 Book 3, Chapter 2 of the History of Henry Esmond Esquire by William Makepeace Thackeray. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ralph Snelson. The History of Henry Esmond Esquire by William Makepeace Thackeray. Book 3, Chapter 2. I Go Home and Harp on the Old String. After quitting Mons and the army, and as he was waiting for a packet at Austin, Esmond had a letter from his young kinsman, Castlewood, at Bruxelles, conveying intelligence where of Frank besought him to be the bearer to London, and which caused Colonel Esmond no small anxiety. The young scapegrace, being one and twenty years old, and being anxious to sow his wild oats, as he wrote, had married Mademoiselle de Werthem, daughter of Count de Werthem, Chamberlain to the emperor, and having a post in the household of the governor of the Netherlands. P.S., the young gentleman wrote, Quotilda is older than me, which perhaps may be objected to her, but I am so old, a rank, that the age makes no difference, and I am determined to reform. We were married at St. Goudouli by Father Holt. She is heart and soul for the good cause, and here the cry is Biffley Roy, which my mother will join in, and tricks too. Break this news to him gently, and tell Mr. Finch, my agent, to press the people for their rents, and send me the rhino anyhow. Quotilda sings and plays on the spinnet 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 enough of soldiering, and my Lord Duke recommends me. I shall pass the winter here, and stop at least until clothes lying in. I call her old clothe, but nobody else shall. She is the cleverest woman in all Brussels, understanding painting, music, poetry, and perfect at cookery and puddings. I boarded with the Count, that's how I came to know her. There are four Counts, her brothers, one and Abbey, three with the Prince's army. They have a lawsuit for an immense fortune, but are now in a poor way. Break this to mother, who will take anything from you. And write, and bid Finch write immediately, hostile day a l'égal noix de Bruxelles flanders. So Frank had married a Roman Catholic lady, and an heir was expected, and Mr. Esmond was to carry this intelligence to his mistress at London. It was a difficult embassy, and the Colonel felt not a little tremor as he neared the capital. He reached his inn late, and sent a messenger to Kensington to announce his arrival and visit the next morning. The messenger brought back news that the court was at Windsor, and the fair Beatrix absent and engaged in her duties there. Only Esmond's mistress remained in her house at Kensington. She appeared in court, but once in the year. Beatrix was quite the mistress and ruler of the Little Mansion, inviting the company thither, and engaging in every conceivable frolic of town pleasure. Just her mother, acting as the young lady's protectress and elder sister, pursued her own path, which was quite modest and secluded. As soon as ever Esmond was dressed, and he had been awake long before the town, he took a coach for Kensington, and reached it so early that he met his dear mistress coming home from morning prayers. She carried her prayer book, never allowing a footman to bear it, as everybody else did, and it was by this simple sign Esmond knew what her occupation had been. He called to the coachman to stop, and jumped out as she looked towards him. She wore her hood as usual, and she turned quite pale when she saw him. To feel that kind little hand there to his heart seemed to give him strength. They were soon at the door of her ladyship's house, and within it. With a sweet sad smile she took his hand and kissed it. How ill you've been! How weak you look, my dear Henry, she said. To certain the Colonel did look like a ghost, except that ghosts do not look very happy, to said. Esmond always felt so, on returning to her after absence, indeed, whenever he looked in her sweet kind face. I am come back to be nursed by my family, says he. If Frank had not taken care of me after my wound, very likely I should have gone altogether. Poor Frank, good Frank, says his mother. You will always be kind to him, my lord, she went on. The poor child never knew he was doing you a wrong. My lord, cries out Colonel Esmond, what do you mean, dear lady? I am no lady, says she. I am Rachel Esmond, Francis Esmond's widow, my lord. I cannot bear that title. Would we never had taken it from him, who has it now? But we did all in our power, Henry. We did all in our power. And my lord and I, that is, who told you this tale, dearest lady, asked the Colonel, have you not had the letter I writ you? I writ to you at Mons, directly, I heard it, says Lady Esmond. And from whom, again, asked Colonel Esmond, and his mistress then told him that on her deathbed the Dowager Countess, sending for her, had presented her with this dismal secret as a legacy. It was very malicious of the Dowager, Lady Esmond said, to have had it so long, and to have kept the truth from me. Cousin Rachel, she said, and Esmond's mistress could not forebear smiling, as she told the story. Cousin Rachel, cries the Dowager, I have sent for you as the doctors say I may go off any day in this dysentery, and to ease my conscience of a great load that has been on it. You always have been a poor creature and unfit for great honor, and what I have to say won't therefore affect you so much. You must know, Cousin Rachel, that I have left my house, plate, and furniture, three thousand pounds in money, and my diamonds that my late revered saint and sovereign, King James, presented me with, to my Lord Viscount Castlewood. To my Frank, says Lady Castlewood, I was in hopes to Viscount Castlewood, my dear, Viscount Castlewood, and Baron Esmond of Shandon in the Kingdom of Ireland, Earl and Marquis of Esmond, under patent of His Majesty King James II, conferred upon my husband the late Marquis, for I am Marchioness of Esmond before God and man. And have you left poor Harry nothing, dear Marchioness, asked Lady Castlewood. She had told me the story completely since, with her quiet archway, the most charming any woman ever had, and I set down the narrative here at length, so as to have done with it. And have you left poor Harry nothing, asked my dear lady, for you know Henry, she says with her sweet smile, I used always to pity Esau, and I think I am on his side, though Papa tried very hard to convince me the other way. Poor Harry, says the old lady, so you want something left to poor Harry, he, he, reach me the drops, cousin, well then my dear, since you want poor Harry to have a fortune, you must understand that ever since the year sixteen ninety one, a week after the battle of the Boyne, where the Prince of Orens defeated his royal sovereign and father, for which crime he is now suffering in flames, oh, oh, Henry Esmond have been Marquis of Esmond and Earl of Castlewood in the United Kingdom, and Baron and Biscount Castlewood of Shandon in Ireland, and a Baronette, and his eldest son will be by courtesy, styled Earl of Castlewood, he, he, what do you think of that, my dear, gracious mercy, how long have you known this, cries the other lady, thinking perhaps that the old Marchioness was wandering in her wits. My husband, before he was converted, was a wicked wretch, the sick sinner continued. When he was in the low countries, he seduced a weaver's daughter and added to his wickedness by marrying her, and then he came to this country and married me, a poor girl, a poor innocent young thing, I say, though she was past forty you know, Harry, when she married, and as for being innocent, well, she went on, I knew nothing of my Lord's wickedness for three years after our marriage, and after the burial of our poor little boy, I had done it over again, my dear. I had myself married by Father Holt in Castlewood Chapel, as soon as ever I heard the creature was dead, and having a great illness then, arising from another sad disappointment I had, the priest came and told me that my Lord had a son before our marriage, and that the child was at nurse in England, and I consented to let the brat be brought home, and a queer little melancholy child it was when it came. Our intention was to make a priest of him, and he was bred for this until you perverted him from it, you wicked woman, and I had again hopes of giving in air to my Lord when he was called away upon the king's business, and died fighting gloriously at the boine water. Should I be disappointed, I owed your husband no love, my dear, for he had jilted me in the most scandalous way, and I thought there would be time to declare the little weaver's son for the true heir, but I was carried off to prison where your husband was so kind to me, urging all his friends to obtain my release, and using all his credit in my favor that I relented towards him, especially as my director counseled 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 discount, 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 was 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 castle would wouldn't make for that cause, my dear. As for Colonel Esmond, he knew the truth already, and then Harry, my mistress said, she told me of what had happened at my dear husband's deathbed. 