquo;Mr. Esmond wants no witnesses,
      and hath burned the paper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dearest master!&rdquo; Esmond said, kneeling down, and taking his hand and
      kissing it.
    </p>
    <p>
      My Lord Viscount sprang up in his bed, and flung his arms round Esmond.
      &ldquo;God bl&mdash;bless&mdash;&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Benedicti benedicentes,&rdquo; says Mr. Atterbury, and the young man, kneeling
      at the bedside, groaned out an &ldquo;Amen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who shall take the news to her?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BOOK II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      CONTAINS MR. ESMOND'S MILITARY LIFE, AND OTHER MATTERS APPERTAINING TO THE
      ESMOND FAMILY.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I AM IN PRISON, AND VISITED, BUT NOT CONSOLED THERE.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I was denied by my own blood,&rdquo; thought he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And with this consoling thought he went away to give himself up at the
      prison, after kissing the cold lips of his benefactor.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this, Mr. Esmond,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;is where I see you; and 'tis to this
      you have brought me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have come to console me in my calamity, madam,&rdquo; said he (though, in
      truth, he scarce knew how to address her, his emotions at beholding her so
      overpowered him).
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not to reproach me,&rdquo; he continued after a pause. &ldquo;My grief is sufficient
      as it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take back your hand&mdash;do not touch me with it!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Look!
      there's blood on it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish they had taken it all,&rdquo; said Esmond; &ldquo;if you are unkind to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is my husband?&rdquo; she broke out. &ldquo;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&mdash;you
      that vowed devotion and gratitude, and I believed you&mdash;yes, I
      believed you&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;and you made our house wretched, and my husband's
      heart went from me: and I lost him through you&mdash;I lost him&mdash;the
      husband of my youth, I say. I worshipped him: you know I worshipped him&mdash;and
      he was changed to me. He was no more my Francis of old&mdash;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&mdash;yes,
      and weak and alone&mdash;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&mdash;and
      it came, I knew it would. Why did you not die when you had the small-pox&mdash;and
      I came myself and watched you, and you didn't know me in your delirium&mdash;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&mdash;my wicked
      jealous heart. Oh, I am punished&mdash;awfully punished! My husband lies
      in his blood&mdash;murdered for defending me, my kind, kind, generous lord&mdash;and
      you were by, and you let him die, Henry!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;this good angel whom he had loved and worshipped&mdash;stood
      before him, pursuing him with keen words and aspect malign.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish I were in my lord's place,&rdquo; he groaned out. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Henry,&rdquo; said she&mdash;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&mdash;and thinking,
      &ldquo;Suppose I were to end now, who would grieve for me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;The lady had bound it round his arm when he fainted,
      and before she called for help,&rdquo; the keeper's wife said. &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;a wrong indeed, but one followed by remorse, and
      occasioned by almost irresistible temptation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Esmond took his handkerchief when his nurse left him, and very likely
      kissed it, and looked at the bauble embroidered in the corner. &ldquo;It has
      cost thee grief enough,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      And this was the return for a life of devotion&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;And if we meet no more, or
      only as strangers in this world,&rdquo; Mr. Esmond concluded, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;as our young Indians undergo tortures silently before they pass
      to the rank of warriors in the tribe.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I COME TO THE END OF MY CAPTIVITY, BUT NOT OF MY TROUBLE.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dick came up and kissed Esmond on both cheeks, imparting a strong perfume
      of burnt sack along with his caress to the young man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish we could have tried and proved it, Mr. Steele,&rdquo; says Esmond,
      thinking of his dead benefactor, and his eyes filling with tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Faith,&rdquo; says Westbury, &ldquo;the little scholar was the first to begin the
      quarrel&mdash;I mind me of it now&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Twas a quarrel about play&mdash;on my word, about play,&rdquo; Harry said. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond, resolved never to acknowledge that
      there had ever been any other cause but cards for the duel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not like to use bad words of a nobleman,&rdquo; says Westbury; &ldquo;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,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;to
      a Sigismunda&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;for, indeed, the speaker's own heart
      was half broke as he uttered them&mdash;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&mdash;Steele told him&mdash;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. &ldquo;I would as lief,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;And I
      think I spoke well, my poor boy,&rdquo; says Mr. Steele; &ldquo;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&mdash;'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'&mdash;(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)&mdash;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you come to tell me about the dimples on my lady's hand?&rdquo; broke out
      Mr. Esmond, sadly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A lovely creature in affliction seems always doubly beautiful to me,&rdquo;
       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. &ldquo;As
      I spoke my business,&rdquo; Mr. Steele said, &ldquo;and narrated to your mistress what
      all the world knows, and the other side hath been eager to acknowledge&mdash;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&mdash;I have
      never seen such a violet, Harry&mdash;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&mdash;the
      wicked godless world, that takes the blood of the innocent, and lets the
      guilty go free.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As the afflicted lady spoke in this strain, sir,&rdquo; Mr. Steele continued,
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;my Lord
      Murderer&mdash;(I will never name him)&mdash;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&mdash;he never shall be. He,
      too, robbed the throne from the king his father&mdash;the true king&mdash;and
      he has gone unpunished, as the great do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I then thought to speak for you,&rdquo; Mr. Steele continued, &ldquo;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Madam, madam, he is not to blame,' I interposed,&rdquo; continued Mr. Steele.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Do I blame him to you, sir?' asked the widow. 'If 'tis he who sent you,
      say that I have taken counsel, where'&mdash;she spoke with a very pallid
      cheek now, and a break in her voice&mdash;'where all who ask may have it;&mdash;and
      that it bids me to part from him, and to see him no more. We met in the
      prison for the last time&mdash;at least for years to come. It may be, in
      years hence, when&mdash;when our knees and our tears and our contrition
      have changed our sinful hearts, sir, and wrought our pardon, we may meet
      again&mdash;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&mdash;that regard towards us which he speaks of, I beseech him to
      prove it by obeying me in this.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'I shall break the young man's heart, madam, by this hard sentence,'&rdquo; Mr.
      Steele said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The lady shook her head,&rdquo; continued my kind scholar. &ldquo;'The hearts of
      young men, Mr. Steele, are not so made,' she said. 'Mr. Esmond will find
      other&mdash;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&mdash;never. Nor would I have him
      write to me&mdash;except&mdash;no&mdash;I would have him never write to
      me, nor see him more. Give him, if you will, my parting&mdash;Hush! not a
      word of this before my daughter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The sentimental Captain concluded his sad tale, saying, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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 &ldquo;Handcuff Inn&rdquo;&mdash;as Colonel Westbury called it.
      Our rooms were the three in the gate over Newgate&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Harry could never have paid his share of that prodigious heavy reckoning
      which my landlord brought to his guests once a week: for he 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;witness
      her Grace of Portsmouth&mdash;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:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;MONG COUSSIN,&rdquo; my Lady Viscountess Dowager wrote, &ldquo;je scay que vous vous
      etes bravement batew et grievement blessay&mdash;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&mdash;que
      vous estes plus fort que luy fur l'ayscrimme&mdash;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&mdash;Mon coussin, mon coussin!
      jay dans la tayste que vous n'estes quung pety Monst&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;ISABELLE VICOMTESSE D'ESMOND&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I TAKE THE QUEEN'S PAY IN QUIN'S REGIMENT.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;then,
      behold, the Viscountess herself &ldquo;dropping odors.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;remembering
      old times when that trembling hand made him tremble. &ldquo;Marchioness,&rdquo; says
      he, bowing, and on one knee, &ldquo;is it only the hand I may have the honor of
      saluting?&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;Welcome, cousin,&rdquo; in
      a frightened voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;&ldquo;Welcome, nephew, at least, madam, it should
      be,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;A great wrong has been done to me and to you, and to my
      poor mother, who is no more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I declare before heaven that I was guiltless of it,&rdquo; she cried out,
      giving up her cause at once. &ldquo;It was your wicked father who&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who brought this dishonor on our family,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The wretch! he had it in confession! he had it in confession!&rdquo; cried out
      the Dowager Lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so. He learned it elsewhere as well as in confession,&rdquo; Mr. Esmond
      answered. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mais vous etes un noble jeune homme!&rdquo; breaks out my lady, speaking, as
      usual with her when she was agitated, in the French language.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Noblesse oblige,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond, making her a low bow. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can there be in that little prude of a woman that makes men so
      raffoler about her?&rdquo; cries out my Lady Dowager. &ldquo;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&mdash;was there anything? About yourself, I do not ask you to answer
      questions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Esmond blushed up. &ldquo;My lady's virtue is like that of a saint in
      heaven, madam,&rdquo; he cried out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh!&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, I loved and honored her before all the world,&rdquo; Esmond answered.
      &ldquo;I take no shame in that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she has shut her door on you&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;no,
      'twas my Lord Ormond that played the fiddles, and his Majesty did me the
      honor of dancing all night with me.&mdash;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&mdash;fair and stupid. You were an
      ugly little wretch when you came to Castlewood&mdash;you were all eyes,
      like a young crow. We intended you should be a priest. That awful Father
      Holt&mdash;how he used to frighten me when I was ill! I have a comfortable
      director now&mdash;the Abbe Douillette&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;of the adherents of King James
      of course&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;a restless wish to see men and the world,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;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?&rdquo; says the Dowager: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      RECAPITULATIONS.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;priests and
      women for the most part&mdash;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&mdash;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, &ldquo;Change kings with us and we will
      fight it over again.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;And would to God I had done it,&rdquo; the poor lord
      said. &ldquo;I would not be here now, wounded to death, a miserable, stricken
      man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had a sore temptation,&rdquo; said my poor lord. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Red,&rdquo; says she, tossing up her old head, &ldquo;hath
      always been the color worn by the Esmonds.&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Garter,&rdquo; over against the gate of the Palace, in
      Pall Mall.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;many of
      whom could do little more than write their names&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I GO ON THE VIGO BAY EXPEDITION, TASTE SALT-WATER AND SMELL POWDER.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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&mdash;one of those 12,000&mdash;the junior ensign of Colonel Quin's
      regiment of Fusileers&mdash;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&mdash;and under water, too,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the campaign, if not very glorious, was very pleasant. New sights of
      nature, by sea and land&mdash;a life of action, beginning now for the
      first time&mdash;occupied and excited the young man. The many accidents,
      and the routine of shipboard&mdash;the military duty&mdash;the new
      acquaintances, both of his comrades in arms, and of the officers of the
      fleet&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;such as he had never felt before&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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
      &ldquo;Torbay,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;of two fair women, whom he had been used to adore
      almost, and emptied his glass with a sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;in our friends' misfortunes there's something
      secretly pleasant to us;&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;precious uses&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &amp;c.) with the elder Lady Castlewood; and Mistress
      Beatrix was allowed to be a beauty.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;(she never would
      call him Lord Blandford; his father was Lord Churchill&mdash;the King,
      whom he betrayed, had made him Lord Churchill, and he was Lord Churchill
      still)&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, Tusher!&rdquo; cried Mr. Esmond, feeling a strange pang of rage and
      astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;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,&rdquo;
       cries my lady. &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;they've nothing
      else to do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Rose,&rdquo; and go to the playhouse
      afterward, Esmond was as pleased as another to take his share of the
      bottle and the play.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instead of going to dinner then at the &ldquo;Rose&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      My lord's little house of Walcote&mdash;which he inhabited before he took
      his title and occupied the house of Castlewood&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The horses belonged to the post-house at Winchester. Esmond mounted again
      and rode on to the &ldquo;George;&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      THE 29TH DECEMBER.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;Look,
      mother!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls before the clergy were
      fairly gone, and running up to Esmond, eagerly embraced him. &ldquo;My dear,
      dearest old Harry!&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Esmond could hardly say more than a &ldquo;God bless you, my boy,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was kind of you to come back to us, Henry,&rdquo; Lady Esmond said. &ldquo;I
      thought you might come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth. Why did you not come from
      Portsmouth?&rdquo; Frank asked, or my Lord Viscount, as he now must be called.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had but to ask, and you know I would be here,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;no
      voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who had been sister,
      mother, goddess to him during his youth&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here comes Squaretoes,&rdquo; says Frank. &ldquo;Here's Tusher.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give us thy hand, Tom Tusher,&rdquo; he said. The chaplain made him a very low
      and stately bow. &ldquo;I am charmed to see Captain Esmond,&rdquo; says he. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's an angle of earth that I love better than Gades, Tusher,&rdquo; says
      Mr. Esmond. &ldquo;'Tis that one where your reverence hath a parsonage, and
      where our youth was brought up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A house that has so many sacred recollections to me,&rdquo; says Mr. Tusher
      (and Harry remembered how Tom's father used to flog him there)&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Harry's coming home to supper. Huzzay! huzzay!&rdquo; cries my lord.
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your heart was never in the Church, Harry,&rdquo; 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.) &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I asked no better than to stay near you always,&rdquo; said Mr. Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;has she not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Esmond said, &ldquo;Yes. As far as present favor went, Lady Castlewood was very
      good to him. And should her mind change,&rdquo; he added gayly, &ldquo;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!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now we are drawing near to home,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;I knew you would
      come, Harry, if&mdash;if it was but to forgive me for having spoken
      unjustly to you after that horrid&mdash;horrid misfortune. I was half
      frantic with grief then when I saw you. And I know now&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He gave me his blessing on his death-bed,&rdquo; Esmond said. &ldquo;Thank God for
      that legacy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Amen, amen! dear Henry,&rdquo; said the lady, pressing his arm. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had spared me many a bitter night, had you told me sooner,&rdquo; Mr.
