Next Esmond opened that long cupboard over the woodwork of the

mantelpiece, big enough to hold a man, and in which Mr. Holt used to keep

sundry secret properties of his. The two swords he remembered so well as a

boy, lay actually there still, and Esmond took them out and wiped them,

with a strange curiosity of emotion. There were a bundle of papers here,

too, which no doubt had been left at Holt’s last visit to the place, in my

lord viscount’s life, that very day when the priest had been arrested and

taken to Hexham Castle. Esmond made free with these papers, and found

treasonable matter of King William’s reign, the names of Charnock and

Perkins, Sir John Fenwick and Sir John Friend, Rookwood and Lodwick, Lords

Montgomery and Ailesbury, Clarendon and Yarmouth, that had all been

engaged in plots against the usurper; a letter from the Duke of Berwick

too, and one from the king at St. Germains, offering to confer upon his

trusty and well-beloved Francis Viscount Castlewood the titles of Earl and

Marquis of Esmond, bestowed by patent royal, and in the fourth year of his

reign, upon Thomas Viscount Castlewood and the heirs male of his body, in

default of which issue the ranks and dignities were to pass to Francis

aforesaid.

This was the paper, whereof my lord had spoken, which Holt showed him the

very day he was arrested, and for an answer to which he would come back in

a week’s time. I put these papers hastily into the crypt whence I had

taken them, being interrupted by a tapping of a light finger at the ring

of the chamber-door: ’twas my kind mistress, with her face full of love

and welcome. She, too, had passed the night wakefully, no doubt; but

neither asked the other how the hours had been spent. There are things we

divine without speaking, and know though they happen out of our sight.

This fond lady hath told me that she knew both days when I was wounded

abroad. Who shall say how far sympathy reaches, and how truly love can

prophesy? “I looked into your room,” was all she said; “the bed was

vacant, the little old bed! I knew I should find you here.” And tender and

blushing faintly with a benediction in her eyes, the gentle creature

kissed him.

They walked out, hand-in-hand, through the old court, and to the

terrace-walk, where the grass was glistening with dew, and the birds in

the green woods above were singing their delicious choruses under the

blushing morning sky. How well all things were remembered! The ancient

towers and gables of the hall darkling against the east, the purple

shadows on the green slopes, the quaint devices and carvings of the dial,

the forest-crowned heights, the fair yellow plain cheerful with crops and

corn, the shining river rolling through it towards the pearly hills

beyond; all these were before us, along with a thousand beautiful memories

of our youth, beautiful and sad, but as real and vivid in our minds as

that fair and always-remembered scene our eyes beheld once more. We forget

nothing. The memory sleeps, but awakens again; I often think how it shall

be when, after the last sleep of death, the réveillé shall arouse us for

ever, and the past in one flash of self-consciousness rush back, like the

soul, revivified.

The house would not be up for some hours yet (it was July, and the dawn

was only just awake), and here Esmond opened himself to his mistress, of

the business he had in hand, and what part Frank was to play in it. He

knew he could confide anything to her, and that the fond soul would die

rather than reveal it; and bidding her keep the secret from all, he laid

it entirely before his mistress (always as stanch a little loyalist as any

in the kingdom), and indeed was quite sure that any plan of his was secure

of her applause and sympathy. Never was such a glorious scheme to her

partial mind, never such a devoted knight to execute it. An hour or two

may have passed whilst they were having their colloquy. Beatrix came out

to them just as their talk was over; her tall beautiful form robed in

sable (which she wore without ostentation ever since last year’s

catastrophe), sweeping over the green terrace, and casting its shadows

before her across the grass.

She made us one of her grand curtsies smiling, and called us “the young

people”. She was older, paler, and more majestic than in the year before;

her mother seemed the youngest of the two. She never once spoke of her

grief, Lady Castlewood told Esmond, or alluded, save by a quiet word or

two, to the death of her hopes.

When Beatrix came back to Castlewood she took to visiting all the cottages

and all the sick. She set up a school of children, and taught singing to

some of them. We had a pair of beautiful old organs in Castlewood Church,

on which she played admirably, so that the music there became to be known

in the country for many miles round, and no doubt people came to see the

fair organist as well as to hear her. Parson Tusher and his wife were

established at the vicarage, but his wife had brought him no children

wherewith Tom might meet his enemies at the gate. Honest Tom took care not

to have many such, his great shovel-hat was in his hand for everybody. He

was profuse of bows and compliments. He behaved to Esmond as if the

colonel had been a commander-in-chief; he dined at the hall that day,

being Sunday, and would not partake of pudding except under extreme

pressure. He deplored my lord’s perversion, but drank his lordship’s

health very devoutly; and an hour before at church sent the colonel to

sleep, with a long, learned, and refreshing sermon.

Esmond’s visit home was but for two days; the business he had in hand

calling him away and out of the country. Ere he went, he saw Beatrix but

once alone, and then she summoned him out of the long tapestry room, where

he and his mistress were sitting, quite as in old times, into the

adjoining chamber, that had been Viscountess Isabel’s sleeping-apartment,

and where Esmond perfectly well remembered seeing the old lady sitting up

in the bed, in her night-rail, that morning when the troop of guard came

to fetch her. The most beautiful woman in England lay in that bed now,

whereof the great damask hangings were scarce faded since Esmond saw them

last.

Here stood Beatrix in her black robes, holding a box in her hand; ’twas

that which Esmond had given her before her marriage, stamped with a

coronet which the disappointed girl was never to wear; and containing his

aunt’s legacy of diamonds.

“You had best take these with you, Harry,” says she; “I have no need of

diamonds any more.” There was not the least token of emotion in her quiet

low voice. She held out the black shagreen-case with her fair arm, that

did not shake in the least. Esmond saw she wore a black velvet bracelet on

it, with my lord duke’s picture in enamel; he had given it her but three

days before he fell.

Esmond said the stones were his no longer, and strove to turn off that

proffered restoration with a laugh: “Of what good,” says he, “are they to

me? The diamond loop to his hat did not set off Prince Eugene, and will

not make my yellow face look any handsomer.”

“You will give them to your wife, cousin,” says she. “My cousin, your wife

has a lovely complexion and shape.”

“Beatrix,” Esmond burst out, the old fire flaming out as it would at

times, “will you wear those trinkets at your marriage? You whispered once

you did not know me: you know me better now: how I sought, what I have

sighed for, for ten years, what forgone!”

“A price for your constancy, my lord!” says she; “such a _preux chevalier_

wants to be paid. Oh fie, cousin!”

“Again,” Esmond spoke out, “if I do something you have at heart; something

worthy of me and you; something that shall make me a name with which to

endow you; will you take it? There was a chance for me once, you said; is

it impossible to recall it? Never shake your head, but hear me: say you

will hear me a year hence. If I come back to you and bring you fame, will

that please you? If I do what you desire most—what he who is dead desired

most—will that soften you?”

“What is it, Henry?” says she, her face lighting up; “what mean you?”

“Ask no questions,” he said, “wait, and give me but time; if I bring back

that you long for, that I have a thousand times heard you pray for, will

you have no reward for him who has done you that service? Put away those

trinkets, keep them: it shall not be at my marriage, it shall not be at

yours, but if man can do it, I swear a day shall come when there shall be

a feast in your house, and you shall be proud to wear them. I say no more

now; put aside these words, and lock away yonder box until the day when I

shall remind you of both. All I pray of you now is, to wait and to

remember.”

“You are going out of the country?” says Beatrix, in some agitation.

“Yes, to-morrow,” says Esmond.

“To Lorraine, cousin?” says Beatrix, laying her hand on his arm; ’twas the

hand on which she wore the duke’s bracelet. “Stay, Harry!” continued she,

with a tone that had more despondency in it than she was accustomed to

show. “Hear a last word. I do love you. I do admire you—who would not,

that has known such love as yours has been for us all? But I think I have

no heart; at least, I have never seen the man that could touch it; and,

had I found him, I would have followed him in rags had he been a private

soldier, or to sea, like one of those buccaneers you used to read to us

about when we were children. I would do anything for such a man, bear

anything for him: but I never found one. You were ever too much of a slave

to win my heart; even my lord duke could not command it. I had not been

happy had I married him. I knew that three months after our engagement—and

was too vain to break it. O Harry! I cried once or twice, not for him, but

with tears of rage because I could not be sorry for him. I was frightened

to find I was glad of his death; and were I joined to you, I should have

the same sense of servitude, the same longing to escape. We should both be

unhappy, and you the most, who are as jealous as the duke was himself. I

tried to love him; I tried, indeed I did: affected gladness when he came:

submitted to hear when he was by me, and tried the wife’s part I thought I

was to play for the rest of my days. But half an hour of that complaisance

wearied me, and what would a lifetime be? My thoughts were away when he

was speaking; and I was thinking, Oh that this man would drop my hand, and

rise up from before my feet! I knew his great and noble qualities, greater

and nobler than mine a thousand times, as yours are, cousin, I tell you, a

million and a million times better. But ’twas not for these I took him. I

took him to have a great place in the world, and I lost it. I lost it, and

do not deplore him—and I often thought, as I listened to his fond vows and

ardent words, Oh, if I yield to this man, and meet _the other_, I shall

hate him and leave him! I am not good, Harry: my mother is gentle and good

like an angel. I wonder how she should have had such a child. She is weak,

but she would die rather than do a wrong; I am stronger than she, but I

would do it out of defiance. I do not care for what the parsons tell me

with their droning sermons: I used to see them at Court as mean and as

worthless as the meanest woman there. Oh, I am sick and weary of the

world! I wait but for one thing, and when ’tis done, I will take Frank’s

religion and your poor mother’s, and go into a nunnery, and end like her.

Shall I wear the diamonds then?—they say the nuns wear their best trinkets

the day they take the veil. I will put them away as you bid me; farewell,

cousin, mamma is pacing the next room, racking her little head to know

what we have been saying. She is jealous, all women are. I sometimes think

that is the only womanly quality I have.”

“Farewell. Farewell, brother!” She gave him her cheek as a brotherly

privilege. The cheek was as cold as marble.

Esmond’s mistress showed no signs of jealousy when he returned to the room

where she was. She had schooled herself so as to look quite inscrutably,

when she had a mind. Amongst her other feminine qualities she had that of

being a perfect dissembler.

He rid away from Castlewood to attempt the task he was bound on, and stand

or fall by it; in truth his state of mind was such, that he was eager for

some outward excitement to counteract that gnawing malady which he was

inwardly enduring.

Chapter VIII. I Travel To France And Bring Home A Portrait Of Rigaud

Mr. Esmond did not think fit to take leave at Court, or to inform all the

world of Pall Mall and the coffee-houses, that he was about to quit

England; and chose to depart in the most private manner possible. He

procured a pass as for a Frenchman, through Dr. Atterbury, who did that

business for him, getting the signature even from Lord Bolingbroke’s

office, without any personal application to the secretary. Lockwood, his

faithful servant, he took with him to Castlewood, and left behind there:

giving out ere he left London that he himself was sick, and gone to

Hampshire for country air, and so departed as silently as might be upon

his business.

As Frank Castlewood’s aid was indispensable for Mr. Esmond’s scheme, his

first visit was to Bruxelles (passing by way of Antwerp, where the Duke of

Marlborough was in exile), and in the first-named place Harry found his

dear young Benedict, the married man, who appeared to be rather out of

humour with his matrimonial chain, and clogged with the obstinate embraces

which Clotilda kept round his neck. Colonel Esmond was not presented to

her; but Monsieur Simon was, a gentleman of the Royal Cravat (Esmond

bethought him of the regiment of his honest Irishman, whom he had seen

that day after Malplaquet, when he first set eyes on the young king); and

Monsieur Simon was introduced to the Viscountess Castlewood, _née_

Comptesse Wertheim; to the numerous counts, the Lady Clotilda’s tall

brothers; to her father the chamberlain; and to the lady his wife, Frank’s

mother-in-law, a tall and majestic person of large proportions, such as

became the mother of such a company of grenadiers as her warlike sons

formed. The whole race were at free quarters in the little castle nigh to

Bruxelles which Frank had taken; rode his horses; drank his wine; and

lived easily at the poor lad’s charges. Mr. Esmond had always maintained a

perfect fluency in the French, which was his mother tongue; and if this

family (that spoke French with the twang which the Flemings use)

discovered any inaccuracy in Mr. Simon’s pronunciation, ’twas to be

attributed to the latter’s long residence in England, where he had married

and remained ever since he was taken prisoner at Blenheim. His story was

perfectly pat; there were none there to doubt it save honest Frank, and he

was charmed with his kinsman’s scheme, when he became acquainted with it;

and, in truth, always admired Colonel Esmond with an affectionate

fidelity, and thought his cousin the wisest and best of all cousins and

men. Frank entered heart and soul into the plan, and liked it the better

as it was to take him to Paris, out of reach of his brothers, his father,

and his mother-in-law, whose attentions rather fatigued him.

