CHAPTER XV.

GENERAL WEBB WINS THE BATTLE OF WYNENDAEL.

By the besiegers and besieged of Lille, some of the most brilliant feats

of valor were performed that ever illustrated any war. On the French

side (whose gallantry was prodigious, the skill and bravery of Marshal

Boufflers actually eclipsing those of his conqueror, the Prince of

Savoy) may be mentioned that daring action of Messieurs de Luxembourg

and Tournefort, who, with a body of horse and dragoons, carried powder

into the town, of which the besieged were in extreme want, each soldier

bringing a bag with forty pounds of powder behind him; with which

perilous provision they engaged our own horse, faced the fire of the

foot brought out to meet them: and though half of the men were blown up

in the dreadful errand they rode on, a part of them got into the town

with the succors of which the garrison was so much in want. A French

officer, Monsieur du Bois, performed an act equally daring, and

perfectly successful. The Duke's great army lying at Helchin, and

covering the siege, and it being necessary for M. de Vendosme to get

news of the condition of the place, Captain Dubois performed his famous

exploit: not only passing through the lines of the siege, but swimming

afterwards no less than seven moats and ditches: and coming back the

same way, swimming with his letters in his mouth.

By these letters Monsieur de Boufflers said that he could undertake

to hold the place till October; and that if one of the convoys of the

Allies could be intercepted, they must raise the siege altogether.

Such a convoy as hath been said was now prepared at Ostend, and about to

march for the siege; and on the 27th September we (and the French

too) had news that it was on its way. It was composed of 700 wagons,

containing ammunition of all sorts, and was escorted out of Ostend by

2,000 infantry and 300 horse. At the same time M. de la Mothe quitted

Bruges, having with him five-and-thirty battalions, and upwards of sixty

squadrons and forty guns, in pursuit of the convoy.

Major-General Webb had meanwhile made up a force of twenty battalions

and three squadrons of dragoons at Turout, whence he moved to cover the

convoy and pursue La Mothe: with whose advanced guard ours came up upon

the great plain of Turout, and before the little wood and castle of

Wynendael; behind which the convoy was marching.

As soon as they came in sight of the enemy, our advanced troops were

halted, with the wood behind them, and the rest of our force brought up

as quickly as possible, our little body of horse being brought forward

to the opening of the plain, as our General said, to amuse the enemy.

When M. de la Mothe came up, he found us posted in two lines in front of

the wood; and formed his own army in battle facing ours, in eight lines,

four of infantry in front, and dragoons and cavalry behind.

The French began the action, as usual, with a cannonade which lasted

three hours, when they made their attack, advancing in eight lines, four

of foot and four of horse, upon the allied troops in the wood where we

were posted. Their infantry behaved ill; they were ordered to charge

with the bayonet, but, instead, began to fire, and almost at the very

first discharge from our men, broke and fled. The cavalry behaved

better; with these alone, who were three or four times as numerous as

our whole force, Monsieur de la Mothe might have won victory: but only

two of our battalions were shaken in the least; and these speedily

rallied: nor could the repeated attacks of the French horse cause our

troops to budge an inch from the position in the wood in which our

General had placed them.

After attacking for two hours, the French retired at nightfall entirely

foiled. With all the loss we had inflicted upon him, the enemy was still

three times stronger than we: and it could not be supposed that our

General could pursue M. de la Mothe, or do much more than hold our

ground about the wood, from which the Frenchman had in vain attempted

to dislodge us. La Mothe retired behind his forty guns, his cavalry

protecting them better than it had been enabled to annoy us; and

meanwhile the convoy, which was of more importance than all our little

force, and the safe passage of which we would have dropped to the last

man to accomplish, marched away in perfect safety during the action, and

joyfully reached the besieging camp before Lille.