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 discounted Castlewood so long as his cousin doth not claim the rank. This was the substance of the Dowager's revelation. Dean Atterbury had knowledge of it, Lady Castlewood said, and Esmond very well knows how, that divine being the clergyman for whom the late Lord had sent on his deathbed, 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 read to Colonel Esmond rather, that the matter should be submitted to his decision, by which alone the rest of the family were bound to abide. And can my dearest lady doubt what that will be, says the Colonel? It rests with you, Harry, as the head of our house. It was settled twelve years since by my dear Lord's bedside, says Colonel Esmond. The children must know nothing of this. Frank and his heirs after him must bear our name. It is his rightfully. I have not even a proof of that marriage of my father and mother, though my poor Lord on his deathbed 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 Biscount and set me up. I am the head of the house, dear lady, but Frank is Biscount of Castlewood still. And rather than disturb him, I would turn monk or disappear in America. As he spoke so to his dearest mistress, for whom he would have been willing to give up his life, or to make any sacrifice any day, the fond creature flung herself down on her knees before him, and kissed both his hands in an outbreak of passionate love and gratitude, such as could not but melt his heart, and make him feel very proud and thankful that God had given him the power to show his love for her and to prove it by some little sacrifice on his own part. To be able to bestow benefits or happiness on those one loves is sure the greatest blessing conferred upon a man. And what wealth or name or gratification of ambition or vanity could compare with the pleasure Esmond now had of being able to confer some kindness upon his best and dearest friends. Dearest saints, as he, pure a soul that has had so much to suffer, that has blessed the poor and lonely orphan with such a treasure of love, it is for me to kneel, not for you, it is for me to be thankful that I can make you happy. Have my life any other aim? Blessed be God that I can serve you. What pleasure think you could all the world give me compared to that? Don't raise me, she said, in a wild way to Esmond who would have lifted her. Let me kneel, let me kneel, and worship you, before such a partial judge as Esmond's dear mistress owned herself to be. Any cause which he might plead was sure to be given in his favor. And accordingly he found little difficulty in reconciling her to the news whereof he was bearer of her son's marriage to a foreign lady. Papist, though she was, Lady Castlewood never could be brought to think so ill of that religion as other people in England thought of it. She held that ours was undoubtedly a branch of the Catholic Church, but that the Roman was one of the main stems on which, no doubt, many errors had been grafted. She was, for a woman extraordinarily well versed in this controversy, having acted as a girl, as secretary to her father, the late Dean, and written many of his sermons under his dictation. And a 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 Hezman thought, who had cognizance of it before it went, in which the only hint of reproof was a gentle remonstrance that her son had not written to herself to ask a fond mother's blessing for that step which he was about taking. Castlewood knew very well, so she wrote to her son, that she never denied him anything in her power to give, much less would she think of opposing a marriage that was to make his happiness, as she trusted, and keep him out of wild courses, which had alarmed her a good deal. And she besought him to come quickly to England to settle down in his family house of Castlewood. It is his family house, says she, to Colonel Esmond, though only his house by your forbearance, and to receive the account of her stewardship during his ten years' minority. By care and frugality she had got the estate into a better condition than ever it had been since the parliamentary wars, and my Lord was now master of a pretty small income, not encumbered of debts as it had been during his father's ruinous time. But in saving my son's fortunes, says she, I fear I have lost a great part of my hold on him, and indeed this was the case, her ladyship's daughter complaining that their mother did all for Frank, and nothing for her. And Frank himself being dissatisfied at the narrow simple way of his mother's living at Walcott, 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. It was this mistake in his early training, very likely, that set him so eager upon pleasure when he had it in his power. Nor is he the first lad that has been spoiled by the over-careful fondness of women. No training is so useful for children, great or small, as the company of their betters in rank or natural parts, in whose society they lose the overweening sense of their own importance, which stay at home people very commonly learn. But as a prodigal that's sending in a schedule of his debts to his friends never puts all down, and you may be sure the road keeps back some immense swinging bill that he doesn't dare to own, so the poor Frank had a very heavy piece of news to break to his mother, and which he hadn't the courage to introduce into his first confession. Some misgivings Esmond might have upon receiving Frank's letter, and knowing into what hands the boy had fallen. But whatever these misgivings were he kept them to himself, not caring to trouble his mistress with any fears that might be groundless. However the next male, 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 Beatrice, and the writer of this memoir, and which was pronounced to be vulgar by the maid of honor, and felt to be so by the other two, there came a private letter for Colonel Esmond from poor Frank with another dismal commission for the Colonel to execute at his best opportunity, and this was to announce that Frank had seen fit by the exhortation of Mr. Holt, the influence of his flotilda, and the blessing of heaven and the saints, says my lord demurely, to change his religion and be received into the bosom of that church of which his sovereign, many of his family, and the greater part of the civilized world, were members. And his lordship added a postscript of which Esmond knew the inspiring genius very well, for it had the genuine twang of the seminary, and was quite unlike poor Frank's ordinary style of writing and thinking, in which he reminded Colonel Esmond that he too was by birth of that church, and that his mother and sister should have his lordship's prayers to the saints, and inestimable benefit truly, for their conversion. If Esmond had wanted to keep this secret, he could not. For a day or two after receiving this letter, a notice from Bruxelles appeared in the post-boy and other prints, announcing that a young Irish lord, the discount Castlewood, just come to his majority, and who had served the last campaigns with great credit, as an aide-dicombe to his grace the Duke of Marlborough, had declared for the Pope's religion at Bruxelles, and had walked in a procession barefoot with a wax taper in his hand. The notorious Mr. Holt, who had been employed as a Jacobite agent during the last reign, and many times pardoned by King William, had been, the post-boy said, the agent of this conversion. The Lady Castlewood was as much cast down by this news as Miss Beatrix was indignant at it. So, said she, Castlewood is no longer a home for us, mother. France's foreign wife will bring her confessor, and there will be frogs for dinner, and all treasures in 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 toucher was not a fit guide for him. Oh, those Parsons, I hate them all, says Miss Beatrix, clapping her hands together. Yes, whether they were casks 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 fake ears. 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 majesties here, and to coax and weedle Mrs. Masham. They say the Elector of Hannibal has a dozen of mistresses in his court at Heron House, 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 weedle them. All those priests and their grave heirs, 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 them. And I would, only the dress is not becoming, and I'd much too pretty a figure to hide it. Haven't I, cousin? And here she glanced at her person and the looking-glass, which told her rightly that a more beautiful shape and face never were seen. I made that onslaught on the priest, says Ms. Beatrix afterwards, in order to divert my poor dear mother's anguish about Frank. Frank is as vain as a girl, cousin. Talk of us girls being vain. What are we to you? It was easy to see that the first woman who chose would make a fool of him, or the first robe. I count a priest and a woman all the same. We are always cabaling. We are not answerable for the fibs we tell. We are always cajoling and coaxing or threatening. And we are always making mischief, Colonel Esmond. Mark my word for that. Who know the world, sir, and have to make my way in it. I see as well as possible how Frank's marriage has 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 spinnit. When my lord comes to say he is going on the campaign, the lovely Clotilda bursts into tears and faints. So he catches her in his arms. No, sir, keep your distance, cousin, if you please. She cries on his shoulder and he says, oh my divine, my adored, my beloved Clotilda, are you sorry to part with me? Oh, my Francisco says she, oh my lord, and at this very instant, mama, and a couple of young brothers with mustaches 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 Tasselwood three months after she has arrived there. The old Count and Countess and the young Countess and all the little Countesses, her sisters, Counts, every one of these wretches says he is a Count. Giscard that stabbed Mr. Harvey said he was a Count, and I believe it was a barber, all Frenchmen are barbers, fiddle-dee. Don't contradict me or else dancing masters or else preach. And so she rattled on. Was it taught you to dance, cousin Beatrix, says the Colonel? She laughed out the air of 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 a very serious way. The madcap girl ran up to her mother, put her arms around her waist, kissed her, tried to make her dance, and said, don't be silly, you kind little mama, and cry about Frank turning papers. What a figure he must be with a white sheet and a candle walking in procession barefoot. And she kicked off her little slippers, the wonderfulest little shoes with wonderful tall red heels. Esmond pounced upon one as it fell close beside him, and she put on the drollest little move 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 side of this fair creature always inspired him. Never had he seen any woman so arch, so brilliant, and so beautiful. Having finished her march, she put out her foot for her slipper, the colonel knelt down. If you will be poked, I will turn papers, says he, and her holiness gave him gracious leave to kiss the little stocking foot before he put the slipper on. Mama's feet began to pad on the floor during this operation, and Beatrix, whose bright eyes nothing escaped, saw that little mark of impatience. She ran up and embraced her mother with her usual cry of, oh, you silly little mama, your feet are quite as pretty as mine, said she. They are, cousin, though she hides them, but the shoemaker will tell you that