Castlewood, I have said, was born in the same year as the Prince of Wales;

had not a little of the prince’s air, height, and figure; and, especially

since he had seen the Chevalier de St. George on the occasion before

named, took no small pride in his resemblance to a person so illustrious;

which likeness he increased by all the means in his power, wearing fair

brown periwigs, such as the prince wore, and ribbons, and so forth, of the

chevalier’s colour. This resemblance was, in truth, the circumstance on

which Mr. Esmond’s scheme was founded; and, having secured Frank’s secrecy

and enthusiasm, he left him to continue his journey, and see the other

personages on whom its success depended. The place whither Mr. Simon next

travelled was Bar, in Lorraine, where that merchant arrived with a

consignment of broadcloths, valuable laces from Malines, and letters for

his correspondent there.

Would you know how a prince, heroic from misfortunes, and descended from a

line of kings, whose race seemed to be doomed like the Atridae of

old—would you know how he was employed, when the envoy who came to him

through danger and difficulty beheld him for the first time? The young

king, in a flannel jacket, was at tennis with the gentlemen of his suite,

crying out after the balls, and swearing like the meanest of his subjects.

The next time Mr. Esmond saw him, ’twas when Monsieur Simon took a packet

of laces to Miss Oglethorpe; the prince’s antechamber in those days, at

which ignoble door men were forced to knock for admission to his Majesty.

The admission was given, the envoy found the king and the mistress

together; the pair were at cards, and his Majesty was in liquor. He cared

more for three honours than three kingdoms; and a half-dozen glasses of

ratafia made him forget all his woes and his losses, his father’s crown,

and his grandfather’s head.

Mr. Esmond did not open himself to the prince then. His Majesty was scarce

in a condition to hear him; and he doubted whether a king who drank so

much could keep a secret in his fuddled head; or whether a hand that shook

so, was strong enough to grasp at a crown. However at last, and after

taking counsel with the prince’s advisers, amongst whom were many

gentlemen, honest and faithful, Esmond’s plan was laid before the king,

and her actual Majesty Queen Oglethorpe, in council. The prince liked the

scheme well enough; ’twas easy and daring, and suited to his reckless

gaiety and lively youthful spirit. In the morning after he had slept his

wine off, he was very gay, lively, and agreeable. His manner had an

extreme charm of archness, and a kind simplicity; and, to do her justice,

her Oglethorpean Majesty was kind, acute, resolute, and of good counsel;

she gave the prince much good advice that he was too weak to follow, and

loved him with a fidelity which he returned with an ingratitude quite

royal.

Having his own forebodings regarding his scheme should it ever be

fulfilled, and his usual sceptic doubts as to the benefit which might

accrue to the country by bringing a tipsy young monarch back to it,

Colonel Esmond had his audience of leave and quiet. Monsieur Simon took

his departure. At any rate the youth at Bar was as good as the older

Pretender at Hanover; if the worst came to the worst, the Englishman could

be dealt with as easy as the German. Monsieur Simon trotted on that long

journey from Nancy to Paris, and saw that famous town, stealthily and like

a spy, as in truth he was; and where, sure, more magnificence and more

misery is heaped together, more rags and lace, more filth and gilding,

than in any city in this world. Here he was put in communication with the

king’s best friend, his half-brother, the famous Duke of Berwick; Esmond

recognized him as the stranger who had visited Castlewood now near twenty

years ago. His grace opened to him when he found that Mr. Esmond was one

of Webb’s brave regiment, that had once been his grace’s own. He was the

sword and buckler indeed of the Stuart cause: there was no stain on his

shield except the bar across it, which Marlborough’s sister left him. Had

Berwick been his father’s heir, James the Third had assuredly sat on the

English throne. He could dare, endure, strike, speak, be silent. The fire

and genius, perhaps, he had not (that were given to baser men), but except

these he had some of the best qualities of a leader. His grace knew

Esmond’s father and history; and hinted at the latter in such a way as

made the colonel to think he was aware of the particulars of that story.

But Esmond did not choose to enter on it, nor did the duke press him. Mr.

Esmond said, “No doubt he should come by his name if ever greater people

came by theirs.”

What confirmed Esmond in his notion that the Duke of Berwick knew of his

case was, that when the colonel went to pay his duty at St. Germains, her

Majesty once addressed him by the title of Marquis. He took the queen the

dutiful remembrances of her goddaughter, and the lady whom, in the days of

her prosperity, her Majesty had befriended. The queen remembered Rachel

Esmond perfectly well, had heard of my Lord Castlewood’s conversion, and

was much edified by that act of Heaven in his favour. She knew that others

of that family had been of the only true Church too: “Your father and your

mother, _monsieur le marquis_,” her Majesty said (that was the only time

she used the phrase). Monsieur Simon bowed very low, and said he had found

other parents than his own who had taught him differently; but these had

only one king: on which her Majesty was pleased to give him a medal

blessed by the Pope, which had been found very efficacious in cases

similar to his own, and to promise she would offer up prayers for his

conversion and that of the family: which no doubt this pious lady did,

though up to the present moment, and after twenty-seven years, Colonel

Esmond is bound to say that neither the medal nor the prayers have had the

slightest known effect upon his religious convictions.

As for the splendour of Versailles, Monsieur Simon, the merchant, only

beheld them as a humble and distant spectator, seeing the old king but

once, when he went to feed his carps; and asking for no presentation at

his Majesty’s Court.

By this time my Lord Viscount Castlewood was got to Paris, where, as the

London prints presently announced, her ladyship was brought to bed of a

son and heir. For a long while afterwards she was in a delicate state of

health, and ordered by the physicians not to travel; otherwise ’twas well

known that the Viscount Castlewood proposed returning to England, and

taking up his residence at his own seat.

Whilst he remained at Paris, my Lord Castlewood had his picture done by

the famous French painter Monsieur Rigaud, a present for his mother in

London; and this piece Monsieur Simon took back with him when he returned

to that city, which he reached about May, in the year 1714, very soon

after which time my Lady Castlewood and her daughter, and their kinsman,

Colonel Esmond, who had been at Castlewood all this time, likewise

returned to London; her ladyship occupying her house at Kensington, Mr.

Esmond returning to his lodgings at Knightsbridge, nearer the town, and

once more making his appearance at all public places, his health greatly

improved by his long stay in the country.

The portrait of my lord, in a handsome gilt frame, was hung up in the

place of honour in her ladyship’s drawing-room. His lordship was

represented in his scarlet uniform of Captain of the Guard, with a

light-brown periwig, a cuirass under his coat, a blue ribbon, and a fall

of Bruxelles lace. Many of her ladyship’s friends admired the piece beyond

measure, and flocked to see it; Bishop Atterbury, Mr. Lesly, good old Mr.

Collier, and others amongst the clergy, were delighted with the

performance, and many among the first quality examined and praised it;

only I must own that Dr. Tusher happening to come up to London, and seeing

the picture (it was ordinarily covered by a curtain, but on this day Miss

Beatrix happened to be looking at it when the doctor arrived), the Vicar

of Castlewood vowed he could not see any resemblance in the piece to his

old pupil, except perhaps, a little about the chin and the periwig; but we

all of us convinced him, that he had not seen Frank for five years or

more; that he knew no more about the fine arts than a ploughboy, and that

he must be mistaken; and we sent him home assured that the piece was an

excellent likeness. As for my Lord Bolingbroke, who honoured her ladyship

with a visit occasionally, when Colonel Esmond showed him the picture he

burst out laughing, and asked what devilry he was engaged on? Esmond owned

simply that the portrait was not that of Viscount Castlewood, besought the

secretary on his honour to keep the secret, said that the ladies of the

house were enthusiastic Jacobites, as was well known; and confessed that

the picture was that of the Chevalier St. George.

The truth is, that Mr. Simon, waiting upon Lord Castlewood one day at

Monsieur Rigaud’s, whilst his lordship was sitting for his picture,

affected to be much struck with a piece representing the chevalier,

whereof the head only was finished, and purchased it of the painter for a

hundred crowns. It had been intended the artist said, for Miss Oglethorpe,

the prince’s mistress, but that young lady quitting Paris, had left the

work on the artist’s hands; and taking this piece home, when my lord’s

portrait arrived, Colonel Esmond, alias Monsieur Simon, had copied the

uniform and other accessories from my lord’s picture to fill up Rigaud’s

incomplete canvas: the colonel all his life having been a practitioner of

painting, and especially followed it during his long residence in the

cities of Flanders, among the masterpieces of Vandyck and Rubens. My

grandson hath the piece, such as it is, in Virginia now.

At the commencement of the month of June, Miss Beatrix Esmond, and my lady

viscountess, her mother, arrived from Castlewood; the former to resume her

service at Court, which had been interrupted by the fatal catastrophe of

Duke Hamilton’s death. She once more took her place, then, in her

Majesty’s suite and at the maids’ table, being always a favourite with

Mrs. Masham, the queen’s chief woman, partly perhaps on account of her

bitterness against the Duchess of Marlborough, whom Miss Beatrix loved no

better than her rival did. The gentlemen about the Court, my Lord

Bolingbroke amongst others, owned that the young lady had come back

handsomer than ever, and that the serious and tragic air, which her face

now involuntarily wore, became her better than her former smiles and

archness.

All the old domestics at the little house of Kensington Square were

changed; the old steward that had served the family any time these

five-and-twenty years, since the birth of the children of the house, was

dispatched into the kingdom of Ireland to see my lord’s estate there: the

housekeeper, who had been my lady’s woman time out of mind, and the

attendant of the young children, was sent away grumbling to Walcote, to

see to the new painting and preparing of that house, which my lady dowager

intended to occupy for the future, giving up Castlewood to her

daughter-in-law, that might be expected daily from France. Another servant

the viscountess had was dismissed too—with a gratuity—on the pretext that

her ladyship’s train of domestics must be diminished; so, finally, there

was not left in the household a single person who had belonged to it

during the time my young Lord Castlewood was yet at home.

For the plan which Colonel Esmond had in view, and the stroke he intended,

’twas necessary that the very smallest number of persons should be put in

possession of his secret. It scarce was known, except to three or four out

of his family, and it was kept to a wonder.

On the 10th of June, 1714, there came by Mr. Prior’s messenger from Paris,

a letter from my Lord Viscount Castlewood to his mother, saying that he

had been foolish in regard of money matters, that he was ashamed to own he

had lost at play, and by other extravagances; and that instead of having

great entertainments as he had hoped at Castlewood this year, he must live

as quiet as he could, and make every effort to be saving. So far every

word of poor Frank’s letter was true, nor was there a doubt that he and

his tall brothers-in-law had spent a great deal more than they ought, and

engaged the revenues of the Castlewood property, which the fond mother had

husbanded and improved so carefully during the time of her guardianship.

His “Clotilda”, Castlewood went on to say, “was still delicate, and the

physicians thought her lying-in had best take place at Paris. He should

come without her ladyship, and be at his mother’s house about the 17th or

18th day of June, proposing to take horse from Paris immediately, and

bringing but a single servant with him; and he requested that the lawyers

of Gray’s Inn might be invited to meet him with their account, and the

land-steward come from Castlewood with his, so that he might settle with

them speedily, raise a sum of money whereof he stood in need, and be back

to his viscountess by the time of her lying-in.” Then his lordship gave

some of the news of the town, sent his remembrance to kinsfolk, and so the

letter ended. ’Twas put in the common post, and no doubt the French police

and the English there had a copy of it, to which they were exceeding

welcome.

Two days after another letter was dispatched by the public post of France,

in the same open way, and this, after giving news of the fashion at Court

there, ended by the following sentences, in which, but for those that had

the key, ’twould be difficult for any man to find any secret lurked at

all:—

(The king will take) medicine on Thursday. His Majesty is better

than he hath been of late, though incommoded by indigestion from

his too great appetite. Madame Maintenon continues well. They have

performed a play of Mons. Racine at St. Cyr. The Duke of

Shrewsbury and Mr. Prior, our envoy, and all the English nobility

here were present at it. (The Viscount Castlewood’s passports)

were refused to him, ’twas said; his lordship being sued by a

goldsmith for _Vaisselle plate_, and a pearl necklace supplied to

Mademoiselle Meruel of the French Comedy. ’Tis a pity such news

should get abroad (and travel to England) about our young nobility

here. Mademoiselle Meruel has been sent to the Fort l’Evesque;

they say she has ordered not only plate, but furniture, and a

chariot and horses (under that lord’s name), of which extravagance

his unfortunate viscountess knows nothing.

(His majesty will be) eighty-two years of age on his next

birthday. The Court prepares to celebrate it with a great feast.

Mr. Prior is in a sad way about their refusing at home to send him

his plate. All here admired my lord viscount’s portrait, and said

it was a masterpiece of Rigaud. Have you seen it? It is (at the

Lady Castlewood’s house in Kensington Square). I think no English

painter could produce such a piece.

Our poor friend the abbé hath been at the Bastille, but is now

transported to the Conciergerie (where his friends may visit him.

They are to ask for) a remission of his sentence soon. Let us hope

the poor rogue will have repented in prison.