Major-General Cadogan, my Lord Duke's Quarter-Master-General, (and

between whom and Mr. Webb there was no love lost), accompanied the

convoy, and joined Mr. Webb with a couple of hundred horse just as the

battle was over, and the enemy in full retreat. He offered, readily

enough, to charge with his horse upon the French as they fell back; but

his force was too weak to inflict any damage upon them; and Mr. Webb,

commanding as Cadogan's senior, thought enough was done in holding

our ground before an enemy that might still have overwhelmed us had we

engaged him in the open territory, and in securing the safe passage of

the convoy. Accordingly, the horse brought up by Cadogan did not draw

a sword; and only prevented, by the good countenance they showed, any

disposition the French might have had to renew the attack on us. And no

attack coming, at nightfall General Cadogan drew off with his squadron,

being bound for head-quarters, the two Generals at parting grimly

saluting each other.

“He will be at Roncq time enough to lick my Lord Duke's trenchers at

supper,” says Mr. Webb.

Our own men lay out in the woods of Wynendael that night, and our

General had his supper in the little castle there.

“If I was Cadogan, I would have a peerage for this day's work,” General

Webb said; “and, Harry, thou shouldst have a regiment. Thou hast been

reported in the last two actions: thou wert near killed in the first. I

shall mention thee in my despatch to his Grace the Commander-in-Chief,

and recommend thee to poor Dick Harwood's vacant majority. Have you ever

a hundred guineas to give Cardonnel? Slip them into his hand to-morrow,

when you go to head-quarters with my report.”

In this report the Major-General was good enough to mention Captain

Esmond's name with particular favor; and that gentleman carried the

despatch to head-quarters the next day, and was not a little pleased

to bring back a letter by his Grace's secretary, addressed to

Lieutenant-General Webb. The Dutch officer despatched by Count Nassau

Woudenbourg, Vaelt-Mareschal Auverquerque's son, brought back also a

complimentary letter to his commander, who had seconded Mr. Webb in the

action with great valor and skill.

Esmond, with a low bow and a smiling face, presented his despatch, and

saluted Mr. Webb as Lieutenant-General, as he gave it in. The gentlemen

round about him--he was riding with his suite on the road to Menin as

Esmond came up with him--gave a cheer, and he thanked them, and opened

the despatch with rather a flushed, eager face.

He slapped it down on his boot in a rage after he had read it. “'Tis not

even writ with his own hand. Read it out, Esmond.” And Esmond read it

out:--

“SIR,--Mr. Cadogan is just now come in, and has acquainted me with the

success of the action you had yesterday in the afternoon against the

body of troops commanded by M. de la Mothe, at Wynendael, which must be

attributed chiefly to your good conduct and resolution. You may be sure

I shall do you justice at home, and be glad on all occasions to own the

service you have done in securing this convoy.--Yours, &c., M.”

“Two lines by that d--d Cardonnel, and no more, for the taking of

Lille--for beating five times our number--for an action as brilliant

as the best he ever fought,” says poor Mr. Webb. “Lieutenant-General!

That's not his doing. I was the oldest major-general. By ----, I believe

he had been better pleased if I had been beat.”

The letter to the Dutch officer was in French, and longer and more

complimentary than that to Mr. Webb.

“And this is the man,” he broke out, “that's gorged with gold--that's

covered with titles and honors that we won for him--and that grudges

even a line of praise to a comrade in arms! Hasn't he enough? Don't

we fight that he may roll in riches? Well, well, wait for the Gazette,

gentlemen. The Queen and the country will do us justice if his Grace

denies it us.” There were tears of rage in the brave warrior's eyes as

he spoke; and he dashed them off his face on to his glove. He shook his

fist in the air. “Oh, by the Lord!” says he, “I know what I had rather

have than a peerage!”

“And what is that, sir?” some of them asked.

“I had rather have a quarter of an hour with John Churchill, on a fair

green field, and only a pair of rapiers between my shirt and his--”

“Sir!” interposes one.

“Tell him so! I know that's what you mean. I know every word goes to him

that's dropped from every general officer's mouth. I don't say he's not

brave. Curse him! he's brave enough; but we'll wait for the Gazette,

gentlemen. God save her Majesty! she'll do us justice.”