      Esmond said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it, I know it,&rdquo; she answered, in a tone of such sweet humility, as
      made Esmond repent that he should ever have dared to reproach her. &ldquo;I know
      how wicked my heart has been; and I have suffered too, my dear. I
      confessed to Mr. Atterbury&mdash;I must not tell any more. He&mdash;I said
      I would not write to you or go to you&mdash;and it was better even that
      having parted, we should part. But I knew you would come back&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know what day it is?&rdquo; she continued. &ldquo;It is the 29th of December&mdash;it
      is your birthday! But last year we did not drink it&mdash;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&mdash;now you are come again, bringing your
      sheaves with you, my dear.&rdquo; She burst into a wild flood of weeping as she
      spoke; she laughed and sobbed on the young man's heart, crying out wildly,
      &ldquo;bringing your sheaves with you&mdash;your sheaves with you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;not in vain has he lived&mdash;hard and
      thankless should he be to think so&mdash;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&mdash;follows
      your memory with secret blessing&mdash;or precedes you, and intercedes for
      you. Non omnis moriar&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If&mdash;if 'tis so, dear lady,&rdquo; Mr. Esmond said, &ldquo;why should I ever
      leave you? If God hath given me this great boon&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And my children&mdash;and my duty&mdash;and my good father, Henry?&rdquo; she
      broke out. &ldquo;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&mdash;it scares me. They
      will come and visit me; and you will, sometimes, Henry&mdash;yes,
      sometimes, as now, in the Holy Advent season, when I have seen and blessed
      you once more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would leave all to follow you,&rdquo; said Mr. Esmond; &ldquo;and can you not be as
      generous for me, dear lady?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, boy!&rdquo; she said, and it was with a mother's sweet plaintive tone and
      look that she spoke. &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;and now&mdash;now
      my duty is here, by my children whilst they need me, and by my poor old
      father, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And not by me?&rdquo; Henry said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; she said again, and raised her hand up to his lip. &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;both&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think the angels are not all in heaven,&rdquo; Mr. Esmond said. And as a
      brother folds a sister to his heart; and as a mother cleaves to her son's
      breast&mdash;so for a few moments Esmond's beloved mistress came to him
      and blessed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I AM MADE WELCOME AT WALCOTE.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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. &ldquo;Welcome,&rdquo; 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&mdash;she
      took a hand of her son who was in the hall waiting his mother&mdash;she
      did not quit Esmond's arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Welcome, Harry!&rdquo; my young lord echoed after her. &ldquo;Here, we are all come
      to say so. Here's old Pincot, hasn't she grown handsome?&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Have done, now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;every gentleman goes to the army. Look! who comes
      here&mdash;ho, ho!&rdquo; he burst into a laugh. &ldquo;'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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the light
      falling indeed upon the scarlet ribbon which she wore, and upon the most
      brilliant white neck in the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;agile as a nymph, lofty as a queen,&mdash;now
      melting, now imperious, now sarcastic&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      So she came holding her dress with one fair rounded arm, and her taper
      before her, tripping down the stair to greet Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She hath put on her scarlet stockings and white shoes,&rdquo; says my lord,
      still laughing. &ldquo;Oh, my fine mistress! is this the way you set your cap at
      the Captain?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I am grown too big! Welcome, cousin Harry,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N'est-ce pas?&rdquo; says my lady, in a low, sweet voice, still hanging on his
      arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; cries my lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, you stupid child!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Oh,
      Harry, we're so, SO glad you're come!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are woodcocks for supper,&rdquo; says my lord. &ldquo;Huzzay! It was such a
      hungry sermon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it is the 29th of December; and our Harry has come home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Huzzay, old Pincot!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;This might have been my
      life,&rdquo; he was thinking; &ldquo;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&mdash;until the destined lover comes and
      takes away pretty Beatrix&rdquo;&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Beatrix remarked these signs of indisposition in her mother and
      deplored them. &ldquo;I am an old woman,&rdquo; says my lady, with a kind smile; &ldquo;I
      cannot hope to look as young as you do, my dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She'll never look as good as you do if she lives till she's a hundred,&rdquo;
       says my lord, taking his mother by the waist, and kissing her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do I look very wicked, cousin?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm like your looking-glass,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;and that can't flatter you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He means that you are always looking at him, my dear,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Harry is very good to look at,&rdquo; says my lady, with her fond eyes
      regarding the young man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If 'tis good to see a happy face,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;you see that.&rdquo; My lady said,
      &ldquo;Amen,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Harry, how fine we look in our scarlet and silver, and our black
      periwig,&rdquo; cries my lord. &ldquo;Mother, I am tired of my own hair. When shall I
      have a peruke? Where did you get your steenkirk, Harry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's some of my Lady Dowager's lace,&rdquo; says Harry; &ldquo;she gave me this and a
      number of other fine things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Lady Dowager isn't such a bad woman,&rdquo; my lord continued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's not so&mdash;so red as she's painted,&rdquo; says Miss Beatrix.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her brother broke into a laugh. &ldquo;I'll tell her you said so; by the Lord,
      Trix, I will,&rdquo; he cries out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She'll know that you hadn't the wit to say it, my lord,&rdquo; says Miss
      Beatrix.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We won't quarrel the first day Harry's here, will we, mother?&rdquo; said the
      young lord. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will the Captain choose a dish?&rdquo; asked Mistress Beatrix.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, Harry,&rdquo; my lord goes on, &ldquo;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&mdash;do you love cock-fighting, Harry?&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what will you do, Beatrix, to amuse our kinsman?&rdquo; asks my lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll listen to him,&rdquo; says Beatrix. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;'Tis not while they are at home,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and in their mother's
      nest, I fear for them&mdash;'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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's not a princess in Europe to compare with her,&rdquo; says Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In beauty? No, perhaps not,&rdquo; answered my lady. &ldquo;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&mdash;you writ pretty
      lines when you were but a boy&mdash;you thought Beatrix was a pretty
      subject for verse, did not you, Harry?&rdquo; (The gentleman could only blush
      for a reply.) &ldquo;And so she is&mdash;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.&rdquo; And, looking at him
      keenly with hers, the fair widow left him.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so it is&mdash;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?
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Marchioness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marchioness!&rdquo; says Harry, not without a pang of wonder, for he was
      curious and jealous already.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense, my lord,&rdquo; says Beatrix, with a toss of her head. My Lady
      Viscountess looked up for a moment at Esmond, and cast her eyes down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Marchioness of Blandford,&rdquo; says Frank. &ldquo;Don't you know&mdash;hath not
      Rouge Dragon told you?&rdquo; (My lord used to call the Dowager of Chelsey by
      this and other names.) &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish Mr. Tusher would whip you too,&rdquo; says Beatrix.
    </p>
    <p>
      My lady only said: &ldquo;I hope you will tell none of these silly stories
      elsewhere than at home, Francis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis true, on my word,&rdquo; continues Frank: &ldquo;look at Harry scowling, mother,
      and see how Beatrix blushes as red as the silver-clocked stockings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think we had best leave the gentlemen to their wine and their talk,&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Castlewood again looked at Esmond, as she stooped down and kissed
      Frank. &ldquo;Do not tell those silly stories, child,&rdquo; she said: &ldquo;do not drink
      much wine, sir; Harry never loved to drink wine.&rdquo; And she went away, too,
      in her black robes, looking back on the young man with her fair, fond
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Egad! it's true,&rdquo; says Frank, sipping his wine with the air of a lord.
      &ldquo;What think you of this Lisbon&mdash;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&mdash;the
      'Rose,' Captain Hawkins.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I came home in that ship,&rdquo; says Harry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it brought home a good fellow and good wine,&rdquo; says my lord. &ldquo;I say,
      Harry, I wish thou hadst not that cursed bar sinister.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why not the bar sinister?&rdquo; asks the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose I go to the army and am killed&mdash;every gentleman goes to the
      army&mdash;who is to take care of the women? Trix will never stop at home;
      mother's in love with you,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&mdash;! 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,&mdash;no man can help that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sight of these brilliant orbs no doubt made him think of other
      luminaries. &ldquo;And so her eyes have already done execution,&rdquo; thought Esmond&mdash;&ldquo;on
      whom?&mdash;who can tell me?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      FAMILY TALK.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know my place, Harry,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I'm not proud&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;! I'll stand by you. You shall
      never want a friend, Harry, while Francis James Viscount Castlewood has a
      shilling. It's now 1703&mdash;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&mdash;- them! let them have a
      care of ME. I shall marry early&mdash;Trix will be a duchess by that time,
      most likely; for a cannon ball may knock over his grace any day, you
      know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How?&rdquo; says Harry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, my dear!&rdquo; says my Lord Viscount. &ldquo;You are of the family&mdash;you
      are faithful to us, by George, and I tell you everything. Blandford will
      marry her&mdash;or&rdquo;&mdash;and here he put his little hand on his sword&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you do not mean,&rdquo; says Harry, concealing his laughter, but not his
      wonder, &ldquo;that you can force my Lord Blandford, the son of the first man of
      this kingdom, to marry your sister at sword's point?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;now swear you
      will never mention this. Give me your honor as a gentleman, for you ARE a
      gentleman, though you are a&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well?&rdquo; says Harry, a little impatient.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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)&mdash;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:&mdash;so did the Dowager Viscountess stand by her blood,&mdash;so
      did you. Well, sir, whilst my mother was petitioning the late Prince of
      Orange&mdash;for I will never call him king&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harry again made a vow of secrecy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;he kissed her behind a door&mdash;he
      did though,&mdash;and the Duchess caught him, and she banged such a box of
      the ear both at Trix and Blandford&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Marquis,' says I, when he had opened it and helped me in, 'you know I
      wear a sword,' for I had brought it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Oh, viscount,' says he&mdash;'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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'But I'll wait twenty years, if she'll have me,' says he. 'I'll never
      marry&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A locket of her hair?&rdquo; cries Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;'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),&mdash;he knows I wear a sword, Harry.
      Come along, and let's go see the cocking-match at Winchester.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;. . . . But I say,&rdquo; he added, laughing, after a pause, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;So the
      bright eyes have been already shining on another,&rdquo; thought he, &ldquo;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!&mdash;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!&rdquo; (here he fell to thinking with a passionate grief of the vow
      which he had made to his poor dying lord.) &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then came a fiercer pang of temptation. &ldquo;A word from me,&rdquo; Harry
      thought, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Are you going so soon?&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;it was
      that which had her marriage ring on&mdash;and kissed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is best that it should be so, dearest lady,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew you were going, at breakfast. I&mdash;I thought you might stay.
      What has happened? Why can't you remain longer with us? What has Frank
      told you&mdash;you were talking together late last night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had but three days' leave from Chelsey,&rdquo; Esmond said, as gayly as he
      could. &ldquo;My aunt&mdash;she lets me call her aunt&mdash;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&mdash;General
      Lumley, madam&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My lady glanced at the letter, and put it down with a smile that was
      somewhat contemptuous. &ldquo;I have no need to read the letter,&rdquo; says she&mdash;(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. &ldquo;Je vous
      donne,&rdquo; quoth her ladyship, &ldquo;oui jour, pour vous fatigay parfaictement de
      vos parens fatigans&rdquo;)&mdash;&ldquo;I have no need to read the letter,&rdquo; says she.
      &ldquo;What was it Frank told you last night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He told me little I did not know,&rdquo; Mr. Esmond answered. &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I did, Harry,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;I thought of it; and think of it. I would
      sooner call you my son than the greatest prince in Europe&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know them,&rdquo; said Mr. Esmond, interrupting her with a smile. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! Harry, Harry, it is none of these follies that frighten me,&rdquo; cried
      out Lady Castlewood. &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;some sad
      ones, some inexpressibly dear and pleasant.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I MAKE THE CAMPAIGN OF 1704.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;which of late o'er pale Britannia past&rdquo; (as Mr. Addison
      sang of it), and in which scores of our greatest ships and 15,000 of our
      seamen went down.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;rushing
      up to the very guns of the enemy, and being slaughtered before their works&mdash;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 &ldquo;Te Deum&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;you pretty maidens, that come tumbling down the stairs
      when the fife and drum call you, and huzzah for the British Grenadiers&mdash;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;&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;(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)&mdash;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)&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here was a village that the Frenchmen had burned, the wood being, in fact,
      a better shelter and easier of guard than any village.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * My mistress, before I went this campaign, sent me John
     Lockwood out of Walcote, who hath ever since remained with
     me.&mdash;H. E.
</pre>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Te Deum&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      AN OLD STORY ABOUT A FOOL AND A WOMAN.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;We were gentlemen, Esmond,&rdquo; he
      used to say, &ldquo;when the Churchills were horse-boys.&rdquo; 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). &ldquo;I am taller than Churchill,&rdquo; he would say,
      surveying himself in the glass, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * 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.