(The Lord Castlewood) has had the affair of the plate made up, and

departs for England.

Is not this a dull letter? I have a cursed headache with drinking

with Mat and some more overnight, and tipsy or sober am

Thine ever ——.

All this letter, save some dozen of words which I have put above between

brackets, was mere idle talk, though the substance of the letter was as

important as any letter well could be. It told those that had the key,

that _the king will take the Viscount Castlewood’s passports and travel to

England under that lord’s name. His Majesty will be at the Lady

Castlewood’s house in Kensington Square, where his friends may visit him;

they are to ask for the Lord Castlewood_. This note may have passed under

Mr. Prior’s eyes, and those of our new allies the French, and taught them

nothing; though it explains sufficiently to persons in London what the

event was which was about to happen, as ’twill show those who read my

memoirs a hundred years hence, what was that errand on which Colonel

Esmond of late had been busy. Silently and swiftly to do that about which

others were conspiring, and thousands of Jacobites all over the country,

clumsily caballing; alone to effect that which the leaders here were only

talking about; to bring the Prince of Wales into the country openly in the

face of all, under Bolingbroke’s very eyes, the walls placarded with the

proclamation signed with the secretary’s name, and offering five hundred

pounds reward for his apprehension: this was a stroke, the playing and

winning of which might well give any adventurous spirit pleasure: the loss

of the stake might involve a heavy penalty, but all our family were eager

to risk that for the glorious chance of winning the game.

Nor should it be called a game, save perhaps with the chief player, who

was not more or less sceptical than most public men with whom he had

acquaintance in that age. (Is there ever a public man in England that

altogether believes in his party? Is there one, however doubtful, that

will not fight for it?) Young Frank was ready to fight without much

thinking, he was a Jacobite as his father before him was; all the Esmonds

were Royalists. Give him but the word, he would cry, “God save King

James!” before the palace guard, or at the Maypole in the Strand; and with

respect to the women, as is usual with them, ’twas not a question of party

but of faith; their belief was a passion; either Esmond’s mistress or her

daughter would have died for it cheerfully. I have laughed often, talking

of King William’s reign, and said I thought Lady Castlewood was

disappointed the king did not persecute the family more; and those who

know the nature of women may fancy for themselves, what needs not here be

written down, the rapture with which these neophytes received the mystery

when made known to them; the eagerness with which they looked forward to

its completion; the reverence which they paid the minister who initiated

them into that secret Truth, now known only to a few, but presently to

reign over the world. Sure there is no bound to the trustingness of women.

Look at Arria worshipping the drunken clodpate of a husband who beats her;

look at Cornelia treasuring as a jewel in her maternal heart the oaf her

son; I have known a woman preach Jesuit’s bark, and afterwards Dr.

Berkeley’s tar-water, as though to swallow them were a divine decree, and

to refuse them no better than blasphemy.

On his return from France Colonel Esmond put himself at the head of this

little knot of fond conspirators. No death or torture he knew would

frighten them out of their constancy. When he detailed his plan for

bringing the king back, his elder mistress thought that that restoration

was to be attributed under Heaven to the Castlewood family and to its

chief, and she worshipped and loved Esmond, if that could be, more than

ever she had done. She doubted not for one moment of the success of his

scheme, to mistrust which would have seemed impious in her eyes. And as

for Beatrix, when she became acquainted with the plan, and joined it, as

she did with all her heart, she gave Esmond one of her searching bright

looks: “Ah, Harry,” says she, “why were you not the head of our house? You

are the only one fit to raise it; why do you give that silly boy the name

and the honour? But ’tis so in the world; those get the prize that don’t

deserve or care for it. I wish I could give you _your_ silly prize,

cousin, but I can’t; I have tried and I can’t.” And she went away, shaking

her head mournfully, but always, it seemed to Esmond, that her liking and

respect for him was greatly increased, since she knew what capability he

had both to act and bear; to do and to forgo.

Chapter IX. The Original Of The Portrait Comes To England

’Twas announced in the family that my Lord Castlewood would arrive, having

a confidential French gentleman in his suite, who acted as secretary to

his lordship, and who being a Papist, and a foreigner of a good family,

though now in rather a menial place, would have his meals served in his

chamber, and not with the domestics of the house. The viscountess gave up

her bedchamber contiguous to her daughter’s, and having a large convenient

closet attached to it, in which a bed was put up, ostensibly for Monsieur

Baptiste, the Frenchman; though, ’tis needless to say, when the doors of

the apartments were locked, and the two guests retired within it, the

young viscount became the servant of the illustrious prince whom he

entertained, and gave up gladly the more convenient and airy chamber and

bed to his master. Madam Beatrix also retired to the upper region, her

chamber being converted into a sitting-room for my lord. The better to

carry the deceit, Beatrix affected to grumble before the servants, and to

be jealous that she was turned out of her chamber to make way for my lord.

No small preparations were made, you may be sure, and no slight tremor of

expectation caused the hearts of the gentle ladies of Castlewood to

flutter, before the arrival of the personages who were about to honour

their house. The chamber was ornamented with flowers; the bed covered with

the very finest of linen; the two ladies insisting on making it

themselves, and kneeling down at the bedside and kissing the sheets out of

respect for the web that was to hold the sacred person of a king. The

toilet was of silver and crystal; there was a copy of _Eikon Basilike_

laid on the writing-table; a portrait of the martyred king hung always

over the mantel, having a sword of my poor Lord Castlewood underneath it,

and a little picture or emblem which the widow loved always to have before

her eyes on waking, and in which the hair of her lord and her two children

was worked together. Her books of private devotions, as they were all of

the English Church, she carried away with her to the upper apartment which

she destined for herself. The ladies showed Mr. Esmond, when they were

completed, the fond preparations they had made. ’Twas then Beatrix knelt

down and kissed the linen sheets. As for her mother, Lady Castlewood made

a curtsy at the door, as she would have done to the altar on entering a

church, and owned that she considered the chamber in a manner sacred.

The company in the servants’ hall never for a moment supposed that these

preparations were made for any other person than the young viscount, the

lord of the house, whom his fond mother had been for so many years without

seeing. Both ladies were perfect housewives, having the greatest skill in

the making of confections, scented waters, &c., and keeping a notable

superintendence over the kitchen. Calves enough were killed to feed an

army of prodigal sons, Esmond thought, and laughed when he came to wait on

the ladies, on the day when the guests were to arrive, to find two pairs

of the finest and roundest arms to be seen in England (my Lady Castlewood

was remarkable for this beauty of her person), covered with flour up above

the elbows, and preparing paste, and turning rolling-pins in the

housekeeper’s closet. The guest would not arrive till supper-time, and my

lord would prefer having that meal in his own chamber. You may be sure the

brightest plate of the house was laid out there, and can understand why it

was that the ladies insisted that they alone would wait upon the young

chief of the family.

Taking horse, Colonel Esmond rode rapidly to Rochester, and there awaited

the king in that very town where his father had last set his foot on the

English shore. A room had been provided at an inn there for my Lord

Castlewood and his servant; and Colonel Esmond timed his ride so well that

he had scarce been half an hour in the place, and was looking over the

balcony into the yard of the inn, when two travellers rode in at the

inn-gate, and the colonel running down, the next moment embraced his dear

young lord.

My lord’s companion, acting the part of a domestic, dismounted, and was

for holding the viscount’s stirrup; but Colonel Esmond, calling to his own

man, who was in the court, bade him take the horses and settle with the

lad who had ridden the post along with the two travellers, crying out in a

cavalier tone in the French language to my lord’s companion, and affecting

to grumble that my lord’s fellow was a Frenchman, and did not know the

money or habits of the country:—“My man will see to the horses, Baptiste,”

says Colonel Esmond: “do you understand English?” “Very leetle.” “So,

follow my lord and wait upon him at dinner in his own room.” The landlord

and his people came up presently bearing the dishes; ’twas well they made

a noise and stir in the gallery, or they might have found Colonel Esmond

on his knee before Lord Castlewood’s servant, welcoming his Majesty to his

kingdom, and kissing the hand of the king. We told the landlord that the

Frenchman would wait on his master; and Esmond’s man was ordered to keep

sentry in the gallery without the door. The prince dined with a good

appetite, laughing and talking very gaily, and condescendingly bidding his

two companions to sit with him at table. He was in better spirits than

poor Frank Castlewood, who Esmond thought might be wobegone on account of

parting with his divine Clotilda; but the prince wishing to take a short

siesta after dinner, and retiring to an inner chamber where there was a

bed, the cause of poor Frank’s discomfiture came out; and bursting into

tears, with many expressions of fondness, friendship, and humiliation, the

faithful lad gave his kinsman to understand that he now knew all the

truth, and the sacrifices which Colonel Esmond had made for him.

Seeing no good in acquainting poor Frank with that secret, Mr. Esmond had

entreated his mistress also not to reveal it to her son. The prince had

told the poor lad all as they were riding from Dover: “I had as lief he

had shot me, cousin,” Frank said: “I knew you were the best and the

bravest, and the kindest of all men” (so the enthusiastic young fellow

went on); “but I never thought I owed you what I do, and can scarce bear

the weight of the obligation.”

“I stand in the place of your father,” says Mr. Esmond kindly, “and sure a

father may dispossess himself in favour of his son. I abdicate the

twopenny crown, and invest you with the kingdom of Brentford; don’t be a

fool and cry; you make a much taller and handsomer viscount than ever I

could.” But the fond boy with oaths and protestations, laughter and

incoherent outbreaks of passionate emotion, could not be got, for some

little time, to put up with Esmond’s raillery; wanted to kneel down to

him, and kissed his hand; asked him and implored him to order something,

to bid Castlewood give his own life up or take somebody else’s; anything,

so that he might show his gratitude for the generosity Esmond showed him.

“The k——, _he_ laughed,” Frank said, pointing to the door where the

sleeper was, and speaking in a low tone, “I don’t think he should have

laughed as he told me the story. As we rode along from Dover, talking in

French, he spoke about you, and your coming to him at Bar; he called you

‘_le grand sérieux_’, Don Bellianis of Greece, and I don’t know what

names; mimicking your manner” (here Castlewood laughed himself)—“and he

did it very well. He seems to sneer at everything. He is not like a king:

somehow, Harry, I fancy you are like a king. He does not seem to think

what a stake we are all playing. He would have stopped at Canterbury to

run after a barmaid there, had I not implored him to come on. He hath a

house at Chaillot where he used to go and bury himself for weeks away from

the queen, and with all sorts of bad company,” says Frank, with a demure

look; “you may smile, but I am not the wild fellow I was; no, no, I have

been taught better,” says Castlewood devoutly, making a sign on his

breast.

“Thou art my dear brave boy,” says Colonel Esmond, touched at the young

fellow’s simplicity, “and there will be a noble gentleman at Castlewood so

long as my Frank is there.”

The impetuous young lad was for going down on his knees again, with

another explosion of gratitude, but that we heard the voice from the next

chamber of the august sleeper, just waking, calling out:—“_Eh, La-Fleur,

un verre d’eau_”; his Majesty came out yawning:—“A pest,” says he, “upon

your English ale; ’tis so strong that, _ma foi_, it hath turned my head.”

The effect of the ale was like a spur upon our horses, and we rode very

quickly to London, reaching Kensington at nightfall. Mr. Esmond’s servant

was left behind at Rochester, to take care of the tired horses, whilst we

had fresh beasts provided along the road. And galloping by the prince’s

side the colonel explained to the Prince of Wales what his movements had

been; who the friends were that knew of the expedition; whom, as Esmond

conceived, the prince should trust; entreating him, above all, to maintain

the very closest secrecy until the time should come when his royal

highness should appear. The town swarmed with friends of the prince’s

cause; there were scores of correspondents with St. Germains; Jacobites

known and secret; great in station and humble; about the Court and the

queen; in the Parliament, Church, and among the merchants in the City. The

prince had friends numberless in the army, in the Privy Council, and the

officers of state. The great object, as it seemed, to the small band of

persons who had concerted that bold stroke, who had brought the queen’s

brother into his native country, was, that his visit should remain unknown

till the proper time came, when his presence should surprise friends and

enemies alike; and the latter should be found so unprepared and disunited,

that they should not find time to attack him. We feared more from his

friends than from his enemies. The lies, and tittle-tattle sent over to

St. Germains by the Jacobite agents about London, had done an incalculable

mischief to his cause, and wofully misguided him, and it was from these

especially, that the persons engaged in the present venture were anxious

to defend the chief actor in it.(16)

The party reached London by nightfall, leaving their horses at the

Posting-House over against Westminster, and being ferried over the water

where Lady Esmond’s coach was already in waiting. In another hour we were

all landed at Kensington, and the mistress of the house had that

satisfaction which her heart had yearned after for many years, once more

to embrace her son, who on his side, with all his waywardness, ever

retained a most tender affection for his parent.

She did not refrain from this expression of her feeling, though the

domestics were by, and my Lord Castlewood’s attendant stood in the hall.