he makes for both off the same last. You are taller than I am, dearest, as her mother, blushing over her whole sweet face. And it is your hand, my dear, and not your foot he wants you to give him. And she said it with a hysteric laugh that had more tears than laughter in it, laying her head on her daughter's fair shoulder and hiding it there. They made a very pretty picture together and looked like a pair of sisters, the sweet simple matron, seeming younger than her years, and her daughter, if not older, yet somehow, from a commanding manner and grace which she possessed above most women, her mother's superior and protectress. But, oh, Christ, my mistress, recovering herself after this scene and returning to her usual satone, it is a shame that we should laugh and be making merry on a day when we ought to be down on our knees and asking pardon. Asking pardon for what, says saucy Miss Beatrix, because Frank takes it into his head to fast on Fridays and worship Him, he judes. You know if you had been born a Papist mother, a Papist you would have remained to the end of your days. It is the religion of the king and some of the best quality. For my part I'm no enemy to it and think Queen Bess was not a penny better than Queen Mary. Hush, Beatrix, do not jest with sacred things and remember of what parentage you come, cries my lady. Beatrix was ordering her ribbons and adjusting her tucker and performing a dozen provokingly pretty ceremonies before the glass. The girl was no hypocrite at least. She never at that time could be brought to think but of the world and her beauty and seem to have no more sense of devotion than some people have of music that cannot distinguish one air from another. Esmond saw this fault in her as he saw many others. A bad wife would Beatrix Esmond make, he thought, for any man under the degree of Prince, she was born to shine in great assemblies and to adorn palaces and to command everywhere, to conduct an intrigue of politics or to glitter in a queen's train, went to sit at a homely table and mend the stockings of a poor man's children. That was no fitting duty for her or at least one that she wouldn't have broke her heart in trying to do. She was a princess though she had scarce a shilling to her fortune and one of her subjects, the most abject and devoted wretch, sure, that ever dribbled at a woman's knees was this unlucky gentleman who bound his good sense and reason and independence hand and foot and submitted them to her. And who does not know how ruthlessly women will tyrannize when they are led 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. Desire that I'm in love with my mistress, not my old grandmother that counsels me. Desire 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 is all my life to me. A Desmond possessed the great mogul's crown and all his diamonds or all the duke of Marlboro's money or all the ingots sunk at Bego, 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 tranquility cabaling for a blue ribbon. So is a Dutch merchant a fool that has been known to pay ten thousand crowns for a tulip. There's some particular prize we all of us value and that every man of spirit will venture his life for. With this it may be to achieve a great reputation for learning, with that to be a man of fashion and the admiration of the town, with another to consummate a great work of art or poetry and go to immortality that way. And with another for a certain time of his life the sole object and aim is a woman. Whilst Esmond was under the domination of this passion he remembers many a talk he had with his intimates who used to rally our night 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 friend Satire. Granted I am a fool, says he, and no better than you, but you are no better than I. You have your folly you labor for. Give me the charity of mine. What flatteries do you Mr. St. John stoop to whisper in the ears of a queen's favorite? What nights of labor doth not the laziest man in the world endure forgoing his bottle and his boon companions, forgoing Laos, in whose laps he would like to be awning, that he may prepare a speech full of lies to cajole 300 stupid country gentlemen in the house of commons and get the hiccuping cheers of the October club? What days will you spend in your jolting chariot? Mr. Esmond often rode to Windsor and especially of later days with the secretary. What hours will you pass on your gouty feet and how humbly will you kneel down to present a dispatch? You, the proudest man in the world, that has not knelt to God since you were a boy and in that posture whisper, flatter, adore, almost a stupid woman that's often boozy with too much meat and drink when Mr. Secretary goes for his audience? If my pursuit is vanity, sure yours is too. And then the secretary would fly out in such a rich flow of eloquence as this pen cannot pretend to recall, advocating his scheme of ambition showing the great good he would do for his country when he was the undisputed chief of it, backing his opinion with a score of Pat's sentences from Greek and Roman authorities of which kind of learning he made rather an ostentatious display, and scornfully daunting the very arts and meannesses by which fools were to be made to follow him, opponents to be bribed or silenced, doubters converted, and enemies overawed. I am Diogenes, says husband laughing, that is taken up for a ride in Alexander's chariot. I have no desire to vanquish Darius or to tame Bucephalus. I do not want what you want. A great name or a high place to have them would bring me no pleasure, but my moderation is taste, not virtue, and I know that what I do want is in vain as that which you long after. Do not grudge me, my vanity, if I allow yours, or rather let us laugh at both indifferently and at ourselves and at each other. If your charmer holds out, says Saint John, at this rate she may keep you twenty years beseiging her and surrender by the time you are seventy, and she is old enough to be a grandmother. I do not say the pursuit of a particular woman is not as pleasant a pastime as any other kind of hunting, he added, only for my part I find the game won't run long enough. They knock under too soon. That's the fault I find with them. The game which you pursue is in the habit of being caught and used to being pulled down, says Mr. Esmond. But Dolcinea del Toboso is a peerless ass, says the other. Well, honest Harry, go and attack windmills. Perhaps thou art not more mad than other people, Saint John added, with a sigh. End of Book 3, Chapter 2, Recording by Ralph Snelson. The History of Henry Esmond Esquire by William Makepeace Thackery Book 3, Chapter 3. 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 melody, 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 mistresses, Lady Castlewood's, in whose tender breast he reposed all his dreary confessions and who never tired of hearing him and pleading for him. Sometimes Esmond would think there was hope. Then again he would be plagued with spare at some impertinence or coquetry of his mistress. For days there would be like brother and sister or the dearest friends, she, simple, fond and charming, he, happy beyond measure, at her good behaviour. But this would all vanish on a sudden, either he would be too pressing and hint his love, when she would rebuff him instantly and give his vanity a box on the ear, or he would be jealous, and with perfect good reason of some new admirer that had sprung up or some rich young gentleman newly arrived in the town that this incorrigible flirt would set her nets and baits to draw in. If Esmond remonstrated, the little rebel would say, Who are you? I shall go my own way, Sira, 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? Fish, you are a hundred years older, you are an old, old grave heirs, 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 lend-lay her bill. Do you think I am going to live in a lodging and turn the mutton at a string whilst your honour nurses the baby? Fiddlestick! And why did you not get this nonsense knocked out of your head when you were in the wars? You will come back more dismal and dreary than ever. You and Mama are fit for each other. You might be Darby and Joan and play cribbage to the end of your lives. At least to your own wildliness, my poor tricks, said her mother. Wildliness! Oh, my pretty lady, do you think that I am a child in the nursery and to be frightened by bogey? Wildliness, to be sure, and pray, Madame, 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 shall have run away from you, where shall I go? Shall I go and be head nurse? Do my popish sister-in-law take the children their physics and whip them and put them to bed when they are naughty? Shall I be Castlewood's upper servant and marry Tom Tusher? Now, see, I have been long enough Frank's humble servant. Why am I not a man? I have ten times his brains, and had I won the— well, don't let your relationship be frightened. Had I won a sword and periwig instead of this mantle and commode to which nature has condemned me, though, to the pretty staff, too? Cousin Esmond, you will go to the exchange to-morrow and get the exact counterpart of this riven sir, do you hear? I would have made our name talked about. So would Grave Heirs here have made something out of our name if he had represented it. My Lord Grave Heirs would have done very well. Yes, you have a very pretty way and would have made a very decent grave speaker. And here she began to imitate Esmond's way of carrying himself and speaking to his face, and so ludicrously that his mistress burst out of laughing, and even he himself could see there was some likeness in the fantastical, malicious caricature. Yes, says she. I solemnly bow, own, and confess that I want a good husband. Where's the harm of one? My face is my fortune. Who'll come? Bye, bye, bye. 