</pre>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bastards!&rdquo; says the Viscountess, in a fury. &ldquo;There are bastards among the
      Churchills, as your Grace knows, and the Duke of Berwick is provided for
      well enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madam,&rdquo; says the Duchess, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Esmond's friend, Dick Steele, who was in waiting on the Prince, heard the
      controversy between the ladies at court. &ldquo;And faith,&rdquo; says Dick, &ldquo;I think,
      Harry, thy kinswoman had the worst of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;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&mdash;- J-m-s,&rdquo; was printed in half a
      dozen places, with a note stating that &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;God save the King!&rdquo; in the great court, so that the
      master came out of his lodge at midnight, and dissipated the riotous
      assembly.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;How had the dear young fellow got such beauty?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Not from
      his father&mdash;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.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;The lad looks good things,&rdquo;
       Mr. Steele used to say; &ldquo;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&rdquo; (though, indeed, Dick bore his very kindly, and
      plenty of it, too), &ldquo;like this incomparable young man. When he is sober he
      is delightful; and when tipsy, perfectly irresistible.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;He was my
      boy's friend,&rdquo; she said, through her sobs. &ldquo;My Blandford might have been
      like him.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;King's Arms,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Gloriana at the Harpsichord,&rdquo; to &ldquo;Gloriana's Nosegay,&rdquo;
       to &ldquo;Gloriana at Court,&rdquo; appeared this year in the Observator.&mdash;Have
      you never read them? They were thought pretty poems, and attributed by
      some to Mr. Prior.
    </p>
    <p>
      This passion did not escape&mdash;how should it?&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day, after talking to Beatrix's mother, his dear, fond, constant
      mistress&mdash;for hours&mdash;for all day long&mdash;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. &ldquo;Oh, pardon me, pardon me, my dearest
      and kindest,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;I am in hell, and you are the angel that brings me
      a drop of water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am your mother, you are my son, and I love you always,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      THE FAMOUS MR. JOSEPH ADDISON.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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&mdash;half a dozen in a night sometimes&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Quitting the Guard-table one Sunday afternoon, when by chance Dick had a
      sober fit upon him, he 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&mdash;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&mdash;for Dick was always
      hugging and bussing his friends&mdash;but the other stepped back with a
      flush on his pale face, seeming to decline this public manifestation of
      Steele's regard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dearest Joe, where hast thou hidden thyself this age?&rdquo; cries the
      Captain, still holding both his friend's hands; &ldquo;I have been languishing
      for thee this fortnight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A fortnight is not an age, Dick,&rdquo; says the other, very good-humoredly.
      (He had light blue eyes, extraordinary bright, and a face perfectly
      regular and handsome, like a tinted statue.) &ldquo;And I have been hiding
      myself&mdash;where do you think?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! not across the water, my dear Joe?&rdquo; says Steele, with a look of
      great alarm: &ldquo;thou knowest I have always&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; says his friend, interrupting him with a smile: &ldquo;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&mdash;at my own lodgings, whither I am
      going to smoke a pipe now and drink a glass of sack: will your honor
      come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Harry Esmond, come hither,&rdquo; cries out Dick. &ldquo;Thou hast heard me talk over
      and over again of my dearest Joe, my guardian angel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond, with a bow, &ldquo;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?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is Captain Esmond who was at Blenheim,&rdquo; says Steele.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lieutenant Esmond,&rdquo; says the other, with a low bow, &ldquo;at Mr. Addison's
      service.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have heard of you,&rdquo; says Mr. Addison, with a smile; as, indeed,
      everybody about town had heard that unlucky story about Esmond's dowager
      aunt and the Duchess.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We were going to the 'George' to take a bottle before the play,&rdquo; says
      Steele: &ldquo;wilt thou be one, Joe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall get credit with my landlady,&rdquo; says he, with a smile, &ldquo;when she
      sees two such fine gentlemen as you come up my stair.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;My wine is better than my meat,&rdquo; says Mr. Addison; &ldquo;my Lord
      Halifax sent me the Burgundy.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Esmond smiled at the enthusiasm of Addison's friend. &ldquo;You are like the
      German Burghers,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And drunk the great chiefs health afterward, did not they?&rdquo; says Captain
      Steele, gayly filling up a bumper;&mdash;he never was tardy at that sort
      of acknowledgment of a friend's merit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the Duke, since you will have me act his Grace's part,&rdquo; says Mr.
      Addison, with a smile, and something of a blush, &ldquo;pledged his friends in
      return. Most Serene Elector of Covent Garden, I drink to your Highness's
      health,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;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;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I admire the license of your poets,&rdquo; 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.) &ldquo;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?&rdquo;&mdash;(by this time, perhaps, the wine had
      warmed Mr. Esmond's head too,)&mdash;&ldquo;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&mdash;ugly and horrible, not beautiful
      and serene. Oh, sir, had you made the campaign, believe me, you never
      would have sung it so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      During this little outbreak, Mr. Addison was listening, smoking out of his
      long pipe, and smiling very placidly. &ldquo;What would you have?&rdquo; says he. &ldquo;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;&mdash;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,&rdquo; Mr. Addison
      went on, &ldquo;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:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                      &ldquo;'Rheni pacator et Istri
     Omnis in hoc uno variis discordia cessit
     Ordinibus; laetatur eques, plauditque senator,
     Votaque patricio certant plebeia favori.'&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There were as brave men on that field,&rdquo; 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)&mdash;&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To sing the gallant souls of heroes sent to Hades!&rdquo; says Mr. Addison,
      with a smile. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Campaign.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How goes on the magnum opus, Mr. Addison?&rdquo; says the Court gentleman on
      looking down at the papers that were on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We were but now over it,&rdquo; says Addison (the greatest courtier in the land
      could not have a more splendid politeness, or greater dignity of manner).
      &ldquo;Here is the plan,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;And
      for you, you are but a lieutenant,&rdquo; says Addison, &ldquo;and the Muse can't
      occupy herself with any gentleman under the rank of a field officer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
     And taught the doubtful battle where to rage,&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      he read with great animation, looking at Esmond, as much as to say, &ldquo;You
      know where that simile came from&mdash;from our talk, and our bottle of
      Burgundy, the other day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Not a word more, my dear sir,&rdquo; says he. &ldquo;Trust me with the
      papers&mdash;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does not the chamber look quite dark?&rdquo; says Addison, surveying it, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;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,'&rdquo; says he, smiling, and blowing a cloud out of
      his pipe. &ldquo;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&mdash;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,&rdquo; says Mr. Addison,
      shaking the ash out of his pipe. &ldquo;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?&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Campaign,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Toy.&rdquo; The Dowager at Chelsey was not sorry to part with
      him this time. &ldquo;Mon cher, vous etes triste comme un sermon,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;I can't make
      out Beatrix,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;she cares for none of us&mdash;she only thinks
      about herself; she is never happy unless she is quarrelling; but as for my
      mother&mdash;my mother, Harry, is an angel.&rdquo; 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.
      &ldquo;But Lord bless thee!&rdquo; the boy said; &ldquo;I may do what I like, and I know she
      will love me all the same;&rdquo; and so, indeed, he did what he liked.
      Everybody spoiled him, and his grave kinsman as much as the rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0026">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I GET A COMPANY IN THE CAMPAIGN OF 1706.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;&ldquo;Marlborough, Marlborough!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;Over the hills
      and far away;&rdquo; and Esmond heard Frank's fresh voice, soaring, as it were,
      over the songs of the rest of the young men&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; As Esmond embraced his young
      pupil now, 'twas with the feeling of quite religious thankfulness and an
      almost paternal pleasure that he beheld him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Round his neck was a star with a striped ribbon, that was made of small
      brilliants and might be worth a hundred crowns. &ldquo;Look,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;won't
      that be a pretty present for mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who gave you the Order?&rdquo; says Harry, saluting the gentleman: &ldquo;did you win
      it in battle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won it,&rdquo; cried the other, &ldquo;with my sword and my spear. There was a
      mousquetaire that had it round his neck&mdash;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;&rdquo; and he
      pulled at his little moustache and bade a servant bring a supper to
      Captain Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0027">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      I MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE IN FLANDERS, AND FIND MY MOTHER'S GRAVE AND MY
      OWN CRADLE THERE.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Father!&rdquo; says Esmond in English.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence! I do not understand. I do not speak English,&rdquo; says the other in
      Latin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Esmond smiled at this sign of confusion, and replied in the same language&mdash;&ldquo;I
      should know my Father in any garment, black or white, shaven or bearded;&rdquo;
       for the Austrian officer was habited quite in the military manner, and had
      as warlike a mustachio as any Pandour.
    </p>
    <p>
      He laughed&mdash;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. &ldquo;You speak Latin,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;in the English
      way, Harry Esmond; you have forsaken the old true Roman tongue you once
      knew.&rdquo; His tone was very frank, and friendly quite; the kind voice of
      fifteen years back; he gave Esmond his hand as he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Others have changed their coats too, my Father,&rdquo; says Esmond, glancing at
      his friend's military decoration.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain von Holtz,&rdquo; says Esmond, &ldquo;I am your very humble servant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you, too, have changed your coat,&rdquo; continues the other in his
      laughing way; &ldquo;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.&rdquo; (So, thinks Esmond, my old maitre
      d'armes was a Jesuit, as they said.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps you are right,&rdquo; says the other, reading his thoughts quite as he
      used to do in old days; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain Esmond laughed in his turn. &ldquo;You have indeed a curious knowledge,&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; continues Father Holt, or Captain von Holtz, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Amen!&rdquo; says Esmond, laughing; &ldquo;and I hope to see your Eminence no longer
      in jack-boots, but red stockings, at Whitehall.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are always with us&mdash;I know that&mdash;I heard of that when you
      were at Cambridge; so was the late lord; so is the young viscount.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so was my father before me,&rdquo; said Mr. Esmond, looking calmly at the
      other, who did not, however, show the least sign of intelligence in his
      impenetrable gray eyes&mdash;how well Harry remembered them and their
      look! only crows' feet were wrinkled round them&mdash;marks of black old
      Time had settled there.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you, mon capitaine, where have you been?&rdquo; says Esmond, turning away
      the conversation from this dangerous ground, where neither chose to
      engage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I may have been in Pekin,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;or I may have been in Paraguay&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;My business,&rdquo; said he&mdash;&ldquo;and I tell you,
      both because I can trust you and your keen eyes have already discovered it&mdash;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&mdash;and you know who says so, wherever he may be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The family at Castlewood have done far more for me than my own ever did,&rdquo;
       Esmond said. &ldquo;I would give my life for them. Why should I grudge the only
      benefit that 'tis in my power to confer on them?&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;meaning his own society of Jesus, which numbers (says
      he) in its troops the greatest heroes the world ever knew;&mdash;warriors
      brave enough to dare or endure anything, to encounter any odds, to die any
      death&mdash;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&mdash;crowns of immortal light, and seats in the high
      places of heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      Esmond was thankful for his old friend's good opinion, however little he
      might share the Jesuit-father's enthusiasm. &ldquo;I have thought of that
      question, too,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;dear Father,&rdquo; and he took the other's hand&mdash;&ldquo;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,&rdquo; Esmond added, with a smile, &ldquo;a priest in
      full orders, and with a pair of mustachios, and a Bavarian uniform?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My son,&rdquo; says Father Holt, turning red, &ldquo;in the cause of religion and
      loyalty all disguises are fair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; broke in Esmond, &ldquo;all disguises are fair, you say; and all
      uniforms, say I, black or red,&mdash;a black cockade or a white one&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was of this very town,&rdquo; Holt said, and took Esmond to see the street
      where her father lived, and where, as he believed, she was born. &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thomas Esmond&mdash;Captain Thomas, as he was called&mdash;became engaged
      in a gaming-house brawl, of which the consequence was a duel, and a wound
      so severe that he never&mdash;his surgeon said&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your father's wound took a favorable turn&mdash;perhaps his conscience
      was eased by the right he had done&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;Gertrude Esmond&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;&mdash;,&mdash;telling the truth or no.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He told me with rueful remorse when he was ill&mdash;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&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your father,&rdquo; Mr. Holt went on to say, &ldquo;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0028">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      THE CAMPAIGN OF 1707, 1708.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;I think if I had had Galway's place, and my
      Fusileers,&rdquo; says our General, &ldquo;we would not have laid down our arms, even
      to our old colonel, as Galway did;&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;Now,&rdquo; says my general, slapping the table, with an oath,
      &ldquo;he must fight; and when he is forced to it, d&mdash;- it, no man in
      Europe can stand up against Jack Churchill.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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:
      &ldquo;And if he did not dare to break it up at home,&rdquo; our gallant old chief
      used to say, &ldquo;he was determined to destroy it before the enemy;&rdquo; so that
      poor Major Proudfoot was put into a post of danger.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If the Duke of Berwick had but been in the army, the fate of the day
      would have been very different,&rdquo; was all that poor Mr. von Holtz could
      say; &ldquo;and you would have seen that the hero of Almanza was fit to measure
      swords with the conqueror of Blenheim.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; says Holtz (and some folks were very willing to listen to him), &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;our calm Duke forced into action. The
      Prince was an army in himself against the French; the energy of his
      hatred, prodigious, indefatigable&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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?
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0029">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      GENERAL WEBB WINS THE BATTLE OF WYNENDAEL.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will be at Roncq time enough to lick my Lord Duke's trenchers at
      supper,&rdquo; says Mr. Webb.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our own men lay out in the woods of Wynendael that night, and our General
      had his supper in the little castle there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I was Cadogan, I would have a peerage for this day's work,&rdquo; General
      Webb said; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;he was riding with his suite on the road to Menin as
      Esmond came up with him&mdash;gave a cheer, and he thanked them, and
      opened the despatch with rather a flushed, eager face.
    </p>
    <p>
      He slapped it down on his boot in a rage after he had read it. &ldquo;'Tis not
      even writ with his own hand. Read it out, Esmond.&rdquo; And Esmond read it out:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;SIR,&mdash;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.&mdash;Yours, &amp;c., M.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two lines by that d&mdash;d Cardonnel, and no more, for the taking of
      Lille&mdash;for beating five times our number&mdash;for an action as
      brilliant as the best he ever fought,&rdquo; says poor Mr. Webb.