Esmond had to whisper to him in French to take his hat off. Monsieur

Baptiste was constantly neglecting his part with an inconceivable levity:

more than once on the ride to London, little observations of the stranger,

light remarks, and words betokening the greatest ignorance of the country

the prince came to govern, had hurt the susceptibility of the two

gentlemen forming his escort; nor could either help owning in his secret

mind that they would have had his behaviour otherwise, and that the

laughter and the lightness, not to say licence, which characterized his

talk, scarce befitted such a great prince, and such a solemn occasion. Not

but that he could act at proper times with spirit and dignity. He had

behaved, as we all knew, in a very courageous manner on the field. Esmond

had seen a copy of the letter the prince writ with his own hand when urged

by his friends in England to abjure his religion, and admired that manly

and magnanimous reply by which he refused to yield to the temptation.

Monsieur Baptiste took off his hat, blushing at the hint Colonel Esmond

ventured to give him, and said:—“_Tenez, elle est jolie, la petite mère;

Foi-de-Chevalier! elle est charmante; mais l’autre, qui est cette nymphe,

cet astre qui brille, cette Diane qui descend sur nous?_” And he started

back, and pushed forward, as Beatrix was descending the stair. She was in

colours for the first time at her own house; she wore the diamonds Esmond

gave her; it had been agreed between them, that she should wear these

brilliants on the day when the king should enter the house, and a queen

she looked, radiant in charms, and magnificent and imperial in beauty.

Castlewood himself was startled by that beauty and splendour; he stepped

back and gazed at his sister as though he had not been aware before (nor

was he, very likely) how perfectly lovely she was, and I thought blushed

as he embraced her. The prince could not keep his eyes off her; he quite

forgot his menial part, though he had been schooled to it, and a little

light portmanteau prepared expressly that he should carry it. He pressed

forward before my lord viscount. ’Twas lucky the servants’ eyes were busy

in other directions, or they must have seen that this was no servant, or

at least a very insolent and rude one.

Again Colonel Esmond was obliged to cry out, “Baptiste”, in a loud

imperious voice, “have a care to the valise”; at which hint the wilful

young man ground his teeth together with something very like a curse

between them, and then gave a brief look of anything but pleasure to his

Mentor. Being reminded, however, he shouldered the little portmanteau, and

carried it up the stair, Esmond preceding him, and a servant with lighted

tapers. He flung down his burden sulkily in the bedchamber:—“A prince that

will wear a crown must wear a mask,” says Mr. Esmond, in French.

“_Ah, peste!_ I see how it is,” says Monsieur Baptiste, continuing the

talk in French. “The Great Serious is seriously”—“alarmed for Monsieur

Baptiste,” broke in the colonel. Esmond neither liked the tone with which

the prince spoke of the ladies, nor the eyes with which he regarded them.

The bedchamber and the two rooms adjoining it, the closet and the

apartment which was to be called my lord’s parlour, were already lighted

and awaiting their occupier; and the collation laid for my lord’s supper.

Lord Castlewood and his mother and sister came up the stair a minute

afterwards, and, so soon as the domestics had quitted the apartment,

Castlewood and Esmond uncovered, and the two ladies went down on their

knees before the prince, who graciously gave a hand to each. He looked his

part of prince much more naturally than that of servant, which he had just

been trying, and raised them both with a great deal of nobility, as well

as kindness in his air. “Madam,” says he, “my mother will thank your

ladyship for your hospitality to her son; for you, madam,” turning to

Beatrix, “I cannot bear to see so much beauty in such a posture. You will

betray Monsieur Baptiste if you kneel to him; sure ’tis his place rather

to kneel to you.”

A light shone out of her eyes; a gleam bright enough to kindle passion in

any breast. There were times when this creature was so handsome, that she

seemed, as it were, like Venus revealing herself a goddess in a flash of

brightness. She appeared so now; radiant, and with eyes bright with a

wonderful lustre. A pang, as of rage and jealousy, shot through Esmond’s

heart, as he caught the look she gave the prince; and he clenched his hand

involuntarily and looked across to Castlewood, whose eyes answered his

alarm-signal, and were also on the alert. The prince gave his subjects an

audience of a few minutes, and then the two ladies and Colonel Esmond

quitted the chamber. Lady Castlewood pressed his hand as they descended

the stair, and the three went down to the lower rooms, where they waited

awhile till the travellers above should be refreshed and ready for their

meal.

Esmond looked at Beatrix, blazing with her jewels on her beautiful neck.

“I have kept my word,” says he: “And I mine,” says Beatrix, looking down

on the diamonds.

“Were I the Mogul emperor,” says the colonel, “you should have all that

were dug out of Golconda.”

“These are a great deal too good for me,” says Beatrix, dropping her head

on her beautiful breast,—“so are you all, all:” and when she looked up

again, as she did in a moment, and after a sigh, her eyes, as they gazed

at her cousin, wore that melancholy and inscrutable look which ’twas

always impossible to sound.

When the time came for the supper, of which we were advertised by a

knocking overhead, Colonel Esmond and the two ladies went to the upper

apartment, where the prince already was, and by his side the young

viscount, of exactly the same age, shape, and with features not

dissimilar, though Frank’s were the handsomer of the two. The prince sat

down, and bade the ladies sit. The gentlemen remained standing; there was,

indeed, but one more cover laid at the table:—“Which of you will take it?”

says he.

“The head of our house,” says Lady Castlewood, taking her son’s hand, and

looking towards Colonel Esmond with a bow and a great tremor of the voice;

“the Marquis of Esmond will have the honour of serving the king.”

“I shall have the honour of waiting on his royal highness,” says Colonel

Esmond, filling a cup of wine, and, as the fashion of that day was, he

presented it to the king on his knee.

“I drink to my hostess and her family,” says the prince, with no very

well-pleased air; but the cloud passed immediately off his face, and he

talked to the ladies in a lively, rattling strain, quite undisturbed by

poor Mr. Esmond’s yellow countenance, that I dare say looked very glum.

When the time came to take leave, Esmond marched homewards to his

lodgings, and met Mr. Addison on the road that night, walking to a cottage

he had at Fulham, the moon shining on his handsome serene face:—“What

cheer, brother?” says Addison, laughing; “I thought it was a footpad

advancing in the dark, and behold ’tis an old friend. We may shake hands,

colonel, in the dark, ’tis better than fighting by daylight. Why should we

quarrel, because I am a Whig and thou art a Tory? Turn thy steps and walk

with me to Fulham, where there is a nightingale still singing in the

garden, and a cool bottle in a cave I know of; you shall drink to the

Pretender if you like, and I will drink my liquor my own way: I have had

enough of good liquor?—no, never! There is no such word as enough as a

stopper for good wine. Thou wilt not come? Come any day, come soon. You

know I remember _Simois_ and the _Sigeia tellus_, and the _praelia mixta

mero, mixta mero_,” he repeated, with ever so slight a touch of _merum_ in

his voice, and walked back a little way on the road with Esmond, bidding

the other remember he was always his friend, and indebted to him for his

aid in the _Campaign_ poem. And very likely Mr. Under Secretary would have

stepped in and taken t’other bottle at the colonel’s lodgings, had the

latter invited him, but Esmond’s mood was none of the gayest, and he bade

his friend an inhospitable good-night at the door.

“I have done the deed,” thought he, sleepless, and looking out into the

night; “he is here, and I have brought him; he and Beatrix are sleeping

under the same roof now. Whom did I mean to serve in bringing him? Was it

the prince, was it Henry Esmond? Had I not best have joined the manly

creed of Addison yonder, that scouts the old doctrine of right divine,

that boldly declares that Parliament and people consecrate the sovereign,

not bishops, nor genealogies, nor oils, nor coronations.” The eager gaze

of the young prince, watching every movement of Beatrix, haunted Esmond

and pursued him. The prince’s figure appeared before him in his feverish

dreams many times that night. He wished the deed undone, for which he had

laboured so. He was not the first that has regretted his own act, or

brought about his own undoing. Undoing? Should he write that word in his

late years? No, on his knees before Heaven, rather be thankful for what

then he deemed his misfortune, and which hath caused the whole subsequent

happiness of his life.

Esmond’s man, honest John Lockwood, had served his master and the family

all his life, and the colonel knew that he could answer for John’s

fidelity as for his own. John returned with the horses from Rochester

betimes the next morning, and the colonel gave him to understand that on

going to Kensington, where he was free of the servants’ hall, and indeed

courting Mrs. Beatrix’s maid, he was to ask no questions, and betray no

surprise, but to vouch stoutly that the young gentleman he should see in a

red coat there was my Lord Viscount Castlewood, and that his attendant in

grey was Monsieur Baptiste the Frenchman. He was to tell his friends in

the kitchen such stories as he remembered of my lord viscount’s youth at

Castlewood; what a wild boy he was; how he used to drill Jack and cane

him, before ever he was a soldier; everything, in fine, he knew respecting

my lord viscount’s early days. Jack’s ideas of painting had not been much

cultivated during his residence in Flanders with his master; and, before

my young lord’s return, he had been easily got to believe that the picture

brought over from Paris, and now hanging in Lady Castlewood’s

drawing-room, was a perfect likeness of her son, the young lord. And the

domestics having all seen the picture many times, and catching but a

momentary imperfect glimpse of the two strangers on the night of their

arrival, never had a reason to doubt the fidelity of the portrait; and

next day, when they saw the original of the piece habited exactly as he

was represented in the painting, with the same periwig, ribbon, and

uniform of the Guard, quite naturally addressed the gentleman as my Lord

Castlewood, my lady viscountess’s son.

The secretary of the night previous was now the viscount; the viscount

wore the secretary’s grey frock; and John Lockwood was instructed to hint

to the world below stairs that my lord being a Papist, and very devout in

that religion, his attendant might be no other than his chaplain from

Bruxelles; hence, if he took his meals in my lord’s company there was

little reason for surprise. Frank was further cautioned to speak English

with a foreign accent, which task he performed indifferently well, and

this caution was the more necessary because the prince himself scarce

spoke our language like a native of the island; and John Lockwood laughed

with the folks below stairs at the manner in which my lord, after five

years abroad, sometimes forgot his own tongue and spoke it like a

Frenchman. “I warrant,” says he, “that with the English beef and beer, his

lordship will soon get back the proper use of his mouth;” and, to do his

new lordship justice, he took to beer and beef very kindly.

The prince drank so much, and was so loud and imprudent in his talk after

his drink, that Esmond often trembled for him. His meals were served as

much as possible in his own chamber, though frequently he made his

appearance in Lady Castlewood’s parlour and drawing-room, calling Beatrix

“sister”, and her ladyship “mother”, or “madam”, before the servants. And,

choosing to act entirely up to the part of brother and son, the prince

sometimes saluted Mrs. Beatrix and Lady Castlewood with a freedom which

his secretary did not like, and which, for his part, set Colonel Esmond

tearing with rage.

The guests had not been three days in the house when poor Jack Lockwood

came with a rueful countenance to his master, and said: “My lord, that

is—the gentleman, has been tampering with Mrs. Lucy” (Jack’s sweetheart),

“and given her guineas and a kiss.” I fear that Colonel Esmond’s mind was

rather relieved than otherwise, when he found that the ancillary beauty

was the one whom the prince had selected. His royal tastes were known to

lie that way, and continued so in after-life. The heir of one of the

greatest names, of the greatest kingdoms, and of the greatest misfortunes

in Europe, was often content to lay the dignity of his birth and grief at

the wooden shoes of a French chambermaid, and to repent afterwards (for he

was very devout) in ashes taken from the dustpan. ’Tis for mortals such as

these that nations suffer, that parties struggle, that warriors fight and

bleed. A year afterwards gallant heads were falling, and Nithsdale in

escape, and Derwentwater on the scaffold; whilst the heedless ingrate, for

whom they risked and lost all, was tippling with his seraglio of

mistresses in his _petite maison_ of Chaillot.

Blushing to be forced to bear such an errand, Esmond had to go to the

prince and warn him that the girl whom his highness was bribing, was John

Lockwood’s sweetheart, an honest resolute man, who had served in six

campaigns, and feared nothing, and who knew that the person, calling

himself Lord Castlewood, was not his young master: and the colonel

besought the prince to consider what the effect of a single man’s jealousy

might be, and to think of other designs he had in hand, more important

than the seduction of a waiting-maid, and the humiliation of a brave man.

Ten times, perhaps, in the course of as many days, Mr. Esmond had to warn

the royal young adventurer of some imprudence or some freedom. He received

these remonstrances very testily, save perhaps in this affair of poor

Lockwood’s, when he deigned to burst out a-laughing, and said, “What! the

_soubrette_ has peached to the _amoureux_, and Crispin is angry, and

Crispin has served, and Crispin has been a corporal, has he? Tell him we

will reward his valour with a pair of colours, and recompense his

fidelity.”