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 night. I have a pretty taste for dress, diamonds, gambling, and old China. I love sugar plums, melines, lace. That, you brought me, cousin, is very pretty. The opera and everything that is useless and costly. I have got a monkey and a little black boy. Pompey, sir, go and give a dish of chocolate to Colonel Gravey's and a parrot and a spaniel. And I must have a husband. Cupid, do you hear? Is, Mrs., says Pompey. A little grinning negro, Lord Peterborough, gave her with a bird of paradise in his turban and a collar with his mistress's name on it. Is, Mrs., says Beatrix, imitating the child. And if husband not come, Pompey must go fetch one. And Pompey went away grinning with his chocolate tray. As Miss Beatrix ran up to her mother and ended her sally of mischief in her common way with a kiss. No wonder that upon paying such a penalty her fond judge pardoned her. When Mr. Esmond came home, his health was still shattered, and he took a lodging near to his mistress's at Kensington. Glad enough to be served by them and to see them day after day. He was unable to see a little company and of the sort he liked best. Mr. Steele and Mr. Addison both did him the honor to visit him and drank many a class of good claret at his lodging, whilst their entertainer, through his wound, was kept a diet, drink, and gruel. These gentlemen were wigs 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 lodgings, which was prettily situated at Night's Bridge between London, Kensington, and looking over the gardens, that the Lieutenant General was a noble and gallant soldier, and even that he had been hardly used in the Wynondale affair. He took his revenge and talk, that must be confessed, and if Mr. Addison had had a mind to write a poem about Wynondale, he might have heard from the Commander's own lips the story a hundred times over. Mr. Esmond forced to be quiet, but took himself to literature for a relaxation, and composed his comedy, whereof the prompter's copy lieth in my walnut esquitoire sealed up and docketed the faithful fool a comedy, as it was performed by her Majesty's servants. Tos 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 good strokes. He was bringing out his own play of Cato at the time, the blaze of which quite extinguished Esmond's farthing candle, and his name was never put to the piece, which was printed as by a person of quality. Only nine copies were sold, though Mr. Dennis, the great critic, praised it, and said, Tos a work of great merit. And Colonel Esmond had the whole impression burned one day in a rage by Jack Lockwood, his man. All this comedy was full of bitter, satiric strokes against a certain young lady. The plot of the piece was quite a new one. A young woman was represented with a great number of suitors, selecting a pert frible of a pier in place of the hero, but ill-acted, I think, by Mr. Wilkes, the faithful fool, who persisted in admiring her. In the fifth act, Terra Minter was made to discover the merits of Eugenio, the FF, and to feel a partiality for him too late, for he announced that he had bestowed his hand and estate upon Rosaria the 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 place since King James II's time, thought the piece, though not brilliant, had a very pretty moral. Mr. Esmond dabbled in letters and wrote a deal of prose and verse at this time of leisure. When displeased with the conduct of Miss Beatrix, he would compose a satire in which he relieved his mind. When smarting under the faithfulness of women, he dashed off a copy of verses in which he held the whole sex up to scorn. One day, in one of these moods, he made a little joke, in which, swearing him to secrecy, he got his friend Dick Steele to help him, and composing a paper, he had it printed exactly like Steele's paper and by his printer, and laid on his mistress's breakfast table the following. Spectator No. 341 Tuesday, April 1, 1712 Mutato Nomeni Deite Fabulo Naurata, Horace Thyself, the moral of the fabled sea, Creech Jocasta is known as a woman of learning and fashion, and as one of the most amiable persons of this court and country. She is at home two mornings of the week, and all the wits and a few of the beauties of London flock to her assemblies. When she goes abroad to Tunbridge or the Bath, a retinue of Adoras rides the journey with her, and besides the London bow 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, it is one smart writer's work to keep her visiting book. A strong footman is engaged to carry it, and it would require a much stronger head even than Jocasta's own to remember the names of all her dear friends. Either at Epson Wells or at Tunbridge, for of this important matter Jocasta cannot be certain, it was her ladyship's fortune to become acquainted with the 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 and 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 to her standard that tis no wonder her attention is distracted amongst them. And so, though this gentleman made a considerable impression upon her, and touched her heart for at least three and twenty minutes, it must be owned that she has forgotten his name. He is a dark man and may be eight and twenty years old. His dress is sober, though of rich materials. He has a mole on his forehead over his left eye, has a blue ribbon to his cane and sword, and wears his own hair. Jocasta was much flattered by beholding her admirer, for that everybody admires who sees her is a point which she never can for a moment doubt. In the next pew to her at St. James's Church last Sunday, and the manner in which he appeared to go to sleep during the sermon, though from under his fringed eyelids it was evident he was casting glances of respectful rapture towards Jocasta. Deeply moved and interested her. On coming out of church he found his way to her chair, and made her an elegant bow as she stepped into it. She saw him court afterwards where he carried himself with the most distinguished air, though none of her acquaintances knew his name. And the next night he was at the play where her ladyship was pleased to acknowledge him from the side box. During the whole of the comedy she racked her brains as to remember his name that she did not hear a word of peace, 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 in spring garden. He appeared on Tuesday in a rich suit showing a very fine taste both in the tailor and wearer, and though none of us were gathered round the charming Jocasta, fellows who pretended to know every face upon the town, not one could tell the gentleman's name in reply to Jocasta's eager inquiries, flung to the right and left of her as he advanced up the room with a bow that would become a duke. Jocasta acknowledged this salute with one of those smiles and curtsies of which that lady hath the secret. She curtsies with a languishing air as if to say, You are come at last, I have been pining for you. And then she finishes her victim with a killing look which declares, Oh, Philander, I have no eyes but for you. Camilla hath as good a curtsy perhaps, and Thelestris much such another look, but the glance and the curtsy together belong to Jocasta of all the English beauties alone. Welcome to London, sir, says she. One can see you are from the country by your looks. She would have said Epsom or Tunbridge had she remembered rightly at which place she had met the stranger, but alas she had forgotten. The gentleman said he had been in town but three days, and one of his reasons for coming hither was to have the honor of paying his court to Jocasta. She said the waters had agreed with her but indifferently. The waters were for the sick, the gentleman said. The young and beautiful came but to make them sparkle, and as the clergyman read the surface on Sunday, he added, Your ladyship reminded me of the angel that visited the pool. A murmur of approbation saluted this sally. Manilio, who is a wit when he is not at cards, was in such a rage that he revoked when he heard it. Jocasta was an angel visiting the waters, but at which of the Bethesdas? She was puzzled more and more, and as her way always is, looked the more innocent and simple the more artful her intentions were. We were discoursing, says she, about spelling of names and words when you came. Why should we say Gould, and write Gold, and call China Chenye, and Cavendish Candish, and Chimanderly Chumlee, if we call Pulteney, Pulteney, why shouldn't we call Poultry Poultry, and such an enchantress as your ladyship says he, is mistress of all sorts of spells. But this was Dr. Swift's pun, and we all knew it. And, and how do you spell your name, says she, coming to the point at length, for this sprightly conversation had lasted much longer than his hear set down, and been carried on through at least three dishes of tea. Oh, madam, says he, I spell my name with the why, and laying down his dish, my gentleman made another elegant bow, and was gone in a moment. Jocasta have 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. Bertie, Mr. Smith, Mr. Pike, Mr. Tyler, who may be Mr. Bertie, Mr. Smith, Mr. Pike, Mr. Tyler, for what we know. She hath turned away, the clock of her visiting book, a poor fellow with a great family of children. Read me this riddle, good Mr. Shortface, and oblige your admirer, Oedipus, the trumpet coffee-house Whitehall. Mr. Spectator, I am a gentleman but little acquainted with the town, though I have had a university education and past some years serving my country abroad, where my name is better known than in the coffee-houses and St. James's. Two years since my uncle died, leaving me a pretty estate in the county of Kent, and being a ton bridgewells last summer after my morning was over and on the lookout, if truth must be told, for some young lady who would share with me the solitude of my great Kentish home, 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. Everyone knows Sakharisa's beauty, and I think, Mr. Spectator, no one better than herself. My table-book informs me that I danced no less than seven and twenty sets with her at the assembly. I treated her to the fiddles twice. I was admitted on several days to her lodging, and received by her with a great deal of distinction, and for a time was entirely her slave. It was only when I found, from common talk of the company at the Wells, and from narrowly watching one who I once thought of asking the most sacred question a man can put to a woman, that I became aware how unfit she was to be a country gentleman's wife, and that this fair creature was but a heartless, worldly jilt, playing with affections that she never meant to return, and indeed incapable of returning them. Tis admiration such women want, not love that touches them, and I can conceive, in her old age, no more wretched creature than this lady will be, when her beauty hath deserted her, when her admirers have left her, and she hath neither friendship nor religion to console her. Business calling me to London, I went to St. James's Church last Sunday, and there opposite me sat my beauty of the Wells. Her behavior during the whole service was so pert, languishing, and absurd. She flirted her fan, and ogled and eyed me in a manner so indecent, that I was obliged to shut my eyes, so as actually not to see her, and whenever I opened them beheld hers, and very bright they are, still staring at me. I fell in with her afterwards at court, and at the playhouse, and here nothing would satisfy her, but she must elbow through the crowd, and speak to me, and invite me to the assembly, which she holds at her house, not very far from Charing Cross. Having made her a promise to attend, of course I kept my promise, and found the young widow in the midst of a half-dozen of card-tables, and a crowd of wits and admirers. I made the best bow I could, and advanced towards her, and saw by a peculiar puzzled look in her face, though she tried to hide her perplexity, that she had forgotten even my name. Her talk, artful as it was, convinced me that I had guessed a right. 