      &ldquo;Lieutenant-General! That's not his doing. I was the oldest major-general.
      By &mdash;&mdash;, I believe he had been better pleased if I had been
      beat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The letter to the Dutch officer was in French, and longer and more
      complimentary than that to Mr. Webb.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this is the man,&rdquo; he broke out, &ldquo;that's gorged with gold&mdash;that's
      covered with titles and honors that we won for him&mdash;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.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Oh, by the Lord!&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;I know what I had rather have
      than a peerage!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what is that, sir?&rdquo; some of them asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir!&rdquo; interposes one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;&ldquo;Le vainqueur
      de Wynendael; son armee et sa victoire,&rdquo; adding, &ldquo;qui nous font diner a
      Lille aujourd'huy&rdquo;&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like Hector, handsome, and like Paris, brave!&rdquo; whispers Frank Castlewood.
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this very time, and just after our General had made his acknowledgment,
      some one brought in an English Gazette&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here it is&mdash;Action of Wynendael&mdash;here you are, General,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He came hobbling back, and blushing at his feat: &ldquo;I thought he'd like it,
      Harry,&rdquo; the young fellow whispered. &ldquo;Didn't I like to read my name after
      Ramillies, in the London Gazette?&mdash;Viscount Castlewood serving a
      volunteer&mdash;I say, what's yonder?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Webb, reading the Gazette, looked very strange&mdash;slapped it down
      on the table&mdash;then sprang up in his place, and began to&mdash;&ldquo;Will
      your Highness please to&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His Grace the Duke of Marlborough here jumped up too&mdash;&ldquo;There's some
      mistake, my dear General Webb.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your Grace had better rectify it,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Permit me to hand it to your Grace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Duke looked very black. &ldquo;Take it,&rdquo; says he, to his Master of the
      Horse, who was waiting behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.*
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * 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
     &mdash;&ldquo;Tom Esmond's bastard has been to my levee: he has the
     hang-dog look of his rogue of a father&rdquo;&mdash;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.
</pre>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Twas curious to look at the two&mdash;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&mdash;&ldquo;He had long been anxious
      to meet my Lord Mohun.&rdquo; The other only bowed, and moved away from him. I
      do him justice, he wished to have no quarrel with the lad.
    </p>
    <p>
      Esmond put himself between them at table. &ldquo;D&mdash;- it,&rdquo; says Frank, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you go away, my lord?&rdquo; Mr. Esmond said to him, imploring him to quit
      the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, by G&mdash;,&rdquo; says my Lord Mohun. &ldquo;I'll not go away for any man;&rdquo; he
      was quite flushed with wine by this time.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't bear any more of this,&rdquo; says my Lord Mohun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor can I, my lord,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond, starting up. &ldquo;The story my Lord
      Mohun has told respecting General Webb is false, gentlemen&mdash;false, I
      repeat,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Harry! why didn't you kill the villain?&rdquo; young Castlewood asked. &ldquo;I
      can't walk without a crutch: but I could have met him on horseback with
      sword and pistol.&rdquo; But Harry Esmond said, &ldquo;'Twas best to have no man's
      life on one's conscience, not even that villain's.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Campaign.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Twas as great an achievement as the victory of Blenheim itself,&rdquo; Mr.
      Harley said, who was famous as a judge and patron of letters, and so,
      perhaps, it may be&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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 &ldquo;Cocoa-Tree,&rdquo; or at the &ldquo;Garter&rdquo; with Mr. Walpole and Mr.
      Steele.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * 'Tis not thus WOMAN LOVES: Col. E. hath owned to this
     folly for a SCORE OF WOMEN besides.&mdash;R.

     ** And, indeed, so was his to them, a thousand thousand
     times more charming, for where was his equal?&mdash;R.
</pre>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis not for want of being asked,&rdquo; Lady Castlewood said, looking into
      Esmond's heart, as she could, with that perceptiveness affection gives.
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; my lady added, fondly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; says Esmond, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish she would have you,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are such a treasure,&rdquo; Esmond's mistress was pleased to say, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she added, with a sly laugh, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; She smiled as she spoke, and looked like an angel that was only on
      earth on a visit. &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I laugh to see you, sir,&rdquo; she
      says; &ldquo;when you come, it seems as if you never were away.&rdquo; One may put her
      words down, and remember them, but how describe her sweet tones, sweeter
      than music!
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;that the duty aforesaid would keep him at
      Bruxelles, and that Cousin Harry would tell all the news.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;Cousin Henry, all our
      family have met; and we thank you, cousin, for your noble conduct towards
      the head of our house.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Cousin Harry,&rdquo; said both
      the other ladies, in a little chorus, &ldquo;we thank you for your noble
      conduct;&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tables of the dining-room were laid for a great entertainment; and the
      ladies were in gala dresses&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see, 'tis a gala day with us,&rdquo; says she, glancing down to the star
      complacently, &ldquo;and we have our orders on. Does not mamma look charming?
      'Twas I dressed her!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;What is this?&rdquo;
       says the Captain, going up to look at this pretty piece.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Beatrix advanced towards it. &ldquo;Kneel down,&rdquo; says she: &ldquo;we dub you our
      knight with this&rdquo;&mdash;and she waved the sword over his head. &ldquo;My Lady
      Dowager hath given the sword; and I give the ribbon, and mamma hath sewn
      on the fringe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put the sword on him, Beatrix,&rdquo; says her mother. &ldquo;You are our knight,
      Harry&mdash;our true knight. Take a mother's thanks and prayers for
      defending her son, my dear, dear friend.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We had a letter from dearest Frank,&rdquo; his mother said, &ldquo;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&mdash;that wretch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I adopt you from this day,&rdquo; says the Dowager, &ldquo;and I wish I was
      richer, for your sake, son Esmond,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Frank,&rdquo; says the other viscountess, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If the campaign permit us,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am never afraid when he is with you,&rdquo; cries the boy's mother. &ldquo;I am
      sure my Henry will always defend him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there will be a peace before next year; we know it for certain,&rdquo;
       cries the Maid of Honor. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the Princess Anne will send for somebody,&rdquo; says my Lady of Chelsey,
      taking out her medal and kissing it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you see the King at Oudenarde, Harry?&rdquo; his mistress asked. She was a
      staunch Jacobite, and would no more have thought of denying her king than
      her God.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw the young Hanoverian only,&rdquo; Harry said. &ldquo;The Chevalier de St.
      George&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The King, sir, the King!&rdquo; said the ladies and Miss Beatrix; and she
      clapped her pretty hands, and cried, &ldquo;Vive le Roy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain and Mrs. Steele, who were the first to arrive, had driven to
      Kensington from their country-house, the Hovel at Hampton Wick. &ldquo;Not from
      our mansion in Bloomsbury Square,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the morning, the unhappy victim awoke to a headache, and consciousness,
      and the dialogue of the night was resumed. &ldquo;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:&rdquo; and so the dispute went on&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a party of Tories!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. St. John made his special compliments to Mrs. Steele, and so charmed
      her that she declared she would have Steele a Tory too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or will you have me a Whig?&rdquo; says Mr. St. John. &ldquo;I think, madam, you
      could convert a man to anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Mr. St. John ever comes to Bloomsbury Square I will teach him what I
      know,&rdquo; says Mrs. Steele, dropping her handsome eyes. &ldquo;Do you know
      Bloomsbury Square?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; says Mr. St. John. &ldquo;'Tis
      rus in urbe. You have gardens all the way to Hampstead, and palaces round
      about you&mdash;Southampton House and Montague House.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where you wretches go and fight duels,&rdquo; cries Mrs. Steele.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of which the ladies are the cause!&rdquo; says her entertainer. &ldquo;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.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, indeed!&rdquo; says Mrs. Steele, who did not seem to understand a word of
      what the gentleman was saying.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who could fail to be accomplished under such a mistress?&rdquo; says Mr. St.
      John, still gallant and bowing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mistress! upon my word, sir!&rdquo; cries the lady. &ldquo;If you mean me, sir, I
      would have you know that I am the Captain's wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure we all know it,&rdquo; answers Mr. St. John, keeping his countenance very
      gravely; and Steele broke in saying, &ldquo;'Twas not about Mrs. Steele I writ
      that paper&mdash;though I am sure she is worthy of any compliment I can
      pay her&mdash;but of the Lady Elizabeth Hastings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hear Mr. Addison is equally famous as a wit and a poet,&rdquo; says Mr. St.
      John. &ldquo;Is it true that his hand is to be found in your 'Tatler,' Mr.
      Steele?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whether 'tis the sublime or the humorous, no man can come near him,&rdquo;
       cries Steele.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A fig, Dick, for your Mr. Addison!&rdquo; cries out his lady: &ldquo;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&mdash;a black man for me.&rdquo; (All the black men at table
      applauded, and made Mrs. Steele a bow for this compliment.) &ldquo;As for this
      Mr. Addison,&rdquo; she went on, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed&mdash;a patch at the elbow! You interest me,&rdquo; says Mr. St. John.
      &ldquo;'Tis charming to hear of one man of letters from the charming wife of
      another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;La, I could tell you ever so much about 'em,&rdquo; continues the voluble lady.
      &ldquo;What do you think the Captain has got now?&mdash;a little hunchback
      fellow&mdash;a little hop-o'-my-thumb creature that he calls a poet&mdash;a
      little Popish brat!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, there are two in the room,&rdquo; whispers her companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I call him Popish because his name is Pope,&rdquo; says the lady. &ldquo;'Tis
      only my joking way. And this little dwarf of a fellow has wrote a pastoral
      poem&mdash;all about shepherds and shepherdesses, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A shepherd should have a little crook,&rdquo; says my mistress, laughing from
      her end of the table: on which Mrs. Steele said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which of the 'Tatlers' do you prefer, Mrs. Steele?&rdquo; asked Mr. St. John.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never read but one, and think it all a pack of rubbish, sir,&rdquo; says the
      lady. &ldquo;Such stuff about Bickerstaffe, and Distaff, and Quarterstaff, as it
      all is! There's the Captain going on still with the Burgundy&mdash;I know
      he'll be tipsy before he stops&mdash;Captain Steele!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I drink to your eyes, my dear,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;Pity
      me,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;and may he get the command the bravest officer in
      the world deserves.&rdquo; Mr. Webb thanked the company, complimented his
      aide-de-camp, and fought his famous battle over again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Il est fatiguant,&rdquo; whispers Mr. St. John, &ldquo;avec sa trompette de
      Wynendael.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain Steele, who was not of our side, loyally gave the health of the
      Duke of Marlborough, the greatest general of the age.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I drink to the greatest general with all my heart,&rdquo; says Mr. Webb; &ldquo;there
      can be no gainsaying that character of him. My glass goes to the General,
      and not to the Duke, Mr. Steele.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a pity there is a Duchess of Hamilton,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Campaign,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The day began so well, Henry, that I hoped it might have ended better,&rdquo;
       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:&mdash;&ldquo;She would have me,&rdquo; thought he, &ldquo;had I but a name to give
      her. But for my promise to her father, I might have my rank and my
      mistress too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;&ldquo;Give
      me joy, my dearest Colonel; I am the happiest of men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The happiest of men needs no dearest colonel to give him joy,&rdquo; says Mr.
      Esmond. &ldquo;What is the cause of this supreme felicity?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haven't you heard?&rdquo; says he. &ldquo;Don't you know? I thought the family told
      you everything: the adorable Beatrix hath promised to be mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; cries out Mr. Esmond, who had spent happy hours with Beatrix that
      very morning&mdash;had writ verses for her, that she had sung at the
      harpsichord.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; says he; &ldquo;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&mdash;and&mdash;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&mdash;a dozen
      bottles&mdash;and drink the health of the finest woman in England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0034">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BOOK III.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      CONTAINING THE END OF MR. ESMOND'S ADVENTURES IN ENGLAND.
    </h3>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0030">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I COME TO AN END OF MY BATTLES AND BRUISES.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * What indeed?  Psm. xci. 2, 3, 7.&mdash;R. E.