Colonel Esmond ventured to utter some other words of entreaty, but the

prince, stamping imperiously, cried out, “_Assez, milord: je m’ennuye à la

prêche_; I am not come to London to go to the sermon.” And he complained

afterwards to Castlewood, that “_le petit jaune, le noir colonel, le

Marquis Misanthrope_” (by which facetious names his royal highness was

pleased to designate Colonel Esmond), “fatigued him with his grand airs

and virtuous homilies.”

The Bishop of Rochester, and other gentlemen engaged in the transaction

which had brought the prince over, waited upon his royal highness,

constantly asking for my Lord Castlewood on their arrival at Kensington,

and being openly conducted to his royal highness in that character, who

received them either in my lady’s drawing-room below, or above in his own

apartment; and all implored him to quit the house as little as possible,

and to wait there till the signal should be given for him to appear. The

ladies entertained him at cards, over which amusement he spent many hours

in each day and night. He passed many hours more in drinking, during which

time he would rattle and talk very agreeably, and especially if the

colonel was absent, whose presence always seemed to frighten him; and the

poor “_Colonel Noir_” took that hint as a command accordingly, and seldom

intruded his black face upon the convivial hours of this august young

prisoner. Except for those few persons of whom the porter had the list,

Lord Castlewood was denied to all friends of the house who waited on his

lordship. The wound he had received had broke out again from his journey

on horseback, so the world and the domestics were informed. And Doctor

A——,(17) his physician (I shall not mention his name, but he was physician

to the Queen, of the Scots nation, and a man remarkable for his

benevolence as well as his wit), gave orders that he should be kept

perfectly quiet until the wound should heal. With this gentleman, who was

one of the most active and influential of our party, and the others before

spoken of, the whole secret lay; and it was kept with so much

faithfulness, and the story we told so simple and natural, that there was

no likelihood of a discovery except from the imprudence of the prince

himself, and an adventurous levity that we had the greatest difficulty to

control. As for Lady Castlewood, although she scarce spoke a word, ’twas

easy to gather from her demeanour, and one or two hints she dropped, how

deep her mortification was at finding the hero whom she had chosen to

worship all her life (and whose restoration had formed almost the most

sacred part of her prayers), no more than a man, and not a good one. She

thought misfortune might have chastened him; but that instructress had

rather rendered him callous than humble. His devotion, which was quite

real, kept him from no sin he had a mind to. His talk showed good-humour,

gaiety, even wit enough; but there was a levity in his acts and words that

he had brought from among those libertine devotees with whom he had been

bred, and that shocked the simplicity and purity of the English lady,

whose guest he was. Esmond spoke his mind to Beatrix pretty freely about

the prince, getting her brother to put in a word of warning. Beatrix was

entirely of their opinion; she thought he was very light, very light and

reckless; she could not even see the good looks Colonel Esmond had spoken

of. The prince had bad teeth, and a decided squint. How could we say he

did not squint? His eyes were fine, but there was certainly a cast in

them. She rallied him at table with wonderful wit; she spoke of him

invariably as of a mere boy; she was more fond of Esmond than ever,

praised him to her brother, praised him to the prince, when his royal

highness was pleased to sneer at the colonel, and warmly espoused his

cause: “And if your Majesty does not give him the Garter his father had,

when the Marquis of Esmond comes to your Majesty’s Court, I will hang

myself in my own garters, or will cry my eyes out.” “Rather than lose

those,” says the prince, “he shall be made archbishop and colonel of the

Guard” (it was Frank Castlewood who told me of this conversation over

their supper).

“Yes,” cries she, with one of her laughs,—(I fancy I hear it now; thirty

years afterwards I hear that delightful music)—“yes, he shall be

Archbishop of Esmond and Marquis of Canterbury.”

“And what will your ladyship be?” says the prince; “you have but to choose

your place.”

“I,” says Beatrix, “will be mother of the maids to the queen of his

Majesty King James the Third—_Vive le Roy!_” and she made him a great

curtsy, and drank a part of a glass of wine in his honour.

“The prince seized hold of the glass and drank the last drop of it,”

Castlewood said, “and my mother, looking very anxious, rose up and asked

leave to retire. But that ’Trix is my mother’s daughter, Harry,” Frank

continued, “I don’t know what a horrid fear I should have of her. I wish—I

wish this business were over. You are older than I am, and wiser, and

better, and I owe you everything, and would die for you—before George I

would; but I wish the end of this were come.”

Neither of us very likely passed a tranquil night; horrible doubts and

torments racked Esmond’s soul; ’twas a scheme of personal ambition, a

daring stroke for a selfish end—he knew it. What cared he, in his heart,

who was king? Were not his very sympathies and secret convictions on the

other side—on the side of People, Parliament, Freedom? And here was he,

engaged for a prince, that had scarce heard the word “liberty”; that

priests and women, tyrants by nature both, made a tool of. The misanthrope

was in no better humour after hearing that story, and his grim face more

black and yellow than ever.

Chapter X. We Entertain A Very Distinguished Guest At Kensington

Should any clue be found to the dark intrigues at the latter end of Queen

Anne’s time, or any historian be inclined to follow it, ’twill be

discovered, I have little doubt, that not one of the great personages

about the queen had a defined scheme of policy, independent of that

private and selfish interest which each was bent on pursuing; St. John was

for St. John, and Harley for Oxford, and Marlborough for John Churchill,

always; and according as they could get help from St. Germains or Hanover,

they sent over proffers of allegiance to the princes there, or betrayed

one to the other: one cause, or one sovereign, was as good as another to

them, so that they could hold the best place under him; and like Lockit

and Peachem, the Newgate chiefs in the _Rogues’ Opera_ Mr. Gay wrote

afterwards, had each in his hand documents and proofs of treason which

would hang the other, only he did not dare to use the weapon, for fear of

that one which his neighbour also carried in his pocket. Think of the

great Marlborough, the greatest subject in all the world, a conqueror of

princes, that had marched victorious over Germany, Flanders, and France,

that had given the law to sovereigns abroad, and been worshipped as a

divinity at home, forced to sneak out of England—his credit, honours,

places, all taken from him; his friends in the army broke and ruined; and

flying before Harley, as abject and powerless as a poor debtor before a

bailiff with a writ. A paper, of which Harley got possession, and showing

beyond doubt that the duke was engaged with the Stuart family, was the

weapon with which the treasurer drove Marlborough out of the kingdom. He

fled to Antwerp, and began intriguing instantly on the other side, and

came back to England, as all know, a Whig and a Hanoverian.

Though the treasurer turned out of the army and office every man, military

or civil, known to be the duke’s friend, and gave the vacant posts among

the Tory party; he, too, was playing the double game between Hanover and

St. Germains, awaiting the expected catastrophe of the queen’s death to be

master of the state, and offer it to either family that should bribe him

best, or that the nation should declare for. Whichever the king was,

Harley’s object was to reign over him; and to this end he supplanted the

former famous favourite, decried the actions of the war which had made

Marlborough’s name illustrious, and disdained no more than the great

fallen competitor of his, the meanest arts, flatteries, intimidations,

that would secure his power. If the greatest satirist the world ever hath

seen had writ against Harley, and not for him, what a history had he left

behind of the last years of Queen Anne’s reign! But Swift, that scorned

all mankind, and himself not the least of all, had this merit of a

faithful partisan, that he loved those chiefs who treated him well, and

stuck by Harley bravely in his fall, as he gallantly had supported him in

his better fortune.

Incomparably more brilliant, more splendid, eloquent, accomplished, than

his rival, the great St. John could be as selfish as Oxford was, and could

act the double part as skilfully as ambidextrous Churchill. He whose talk

was always of liberty, no more shrunk from using persecution and the

pillory against his opponents, than if he had been at Lisbon and Grand

Inquisitor. This lofty patriot was on his knees at Hanover and St.

Germains too; notoriously of no religion, he toasted Church and queen as

boldly as the stupid Sacheverel, whom he used and laughed at; and to serve

his turn, and to overthrow his enemy, he could intrigue, coax, bully,

wheedle, fawn on the Court favourite, and creep up the back-stair as

silently as Oxford who supplanted Marlborough, and whom he himself

supplanted. The crash of my Lord Oxford happened at this very time whereat

my history is now arrived. He was come to the very last days of his power,

and the agent whom he employed to overthrow the conqueror of Blenheim, was

now engaged to upset the conqueror’s conqueror, and hand over the staff of

government to Bolingbroke, who had been panting to hold it.

In expectation of the stroke that was now preparing, the Irish regiments

in the French service were all brought round about Boulogne in Picardy, to

pass over if need were with the Duke of Berwick; the soldiers of France no

longer, but subjects of James the Third of England and Ireland King. The

fidelity of the great mass of the Scots (though a most active, resolute,

and gallant Whig party, admirably and energetically ordered and

disciplined, was known to be in Scotland too) was notoriously unshaken in

their king. A very great body of Tory clergy, nobility, and gentry, were

public partisans of the exiled prince; and the indifferents might be

counted on to cry King George or King James, according as either should

prevail. The queen, especially in her latter days, inclined towards her

own family. The prince was lying actually in London, within a stone’s-cast

of his sister’s palace; the first minister toppling to his fall, and so

tottering that the weakest push of a woman’s finger would send him down;

and as for Bolingbroke, his successor, we know on whose side his power and

his splendid eloquence would be on the day when the queen should appear

openly before her council and say:—“This, my lords, is my brother; here is

my father’s heir, and mine after me.”

During the whole of the previous year the queen had had many and repeated

fits of sickness, fever, and lethargy, and her death had been constantly

looked for by all her attendants. The Elector of Hanover had wished to

send his son, the Duke of Cambridge—to pay his court to his cousin the

queen, the Elector said;—in truth, to be on the spot when death should

close her career. Frightened perhaps to have such a _memento mori_ under

her royal eyes, her Majesty had angrily forbidden the young prince’s

coming into England. Either she desired to keep the chances for her

brother open yet; or the people about her did not wish to close with the

Whig candidate till they could make terms with him. The quarrels of her

ministers before her face at the Council board, the pricks of conscience

very likely, the importunities of her ministers, and constant turmoil and

agitation round about her, had weakened and irritated the princess

extremely; her strength was giving way under these continual trials of her

temper, and from day to day it was expected she must come to a speedy end

of them. Just before Viscount Castlewood and his companion came from

France, her Majesty was taken ill. The St. Anthony’s fire broke out on the

royal legs; there was no hurry for the presentation of the young lord at

Court, or that person who should appear under his name; and my lord

viscount’s wound breaking out opportunely, he was kept conveniently in his

chamber until such time as his physician should allow him to bend his knee

before the queen. At the commencement of July, that influential lady, with

whom it has been mentioned that our party had relations, came frequently

to visit her young friend, the maid of honour, at Kensington, and my lord

viscount (the real or supposititious), who was an invalid at Lady

Castlewood’s house.

On the 27th day of July, the lady in question, who held the most intimate

post about the queen, came in her chair from the palace hard by, bringing

to the little party in Kensington Square, intelligence of the very highest

importance. The final blow had been struck, and my Lord of Oxford and

Mortimer was no longer treasurer. The staff was as yet given to no

successor, though my Lord Bolingbroke would undoubtedly be the man. And

now the time was come, the queen’s Abigail said: and now my Lord

Castlewood ought to be presented to the sovereign.

After that scene which Lord Castlewood witnessed and described to his

cousin, who passed such a miserable night of mortification and jealousy as

he thought over the transaction; no doubt the three persons who were set

by nature as protectors over Beatrix came to the same conclusion, that she

must be removed from the presence of a man whose desires towards her were

expressed only too clearly; and who was no more scrupulous in seeking to

gratify them than his father had been before him. I suppose Esmond’s

mistress, her son, and the colonel himself, had been all secretly debating

this matter in their minds, for when Frank broke out, in his blunt way,

with:—“I think Beatrix had best be anywhere but here,”—Lady Castlewood

said:—“I thank you, Frank, I have thought so too”; and Mr. Esmond, though

he only remarked that it was not for him to speak, showed plainly, by the

delight on his countenance, how very agreeable that proposal was to him.

“One sees that you think with us, Henry,” says the viscountess, with ever

so little of sarcasm in her tone: “Beatrix is best out of this house

whilst we have our guest in it, and as soon as this morning’s business is

done, she ought to quit London.”

“What morning’s business?” asked Colonel Esmond, not knowing what had been

arranged, though in fact the stroke next in importance to that of bringing

the prince, and of having him acknowledged by the queen, was now being

performed at the very moment we three were conversing together.

The Court-lady with whom our plan was concerted, and who was a chief agent

in it, the Court-physician, and the Bishop of Rochester, who were the

other two most active participators in our plan, had held many councils in

our house at Kensington and elsewhere, as to the means best to be adopted

for presenting our young adventurer to his sister the queen. The simple

and easy plan proposed by Colonel Esmond had been agreed to by all

parties, which was that on some rather private day, when there were not

many persons about the Court, the prince should appear there as my Lord

Castlewood, should be greeted by his sister-in-waiting, and led by that

other lady into the closet of the queen. And according to her Majesty’s

health or humour, and the circumstances that might arise during the

interview; it was to be left to the discretion of those present at it, and

to the prince himself, whether he should declare that it was the queen’s

own brother, or the brother of Beatrix Esmond, who kissed her royal hand.