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 illusion came from the second lesson last Sunday, which we both had heard, and I was pressed to answer her. Then she came to the question, which I knew was awaiting me, and asked how I spelt my name. Madam, says I, turning on my heel, I spell it with a why. And so I left her, wondering at the light-heartedness of the town people, who forget and make friends so easily, and resolve to look elsewhere for a partner for your constant reader, Simon Wildoats. You know my real name, Mr. Spectator, in which there is no such a letter as Upsilon. But if the lady, whom I have called Saccharisa, wonders that I appear no more at the tea-tables, she is hereby respectfully informed the reason why. The above is a parable, whereof the writer will now expound the meaning. Jocasta was no other than Miss Esmond, made 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 Simon in the above fable, made the answer simply as above, and we all laughed to think how little mistress Jocasta Beatrix had profited by her artifice and precautions. As for Simon, he was intended to represent yours and her very humble servant, the writer of the epilogue and of this story, which we had printed on a spectator paper at Mr. Steele's office, exactly as those famous journals were printed and which was laid on the table at breakfast in place of the real newspaper. Mistress Jocasta, who had plenty of wit, could not live without her spectator to her tea, and this sham spectator was intended to convey to the young woman that she herself was a flirt, and that Simon was a gentleman of honor and resolution, seeing all her faults and determined to break the chains once and forever. For though enough hath been said about this love business already, enough at least to prove to the writer's heirs, what a silly fond fool their old grandfather was, who would like them to consider him as a very wise old gentleman. Yet not near all has been told concerning this matter, which if it were allowed to take in Esmond's journal the space it occupied in his time would weary his kinsmen and women of a hundred years' time beyond all endurance, and form such a diary of folly and drivelings, raptures and rage as no man of ordinary vanity would like to leave behind him. The truth is that whether she laughed at him or encouraged him, whether she smiled or was cold and turned her smiles on another, worldly and ambitious as he knew her to be, hard and careless as she seemed to grow with her court life, and a hundred admirers that came to her and left her, Esmond, do what he would, could never 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 cannonball or a greater danger in the campaign, as has happened to him more than once, the instant thought after the honor achieved or the danger avoided was, what will she say of it? Will this distinction or the idea of this peril elate her or touch her so as to be better inclined towards me? He could no more help this passionate fidelity of temper than he could help the eyes he saw with, one or the other of which 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, Cersei, from which the poor, deluded gentleman could not free himself, and for a much longer period than Ulysses, another middle-aged officer who had traveled 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 Simon 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 adorabd, and the poor infatuated wretch would be sure to come and hold day 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 would 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 want to allure and entertain them. Part of her coquetry may have come from her position about the court, where the beautiful maid of honour was the light about which a thousand bow came and fluttered, where she was sure to have a ring of admirers round her, crowding to listen to her repartees as much as to admire her beauty, and where she spoke and listened to much free talk, such as one never would have thought the lips or ears of Rachel Castlewood's daughter would have uttered or heard. When in waiting at Windsor or Hampton, the court ladies and gentlemen would be making riding parties together. Mrs. Beatrix, in a horseman's coat and hat, the foremost after the stag hounds and over the park fences a crowd of young fellows at her heels. If the English country ladies at this time were the most pure and modest of any ladies in the world, the English town and court ladies permitted themselves words and behaviour that were neither modest nor pure, and claimed, some of them, of freedom which those who loved that sex most would never wish to grant them. The gentlemen of my family that follow after me, for I don't encourage the ladies to pursue any such studies, may read in the works of Mr. Congreve and Dr. Swift and others what was the conversation and what the habits of our time. The most beautiful woman in England in 1712, when Esmond returned to this country, a lady of high birth, and though of no fortune to be sure, with a thousand fascinations of wit and manners, Beatrix Esmond was now six and twenty years old, and Beatrix Esmond still. Of her hundred adorers she had not chosen one for a husband, and those who had asked had been jilted by her, and more still had left her. A succession of near ten years crops of beauties had come up since her time, and had been reaped by proper husband men, 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 Second's ladies and ask her whether her portrait was not in the Hampton Court Gallery. But still she reigned, at least in one man's opinion, superior over all the little misses that were the toasts of the young lads, and in Esmond's eyes was ever perfectly lovely and young. Who knows how many were nearly made happy by possessing her, or rather how many were fortunate in escaping this siren. It is 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 with thrice own need to one person, may 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 anti-chambers, and at court tables? Mrs. Beatrix asserted her own authority so resolutely that her mother quickly gave in. The maid of honour had had her own equipage, went from home and came back at her own will. Her mother was alike powerless to resist her, or lead her, or to command or to persuade her. She had been engaged once, twice, thrice, to be married, Esmond believed. When he could at home, it hath been said, she was promised to my Lord Ashburnam. And now, on his return, he hold his Lordship was just married to Lady Mary Butler, the Duke of Ormond's daughter, and his fine houses and twelve thousand a year of fortune, for which Miss Beatrix had rather coveted him, was out of her power. To her, Esmond could say nothing in regard to the breaking of this match, and asking his mistress about it, all Lady Castlewood answered was, Do not speak to me about it, Harry. I cannot tell you how or why they parted, and I fear to inquire. I have told you before, that with all her kindness and wit and generosity, and that sort of splendour of nature she has, I can say but little good of for Beatrix, and look with dread at the merit 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 Ashburnam was a most excellent young man, gentle and yet manly, of very good parts, so they told me, and as my little conversation would enable me to judge, and a kind temper, kind and enduring, I'm sure he must have been, from all that he had to endure. But he quitted her at last, from some crowning piece of caprice or tyranny of hers, and now he has married a young woman that will make him a thousand times happier than my poor girl ever could. The rupture, whatever its cause was, I heard the scandal, but indeed she'll 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 Ashburnam, who had his reasons for wishing to avoid her, slunk away, quite shame-faced, 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 William's time, and a noble speaker in the Scots Parliament, where he had led the party that was against the Union, and though now five or six and forty years of age, a gentleman so high in stature, accomplished in wit and favored in person, that he might pretend to the hand of any princess in Europe. Should you like the Duke for a cousin? says Mr. Secretary St. John, whispering to Colonel Esmond in French. It appears that the widower consoles himself. But to return to our little spectator paper, and the conversation which grew out of it, Miss Beatrix at first was quite bit, as the phrase of that day was, and did not smoke the authorship of the story. Indeed, Esmond had tried to imitate as well as he could, Mr. Steele's manner, as for the other author of the spectator, his pro-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 fished and shone over the paper, Colonel Esmond watching with no little interest her countenance as she read it. How stupid your friend, Mr. Steele, becomes, cries Miss Beatrix, epsom and tonbridge, would he never have done with epsom and tonbridge, and with bow at church, and your casters, and Linda Meirers. Why does he not call women Nellie and Betty, as their godfathers and godmothers did for them in their baptism? Beatrix, Beatrix, says her mother, speak gravely of grave things. Mama thinks the church