</pre>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Tierce
      to a king,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      My Lady Castlewood had left everything to Colonel Esmond, &ldquo;as a reparation
      for the wrong done to him;&rdquo; '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, &amp;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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. &ldquo;If Prince Eugene goes to London,&rdquo; says Frank, &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;of Captain Holt at Bruxelles. What a man that is! He knows
      everything.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;humble or of high rank&mdash;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&mdash;&ldquo;D&mdash;n
      you, why don't you cheer?&rdquo; But the men had no heart for that: not one of
      them but was thinking, &ldquo;Where's my comrade?&mdash;where's my brother that
      fought by me, or my dear captain that led me yesterday?&rdquo; 'Twas the most
      gloomy pageant I ever looked on; and the &ldquo;Te Deum&rdquo; sung by our chaplains,
      the most woful and dreary satire.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;&ldquo;Corporal John's
      as fond of me,&rdquo; he used to say, &ldquo;as King David was of General Uriah; and
      so he always gives me the post of danger.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Fie.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,
      &ldquo;God save King James!&rdquo; when Queen Anne went the way of kings and
      commoners.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fear, Colonel, you are no better than a republican at heart,&rdquo; says the
      priest with a sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am an Englishman,&rdquo; says Harry, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;It's the King's third campaign, and
      it's mine,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;his money&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      From his way of saying &ldquo;Royal Cravat,&rdquo; 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&mdash;a deserter probably&mdash;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 &ldquo;God bless&mdash;that is, Dieu benisse votre
      honor,&rdquo; that would infallibly have sent him to the provost-marshal had he
      been on our side of the river.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Look, look!&rdquo; says the Royal Cravat, with great agitation,
      &ldquo;pas lui, that's he; not him, l'autre,&rdquo; and pointed to the distant officer
      on a chestnut horse, with a cuirass shining in the sun, and over it a
      broad blue ribbon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please to take Mr. Hamilton's services to my Lord Marlborough&mdash;my
      Lord Duke,&rdquo; says the gentleman in English: and, looking to see that the
      party were not hostilely disposed, he added, with a smile, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Bedad,&rdquo; says Roger Sterne,
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; And Roger made another remark in his
      wild way, in which there was sense as well as absurdity&mdash;&ldquo;If that
      young gentleman,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;From having
      been out of favor with Corporal John,&rdquo; as he called the Duke, &ldquo;before his
      Grace warned him not to commit those follies, and smiled on him cordially
      ever after.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And he was so kind to me,&rdquo; Frank writ, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0031">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I GO HOME, AND HARP ON THE OLD STRING.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young scapegrace, being one-and-twenty years old, and being anxious to
      sow his &ldquo;wild otes,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;P.S.,&rdquo; the
      young gentleman wrote: &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;and
      within it.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a sweet sad smile she took his hand and kissed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How ill you have been: how weak you look, my dear Henry,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am come back to be nursed by my family,&rdquo; says he. &ldquo;If Frank had not
      taken care of me after my wound, very likely I should have gone
      altogether.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Frank, good Frank!&rdquo; says his mother. &ldquo;You'll always be kind to him,
      my lord,&rdquo; she went on. &ldquo;The poor child never knew he was doing you a
      wrong.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord!&rdquo; cries out Colonel Esmond. &ldquo;What do you mean, dear lady?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am no lady,&rdquo; says she; &ldquo;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&mdash;that is&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who told you this tale, dearest lady?&rdquo; asked the Colonel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you not had the letter I writ you? I writ to you at Mons directly I
      heard it,&rdquo; says Lady Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And from whom?&rdquo; again asked Colonel Esmond&mdash;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. &ldquo;'Twas very malicious
      of the Dowager,&rdquo; Lady Esmond said, &ldquo;to have had it so long, and to have
      kept the truth from me.&rdquo; &ldquo;Cousin Rachel,&rdquo; she said,&mdash;and Esmond's
      mistress could not forbear smiling as she told the story&mdash;&ldquo;Cousin
      Rachel,&rdquo; cries the Dowager, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To my Frank?&rdquo; says Lady Castlewood; &ldquo;I was in hopes&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;for I am Marchioness of Esmond before God and man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And have you left poor Harry nothing, dear Marchioness?&rdquo; 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). &ldquo;And have you left
      poor Harry nothing?&rdquo; asks my dear lady: &ldquo;for you know, Henry,&rdquo; she says
      with her sweet smile, &ldquo;I used always to pity Esau&mdash;and I think I am
      on his side&mdash;though papa tried very hard to convince me the other
      way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Harry!&rdquo; says the old lady. &ldquo;So you want something left to poor
      Harry: he,&mdash;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&mdash;and his
      eldest son will be, by courtesy, styled Earl of Castlewood&mdash;he! he!
      What do you think of that, my dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gracious mercy! how long have you known this?&rdquo; cries the other lady
      (thinking perhaps that the old Marchioness was wandering in her wits).
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My husband, before he was converted, was a wicked wretch,&rdquo; the sick
      sinner continued. &ldquo;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&mdash;a poor girl&mdash;a poor innocent young
      thing&mdash;I say,&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;though she was past forty, you know, Harry,
      when she married: and as for being innocent&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she went on, &ldquo;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Should I be disappointed&mdash;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&mdash;urging
      all his friends to obtain my release, and using all his credit in my favor&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As for Colonel Esmond, he knew the truth already.&rdquo; (&ldquo;And then, Harry,&rdquo; my
      mistress said, &ldquo;she told me of what had happened at my dear husband's
      death-bed&rdquo;). &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And can my dearest lady doubt what that will be?&rdquo; says the Colonel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It rests with you, Harry, as the head of our house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was settled twelve years since, by my dear lord's bedside,&rdquo; says
      Colonel Esmond. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dearest saint,&rdquo; says he&mdash;&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't raise me,&rdquo; she said, in a wild way, to Esmond, who would have
      lifted her. &ldquo;Let me kneel&mdash;let me kneel, and&mdash;and&mdash;worship
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Castlewood
      knew very well,&rdquo; so she wrote to her son, &ldquo;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:&rdquo; and she besought him
      to come quickly to England, to settle down in his family house of
      Castlewood (&ldquo;It is his family house,&rdquo; says she, to Colonel Esmond, &ldquo;though
      only his own house by your forbearance&rdquo;) 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.
      &ldquo;But in saving my son's fortune,&rdquo; says she, &ldquo;I fear I have lost a great
      part of my hold on him.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;by the exhortation of Mr.
      Holt, the influence of his Clotilda, and the blessing of heaven and the
      saints,&rdquo; says my lord, demurely, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;a young Irish lord, the
      Viscount C-stlew&mdash;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.&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Lady Castlewood was as much cast down by this news as Miss Beatrix was
      indignant at it. &ldquo;So,&rdquo; says she, &ldquo;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!&rdquo; says Mistress
      Beatrix, clapping her hands together; &ldquo;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?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I made that onslaught on the priests,&rdquo; says Miss Beatrix, afterwards, &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;so; he catches her in his arms&mdash;no,
      sir, keep your distance, cousin, if you please&mdash;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&mdash;Fiddledee! don't contradict me&mdash;or
      else dancing-masters, or else priests.&rdquo; And so she rattled on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who was it taught YOU to dance, Cousin Beatrix?&rdquo; says the Colonel.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;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!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having finished her march, she put out her foot for her slipper. The
      Colonel knelt down: &ldquo;If you will be Pope I will turn Papist,&rdquo; says he; and
      her Holiness gave him gracious leave to kiss the little stockinged foot
      before he put the slipper on.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;Oh, you silly
      little mamma: your feet are quite as pretty as mine,&rdquo; says she: &ldquo;they are,
      cousin, though she hides 'em; but the shoemaker will tell you that he
      makes for both off the same last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are taller than I am, dearest,&rdquo; says her mother, blushing over her
      whole sweet face&mdash;&ldquo;and&mdash;and it is your hand, my dear, and not
      your foot he wants you to give him;&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But oh!&rdquo; cries my mistress, recovering herself after this scene, and
      returning to her usual sad tone, &ldquo;'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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Asking pardon for what?&rdquo; says saucy Mrs. Beatrix&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, Beatrix! Do not jest with sacred things, and remember of what
      parentage you come,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;the most abject and devoted wretch, sure, that ever
      drivelled at a woman's knees&mdash;was this unlucky gentleman; who bound
      his good sense, and reason, and independence, hand and foot, and submitted
      them to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Granted, I am a fool,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
       (Mr. Esmond often rode to Windsor, and especially, of later days, with the
      secretary.) &ldquo;What hours will you pass on your gouty feet&mdash;and how
      humbly will you kneel down to present a despatch&mdash;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am Diogenes,&rdquo; says Esmond, laughing, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If your charmer holds out,&rdquo; says St. John, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; he added; &ldquo;only, for my part, I find the game won't run long
      enough. They knock under too soon&mdash;that's the fault I find with 'em.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The game which you pursue is in the habit of being caught, and used to
      being pulled down,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Dulcinea del Toboso is peerless, eh?&rdquo; says the other. &ldquo;Well, honest
      Harry, go and attack windmills&mdash;perhaps thou art not more mad than
      other people,&rdquo; St. John added, with a sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0032">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      A PAPER OUT OF THE &ldquo;SPECTATOR.&rdquo;
     </h3>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;she,
      simple, fond, and charming&mdash;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&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At least you own to your worldliness, my poor Trix,&rdquo; says her mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;well, don't let your ladyship be frightened&mdash;had I worn a
      sword and periwig instead of this mantle and commode to which nature has
      condemned me&mdash;(though 'tis a pretty stuff, too&mdash;Cousin Esmond!
      you will go to the Exchange to-morrow, and get the exact counterpart of
      this ribbon, sir; do you hear?)&mdash;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.&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; says she, &ldquo;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?&mdash;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&mdash;Pompey, sir, go and give a
      dish of chocolate to Colonel Graveairs,&mdash;and a parrot and a spaniel,
      and I must have a husband. Cupid, you hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Iss, Missis!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Iss, Missis!&rdquo; says Beatrix, imitating the child. &ldquo;And if husband not
      come, Pompey must go fetch one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;no wonder that upon paying such a penalty her fond judge
      pardoned her.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;The Faithful Fool, a
      Comedy, as it was performed by her Majesty's Servants.&rdquo; '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 &ldquo;Cato&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                        &ldquo;SPECTATOR.

     &ldquo;No. 341.                    &ldquo;Tuesday, April 1, 1712.

     Mutato nomine de te Fabula narratur.&mdash;HORACE.
     Thyself the morain of the fable see.&mdash;CREECH.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;though from under
      his fringed eyelids it was evident he was casting glances of respectful
      rapture towards Jocasta&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She said, 'the waters had agreed with her but indifferently.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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&mdash;and&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'And&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;OEDIPUS.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;THE TRUMPET COFFEE-HOUSE, WHITEHALL.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;MR. SPECTATOR,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;CYMON WYLDOATS.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Cymon&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Spectator&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      For though enough hath been said about this love-business already&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;What will SHE say of it?&rdquo; &ldquo;Will this
      distinction or the idea of this peril elate her or touch her, so as to be
      better inclined towards me?&rdquo; He could no more help this passionate
      fidelity of temper than he could help the eyes he saw with&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Should you like the Duke for a cousin?&rdquo; says Mr. Secretary St. John,
      whispering to Colonel Esmond in French; &ldquo;it appears that the widower
      consoles himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;smoke&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How stupid your friend Mr. Steele becomes!&rdquo; cries Miss Beatrix. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beatrix. Beatrix!&rdquo; says her mother, &ldquo;speak gravely of grave things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mamma thinks the Church Catechism came from heaven, I believe,&rdquo; says
      Beatrix, with a laugh, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I gave you the Queen's name,&rdquo; says her mother blushing. &ldquo;And a very
      pretty name it is,&rdquo; said somebody else.
    </p>
    <p>
      Beatrix went on reading&mdash;&ldquo;Spell my name with a Y&mdash;why, you
      wretch,&rdquo; says she, turning round to Colonel Esmond, &ldquo;you have been telling
      my story to Mr. Steele&mdash;or stop&mdash;you have written the paper
      yourself to turn me into ridicule. For shame, sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Poor Mr. Esmond felt rather frightened, and told a truth, which was
      nevertheless an entire falsehood. &ldquo;Upon my honor,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;I have not
      even read the Spectator of this morning.&rdquo; Nor had he, for that was not the
      Spectator, but a sham newspaper put in its place.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went on reading: her face rather flushed as she read. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she says,
      &ldquo;I think you couldn't have written it. I think it must have been Mr.
      Steele when he was drunk&mdash;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beatrix!&rdquo; cries the Lady Castlewood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;well now&mdash;I
      won't go on. Yes, I will, unless you kiss me.&rdquo; 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&mdash;&ldquo;There, sir: would not YOU like to play the very same
      pleasant game?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, madam, I would,&rdquo; says he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would what?&rdquo; asked Miss Beatrix.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What you meant when you looked at me in that provoking way,&rdquo; answers
      Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a confessor!&rdquo; cries Beatrix, with a laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it Henry would like, my dear?&rdquo; asks her mother, the kind soul,
      who was always thinking what we would like, and how she could please us.
    </p>
    <p>
      The girl runs up to her&mdash;&ldquo;Oh, you silly kind mamma,&rdquo; she says,
      kissing her again, &ldquo;that's what Harry would like;&rdquo; and she broke out into
      a great joyful laugh; and Lady Castlewood blushed as bashful as a maid of
      sixteen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at her, Harry,&rdquo; whispers Beatrix, running up, and speaking in her
      sweet low tones. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Esmond's kind mistress left the room, carrying her blushes away with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If we girls at Court could grow such roses as that,&rdquo; continues Beatrix,
      with her laugh, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; She paused for a minute, and the smile
      fading away from her April face, gave place to a menacing shower of tears;
      &ldquo;Oh, how good she is, Harry,&rdquo; Beatrix went on to say. &ldquo;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&mdash;though who knows what we women do love, and
      why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, and why, indeed,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one knows,&rdquo; Beatrix went on, without noticing this interruption except
      by a look, &ldquo;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&mdash;the horrid dirty poor! She sits through the curate's sermons&mdash;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!&rdquo; here broke out Mistress
      Beatrix. &ldquo;It's horrid, I know; but my mother's life is all for heaven, and
      mine&mdash;all for earth. We can never be friends quite; and then, she
      cares more for Frank's little finger than she does for me&mdash;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&mdash;(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&mdash;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&mdash;oh,
      do you remember those horrid beds?&mdash;and the chariot comes and fetches
      them to heaven the next morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, Beatrix,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; says poor Beatrix, her fair breast heaving with a sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was I that writ every line of that paper, my dear,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond.