And this plan being determined on, we were all waiting in very much

anxiety for the day and signal of execution.

Two mornings after that supper, it being the 27th day of July, the Bishop

of Rochester breakfasting with Lady Castlewood and her family, and the

meal scarce over, Dr. A——’s coach drove up to our house at Kensington, and

the doctor appeared amongst the party there, enlivening a rather gloomy

company; for the mother and daughter had had words in the morning in

respect to the transactions of that supper, and other adventures perhaps,

and on the day succeeding. Beatrix’s haughty spirit brooked remonstrances

from no superior, much less from her mother, the gentlest of creatures,

whom the girl commanded rather than obeyed. And feeling she was wrong, and

that by a thousand coquetries (which she could no more help exercising on

every man that came near her, than the sun can help shining on great and

small) she had provoked the prince’s dangerous admiration, and allured him

to the expression of it, she was only the more wilful and imperious the

more she felt her error.

To this party, the prince being served with chocolate in his bedchamber,

where he lay late sleeping away the fumes of his wine, the doctor came,

and by the urgent and startling nature of his news, dissipated instantly

that private and minor unpleasantry under which the family of Castlewood

was labouring.

He asked for the guest; the guest was above in his own apartment: he bade

_Monsieur Baptiste_ go up to his master instantly, and requested that _my

Lord Viscount Castlewood_ would straightway put his uniform on, and come

away in the doctor’s coach now at the door.

He then informed Madam Beatrix what her part of the comedy was to be:—“In

half an hour,” says he, “her Majesty and her favourite lady will take the

air in the cedar-walk behind the new banqueting-house. Her Majesty will be

drawn in a garden-chair, Madam Beatrix Esmond and _her brother_, _my Lord

Viscount Castlewood_, will be walking in the private garden (here is Lady

Masham’s key), and will come unawares upon the royal party. The man that

draws the chair will retire, and leave the queen, the favourite, and the

maid of honour and her brother together; Mrs. Beatrix will present her

brother, and then!—and then, my lord bishop will pray for the result of

the interview, and his Scots clerk will say Amen! Quick, put on your hood,

Madam Beatrix; why doth not his Majesty come down? Such another chance may

not present itself for months again.”

The prince was late and lazy, and indeed had all but lost that chance

through his indolence. The queen was actually about to leave the garden

just when the party reached it; the doctor, the bishop, the maid of honour

and her brother went off together in the physician’s coach, and had been

gone half an hour when Colonel Esmond came to Kensington Square.

The news of this errand, on which Beatrix was gone, of course for a moment

put all thoughts of private jealousy out of Colonel Esmond’s head. In half

an hour more the coach returned; the bishop descended from it first, and

gave his arm to Beatrix, who now came out. His lordship went back into the

carriage again, and the maid of honour entered the house alone. We were

all gazing at her from the upper window, trying to read from her

countenance the result of the interview from which she had just come.

She came into the drawing-room in a great tremor and very pale; she asked

for a glass of water as her mother went to meet her, and after drinking

that and putting off her hood, she began to speak:—“We may all hope for

the best,” says she; “it has cost the queen a fit. Her Majesty was in her

chair in the cedar-walk accompanied only by Lady ——, when we entered by

the private wicket from the west side of the garden, and turned towards

her, the doctor following us. They waited in a side-walk hidden by the

shrubs, as we advanced towards the chair. My heart throbbed so I scarce

could speak; but my prince whispered, ‘Courage, Beatrix’, and marched on

with a steady step. His face was a little flushed, but he was not afraid

of the danger. He who fought so bravely at Malplaquet fears nothing.”

Esmond and Castlewood looked at each other at this compliment, neither

liking the sound of it.

“The prince uncovered,” Beatrix continued, “and I saw the queen turning

round to Lady Masham, as if asking who these two were. Her Majesty looked

very pale and ill, and then flushed up; the favourite made us a signal to

advance, and I went up, leading my prince by the hand, quite close to the

chair: ‘Your Majesty will give my lord viscount your hand to kiss,’ says

her lady, and the queen put out her hand, which the prince kissed,

kneeling on his knee, he who should kneel to no mortal man or woman.

“ ‘You have been long from England, my lord,’ says the queen: ‘why were

you not here to give a home to your mother and sister?’

“ ‘I am come, madam, to stay now, if the queen desires me,’ says the

prince, with another low bow.

“ ‘You have taken a foreign wife, my lord, and a foreign religion; was not

that of England good enough for you?’

“ ‘In returning to my father’s Church,’ says the prince, ‘I do not love my

mother the less, nor am I the less faithful servant of your Majesty.’

“Here,” says Beatrix, “the favourite gave me a little signal with her hand

to fall back, which I did, though I died to hear what should pass; and

whispered something to the queen, which made her Majesty start and utter

one or two words in a hurried manner, looking towards the prince, and

catching hold with her hand of the arm of her chair. He advanced still

nearer towards it; he began to speak very rapidly; I caught the words,

‘Father, blessing, forgiveness,’—and then presently the prince fell on his

knees; took from his breast a paper he had there, handed it to the queen,

who, as soon as she saw it, flung up both her arms with a scream, and took

away that hand nearest the prince, and which he endeavoured to kiss. He

went on speaking with great animation of gesture, now clasping his hands

together on his heart, now opening them as though to say: ‘I am here, your

brother, in your power.’ Lady Masham ran round on the other side of the

chair, kneeling too, and speaking with great energy. She clasped the

queen’s hand on her side, and picked up the paper her Majesty had let

fall. The prince rose and made a further speech as though he would go; the

favourite on the other hand urging her mistress, and then, running back to

the prince, brought him back once more close to the chair. Again he knelt

down and took the queen’s hand, which she did not withdraw, kissing it a

hundred times; my lady all the time, with sobs and supplications, speaking

over the chair. This while the queen sat with a stupefied look, crumpling

the paper with one hand, as my prince embraced the other; then of a sudden

she uttered several piercing shrieks, and burst into a great fit of

hysteric tears and laughter. ‘Enough, enough, sir, for this time,’ I heard

Lady Masham say; and the chairman, who had withdrawn round the

banqueting-room, came back, alarmed by the cries: ‘Quick,’ says Lady

Masham, ‘get some help,’ and I ran towards the doctor, who, with the

Bishop of Rochester, came up instantly. Lady Masham whispered the prince

he might hope for the very best; and to be ready to-morrow; and he hath

gone away to the Bishop of Rochester’s house, to meet several of his

friends there. And so the great stroke is struck,” says Beatrix, going

down on her knees, and clasping her hands, “God save the King: God save

the King!”

Beatrix’s tale told, and the young lady herself calmed somewhat of her

agitation, we asked with regard to the prince, who was absent with Bishop

Atterbury, and were informed that ’twas likely he might remain abroad the

whole day. Beatrix’s three kinsfolk looked at one another at this

intelligence; ’twas clear the same thought was passing through the minds

of all.

But who should begin to break the news? Monsieur Baptiste, that is Frank

Castlewood, turned very red, and looked towards Esmond; the colonel bit

his lips, and fairly beat a retreat into the window: it was Lady

Castlewood that opened upon Beatrix with the news which we knew would do

anything but please her.

“We are glad,” says she, taking her daughter’s hand, and speaking in a

gentle voice, “that the guest is away.”

Beatrix drew back in an instant, looking round her at us three, and as if

divining a danger. “Why glad?” says she, her breast beginning to heave;

“are you so soon tired of him?”

“We think one of us is devilishly too fond of him,” cries out Frank

Castlewood.

“And which is it—you, my lord, or is it mamma, who is jealous because he

drinks my health? or is it the head of the family” (here she turned with

an imperious look towards Colonel Esmond), “who has taken of late to

preach the king sermons?”

“We do not say you are too free with his Majesty.”

“I thank you, madam,” says Beatrix, with a toss of the head and a curtsy.

But her mother continued, with very great calmness and dignity—“At least

we have not said so, though we might, were it possible for a mother to say

such words to her own daughter, your father’s daughter.”

“_Eh! mon père_,” breaks out Beatrix, “was no better than other persons’

fathers;” and again she looked towards the colonel.

We all felt a shock as she uttered those two or three French words; her

manner was exactly imitated from that of our foreign guest.

“You had not learned to speak French a month ago, Beatrix,” says her

mother, sadly, “nor to speak ill of your father.”

Beatrix, no doubt, saw that slip she had made in her flurry, for she

blushed crimson: “I have learnt to honour the king,” says she, drawing up,

“and ’twere as well that others suspected neither his Majesty nor me.”

“If you respected your mother a little more,” Frank said, “’Trix, you

would do yourself no hurt.”

“I am no child,” says she, turning round on him; “we have lived very well

these five years without the benefit of your advice or example, and I

intend to take neither now. Why does not the head of the house speak?” she

went on; “he rules everything here. When his chaplain has done singing the

psalms, will his lordship deliver the sermon? I am tired of the psalms.”

The prince had used almost the very same words, in regard to Colonel

Esmond, that the imprudent girl repeated in her wrath.

“You show yourself a very apt scholar, madam,” says the colonel; and,

turning to his mistress, “Did your guest use these words in your

ladyship’s hearing, or was it to Beatrix in private that he was pleased to

impart his opinion regarding my tiresome sermon?”

“Have you seen him alone?” cries my lord, starting up with an oath: “by

God, have you seen him alone?”

“Were he here, you wouldn’t dare so to insult me; no, you would not dare!”

cries Frank’s sister. “Keep your oaths, my lord, for your wife; we are not

used here to such language. ’Till you came, there used to be kindness

between me and mamma, and I cared for her when you never did, when you

were away for years with your horses, and your mistress, and your Popish

wife.”

“By ——,” says my lord, rapping out another oath, “Clotilda is an angel;

how dare you say a word against Clotilda?”

Colonel Esmond could not refrain from a smile, to see how easy Frank’s

attack was drawn off by that feint:—“I fancy Clotilda is not the subject

in hand,” says Mr. Esmond, rather scornfully; “her ladyship is at Paris, a

hundred leagues off, preparing baby-linen. It is about my Lord

Castlewood’s sister, and not his wife, the question is.”

“He is not my Lord Castlewood,” says Beatrix, “and he knows he is not; he

is Colonel Francis Esmond’s son, and no more, and he wears a false title;

and he lives on another man’s land, and he knows it.” Here was another

desperate sally of the poor beleaguered garrison, and an _alerte_ in

another quarter. “Again, I beg your pardon,” says Esmond. “If there are no

proofs of my claim, I have no claim. If my father acknowledged no heir,

yours was his lawful successor, and my Lord Castlewood hath as good a

right to his rank and small estate as any man in England. But that again

is not the question, as you know very well: let us bring our talk back to

it, as you will have me meddle in it. And I will give you frankly my

opinion, that a house where a prince lies all day, who respects no woman,

is no house for a young unmarried lady; that you were better in the

country than here; that he is here on a great end, from which no folly

should divert him; and that having nobly done your part of this morning,

Beatrix, you should retire off the scene awhile, and leave it to the other

actors of the play.”

As the colonel spoke with a perfect calmness and politeness, such as ’tis

to be hoped he hath always shown to women,(18) his mistress stood by him

on one side of the table, and Frank Castlewood on the other, hemming in

poor Beatrix, that was behind it, and, as it were, surrounding her with

our approaches.

Having twice sallied out and been beaten back, she now, as I expected,

tried the _ultima ratio_ of women, and had recourse to tears. Her

beautiful eyes filled with them; I never could bear in her, nor in any

woman, that expression of pain:—“I am alone,” sobbed she; “you are three

against me—my brother, my mother, and you. What have I done, that you

should speak and look so unkindly at me? Is it my fault that the prince

should, as you say, admire me? Did I bring him here? Did I do aught but

what you bade me, in making him welcome? Did you not tell me that our duty

was to die for him? Did you not teach me, mother, night and morning, to

pray for the king, before even ourselves? What would you have of me,

cousin, for you are the chief of the conspiracy against me; I know you

are, sir, and that my mother and brother are acting but as you bid them;

whither would you have me go?”

“I would but remove from the prince,” says Esmond gravely, “a dangerous

temptation; Heaven forbid I should say you would yield: I would only have

him free of it. Your honour needs no guardian, please God, but his

imprudence doth. He is so far removed from all women by his rank, that his

pursuit of them cannot but be unlawful. We would remove the dearest and

fairest of our family from the chance of that insult, and that is why we

would have you go, dear Beatrix.”

“Harry speaks like a book,” says Frank, with one of his oaths, “and, by

——, every word he saith is true. You can’t help being handsome, ’Trix; no

more can the prince help following you. My council is that you go out of

harm’s way; for, by the Lord, were the prince to play any tricks with you,

king as he is, or is to be, Harry Esmond and I would have justice of him.”