catechism came from heaven, I believe, says Beatrix with a laugh, and was brought down by a bishop from a mountain. Oh, how I used to break my heart over it. Besides, I had a popish godmother, Mama. Why did you give me one? I gave you the queen's name, says her mother, blushing. And a very pretty name it is, said somebody else. Beatrix went on reading, Spell my name with a why. Why you wretch, says she, turning round to Colonel Esmond. You have been telling my story to Mr. Steele, or stop. You have written the paper yourself to turn me into ridicule, for shame, sir. Poor Mr. Esmond felt rather frightened and told the truth, which was, nevertheless, an entire falsehood. Upon my honor, says he, I have not even read the spectator up this morning. Nor had he, for that was not the spectator, but a sham newspaper put in its place. She went on reading. Her face rather flushed as she read. No, she says. I think you couldn't have written it. I think it must have been Mr. Steele when he was drunk and afraid of his horrid, vulgar wife. Whenever I see an enormous compliment to a woman and some outrageous panagiric about female virtue, I always feel sure that the captain and his better half have fallen out overnight, and that he has been brought home tipsy, or has been found out in Beatrix, cries the Lady Castlewood. Well, Mama, do not cry out before you are hurt. I am not going to say anything wrong. I won't give you any more annoyance than you can help. You pretty kind, Mama. Yes, and your little tricks is a naughty little tricks, and she leaves undone those things which she ought to have done, and does those things which she ought not to have done, and there's, well, now, I won't go on. Yes, I will, unless you kiss me. And with this the young Lady lays aside her paper and runs up to her mother and performs a variety of embraces with her ladyship, saying as plain as eyes could speak to Mr. Esmond. There, sir, would you not like to play the very same pleasant game? Indeed, Madam, I would, says he. Would what, asked Miss Beatrix? What you meant when you looked at me in that provoking way, answers Edmund. What a confessor cries Beatrix with a laugh. What is it Henry would like, my dear, says her mother, the kind soul, who was always thinking what we would like and how she could please us. The girl runs up to her. Oh, you silly kind Mama, she says, kissing her again. That's what Harry would like. And she broke out into a great joyful laugh, and Lady Castlewood blushed as bashful as a maid of sixteen. Look at her, Harry, whispers Beatrix, running up and speaking in her sweet low tones. Doesn't the blush become her? Isn't she pretty? She looks younger than I am, and I am sure she is a hundred million thousand times better. Esmond's kind mistress left the room, carrying her blushes away with her. If we girls at court could grow such roses as that, continues Beatrix with her laugh, what wouldn't we do to preserve him? We'd clip their stalks and put them in salt and water, but those flowers don't bloom at Hampton Court and Windsor Henry. She paused for a minute, and the smile fading away from her April face gave place to a menacing shower of tears. Oh, how good she is, Harry, Beatrix went on to say. Oh, what a saint she is, her goodness frightens me. I'm not fit to live with her. I should be better, I think, if she were not so perfect. She has had a great sorrow in her life and a great secret, and repented of it. It could not have been my father's death. She talks freely about that. Nor could she have loved him very much, though who knows what we women do love and why. What and why indeed, says Mr. Esmond. No one knows, Beatrix went on without noticing this interruption except by a look, what my mother's life is. She hath been at early prayer this morning. She passes hours in her closet. If you were to follow her thither, you would find her at prayers now. She tends the poor of the place, the horrid dirty poor. She sits through the curate sermons. Oh, those dreary sermons. And you see, unobotir. But good as they are, people like her are not fit to commune with us of the world. There is always, as it were, a third person present, even when I and my mother are alone. She can't be frank with me quite, who is always thinking of the next world and of her guardian angel, perhaps that's in company. Oh, Harry, I'm jealous of that guardian angel. Here broke out, Mr. Esmond. It's horrid, I know, but my mother's life is all for heaven and mine, all for earth. We can never be friends quite, and then she cares more for Frank's little finger than she does for me. I know she does, and she loved you, sir, a great deal too much, and I hate you for it. I would have had her all to myself, but she wouldn't. In my childhood it was my father she loved. Oh, how could she? I remember him kind and handsome, but so stupid, and not being able to speak after drinking wine. And then it was Frank, and now it is heaven and the clergyman. How I would have loved her from a child I used to be in a rage that she loved anybody but me. But she loved you all better, all I know she did. And now she talks of the blessed consolation of religion. Dear soul, she thinks she is happier for believing, as she must, that we are all of us wicked and miserable sinners, and this world is only a peter-terre for the good, where they stay for a night, as we do, coming from Wolcott at that great dreary, uncomfortable hounslaw inn in those horrid beds. Oh, do you remember those horrid beds, and the chariot comes and fetches them to heaven the next morning. Hush, Beatrix says Mr. Esmond. Hush, indeed! You are a hypocrite too, Henry, with your gray veres and your glum face. We are all hypocrites. Oh, dear me, we are all alone, alone, alone, says poor Beatrix, her fair breast heaving with a sigh. It was I that writ every line of that paper, my dear, says Mr. Esmond. You are not so worldly as you think yourself, Beatrix, and better than we believe you. The good we have in us we doubt of, and the happiness that's in our hand we throw away. You bend your ambition on a great marriage and establishment, and why? You'll tire of them when you win them, and be no happier with a coronet on your coach. Then, riding pillion with Lubin to market, says Beatrix. Thank you, Lubin. I'm a dismal shepherd to be sure, answers Esmond with a blush, and require a nymph that can tuck my bed clothes up and make me water-gruel. Well, Tom Lockwood can do that. He took me out of the fire upon his shoulders, and nursed me through my illness, as love will scarce ever do. Only good wages, and a hope of my clothes, and the contents of my portmanteau. How long was it that Jacob served an apprenticeship for Rachel? For Mama, says Beatrix, it is Mama your honour once, and that I should have the happiness of calling you papa? Esmond blushed again. I spoke of a Rachel that a shepherd courted five thousand years ago, when shepherds were longer lived than now. And my meaning was that since I saw you first after our separation, a child you were then, and I put on my best stockings to captivate you, I remember, sir. You have had my heart ever since then, such as it was, and such as you were. I cared for no other woman. What little reputation I have won, it was that you might be pleased with it, and indeed it is not much, and I think a hundred fools in the army have got and deserved quite as much. Was there something in the air that dismal old castle would, that made us all gloomy and dissatisfied and lonely under its ruined old roof? We were also even went together and united, as it seemed, following our separate schemes each as we sat round the table. Dear dreary old place, cries Beatrix, Mama had never had the heart to go back thither since we left it, when—never mind how many years ago—and she flung back her curls, and looked over her fair shoulder at the mirror superbly, as if she said, Time, I defy you. Yes, says Esmond, who had the art as she owned of divining many of her thoughts. You can afford to look in the glass still and only be pleased by the truth that tells you. As for me, do you know what my scheme is? I think of asking Frank to give me the Virginia State 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 were thinking of my bar sinister, and so am I. A man cannot get overwritten this country, unless indeed he wears it across a king's arms, when, to 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 shall send you a 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 roganup, I know not which, for the old world. I may make a place for myself in the new, which is not so full, and found a family there. When you are a mother yourself and a great lady, perhaps I shall send you over from the plantation some day a little barbarian that is half Esmond, half Mohawk, and you will be kind to him for its father's sake, who was, after all, your kinsman, and whom you loved a little. What folly you were talking, Harry, says Miss Beatrix, looking with her great eyes. It is sober earnest, says Esmond, and indeed the scheme had been dwelling a good deal in his mind for some time past, and especially since his return home, when he found how hopeless and even degrading to himself his passion was. No, says he then, I have tried half a dozen times now, I can bear being away from you well enough, but being with you is intolerable. Another low curtsy on Miss Beatrix's part. And I will go. I have enough to buy axes and guns for my men and beads and blankets for the savages, and I'll go and live amongst them. Mona, me, she says quite kindly in taking Esmond's hand with an air of great compassion. You can't think that in our position anything more than our present friendship is possible. You are our elder brother, as such we view you, pitying your misfortune, not rebuking you with it. Why, you are old enough and grave enough to be our father. I always thought you a hundred years old, Harry, with your solemn face and grave air. I feel as a sister to you, and can no more. Isn't that enough, sir? And she put her face quite close to his. Who knows with what intention. It's too much, says Esmond, turning away. I can't bear this life, and she'll leave it. I shall stay, I think, to see you married, and then freight a ship and call it the Beatrix, and bid you all. Here the servant, flinging the door open, announced his grace the Duke of Hamilton, and Esmond started back with something like an imprecation on his lips as the nobleman entered, looking splendid in his star and green ribboned. 