      &ldquo;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&mdash;and why? You'll tire of them when you win them; and be
      no happier with a coronet on your coach&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Than riding pillion with Lubin to market,&rdquo; says Beatrix. &ldquo;Thank you,
      Lubin!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm a dismal shepherd, to be sure,&rdquo; answers Esmond, with a blush; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For mamma?&rdquo; says Beatrix. &ldquo;It is mamma your honor wants, and that I
      should have the happiness of calling you papa?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Esmond blushed again. &ldquo;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&mdash;a child
      you were then . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I put on my best stockings to captivate you, I remember, sir . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear, dreary old place!&rdquo; cries Beatrix. &ldquo;Mamma hath never had the heart
      to go back thither since we left it, when&mdash;never mind how many years
      ago.&rdquo; And she flung back her curls, and looked over her fair shoulder at
      the mirror superbly, as if she said, &ldquo;Time, I defy you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; says Esmond, who had the art, as she owned, of divining many of her
      thoughts. &ldquo;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&mdash;I know not which&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What folly you are talking, Harry,&rdquo; says Miss Beatrix, looking with her
      great eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis sober earnest,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; says he, then: &ldquo;I have tried half a dozen
      times now. I can bear being away from you well enough; but being with you
      is intolerable&rdquo; (another low curtsy on Mistress Beatrix's part), &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mon ami,&rdquo; she says quite kindly, and taking Esmond's hand, with an air of
      great compassion, &ldquo;you can't think that in our position anything more than
      our present friendship is possible. You are our elder brother&mdash;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?&rdquo; And she put her
      face quite close to his&mdash;who knows with what intention?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's too much,&rdquo; says Esmond, turning away. &ldquo;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 . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has she told you, Harry?&rdquo; Lady Castlewood said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has been very frank&mdash;very,&rdquo; says Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;but about what is going to happen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is going to happen?&rdquo; says he, his heart beating.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His Grace the Duke of Hamilton has proposed to her,&rdquo; says my lady. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0033">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      BEATRIX'S NEW SUITOR.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      King James continued my lord's promotion&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;he was
      sure he could not keep it;&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;This bankruptcy,&rdquo;
       says Tom, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; So it was that when Fortune shook her wings and left him, honest
      Tom cuddled himself up in his ragged virtue, and fell asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Is this
      the way, sir, that you receive the announcement of your misfortune,&rdquo; says
      she, &ldquo;and do you come smiling before me as if you were glad to be rid of
      me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Esmond would not be put off from his good-humor, but told her the story of
      Tom Trett and his bankruptcy. &ldquo;I have been hankering after the grapes on
      the wall,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;and lost my temper because they were beyond my reach;
      was there any wonder? They're gone now, and another has them&mdash;a
      taller man than your humble servant has won them.&rdquo; And the Colonel made
      his cousin a low bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A taller man, Cousin Esmond!&rdquo; says she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Duke has but to gape and they drop into his mouth,&rdquo; says Esmond, with
      another low bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; says she, &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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?&mdash;Desdemona. You would, you little black-dyed Othello!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I should, Beatrix,&rdquo; says the Colonel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;'That's the
      Duchess&mdash;How well her Grace looks&mdash;Make way for Madame
      l'Ambassadrice d'Angleterre&mdash;Call her Excellency's people'&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo; And she spread out her beautiful arms, as if indeed she
      could fly off like the pretty &ldquo;Gawrie,&rdquo; whom the man in the story was
      enamored of.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what will your Peter Wilkins say to your flight?&rdquo; says Esmond, who
      never admired this fair creature more than when she rebelled and laughed
      at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A duchess knows her place,&rdquo; says she, with a laugh. &ldquo;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&mdash;for come back the King will and shall; and I'll bring
      him back from Versailles, if he comes under my hoop.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope the world will make you happy, Beatrix,&rdquo; says Esmond, with a sigh.
      &ldquo;You'll be Beatrix till you are my Lady Duchess&mdash;will you not? I
      shall then make your Grace my very lowest bow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None of these sighs and this satire, cousin,&rdquo; she says. &ldquo;I take his
      Grace's great bounty thankfully&mdash;yes, thankfully; and will wear his
      honors becomingly. I do not say he hath touched my heart; but he has my
      gratitude, obedience, admiration&mdash;I have told him that, and no more;
      and with that his noble heart is content. I have told him all&mdash;even
      the story of that poor creature that I was engaged to&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty-six, my dear,&rdquo; says Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty-five, sir&mdash;I choose to be twenty-five; and in eight years no
      man hath ever touched my heart. Yes&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;for all your little mishap at your birth,&rdquo; says she, wagging
      her arch head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now, sir,&rdquo; says she, with a curtsy, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;The interview must not end yet, my
      dear, until I have had my last word. Stay, here comes your mother&rdquo; (indeed
      she came in here with her sweet anxious face, and Esmond going up kissed
      her hand respectfully). &ldquo;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.&rdquo; And he took the case out of his pocket in which the
      jewels were, and presented them to his cousin.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look, my Lord Duke,&rdquo; says Mistress Beatrix, advancing to him, and showing
      the diamonds on her breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Diamonds,&rdquo; says his Grace. &ldquo;Hm! they seem pretty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are a present on my marriage,&rdquo; says Beatrix.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From her Majesty?&rdquo; asks the Duke. &ldquo;The Queen is very good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From my cousin Henry&mdash;from our cousin Henry&rdquo;&mdash;cry both the
      ladies in a breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From our cousin, Colonel Henry Esmond, my lord,&rdquo; says Beatrix, taking the
      Colonel's hand very bravely,&mdash;&ldquo;who was left guardian to us by our
      father, and who has a hundred times shown his love and friendship for our
      family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Duchess of Hamilton receives no diamonds but from her husband,
      madam,&rdquo; says the Duke&mdash;&ldquo;may I pray you to restore these to Mr.
      Esmond?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beatrix Esmond may receive a present from our kinsman and benefactor, my
      Lord Duke,&rdquo; says Lady Castlewood, with an air of great dignity. &ldquo;She is my
      daughter yet: and if her mother sanctions the gift&mdash;no one else hath
      the right to question it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kinsman and benefactor!&rdquo; says the Duke. &ldquo;I know of no kinsman: and I do
      not choose that my wife should have for benefactor a&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord!&rdquo; says Colonel Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not here to bandy words,&rdquo; says his Grace: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord!&rdquo; breaks out Lady Castlewood, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My Lord Duke smiled, and looked as if Lady Castlewood was mad, that was so
      talking to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I called him benefactor,&rdquo; said my mistress, &ldquo;it is because he has been
      so to us&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ask Colonel Esmond's pardon,&rdquo; says his Grace, if possible more haughty
      than before. &ldquo;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&mdash;though neither by blood nor
      friendship; but I must repeat what I said, that my wife can receive no
      presents from Colonel Esmond.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; cries Lady Esmond. &ldquo;What is a string of diamond
      stones compared to that affection he hath given us&mdash;our dearest
      preserver and benefactor? We owe him not only Frank's life, but our all&mdash;yes,
      our all,&rdquo; says my mistress, with a heightened color and a trembling voice.
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&rdquo;&mdash;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, &ldquo;Mother, what is this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis a family secret, my Lord Duke,&rdquo; says Colonel Esmond: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should have told everything to the Duke of Hamilton,&rdquo; said my mistress,
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Marquis of Esmond, my lord,&rdquo; says his Grace, with a low bow. &ldquo;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&rdquo; (so his Grace was
      pleased to say); &ldquo;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,&rdquo; says the Duke, &ldquo;that may perhaps be in my power. I shall
      esteem it as a favor, my lord, if Colonel Esmond will give away the
      bride.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if he will take the usual payment in advance, he is welcome,&rdquo; says
      Beatrix, stepping up to him; and, as Esmond kissed her, she whispered,
      &ldquo;Oh, why didn't I know you before?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When does your Excellency go for Paris?&rdquo; asks Colonel Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As soon after the ceremony as may be,&rdquo; his Grace answered. &ldquo;'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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0034">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      MOHUN APPEARS FOR THE LAST TIME IN THIS HISTORY.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;Ah, ah!&rdquo; says Webb,
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Would we suffer our arms to be insulted? Would we not
      send back the only champion who could repair our honor?&rdquo; The nation had
      had its bellyful of fighting; nor could taunts or outcries goad up our
      Britons any more.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Trivia,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;whom &ldquo;nunc
      perscribere longum est.&rdquo; 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,
      &ldquo;Vidi tantum.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Eat;&rdquo; or fetching him the daggers and whispering &ldquo;Kill! yonder
      lies Duncan, and a crown, and an opportunity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Wills's,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I presume you are the editor of the Post-Boy, sir?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am but a contributor, Doctor Swift,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who told you I was Dr. Swift?&rdquo; says the Doctor, eying the other very
      haughtily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your Reverence's valet bawled out your name,&rdquo; says the Colonel. &ldquo;I should
      judge you brought him from Ireland?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where's your papa, Tommy?&rdquo; asks the Colonel of the child, a smutty little
      wretch in a frock.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instead of answering, the child begins to cry; the Doctor's appearance had
      no doubt frightened the poor little imp.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Send that squalling little brat about his business, and do what I bid ye,
      sir,&rdquo; says the Doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must finish, the picture first for Tommy,&rdquo; says the Colonel, laughing.
      &ldquo;Here, Tommy, will you have your Pandour with whiskers or without?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whisters,&rdquo; says Tommy, quite intent on the picture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who the devil are ye, sir?&rdquo; cries the Doctor; &ldquo;are ye a printer's man or
      are ye not?&rdquo; he pronounced it like NAUGHT.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your reverence needn't raise the devil to ask who I am,&rdquo; says Colonel
      Esmond. &ldquo;Did you ever hear of Doctor Faustus, little Tommy? or Friar
      Bacon, who invented gunpowder, and set the Thames on fire?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Swift turned quite red, almost purple. &ldquo;I did not intend any offence,
      sir,&rdquo; says he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare say, sir, you offended without meaning,&rdquo; says the other, dryly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo; cries the Doctor, in a
      great fume.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your honor's humble pardon if I have offended your honor,&rdquo; says
      Esmond in a tone of great humility. &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I take the little beast!&rdquo; says the Doctor, starting back. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm but a poor broken-down soldier,&rdquo; says the Colonel, &ldquo;and I've seen
      better days, though I am forced now to turn my hand to writing. We can't
      help our fate, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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: &ldquo;I'm sure,&rdquo; says my General,
      bowing very politely, &ldquo;my table hath always a place for Dr. Swift.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Esmond went up to the Doctor with a bow and a smile:&mdash;&ldquo;I gave Dr.
      Swift's message,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;to the printer: I hope he brought your
      pamphlet to your lodgings in time.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;he had to speak with Colonel
      Esmond; and when the rest of the company withdrew to cards, these two
      remained behind in the dark.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;Jonathan
      knows nothing of this for certain, though he suspects it, and by George,
      Webb will take an Archbishopric, and Jonathan a&mdash;no,&mdash;damme&mdash;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,&rdquo; the Secretary went
      on. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; We drank it together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will the bonne cause turn Protestant?&rdquo; asked Mr. Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, hang it,&rdquo; says the other, &ldquo;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&mdash;damme, let's drink it kneeling.&rdquo; He was quite
      flushed and wild with wine as he was talking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And suppose,&rdquo; says Esmond, who always had this gloomy apprehension, &ldquo;the
      bonne cause should give us up to the French, as his father and uncle did
      before him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give us up to the French!&rdquo; starts up Bolingbroke; &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His uncle did,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what happened to his grandfather?&rdquo; broke out St. John, filling out
      another bumper. &ldquo;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&mdash;ay, as good? God save the King!
      and, if the monarchy fails us, God save the British Republic!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drink no more, my lord, for God's sake!&rdquo; says he. &ldquo;I come with the most
      dreadful news.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is the Queen dead?&rdquo; cries out Bolingbroke, seizing on a water-glass.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Beatrix, Beatrix,&rdquo; thought Esmond, &ldquo;and here ends my poor girl's
      ambition!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0035">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      POOR BEATRIX.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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. &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; says she, &ldquo;cousin, and
      admire the taste of this pretty thing.&rdquo; I think Mars and Venus were lying
      in the golden bower, that one gilt Cupid carried off the war-god's casque&mdash;another
      his sword&mdash;another his great buckler, upon which my Lord Duke
      Hamilton's arms with ours were to be engraved&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn't this a beautiful piece?&rdquo; 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.