“Are not two such champions enough to guard me?” says Beatrix, something

sorrowfully; “sure, with you two watching, no evil could happen to me.”

“In faith, I think not, Beatrix,” says Colonel Esmond; “nor if the prince

knew us would he try.”

“But does he know you?” interposed Lady Esmond, very quiet: “he comes of a

country where the pursuit of kings is thought no dishonour to a woman. Let

us go, dearest Beatrix. Shall we go to Walcote or to Castlewood? We are

best away from the city; and when the prince is acknowledged, and our

champions have restored him, and he hath his own house at St. James’s or

Windsor, we can come back to ours here. Do you not think so, Harry and

Frank?”

Frank and Harry thought with her, you may be sure.

“We will go, then,” says Beatrix, turning a little pale; “Lady Masham is

to give me warning to-night how her Majesty is, and to-morrow——”

“I think we had best go to-day, my dear,” says my Lady Castlewood; “we

might have the coach and sleep at Hounslow, and reach home to-morrow. ’Tis

twelve o’clock; bid the coach, cousin, be ready at one.”

“For shame!” burst out Beatrix, in a passion of tears and mortification.

“You disgrace me by your cruel precautions; my own mother is the first to

suspect me, and would take me away as my gaoler. I will not go with you,

mother; I will go as no one’s prisoner. If I wanted to deceive, do you

think I could find no means of evading you? My family suspects me. As

those mistrust me that ought to love me most, let me leave them; I will

go, but I will go alone: to Castlewood, be it. I have been unhappy there

and lonely enough; let me go back, but spare me at least the humiliation

of setting a watch over my misery, which is a trial I can’t bear. Let me

go when you will, but alone, or not at all. You three can stay and triumph

over my unhappiness, and I will bear it as I have borne it before. Let my

gaoler-in-chief go order the coach that is to take me away. I thank you,

Henry Esmond, for your share in the conspiracy. All my life long I’ll

thank you, and remember you; and you, brother, and you, mother, how shall

I show my gratitude to you for your careful defence of my honour?”

She swept out of the room with the air of an empress, flinging glances of

defiance at us all, and leaving us conquerors of the field, but scared,

and almost ashamed of our victory. It did indeed seem hard and cruel that

we three should have conspired the banishment and humiliation of that fair

creature. We looked at each other in silence; ’twas not the first stroke

by many of our actions in that unlucky time, which, being done, we wished

undone. We agreed it was best she should go alone, speaking stealthily to

one another, and under our breaths, like persons engaged in an act they

felt ashamed in doing.

In a half-hour, it might be, after our talk she came back, her countenance

wearing the same defiant air which it had borne when she left us. She held

a shagreen-case in her hand; Esmond knew it as containing his diamonds

which he had given to her for her marriage with Duke Hamilton, and which

she had worn so splendidly on the inauspicious night of the prince’s

arrival. “I have brought back,” says she, “to the Marquis of Esmond the

present he deigned to make me in days when he trusted me better than now.

I will never accept a benefit or a kindness from Henry Esmond more, and I

give back these family diamonds, which belonged to one king’s mistress, to

the gentleman that suspected I would be another. Have you been upon your

message of coach-caller, my lord marquis; will you send your valet to see

that I do not run away?” We were right, yet, by her manner, she had put us

all in the wrong; we were conquerors, yet the honours of the day seemed to

be with the poor oppressed girl.

That luckless box containing the stones had first been ornamented with a

baron’s coronet, when Beatrix was engaged to the young gentleman from whom

she parted, and afterwards the gilt crown of a duchess figured on the

cover, which also poor Beatrix was destined never to wear. Lady Castlewood

opened the case mechanically and scarce thinking what she did; and behold,

besides the diamonds, Esmond’s present, there lay in the box the enamelled

miniature of the late duke, which Beatrix had laid aside with her mourning

when the king came into the house; and which the poor heedless thing very

likely had forgotten.

“Do you leave this, too, Beatrix?” says her mother, taking the miniature

out and with a cruelty she did not very often show; but there are some

moments when the tenderest women are cruel, and some triumphs which angels

can’t forgo.(19)

Having delivered this stab, Lady Esmond was frightened at the effect of

her blow. It went to poor Beatrix’s heart; she flushed up and passed a

handkerchief across her eyes, and kissed the miniature, and put it into

her bosom:—“I had forgot it,” says she; “my injury made me forget my

grief, my mother has recalled both to me. Farewell, mother, I think I

never can forgive you; something hath broke between us that no tears nor

years can repair. I always said I was alone; you never loved me, never—and

were jealous of me from the time I sat on my father’s knee. Let me go

away, the sooner the better; I can bear to be with you no more.”

“Go, child,” says her mother, still very stern; “go and bend your proud

knees and ask forgiveness; go, pray in solitude for humility and

repentance. ’Tis not your reproaches that make me unhappy, ’tis your hard

heart, my poor Beatrix; may God soften it, and teach you one day to feel

for your mother!”

If my mistress was cruel, at least she never could be got to own as much.

Her haughtiness quite overtopped Beatrix’s; and, if the girl had a proud

spirit, I very much fear it came to her by inheritance.

Chapter XI. Our Guest Quits Us As Not Being Hospitable Enough

Beatrix’s departure took place within an hour, her maid going with her in

the post-chaise, and a man armed on the coach-box to prevent any danger of

the road. Esmond and Frank thought of escorting the carriage, but she

indignantly refused their company, and another man was sent to follow the

coach, and not to leave it till it had passed over Hounslow Heath on the

next day. And these two forming the whole of Lady Castle wood’s male

domestics, Mr. Esmond’s faithful John Lockwood came to wait on his

mistress during their absence, though he would have preferred to escort

Mrs. Lucy, his sweetheart, on her journey into the country.

We had a gloomy and silent meal; it seemed as if a darkness was over the

house, since the bright face of Beatrix had been withdrawn from it. In the

afternoon came a message from the favourite to relieve us somewhat from

this despondency. “The queen hath been much shaken,” the note said; “she

is better now, and all things will go well. Let _my Lord Castlewood_ be

ready against we send for him.”

At night there came a second billet: “There hath been a great battle in

Council; lord treasurer hath broke his staff, and hath fallen never to

rise again; no successor is appointed. Lord B—— receives a great Whig

company to-night at Golden Square. If he is trimming, others are true; the

queen hath no more fits, but is abed now, and more quiet. Be ready against

morning, when I still hope all will be well.”

The prince came home shortly after the messenger who bore this billet had

left the house. His royal highness was so much the better for the bishop’s

liquor, that to talk affairs to him now was of little service. He was

helped to the royal bed; he called Castlewood familiarly by his own name;

he quite forgot the part upon the acting of which his crown, his safety,

depended. ’Twas lucky that my Lady Castlewood’s servants were out of the

way, and only those heard him who would not betray him. He inquired after

the adorable Beatrix, with a royal hiccup in his voice; he was easily got

to bed, and in a minute or two plunged in that deep slumber and

forgetfulness with which Bacchus rewards the votaries of that god. We

wished Beatrix had been there to see him in his cups. We regretted,

perhaps, that she was gone.

One of the party at Kensington Square was fool enough to ride to Hounslow

that night, _coram latronibus_, and to the inn which the family used

ordinarily in their journeys out of London. Esmond desired my landlord not

to acquaint Madam Beatrix with his coming, and had the grim satisfaction

of passing by the door of the chamber where she lay with her maid, and of

watching her chariot set forth in the early morning. He saw her smile and

slip money into the man’s hand who was ordered to ride behind the coach as

far as Bagshot. The road being open, and the other servant armed, it

appeared she dispensed with the escort of a second domestic; and this

fellow, bidding his young mistress adieu with many bows, went and took a

pot of ale in the kitchen, and returned in company with his brother

servant, John Coachman, and his horses, back to London.

They were not a mile out of Hounslow when the two worthies stopped for

more drink, and here they were scared by seeing Colonel Esmond gallop by

them. The man said in reply to Colonel Esmond’s stern question, that his

young mistress had sent her duty; only that, no other message: she had had

a very good night, and would reach Castlewood by nightfall. The colonel

had no time for further colloquy, and galloped on swiftly to London,

having business of great importance there, as my reader very well knoweth.

The thought of Beatrix riding away from the danger soothed his mind not a

little. His horse was at Kensington Square (honest Dapple knew the way

thither well enough) before the tipsy guest of last night was awake and

sober.

The account of the previous evening was known all over the town early next

day. A violent altercation had taken place before the queen in the

Council-chamber; and all the coffee-houses had their version of the

quarrel. The news brought my lord bishop early to Kensington Square, where

he awaited the waking of his royal master above stairs, and spoke

confidently of having him proclaimed as Prince of Wales and heir to the

throne before that day was over. The bishop had entertained on the

previous afternoon certain of the most influential gentlemen of the true

British party. His royal highness had charmed all, both Scots and English,

Papists and Churchmen: “Even Quakers,” says he, “were at our meeting; and,

if the stranger took a little too much British punch and ale, he will soon

grow more accustomed to those liquors; and my Lord Castlewood,” says the

bishop, with a laugh, “must bear the cruel charge of having been for once

in his life a little tipsy. He toasted your lovely sister a dozen times,

at which we all laughed,” says the bishop, “admiring so much fraternal

affection.—Where is that charming nymph, and why doth she not adorn your

ladyship’s tea-table with her bright eyes?” Her ladyship said, drily, that

Beatrix was not at home that morning; my lord bishop was too busy with

great affairs to trouble himself much about the presence or absence of any

lady, however beautiful.

We were yet at table when Dr. A—— came from the Palace with a look of

great alarm; the shocks the queen had had the day before had acted on her

severely; he had been sent for, and had ordered her to be blooded. The

surgeon of Long Acre had come to cup the queen, and her Majesty was now

more easy and breathed more freely. What made us start at the name of Mr.

Aymé? “_Il faut être aimable pour être aimé_,” says the merry doctor;

Esmond pulled his sleeve, and bade him hush. It was to Aymé’s house, after

his fatal duel, that my dear Lord Castlewood, Frank’s father, had been

carried to die.

No second visit could be paid to the queen on that day at any rate; and

when our guest above gave his signal that he was awake, the doctor, the

bishop, and Colonel Esmond waited upon the prince’s levee, and brought him

their news, cheerful or dubious. The doctor had to go away presently, but

promised to keep the prince constantly acquainted with what was taking

place at the palace hard by. His counsel was, and the bishop’s, that as

soon as ever the queen’s malady took a favourable turn, the prince should

be introduced to her bedside; the Council summoned; the guard at

Kensington and St. James’s, of which two regiments were to be entirely

relied on, and one known not to be hostile, would declare for the prince,

as the queen would before the lords of her Council, designating him as the

heir to her throne.

With locked doors, and Colonel Esmond acting as secretary, the prince and

his lordship of Rochester passed many hours of this day composing

Proclamations and Addresses to the Country, to the Scots, to the Clergy,

to the People of London and England; announcing the arrival of the exile

descendant of three sovereigns, and his acknowledgement by his sister as

heir to the throne. Every safeguard for their liberties the Church and

People could ask was promised to them. The bishop could answer for the

adhesion of very many prelates, who besought of their flocks and brother

ecclesiastics to recognize the sacred right of the future sovereign, and

to purge the country of the sin of rebellion.

During the composition of these papers, more messengers than one came from

the Palace regarding the state of the august patient there lying. At

midday she was somewhat better; at evening the torpor again seized her,

and she wandered in her mind. At night Dr. A—— was with us again, with a

report rather more favourable: no instant danger at any rate was

apprehended. In the course of the last two years her Majesty had had many

attacks similar, but more severe.

By this time we had finished a half-dozen of Proclamations (the wording of

them so as to offend no parties, and not to give umbrage to Whigs or

Dissenters, required very great caution), and the young prince, who had

indeed shown, during a long day’s labour, both alacrity at seizing the

information given him, and ingenuity and skill in turning the phrases

which were to go out signed by his name, here exhibited a good humour and

thoughtfulness that ought to be set down to his credit.

“Were these papers to be mislaid,” says he, “or our scheme to come to

mishap, my Lord Esmond’s writing would bring him to a place where I

heartily hope never to see him; and so, by your leave, I will copy the

papers myself, though I am not very strong in spelling; and if they are

found they will implicate none but the person they most concern;” and so,

having carefully copied the Proclamations out, the prince burned those in

Colonel Esmond’s handwriting: “And now, and now, gentlemen,” says he, “let

us go to supper, and drink a glass with the ladies. My Lord Esmond, you

will sup with us to-night; you have given us of late too little of your

company.”

The prince’s meals were commonly served in the chamber which had been

Beatrix’s bedroom, adjoining that in which he slept. And the dutiful

practice of his entertainers was to wait until their royal guest bade them

take their places at table before they sat down to partake of the meal. On

this night, as you may suppose, only Frank Castlewood and his mother were

in waiting when the supper was announced to receive the prince; who had

passed the whole of the day in his own apartment, with the bishop as his

minister of state, and Colonel Esmond officiating as secretary of his

Council.