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 hangdog look. Esmond's mistress was in the lower room as he passed downstairs. She often met him as he was coming away from Beatrix, and she beckoned him into the apartment. Has she told you, Harry? said Lady Castlewood. She has been very frank, very, says Esmond. But about what is going to happen? What is going to happen? says he, his heart beating. His grace the Duke of Hamilton has proposed to her, says my lady. He made his offer yesterday. They will marry as soon as his morning is over. And you have heard his grace is appointed ambassador to Paris. And the ambassadors goes with him. The Gentleman whom Beatrix had selected was, to be sure, 20 years older than the Colonel, with whom she quarreled 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 50 years old when Madame 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 favourite of Charles II, 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 aid to camp, and he was absent on this service when King Charles died. King James, continued my Lord's promotion, made him Master of the Wardrobe and Colonel of the Royal Regiment of Force, and his Lordship adhered firmly to King James, being of the small company that never quitted that unfortunate monarch till his departure out of England, and then it was in 1688, namely, that he made the friendship with Colonel Francis Esmond that had always been more or less maintained in the two families. The Earl professed a great admiration for King William always, but never could give him his allegiance, and was engaged in more than one of the plots in the late Great King's reign, which always ended in the plotter's discomforture, and generally in their pardon by the magnanimity of the King. Lord Arran was twice prisoner in the tower during this reign, undoubtedly saying when offered his release upon parole not to engage against King William, that he would not give his word, because he was sure he could not keep it. But nevertheless he was both times discharged without any trial, and the King bore this noble enemy so little malice that when his mother, the Duchess of Hamilton, of her own right, resigned her claim on her husband's death, the Earl was, by patent signed at Lou, 1690, created Duke of Hamilton, Marquis of Clydesdale, and Earl of Arran, with precedency from the original creation. His grace took the oaths in 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. It was said he withdrew his opposition all of a sudden, and in consequence of letters from the King at San Germain, who entreated him on his allegiance not to thwart the Queen his sister in this measure, and the Duke, being always bent upon affecting 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 Saint-Georges's descent from Dunkirk was projected, passing his time in England in his greatest state in Staffordshire. When the Whigs went out of office in 1710, the Queen began to show his grace the very greatest marks of her favour. He was created Duke of Brandon and Baron of Dutton in England, having the thistle already originally bestowed on him by King James II. His grace was now promoted to the honour of the garter, a distinction so great and illustrious that no subject had ever borne them hitherto together. When this objection was made to her Majesty, she was pleased to say, such a subject as the Duke of Hamilton has a preeminent claim to every marked distinction which a crowned head can confer. I will henceforth wear both orders myself. At the chapter held at Windsor in October 1712, the Duke and other knights, including Lord Treasurer, the new created Earl of Oxford and Mortimer, were installed, and a few days afterwards his grace was appointed Ambassador Extraordinary to Friends, and his equipartures, plate and liveries commanded of the most sumptuous kind not only for his Excellency the Ambassador, but for her Excellency the Ambassador Dress, who was to accompany him. Her arms were already quartered on the coach panels, and her brother was to hasten over on the appointed day to give her away. His lordship was a widower, having married in 1698 Elizabeth, daughter of Digby, Lord Girard, by which marriage great estates came into the Hamilton family, and out of those estates came in part that tragic quarrel which ended the Duke's career. From the loss of a tooth to that of a mistress there's no pang that is not bearable. The apprehension is much more cruel than the certainty, and we make our by our mind to the misfortune when tis irremediable, part with the tormentor and mumble our crust on Tother's side of the jaws. I think Colonel Esmond was relieved when a ducal coach in six came and whisked his charmer away out of his reach, and placed her in a higher seer. As you have seen the nymph in the opera machine go up to the clouds at the end of the peace, 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 the toss of supreme authority, and assumed a touch-me-not-air which all her friends very good-humoredly bowed to. In old army acquaintance of Colonel Esmond's honest Tom Trett, who had sold his company, married a wife, and turned merchant in the city, was dreadfully gloomy for a long time, though living in a fine house on the river, and carrying on a great trade to all appearance. At length Esmond saw his friend's name in the gazette as a bankrupt, and a week after this circumstance, my bankrupt walks into Mr. Esmond's lodging with a face perfectly radiant with good humor, and as jolly and careless as when they had sailed from Southampton ten years before for Vigo. This bankruptcy, says Tom, has been hanging over my head these three years. The thought hath prevented my sleeping, and I have looked poor Polly's head on Tother 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 college at Fulham, and her fortune secured to herself. I am afraid neither a bailiff nor a creditor, and for the last six nights have slept easy. So it was that when fortune shook her wings and left him, honest Tom cuddled himself up in his ragged virtue, and fell asleep. Esmond did not tell his friend how much his story applied to Esmond, too, but he laughed at it and used it, and having fairly struck his docket in this love transaction determined to put a cheerful face on his bankruptcy. Perhaps Beatrix was a little offended at his gaiety. Is this the way, sir, that you receive the announcement of your misfortune, says she? And do you come smiling before me, as if you were glad to be rid of me? Esmond would not be put off in his good humor, but told to the story of Tom Trett in his bankruptcy. I have been hankering after the grapes on the wall, says he, and lost my temper because they were beyond my reach. Was there any wonder? They are gone now, and another has them. A taller man than your humble servant has won them. And Colonel made his cousin a low bow. A taller man, cousin Esmond, says she, a man of spirit would have scaled the wall, sir, and seized them. A man of courage would have fought for him, not gaped for him. A duke has bought to gap and they drop into his mouth, says Esmond, with another low bow. Yes, sir, says she, a duke is a taller man than you. And why should I not be grateful to one such as his grace, who gives me his heart and his great name? It is a great gift he honours me with. I know it is a bargain between us, and I accept it, and will do my utmost to perform my part of it. It is no question of sighing in the landwarden, between a nobleman of his grace's age, and a girl who has 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 cup and honour? 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 one by gallantry, and not by sighs and rueful faces. All the time you are worshipping and singing hymns to me, I know very well I am no goddess, and grow weary of the incense. So would you have been weary of the goddess too, when she was called Mrs. Esmond, and got out of humour because she had not pinned money enough, and was forced to go about in an old gown. Hey, cousin, a goddess in a mob cap that has to make her husband's gruel ceases to be divine, I am sure of it. I should have been sultky 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, you never forgive, I think. Had you been a great man, you might have been good-humoured, but being nobody, sir, you are too great a man for me. And I am afraid of you, cousin, there, and I won't worship you, and you'll never be happy except with a woman who will. Why, after I belonged to you, and after one of my tantrums, you would have put the pillow over my head some night and smothered me, as the black man does the woman in the play that you're so fond of. What's the creature's name? Desdemona. You would, you little black-eyed or fellow. I think I should, Beatrix, says the Colonel, and I want no such ending. I intend to live to be a hundred, and to go to ten thousand routes and walls, and to play cards every night of my life till the year 1800. 