      &ldquo;'Tis a pretty piece of vanity,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vanity!&rdquo; says she, haughtily. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Beatrix, lay it down!&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond. &ldquo;Herodias! you know not what
      you carry in the charger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;What is
      it, Henry!&rdquo; says she, running to him, and seizing both his hands. &ldquo;What do
      you mean by your pale face and gloomy tones?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come away, come away!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, my Beatrix, my sister!&rdquo; says Esmond, still holding in his arms the
      pallid and affrighted creature, &ldquo;you have the greatest courage of any
      woman in the world; prepare to show it now, for you have a dreadful trial
      to bear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sprang away from the friend who would have protected her:&mdash;&ldquo;Hath
      he left me?&rdquo; says she. &ldquo;We had words this morning: he was very gloomy, and
      I angered him: but he dared not, he dared not!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has left you,&rdquo; says Esmond, wondering that rage rather than sorrow was
      in her looks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And he is alive,&rdquo; cried Beatrix, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Duke is not alive, Beatrix,&rdquo; said Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked at her cousin wildly, and fell back to the wall as though shot
      in the breast:&mdash;&ldquo;And you come here, and&mdash;and&mdash;you killed
      him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; thank heaven!&rdquo; her kinsman said. &ldquo;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&mdash;for the murderer died too
      by the hand of the man he slew&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;I
      am best in my own room and by myself,&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;Thank you, brother,&rdquo; she
      said, in a low voice, and with a simplicity more touching than tears; &ldquo;all
      you have said is true and kind, and I will go away and ask pardon.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      What was the real cause of the Duke Hamilton's death?&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0036">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I VISIT CASTLEWOOD ONCE MORE.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;I would
      rather see her tears than her pride,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;brave, young, handsome, unfortunate&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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? &ldquo;I looked into your room,&rdquo; was all she said; &ldquo;the bed was
      vacant, the little old bed! I knew I should find you here.&rdquo; And tender and
      blushing faintly with a benediction in her eyes, the gentle creature
      kissed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      She made us one of her grand curtsies smiling, and called us &ldquo;the young
      people.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had best take these with you, Harry,&rdquo; says she; &ldquo;I have no need of
      diamonds any more.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Esmond said the stones were his no longer, and strove to turn off that
      proffered restoration with a laugh: &ldquo;Of what good,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will give them to your wife, cousin,&rdquo; says she. &ldquo;My cousin, your wife
      has a lovely complexion and shape.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beatrix,&rdquo; Esmond burst out, the old fire flaming out as it would at
      times, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A price for your constancy, my lord!&rdquo; says she; &ldquo;such a preux chevalier
      wants to be paid. Oh fie, cousin!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Again,&rdquo; Esmond spoke out, &ldquo;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&mdash;what he who is dead
      desired most&mdash;will that soften you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, Henry?&rdquo; says she, her face lighting up; &ldquo;what mean you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask no questions,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are going out of the country?&rdquo; says Beatrix, in some agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, to-morrow,&rdquo; says Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To Lorraine, cousin?&rdquo; says Beatrix, laying her hand on his arm; 'twas the
      hand on which she wore the Duke's bracelet. &ldquo;Stay, Harry!&rdquo; continued she,
      with a tone that had more despondency in it than she was accustomed to
      show. &ldquo;Hear a last word. I do love you. I do admire you&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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?&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Farewell. Farewell, brother.&rdquo; She gave him her cheek as a brotherly
      privilege. The cheek was as cold as marble.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0037">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I TRAVEL TO FRANCE AND BRING HOME A PORTRAIT OF RIGAUD.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;No doubt he should come by his name if ever greater people
      came by theirs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;Your father and your
      mother, M. le Marquis,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;with a gratuity&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      His &ldquo;Clotilda,&rdquo; Castlewood went on to say, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;(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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;(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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;(The Lord Castlewood) has had the affair of the plate made up, and
      departs for England.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thine ever &mdash;&mdash;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;God save King
      James!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Ah, Harry,&rdquo; says she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0038">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      THE ORIGINAL OF THE PORTRAIT COMES TO ENGLAND.
    </h3>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Eikon Basilike&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &amp;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;My man will see to the horses,
      Baptiste,&rdquo; says Colonel Esmond: &ldquo;do you understand English?&rdquo; &ldquo;Very
      leetle!&rdquo; &ldquo;So, follow my lord and wait upon him at dinner in his own room.&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;I had as lief he
      had shot me, cousin,&rdquo; Frank said: &ldquo;I knew you were the best, and the
      bravest, and the kindest of all men&rdquo; (so the enthusiastic young fellow
      went on); &ldquo;but I never thought I owed you what I do, and can scarce bear
      the weight of the obligation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I stand in the place of your father,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond, kindly, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The K&mdash;-, HE laughed,&rdquo; Frank said, pointing to the door where the
      sleeper was, and speaking in a low tone. &ldquo;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&rdquo; (here Castlewood laughed himself)&mdash;&ldquo;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,&rdquo; says Frank, with a demure look;
      &ldquo;you may smile, but I am not the wild fellow I was; no, no, I have been
      taught better,&rdquo; says Castlewood devoutly, making a sign on his breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art my dear brave boy,&rdquo; says Colonel Esmond, touched at the young
      fellow's simplicity, &ldquo;and there will be a noble gentleman at Castlewood so
      long as my Frank is there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;Eh,
      La-Fleur, un verre d'eau!&rdquo; His Majesty came out yawning:&mdash;&ldquo;A pest,&rdquo;
       says he, &ldquo;upon your English ale, 'tis so strong that, ma foi, it hath
      turned my head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.*
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * 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.
</pre>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;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?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again Colonel Esmond was obliged to cry out, &ldquo;Baptiste,&rdquo; in a loud
      imperious voice, &ldquo;have a care to the valise;&rdquo; 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:&mdash;&ldquo;A
      Prince that will wear a crown must wear a mask,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond in
      French.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah peste! I see how it is,&rdquo; says Monsieur Baptiste, continuing the talk
      in French. &ldquo;The Great Serious is seriously&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;alarmed for Monsieur
      Baptiste,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Madam,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;my mother will thank your
      ladyship for your hospitality to her son; for you, madam,&rdquo; turning to
      Beatrix, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Esmond looked at Beatrix, blazing with her jewels on her beautiful neck.
      &ldquo;I have kept my word,&rdquo; says he: &ldquo;And I mine,&rdquo; says Beatrix, looking down
      on the diamonds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were I the Mogul Emperor,&rdquo; says the Colonel, &ldquo;you should have all that
      were dug out of Golconda.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These are a great deal too good for me,&rdquo; says Beatrix, dropping her head
      on her beautiful breast,&mdash;&ldquo;so are you all, all!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;Which of you will
      take it?&rdquo; says he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The head of our house,&rdquo; says Lady Castlewood, taking her son's hand, and
      looking towards Colonel Esmond with a bow and a great tremor of the voice;
      &ldquo;the Marquis of Esmond will have the honor of serving the King.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall have the honor of waiting on his Royal Highness,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I drink to my hostess and her family,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;What
      cheer, brother?&rdquo; says Addison, laughing: &ldquo;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?&mdash;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,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Campaign&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have done the deed,&rdquo; thought he, sleepless, and looking out into the
      night; &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;I warrant,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;that, with the English beef and beer,
      his lordship will soon get back the proper use of his mouth;&rdquo; and, to do
      his new lordship justice, he took to beer and beef very kindly.
    </p>
    <p>
      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
      &ldquo;sister,&rdquo; and her ladyship &ldquo;mother,&rdquo; or &ldquo;madam&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The guests had not been three days in the house when poor Jack Lockwood
      came with a rueful countenance to his master, and said: &ldquo;My Lord&mdash;that
      is the gentleman&mdash;has been tampering with Mrs. Lucy (Jack's
      sweetheart), and given her guineas and a kiss.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Colonel Esmond ventured to utter some other words of entreaty, but the
      Prince, stamping imperiously, cried out, &ldquo;Assez, milord: je m'ennuye a la
      preche; I am not come to London to go to the sermon.&rdquo; And he complained
      afterwards to Castlewood, that &ldquo;le petit jaune, le noir Colonel, le
      Marquis Misanthrope&rdquo; (by which facetious names his Royal Highness was
      pleased to designate Colonel Esmond), &ldquo;fatigued him with his grand airs
      and virtuous homilies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Colonel Noir&rdquo; 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&mdash;&mdash;,*
      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: &ldquo;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.&rdquo; &ldquo;Rather than lose those,&rdquo; says the Prince, &ldquo;he shall be made
      Archbishop and Colonel of the Guard&rdquo; (it was Frank Castlewood who told me
      of this conversation over their supper).
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * There can be very little doubt that the Doctor mentioned
     by my dear father was the famous Dr. Arbuthnot.&mdash;R. E. W.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; cries she, with one of her laughs&mdash;I fancy I hear it now.
      Thirty years afterwards I hear that delightful music. &ldquo;Yes, he shall be
      Archbishop of Esmond and Marquis of Canterbury.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what will your ladyship be?&rdquo; says the Prince; &ldquo;you have but to choose
      your place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I,&rdquo; says Beatrix, &ldquo;will be mother of the maids to the Queen of his
      Majesty King James the Third&mdash;Vive le Roy!&rdquo; and she made him a great
      curtsy, and drank a part of a glass of wine in his honor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Prince seized hold of the glass and drank the last drop of it,&rdquo;
       Castlewood said, &ldquo;and my mother, looking very anxious, rose up and asked
      leave to retire. But that Trix is my mother's daughter, Harry,&rdquo; Frank
      continued, &ldquo;I don't know what a horrid fear I should have of her. I wish&mdash;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&mdash;before
      George I would; but I wish the end of this were come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;he knew it. What cared he, in his
      heart, who was King? Were not his very sympathies and secret convictions
      on the other side&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0039">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      WE ENTERTAIN A VERY DISTINGUISHED GUEST AT KENSINGTON.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Rogues' Opera,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;This, my lords, is my brother;
      here is my father's heir, and mine after me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;to pay his court to his cousin
      the Queen, the Elector said;&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;I think Beatrix had best be anywhere but here,&rdquo;&mdash;Lady
      Castlewood said:&mdash;&ldquo;I thank you, Frank, I have thought so, too;&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One sees that you think with us, Henry,&rdquo; says the viscountess, with ever
      so little of sarcasm in her tone: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What morning's business?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He then informed Madam Beatrix what her part of the comedy was to be:&mdash;&ldquo;In
      half an hour,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;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!&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;&ldquo;We may all hope
      for the best,&rdquo; says she; &ldquo;it has cost the Queen a fit. Her Majesty was in
      her chair in the Cedar-walk, accompanied only by Lady &mdash;&mdash;, 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.&rdquo; Esmond and Castlewood looked at each other at this compliment,
      neither liking the sound of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Prince uncovered,&rdquo; Beatrix continued, &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'I am come, Madam, to stay now, if the Queen desires me,' says the
      Prince, with another low bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'You have taken a foreign wife, my lord, and a foreign religion; was not
      that of England good enough for you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; says Beatrix, &ldquo;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,'&mdash;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,&rdquo;
       says Beatrix, going down on her knees, and clasping her hands. &ldquo;God save
      the King: God save the King!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are glad,&rdquo; says she, taking her daughter's hand, and speaking in a
      gentle voice, &ldquo;that the guest is away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Beatrix drew back in an instant, looking round her at us three, and as if
      divining a danger. &ldquo;Why glad?&rdquo; says she, her breast beginning to heave;
      &ldquo;are you so soon tired of him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We think one of us is devilishly too fond of him,&rdquo; cries out Frank
      Castlewood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And which is it&mdash;you, my lord, or is it mamma, who is jealous
      because he drinks my health? or is it the head of the family&rdquo; (here she
      turned with an imperious look towards Colonel Esmond), &ldquo;who has taken of
      late to preach the King sermons?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We do not say you are too free with his Majesty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank you, madam,&rdquo; says Beatrix, with a toss of the head and a curtsey.
    </p>
    <p>
      But her mother continued, with very great calmness and dignity&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh? mon pere,&rdquo; breaks out Beatrix, &ldquo;was no better than other persons'
      fathers.&rdquo; And again she looked towards the Colonel.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had not learned to speak French a month ago, Beatrix,&rdquo; says her
      mother, sadly, &ldquo;nor to speak ill of your father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Beatrix, no doubt, saw that slip she had made in her flurry, for she
      blushed crimson: &ldquo;I have learnt to honor the King,&rdquo; says she, drawing up,
      &ldquo;and 'twere as well that others suspected neither his Majesty nor me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you respected your mother a little more,&rdquo; Frank said, &ldquo;Trix, you would
      do yourself no hurt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am no child,&rdquo; says she, turning round on him; &ldquo;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?&rdquo; she
      went on; &ldquo;he rules everything here. When his chaplain has done singing the
      psalms, will his lordship deliver the sermon? I am tired of the psalms.&rdquo;
       The Prince had used almost the very same words in regard to Colonel Esmond
      that the imprudent girl repeated in her wrath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You show yourself a very apt scholar, madam,&rdquo; says the Colonel; and,
      turning to his mistress, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you seen him alone?&rdquo; cries my lord, starting up with an oath: &ldquo;by
      God, have you seen him alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were he here, you wouldn't dare so to insult me; no, you would not dare!&rdquo;
       cries Frank's sister. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By &mdash;-,&rdquo; says my lord, rapping out another oath, &ldquo;Clotilda is an
      angel; how dare you say a word against Clotilda?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Colonel Esmond could not refrain from a smile, to see how easy Frank's
      attack was drawn off by that feint:&mdash;&ldquo;I fancy Clotilda is not the
      subject in hand,&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond, rather scornfully; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is not my Lord Castlewood,&rdquo; says Beatrix, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; Here was another
      desperate sally of the poor beleaguered garrison, and an alerte in another
      quarter. &ldquo;Again, I beg your pardon,&rdquo; says Esmond. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * 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&mdash;&ldquo;I know not what
     Colonel Esmond's doctrine was, but his life and death were
     those of a devout Christian.&rdquo;&mdash;R. E. W.
</pre>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;I am alone,&rdquo; sobbed she; &ldquo;you are three against
      me&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would but remove from the Prince,&rdquo; says Esmond, gravely, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Harry speaks like a book,&rdquo; says Frank, with one of his oaths, &ldquo;and, by
      &mdash;-, 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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are not two such champions enough to guard me?&rdquo; says Beatrix, something
      sorrowfully; &ldquo;sure, with you two watching, no evil could happen to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In faith, I think not, Beatrix,&rdquo; says Colonel Esmond; &ldquo;nor if the Prince
      knew us would he try.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But does he know you?&rdquo; interposed Lady Castlewood, very quiet: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Frank and Harry thought with her, you may be sure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will go, then,&rdquo; says Beatrix, turning a little pale; &ldquo;Lady Masham is
      to give me warning to-night how her Majesty is, and to-morrow&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think we had best go to-day, my dear,&rdquo; says my Lady Castlewood; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For shame!&rdquo; burst out Beatrix, in a passion of tears and mortification.