The prince’s countenance wore an expression by no means pleasant; when

looking towards the little company assembled, and waiting for him, he did

not see Beatrix’s bright face there as usual to greet him. He asked Lady

Esmond for his fair introducer of yesterday: her ladyship only cast her

eyes down, and said quietly, Beatrix could not be of the supper that

night; nor did she show the least sign of confusion, whereas Castlewood

turned red, and Esmond was no less embarrassed. I think women have an

instinct of dissimulation; they know by nature how to disguise their

emotions far better than the most consummate male courtiers can do. Is not

the better part of the life of many of them spent in hiding their

feelings, in cajoling their tyrants, in masking over with fond smiles and

artful gaiety their doubt, or their grief, or their terror?

Our guest swallowed his supper very sulky; it was not till the second

bottle his highness began to rally. When Lady Castlewood asked leave to

depart, he sent a message to Beatrix, hoping she would be present at the

next day’s dinner, and applied himself to drink, and to talk afterwards,

for which there was subject in plenty.

The next day, we heard from our informer at Kensington that the queen was

somewhat better, and had been up for an hour, though she was not well

enough yet to receive any visitor.

At dinner a single cover was laid for his royal highness; and the two

gentlemen alone waited on him. We had had a consultation in the morning

with Lady Castlewood, in which it had been determined that, should his

highness ask further questions about Beatrix, he should be answered by the

gentlemen of the house.

He was evidently disturbed and uneasy, looking towards the door

constantly, as if expecting some one. There came, however, nobody, except

honest John Lockwood, when he knocked with a dish, which those within took

from him; so the meals were always arranged, and I believe the council in

the kitchen were of opinion that my young lord had brought over a priest,

who had converted us all into Papists, and that Papists were like Jews,

eating together, and not choosing to take their meals in the sight of

Christians.

The prince tried to cover his displeasure; he was but a clumsy dissembler

at that time, and when out of humour could with difficulty keep a serene

countenance; and having made some foolish attempts at trivial talk, he

came to his point presently, and in as easy a manner as he could, saying

to Lord Castlewood, he hoped, he requested, his lordship’s mother and

sister would be of the supper that night. As the time hung heavy on him,

and he must not go abroad, would not Miss Beatrix hold him company at a

game of cards?

At this, looking up at Esmond, and taking the signal from him, Lord

Castlewood informed his royal highness(20) that his sister Beatrix was not

at Kensington; and that her family had thought it best she should quit the

town.

“Not at Kensington!” says he; “is she ill? she was well yesterday;

wherefore should she quit the town? Is it at your orders, my lord, or

Colonel Esmond’s, who seems the master of this house?”

“Not of this, sir,” says Frank very nobly, “only of our house in the

country, which he hath given to us. This is my mother’s house, and Walcote

is my father’s, and the Marquis of Esmond knows he hath but to give his

word, and I return his to him.”

“The Marquis of Esmond!—the Marquis of Esmond,” says the prince, tossing

off a glass, “meddles too much with my affairs, and presumes on the

service he hath done me. If you want to carry your suit with Beatrix, my

lord, by blocking her up in gaol, let me tell you that is not the way to

win a woman.”

“I was not aware, sir, that I had spoken of my suit to Madam Beatrix to

your royal highness.”

“Bah, bah, monsieur! we need not be a conjurer to see that. It makes

itself seen at all moments. You are jealous, my lord, and the maid of

honour cannot look at another face without yours beginning to scowl. That

which you do is unworthy, monsieur; is inhospitable—is, is _lâche_, yes

_lâche_:” (he spoke rapidly in French, his rage carrying him away with

each phrase:) “I come to your house; I risk my life; I pass it in ennui; I

repose myself on your fidelity; I have no company but your lordship’s

sermons or the conversations of that adorable young lady, and you take her

from me; and you, you rest! _Merci, monsieur!_ I shall thank you when I

have the means; I shall know to recompense a devotion a little

importunate, my lord—a little importunate. For a month past your airs of

protector have annoyed me beyond measure. You deign to offer me the crown,

and bid me take it on my knees like King John—eh! I know my history,

monsieur, and mock myself of frowning barons. I admire your mistress, and

you send her to a Bastile of the Province; I enter your house, and you

mistrust me. I will leave it, monsieur; from to-night I will leave it. I

have other friends whose loyalty will not be so ready to question mine. If

I have Garters to give away, ’tis to noblemen who are not so ready to

think evil. Bring me a coach and let me quit this place, or let the fair

Beatrix return to it. I will not have your hospitality at the expense of

the freedom of that fair creature.”

This harangue was uttered with rapid gesticulations such as the French

use, and in the language of that nation. The prince striding up and down

the room; his face flushed, and his hands trembling with anger. He was

very thin and frail from repeated illness and a life of pleasure. Either

Castlewood or Esmond could have broke him across their knee, and in half a

minute’s struggle put an end to him; and here he was insulting us both,

and scarce deigning to hide from the two, whose honour it most concerned,

the passion he felt for the young lady of our family. My Lord Castlewood

replied to the prince’s tirade very nobly and simply.

“Sir,” says he, “your royal highness is pleased to forget that others risk

their lives, and for your cause. Very few Englishmen, please God, would

dare to lay hands on your sacred person, though none would ever think of

respecting ours. Our family’s lives are at your service, and everything we

have except our honour.”

“Honour! bah, sir, who ever thought of hurting your honour?” says the

prince, with a peevish air.

“We implore your royal highness never to think of hurting it,” says Lord

Castlewood, with a low bow. The night being warm, the windows were open

both towards the gardens and the square. Colonel Esmond heard through the

closed door the voice of the watchman calling the hour, in the square on

the other side. He opened the door communicating with the prince’s room;

Martin, the servant that had rode with Beatrix to Hounslow, was just going

out of the chamber as Esmond entered it, and when the fellow was gone, and

the watchman again sang his cry of “Past ten o’clock, and a starlight

night,” Esmond spoke to the prince in a low voice, and said—“Your royal

highness hears that man?”

“_Après, monsieur?_” says the prince.

“I have but to beckon him from the window, and send him fifty yards, and

he returns with a guard of men, and I deliver up to him the body of the

person calling himself James the Third, for whose capture Parliament hath

offered a reward of 5,000_l._, as your royal highness saw on our ride from

Rochester. I have but to say the word, and, by the Heaven that made me, I

would say it if I thought the prince, for his honour’s sake, would not

desist from insulting ours. But the first gentleman of England knows his

duty too well to forget himself with the humblest, or peril his crown for

a deed that were shameful if it were done.”

“Has your lordship anything to say,” says the prince, turning to Frank

Castlewood, and quite pale with anger; “any threat or any insult, with

which you would like to end this agreeable night’s entertainment?”

“I follow the head of our house,” says Castlewood, bowing gravely. “At

what time shall it please the prince that we should wait upon him in the

morning?”

“You will wait on the Bishop of Rochester early, you will bid him bring

his coach hither; and prepare an apartment for me in his own house, or in

a place of safety. The king will reward you handsomely, never fear, for

all you have done in his behalf. I wish you a good night, and shall go to

bed, unless it pleases the Marquis of Esmond to call his colleague, the

watchman, and that I should pass the night with the Kensington guard. Fare

you well, be sure I will remember you. My Lord Castlewood, I can go to bed

to-night without need of a chamberlain.” And the prince dismissed us with

a grim bow, locking one door as he spoke, that into the supping-room, and

the other through which we passed, after us. It led into the small chamber

which Frank Castlewood or _Monsieur Baptiste_ occupied, and by which

Martin entered when Colonel Esmond but now saw him in the chamber.

At an early hour next morning the bishop arrived, and was closeted for

some time with his master in his own apartment, where the prince laid open

to his counsellor the wrongs which, according to his version, he had

received from the gentlemen of the Esmond family. The worthy prelate came

out from the conference with an air of great satisfaction; he was a man

full of resources, and of a most assured fidelity, and possessed of

genius, and a hundred good qualities; but captious and of a most jealous

temper, that could not help exulting at the downfall of any favourite; and

he was pleased in spite of himself to hear that the Esmond ministry was at

an end.

“I have soothed your guest,” says he, coming out to the two gentlemen and

the widow, who had been made acquainted with somewhat of the dispute of

the night before. (By the version we gave her, the prince was only made to

exhibit anger because we doubted of his intentions in respect to Beatrix;

and to leave us, because we questioned his honour.) “But I think, all

things considered, ’tis as well he should leave this house; and then, my

Lady Castlewood,” says the bishop, “my pretty Beatrix may come back to

it.”

“She is quite as well at home at Castlewood,” Esmond’s mistress said,

“till everything is over.”

“You shall have your title, Esmond, that I promise you,” says the good

bishop, assuming the airs of a prime minister. “The prince hath expressed

himself most nobly in regard of the little difference of last night, and I

promise you he hath listened to my sermon, as well as to that of other

folks,” says the doctor archly; “he hath every great and generous quality,

with perhaps a weakness for the sex which belongs to his family, and hath

been known in scores of popular sovereigns from King David downwards.”

“My lord, my lord,” breaks out Lady Esmond, “the levity with which you

speak of such conduct towards our sex shocks me, and what you call

weakness I call deplorable sin.”

“Sin it is, my dear creature,” says the bishop, with a shrug, taking

snuff; “but consider what a sinner King Solomon was, and in spite of a

thousand of wives too.”

“Enough of this, my lord,” says Lady Castlewood, with a fine blush, and

walked out of the room very stately.

The prince entered it presently with a smile on his face, and if he felt

any offence against us on the previous night, at present exhibited none.

He offered a hand to each gentleman with great courtesy. “If all your

bishops preach so well as Dr. Atterbury,” says he, “I don’t know,

gentlemen, what may happen to me. I spoke very hastily, my lords, last

night, and ask pardon of both of you. But I must not stay any longer,”

says he, “giving umbrage to good friends, or keeping pretty girls away

from their homes. My lord bishop hath found a safe place for me, hard by

at a curate’s house, whom the bishop can trust, and whose wife is so ugly

as to be beyond all danger; we will decamp into those new quarters, and I

leave you, thanking you for a hundred kindnesses here. Where is my

hostess, that I may bid her farewell? to welcome her in a house of my own,

soon I trust, where my friends shall have no cause to quarrel with me.”

Lady Castlewood arrived presently, blushing with great grace, and tears

filling her eyes as the prince graciously saluted her. She looked so

charming and young, that the doctor, in his bantering way, could not help

speaking of her beauty to the prince; whose compliment made her blush, and

look more charming still.

Chapter XII. A Great Scheme, And Who Balked It

As characters written with a secret ink come out with the application of

fire, and disappear again and leave the paper white, so soon as it is

cool, a hundred names of men, high in repute and favouring the prince’s

cause, that were writ in our private lists, would have been visible enough

on the great roll of the conspiracy, had it ever been laid open under the

sun. What crowds would have pressed forward, and subscribed their names

and protested their loyalty, when the danger was over! What a number of

Whigs, now high in place and creatures of the all-powerful minister,

scorned Mr. Walpole then! If ever a match was gained by the manliness and

decision of a few at a moment of danger; if ever one was lost by the

treachery and imbecility of those that had the cards in their hands, and

might have played them, it was in that momentous game which was enacted in

the next three days, and of which the noblest crown in the world was the

stake.

From the conduct of my Lord Bolingbroke, those who were interested in the

scheme we had in hand, saw pretty well that he was not to be trusted.

Should the prince prevail, it was his lordship’s gracious intention to

declare for him: should the Hanoverian party bring in their sovereign, who

more ready to go on his knee, and cry “God save King George”? And he

betrayed the one prince and the other; but exactly at the wrong time. When

he should have struck for King James, he faltered and coquetted with the

Whigs; and having committed himself by the most monstrous professions of

devotion, which the Elector rightly scorned, he proved the justness of

their contempt for him by flying and taking renegado service with St.

Germains, just when he should have kept aloof: and that Court despised

him, as the manly and resolute men who established the Elector in England

had before done. He signed his own name to every accusation of insincerity

his enemies made against him; and the king and the pretender alike could

show proofs of St. John’s treachery under his own hand and seal.

Our friends kept a pretty close watch upon his motions, as on those of the

brave and hearty Whig party, that made little concealment of theirs. They

would have in the Elector, and used every means in their power to effect

their end. My Lord Marlborough was now with them. His expulsion from power

by the Tories had thrown that great captain at once on the Whig side. We

heard he was coming from Antwerp; and in fact, on the day of the queen’s

death, he once more landed on English shore. A great part of the army was

always with their illustrious leader; even the Tories in it were indignant

at the injustice of the persecution which the Whig officers were made to

undergo. The chiefs of these were in London, and at the head of them one

of the most intrepid men in the world, the Scots Duke of Argyle, whose

conduct, on the second day after that to which I have now brought down my

history, ended, as such honesty and bravery deserved to end, by

establishing the present royal race on the English throne.