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 in six or a coach in eight. And I like diamonds and a new gown every week, and people to say, That's the duchess, how well her grace looks. Make way for Madame d'Ambassadrice d'Angleterre. Call her excellence, these people. That's what I like. And as for you, you want a woman to bring your slippers and cap and to sit at your feet and cry, Oh, caro, oh, bravo, whilst you read your Shakespeare's and Milton's and stuff. Mama would have been the wife for you had you been a little older, though you look ten years older than she does. You do, you glum-faced, blue-bearded little old man. You might have sat like Darby and Joan and flattered each other and billed and cooed like a pair of old pigeons on a perch. I want my wings and to use them, sir. And she spread out her beautiful arms, as if she indeed could fly off like the pretty gauri whom the man in the story was enamored of. And what will your Peter Wilkins say to your flight, says Asmond, who never admired this fair creature more than when she rebelled and laughed at him? A duchess knows her place, says she with a laugh. Why, I have a son already made for me, and thirty years old, my Lord Aaron, 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 Aaron, and so shall all his graces, scuts, vassals, and followers in the highlands. I invent on it, and when I take a thing in my head, it is 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 Asmond, for come back the king will and shall, and I'll bring him back from their side if he comes under my hoop. I hope the world will make you happy, Beatrix, says Asmond, with a sigh. You will be Beatrix till you are my lady duchess, will you not? I shall then make your grace my very lowest bow. None of these sighs in this satire, cousin, she says, I take his graces great bounty, thankfully, yes, thankfully, and will wear his honors becomingly. I do not say he hath touched my heart. But he hath my gratitude, obedience, admiration. I have told him that, and no more, and with that his noble heart is content. I have told him all, even the story of that poor creature that I was engaged to, and that I could not love, and I gladly gave his word back to him, and jumped for joy to get back my own. I am twenty-five years old. Twenty-six, my dear, says Asmond. Twenty-five, sir, I choose to be twenty-five, and in eight years no man hath ever touched my heart. Yes, you did once, for a little, Harry, when you came back after Lille, and engaging with that murderer Mohan and saving Frank's life. I thought I could like you, and Mama begged me hard on her knees, and I did for a day, but the old chill came over me, Henry, and the old fear of you and your melancholy, and I was glad when you went away and engaged with my Lord Ashburnam, 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 Mama, and I succeeded, didn't I? How frankly we can talk of these things. It seems a thousand years ago, and though we are here sitting in the same room, there is a great wall between us. My dear, kind, faithful, gloomy old cousin, I can like now and admire you too, sir, and say that you are brave and very kind and very true, and a fine gentleman for all, for all your little mishap at your birth, says she, wagging her arch head. And now, sir, says she, with a curtsy, we must have no more talk except when Mama is by, as his grace is with us, for he does not have like you, cousin, and is jealous as the black man in your favorite play. Though the very kindness of the words stabbed Mr. Esmond with the keenest pang, he did not show his sense of the wound by any look of his, as Beatrix indeed afterwards owned to him. What said, with a perfect command of himself and an easy smile, the interview must not end yet, my dear, until I have had my last word. Stay, here comes your mother. Indeed she came in here with her sweet anxious face, and Esmond going up kissed her hand respectfully. My dear lady may hear too the last words, which are no secrets, and are only a parting benediction accompanying a present for your marriage from an old gentleman, your guardian. For I feel as if I was the guardian of all the family, and an old, old fellow that is fit to be the grandfather of you all, and in this character, let me make my lady duchess her wedding present. They are the diamonds my father's widow left me. I had thought Beatrix might have had them a year ago, but they are good enough for a duchess, though not bright enough for the handsomest woman in the world. And he took the case out of his pocket in which the jewels were, and presented them to his cousin. She gave a cry of delight, for the stones were indeed very handsome, and of great value, and the next minute the necklace was wearable in this cross is in Mr. Pope's admirable poem, and glittering on the whitest and most perfectly shaped neck in all England. The girl's delight at receiving these trinkets was so great, that after rushing to the looking glass and examining the effect they produced upon that fair neck which they surrounded, Beatrix was running back with her arms extended, and was perhaps repaying her cousin with the price that he would have liked no doubt to receive from those beautiful rosy lips of hers, but at this moment the door opened, and his grace the bridegroom elect was announced. He looked very black upon Mr. Esmond, to whom he made a very low bow and d, and kissed the hand of each lady in his most ceremonious manner. He had come in his chair from the palace hard by, and wore his two stars of the garter and the thistle. Look, my Lord Duke, says Mr. Beatrix, advancing toward him, and showing the diamonds on her breast. Diamond, says his grace, hmm, they seem pretty. They are present on my marriage, says Beatrix. From her majesty, asked the Duke, the queen is very good. From my cousin Henry, from our cousin Henry, cry both the ladies in a breath. I have not the honor of knowing the gentleman. I thought that my lady Castlewood had no brother, and that on your ladyship side there were no nephews. From our cousin, Colonel Henry Esmond, my lord, says Beatrix, taking the Colonel's hand very bravely, who was left guardian to us by our father, and who has a hundred times shown his love and friendship for our family. The Duchess of Hamilton receives no diamonds, but from her husband, Madame, says the Duke. May I pray you restore these to Mr. Esmond. Beatrix Esmond may receive a present from our kinsmen and benefactor, my Lord Duke, says Lady Castlewood, with an air of great dignity. She is my daughter yet, and if her mother sanctions the gift, no one else hath the right to question it. Kinsmen and benefactor, says the Duke. I know of no kinsmen, and I do not choose that my wife should have for benefactor my lord, says Colonel Esmond. I am not here to bandy words, says his grace. Frankly, I tell you that your visits to this house are too frequent, and that I choose no presents for the Duchess of Hamilton, from gentlemen that bear a name they have no right to. My lord, breaks out Lady Castlewood, Mr. Esmond hath the best right to that name of any man in the world, and tis his old and his honourable as your graces. My lord Duke smiled, and looked as if Lady Castlewood was mad, that was so talking to him. If I called him benefactor, said my mistress, it is because he has been so to us. Yes, the noblest, the truest, the bravest, the dearest of benefactors. He would have saved my husband's life from Mohan's sword. He did save my boys, and defended him from that villain. Are those no benefits? I ask Colonel Esmond's pardon, says his grace, if possible more haughty than before. I would say not a word that should give him offence, and thank him for his kindness to your ladyship's family. My lord Mohan and I are connected, you know, by marriage, though neither by blood nor friendship. But I must repeat what I said, that my wife can receive no presence from Colonel Esmond. My daughter may receive presence from the head of our house. My daughter may thankfully take kindness from her fathers, her mothers, her brothers' dearest friend, and be grateful for one more benefit besides the thousand we owe him, cries Lady Castlewood. What is a string of diamond stones compared to that affection he hath given us, our dearest preserver and benefactor? We owe him not only Frank's life, but our all, yes, our all, says my mistress, with a heightened color and trembling voice. The title we bear is his, if he would claim it. It is we who have no right to our name, not he that's too great for it. He sacrificed his name at my dying lord's bedside, sacrificed it to my orphan children, gave up rank and honor because he loved us so nobly. His father was Viscount of Castlewood and Marquess of Esmond before him, and he is his father's lawful son and true heir, and we are the recipients of his bounty, and he the chief of a house that's as old as your own. And if he is content to forego his name, that my child may bear it, we love him and honor him and bless him under whatever name he bears. And here the fond and affectionate creature would have knelt to Esmond again, but that he prevented her, and Beatrix running up to her with a pale face and a cry of alarm embraced her and said, Mother, what is this? It is a family secret, my Lord Duke, says Colonel Esmond, for Beatrix knew nothing of it nor did my lady tell a year ago, and I have as good a right to resign my title as your grace's mother to abdicate hers to you. I should have told everything to the Duke of Hamilton, said my mistress, had his grace applied to me for my daughter's hand and not to Beatrix. I should have spoken with you this very day in private, my Lord, had not your words brought about this sudden explanation. And now, to spit Beatrix should hear it, and know, as I would have all the world know, what we owe to our kinsmen and patron. And then, in her touching way, and having hold of her daughter's hand and speaking to her rather than my Lord Duke, Lady Castlewood told the story, which you know already, lauding up to the skies her kinsmen's behavior. On his side, Mr. Esmond explained the reasons that seemed quite sufficiently cogent with him, why the succession in the family, as it at present stood, should not be disturbed, and he should remain as he was Colonel Esmond. And Marquis of Esmond, my Lord, says his grace with a low bow. Permit me to ask your lordship's pardon for words that were uttered in ignorance, and to beg for the favor of your friendship. To be allied to you, sir, must be an honor under whatever name you are known. So his grace was pleased to say. And in return for the splendid present you make my wife, your kinswoman, I hope you will please to command any service that James Douglas can perform. I shall never be easy until I repay you a part of my obligations at least, and ere very long, and with the mission her majesty hath given me, says the Duke, that may perhaps be in my power. I shall esteem it as a favor, my lord, if Colonel Esmond will give away the bride. And if he will take the usual payment in advance, he is welcome, says Beatrix, stepping up to him, and as Esmond kissed her, she whispered, Oh, why didn't I know you before? My lord Duke was as hot as a flame at this salute, but never said a word. Beatrix made him a proud curtsy, and the two ladies quitted the room together. When does your excellency go for Paris? asked Colonel Esmond. As soon after the ceremony as may be, his grace answered. It is fixed for the first of December. It cannot be sooner. The equipage will not be ready till then. The queen intends the embassy should be very grand, and I have law business to settle. That ill omened mohan 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.