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;I have brought back,&rdquo; says she, &ldquo;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?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you leave this, too, Beatrix?&rdquo; 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.*
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * 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.&mdash;H. E.
</pre>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;I had forgot it,&rdquo; says she; &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go, child,&rdquo; says her mother, still very stern; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0040">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      OUR GUEST QUITS US AS NOT BEING HOSPITABLE ENOUGH.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;The Queen hath been much shaken,&rdquo; the note said; &ldquo;she
      is better now, and all things will go well. Let MY LORD CASTLEWOOD be
      ready against we send for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At night there came a second billet: &ldquo;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&mdash;&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;Even Quakers,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; says the Bishop
      with a laugh, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; says the Bishop, &ldquo;admiring so much fraternal affection.&mdash;Where
      is that charming nymph, and why doth she not adorn your ladyship's
      tea-table with her bright eyes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      We were yet at table when Dr. A&mdash;&mdash; 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? &ldquo;Il faut etre aimable pour etre aime,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;&mdash; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were these papers to be mislaid,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and so,
      having carefully copied the Proclamations out, the Prince burned those in
      Colonel Esmond's handwriting: &ldquo;And now, and now, gentlemen,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * In London we addressed the Prince as Royal Highness
     invariably, though the women persisted in giving him the
     title of King.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at Kensington!&rdquo; says he; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not of this, sir,&rdquo; says Frank very nobly, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Marquis of Esmond!&mdash;the Marquis of Esmond,&rdquo; says the Prince,
      tossing off a glass, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was not aware, sir, that I had spoken of my suit to Madam Beatrix to
      your Royal Highness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;is, is lache,
      yes, lache:&rdquo; (he spoke rapidly in French, his rage carrying him away with
      each phrase:) &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Honor! bah, sir, who ever thought of hurting your honor?&rdquo; says the Prince
      with a peevish air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We implore your Royal Highness never to think of hurting it,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Past ten o'clock, and a starlight
      night,&rdquo; Esmond spoke to the Prince in a low voice, and said&mdash;&ldquo;Your
      Royal Highness hears that man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Apres, Monsieur?&rdquo; says the Prince.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has your lordship anything to say,&rdquo; says the Prince, turning to Frank
      Castlewood, and quite pale with anger; &ldquo;any threat or any insult, with
      which you would like to end this agreeable night's entertainment?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I follow the head of our house,&rdquo; says Castlewood, bowing gravely. &ldquo;At
      what time shall it please the Prince that we should wait upon him in the
      morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have soothed your guest,&rdquo; 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.) &ldquo;But I think, all
      things considered, 'tis as well he should leave this house; and then, my
      Lady Castlewood,&rdquo; says the Bishop, &ldquo;my pretty Beatrix may come back to
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is quite as well at home at Castlewood,&rdquo; Esmond's mistress said,
      &ldquo;till everything is over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall have your title, Esmond, that I promise you,&rdquo; says the good
      Bishop, assuming the airs of a Prime Minister. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; says the Doctor, archly; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord, my lord!&rdquo; breaks out Lady Esmond, &ldquo;the levity with which you
      speak of such conduct towards our sex shocks me, and what you call
      weakness I call deplorable sin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sin it is, my dear creature,&rdquo; says the Bishop, with a shrug, taking
      snuff; &ldquo;but consider what a sinner King Solomon was, and in spite of a
      thousand of wives too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough of this, my lord,&rdquo; says Lady Castlewood, with a fine blush, and
      walked out of the room very stately.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;If all your
      bishops preach so well as Doctor Atterbury.&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;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,&rdquo;
       says he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0041">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      A GREAT SCHEME, AND WHO BALKED IT.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;God Save King George?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;And now,&rdquo; writ my messenger from Court,
      &ldquo;NOW OR NEVER IS THE TIME.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Castlewood sped to the barrack to give warning to the captain of the Guard
      there; and then went to the &ldquo;King's Arms&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Greyhound&rdquo;
       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 &ldquo;Crown&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      This absence was most unpropitious, for an hour's delay might cost a
      kingdom; Esmond had nothing for it but to hasten to the &ldquo;King's Arms,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;&mdash;.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is Mr. George?&rdquo; says Mr. Esmond; &ldquo;now is the time.&rdquo; The Bishop
      looked scared: &ldquo;I went to his lodging,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and they told me he was
      come hither. I returned as quick as coach would carry me; and he hath not
      been here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;they were back at Kensington in half an
      hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;King's
      Arms,&rdquo; that were grown very impatient by this time.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's Ormonde's Guards,&rdquo; says one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, by God, it's Argyle's old regiment!&rdquo; says my General, clapping down
      his crutch.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Harry!&rdquo; says one of the generals there present, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As we were talking, Castlewood entered the room with a disturbed air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What news, Frank?&rdquo; says the Colonel. &ldquo;Is Mr. George coming at last?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damn him, look here!&rdquo; says Castlewood, holding out a paper. &ldquo;I found it
      in the book&mdash;the what you call it, 'Eikum Basilikum,'&mdash;that
      villain Martin put it there&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;Beatrix Esmond
      is sent away to prison, to Castlewood, where she will pray for happier
      days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you guess where he is?&rdquo; says Castlewood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; says Colonel Esmond. He knew full well, Frank knew full well: our
      instinct told whither that traitor had fled.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had courage to turn to the company and say, &ldquo;Gentlemen, I fear very
      much that Mr. George will not be here to-day; something hath happened&mdash;and&mdash;and&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;King's Arms,&rdquo;
       at Kensington; and they had called for their bill and gone home.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0042">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      AUGUST 1ST, 1714.
    </h3>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does my mistress know of this?&rdquo; Esmond asked of Frank, as they walked
      along.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mother found the letter in the book, on the toilet-table. She had writ
      it ere she had left home,&rdquo; Frank said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Frank never said a word of reproach to me for having brought the villain
      amongst us. As we knocked at the door I said, &ldquo;When will the horses be
      ready?&rdquo; Frank pointed with his cane, they were turning the street that
      moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you tell him, my lord,&rdquo; says Esmond, &ldquo;that Beatrix was at
      Castlewood?&rdquo; The Bishop blushed and stammered: &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;I . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You served the villain right,&rdquo; broke out Mr. Esmond, &ldquo;and he has lost a
      crown by what you told him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My mistress turned quite white, &ldquo;Henry, Henry,&rdquo; says she, &ldquo;do not kill
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may not be too late,&rdquo; says Esmond; &ldquo;he may not have gone to
      Castlewood; pray God, it is not too late.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      We took the freedom to break it, while Lockwood stared with wonder, and
      cried out his &ldquo;Lord bless me's,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Who'd a thought it's,&rdquo; at the sight
      of his young lord, whom he had not seen these seven years.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Eikon Basilike:&rdquo; she was going to read
      good books; she thought her pretty mamma would like to know she was not
      crying her eyes out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is in the house besides you, Lockwood?&rdquo; says the Colonel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; says old Lockwood.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Eikon Basilike.&rdquo; She writ this
      letter to put the Prince on the scent, and the porter out of the way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have a fine moonlight night for riding on,&rdquo; says Esmond; &ldquo;Frank, we
      may reach Castlewood in time yet.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If she is safe,&rdquo; says Frank, trembling, and his honest eyes filling with
      tears, &ldquo;a silver statue to Our Lady!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went and tapped at the little window at the porter's lodge, gently, but
      repeatedly, until the man came to the bars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who's there?&rdquo; says he, looking out; it was the servant from Kensington.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Lord Castlewood and Colonel Esmond,&rdquo; we said, from below. &ldquo;Open the
      gate and let us in without any noise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Lord Castlewood?&rdquo; says the other; &ldquo;my lord's here, and in bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Open, d&mdash;n you,&rdquo; says Castlewood, with a curse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall open to no one,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are more ways than one,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;of entering such a great house
      as this.&rdquo; Frank grumbled that the west gate was half a mile round. &ldquo;But I
      know of a way that's not a hundred yards off,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.&mdash;&ldquo;And what then?&rdquo;&mdash;His lordship supped with his
      sister.&mdash;&ldquo;Did the man wait?&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was this all!&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;All,&rdquo; the man swore upon his honor; all as he hoped
      to be saved.&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it amuses thee,&rdquo; says Esmond in French, &ldquo;that your sister should be
      exchanging of kisses with a stranger, I fear poor Beatrix will give thee
      plenty of sport.&rdquo;&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;You
      must back me,&rdquo; says Esmond, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; (so we called the rooms at the north-west angle of the
      house,) &ldquo;see if the door is barred as he saith.&rdquo; We tried; it was indeed
      as the lackey had said, closed within.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may have been opened and shut afterwards,&rdquo; says poor Esmond; &ldquo;the
      foundress of our family let our ancestor in in that way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What will you do, Harry, if&mdash;if what that fellow saith should turn
      out untrue?&rdquo; The young man looked scared and frightened into his kinsman's
      face; I dare say it wore no very pleasant expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us first go see whether the two stories agree,&rdquo; 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&mdash;Esmond did not care for making
      a noise. The Prince started up in his bed, seeing two men in his chamber.
      &ldquo;Qui est la&rdquo; says he, and took a pistol from under his pillow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the Marquis of Esmond,&rdquo; says the Colonel, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Sdeath! gentlemen,&rdquo; says the Prince, starting off his bed, whereon he
      was lying in his clothes, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would have been otherwise,&rdquo; says Esmond with another bow; &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Morbleu, Monsieur, you give me too much Majesty,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall take care,&rdquo; says Esmond, &ldquo;not much oftener to offend in that
      particular.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What mean you, my lord?&rdquo; says the Prince, and muttered something about a
      guet-a-pens, which Esmond caught up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The snare, Sir,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dishonor! Morbleu, there has been no dishonor,&rdquo; says the Prince, turning
      scarlet, &ldquo;only a little harmless playing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was meant to end seriously.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I swear,&rdquo; the Prince broke out impetuously, &ldquo;upon the honor of a
      gentleman, my lords&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That we arrived in time. No wrong hath been done, Frank,&rdquo; says Colonel
      Esmond, turning round to young Castlewood, who stood at the door as the
      talk was going on. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; says the Prince, burning with rage (he had assumed his Royal coat
      unassisted by this time), &ldquo;did I come here to receive insults?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To confer them, may it please your Majesty,&rdquo; says the Colonel, with a
      very low bow, &ldquo;and the gentlemen of our family are come to thank you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Malediction!&rdquo; says the young man, tears starting into his eyes with
      helpless rage and mortification. &ldquo;What will you with me, gentlemen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If your Majesty will please to enter the next apartment,&rdquo; says Esmond,
      preserving his grave tone, &ldquo;I have some papers there which I would gladly
      submit to you, and by your permission I will lead the way;&rdquo; 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:&mdash;&ldquo;Please to set a chair for his Majesty,
      Frank,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, may it please your Majesty,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; And as Esmond spoke
      he set the papers burning in the brazier. &ldquo;You will please, sir, to
      remember,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;&ldquo;I go with my cousin,&rdquo; says he, giving Esmond a grasp of
      the hand. &ldquo;Marquis or not, by &mdash;-, I stand by him any day. I beg your
      Majesty's pardon for swearing; that is&mdash;that is&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thus to lose a crown,&rdquo; says the young Prince, starting up, and speaking
      French in his eager way; &ldquo;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?&mdash;Marquis, if I go on my knees will you pardon me?&mdash;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&mdash;see,
      yonder in the armoire are two;&rdquo; and the Prince took them out as eager as a
      boy, and held them towards Esmond:&mdash;&ldquo;Ah! you will? Merci, monsieur,
      merci!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh bien, Vicomte!&rdquo; says the young Prince, who was a boy, and a French
      boy, &ldquo;il ne nous reste qu'une chose a faire:&rdquo; he placed his sword upon the
      table, and the fingers of his two hands upon his breast:&mdash;&ldquo;We have
      one more thing to do,&rdquo; says he; &ldquo;you do not divine it?&rdquo; He stretched out
      his arms:&mdash;&ldquo;Embrassons nous!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The talk was scarce over when Beatrix entered the room:&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Charming Beatrix,&rdquo; says the Prince, with a blush which became him very
      well, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will it please the King to breakfast before he goes?&rdquo; 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:&mdash;&ldquo;If I did not love you before, cousin,&rdquo; says she, &ldquo;think how
      I love you now.&rdquo; If words could stab, no doubt she would have killed
      Esmond; she looked at him as if she could.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Eikon Basilike.&rdquo; The
      Prince blushed and bowed low, as she gazed at him, and quitted the
      chamber. I have never seen her from that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      As we drove to the &ldquo;Bell&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is she safe?&rdquo; was what Lady Castlewood whispered in a flutter to Esmond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All's well, thank God,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. (&ldquo;It was
      Lady Castlewood who insisted on coming,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      There presently came from out of the gate&mdash;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!
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was at Bruxelles, whither we retreated after the failure of our plot&mdash;our
      Whig friends advising us to keep out of the way&mdash;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&mdash;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 &ldquo;eyes of meek surrender,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 2511 ***</div>
  </body>
</html>
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2025-12-23 22:51:56 +0000