The Gazette did not come to us till a month afterwards; when my General

and his officers had the honor to dine with Prince Eugene in Lille; his

Highness being good enough to say that we had brought the provisions,

and ought to share in the banquet. 'Twas a great banquet. His Grace of

Marlborough was on his Highness's right, and on his left the Mareschal

de Boufflers, who had so bravely defended the place. The chief officers

of either army were present; and you may be sure Esmond's General was

splendid this day: his tall noble person, and manly beauty of face, made

him remarkable anywhere; he wore, for the first time, the star of the

Order of Generosity, that his Prussian Majesty had sent to him for

his victory. His Highness the Prince of Savoy called a toast to the

conqueror of Wynendael. My Lord Duke drank it with rather a sickly

smile. The aides-de-camp were present: and Harry Esmond and his dear

young lord were together, as they always strove to be when duty would

permit: they were over against the table where the generals were, and

could see all that passed pretty well. Frank laughed at my Lord Duke's

glum face: the affair of Wynendael, and the Captain-General's conduct to

Webb, had been the talk of the whole army. When his Highness spoke, and

gave--“Le vainqueur de Wynendael; son armee et sa victoire,” adding,

“qui nous font diner a Lille aujourd'huy”--there was a great cheer

through the hall; for Mr. Webb's bravery, generosity, and very

weaknesses of character caused him to be beloved in the army.

“Like Hector, handsome, and like Paris, brave!” whispers Frank

Castlewood. “A Venus, an elderly Venus, couldn't refuse him a pippin.

Stand up, Harry. See, we are drinking the army of Wynendael. Ramillies

is nothing to it. Huzzay! huzzay!”

At this very time, and just after our General had made his

acknowledgment, some one brought in an English Gazette--and was passing

it from hand to hand down the table. Officers were eager enough to read

it; mothers and sisters at home must have sickened over it. There scarce

came out a Gazette for six years that did not tell of some heroic death

or some brilliant achievement.

“Here it is--Action of Wynendael--here you are, General,” says Frank,

seizing hold of the little dingy paper that soldiers love to read so;

and, scrambling over from our bench, he went to where the General

sat, who knew him, and had seen many a time at his table his laughing,

handsome face, which everybody loved who saw. The generals in their

great perukes made way for him. He handed the paper over General Dohna's

buff-coat to our General on the opposite side.

He came hobbling back, and blushing at his feat: “I thought he'd like

it, Harry,” the young fellow whispered. “Didn't I like to read my name

after Ramillies, in the London Gazette?--Viscount Castlewood serving a

volunteer--I say, what's yonder?”

Mr. Webb, reading the Gazette, looked very strange--slapped it down

on the table--then sprang up in his place, and began to--“Will your

Highness please to--”

His Grace the Duke of Marlborough here jumped up too--“There's some

mistake, my dear General Webb.”

“Your Grace had better rectify it,” says Mr. Webb, holding out the

letter; but he was five off his Grace the Prince Duke, who, besides,

was higher than the General (being seated with the Prince of Savoy,

the Electoral Prince of Hanover, and the envoys of Prussia and Denmark,

under a baldaquin), and Webb could not reach him, tall as he was.

“Stay,” says he, with a smile, as if catching at some idea, and then,

with a perfect courtesy, drawing his sword, he ran the Gazette through

with the point, and said, “Permit me to hand it to your Grace.”

The Duke looked very black. “Take it,” says he, to his Master of the

Horse, who was waiting behind him.

The Lieutenant-General made a very low bow, and retired and finished his

glass. The Gazette in which Mr. Cardonnel, the Duke's secretary, gave an

account of the victory of Wynendael, mentioned Mr. Webb's name, but gave

the sole praise and conduct of the action to the Duke's favorite, Mr.

Cadogan.

There was no little talk and excitement occasioned by this strange

behavior of General Webb, who had almost drawn a sword upon the

Commander-in-Chief; but the General, after the first outbreak of

his anger, mastered it outwardly altogether; and, by his

subsequent behavior, had the satisfaction of even more angering the

Commander-in-Chief, than he could have done by any public exhibition of

resentment.

On returning to his quarters, and consulting with his chief adviser, Mr.

Esmond, who was now entirely in the General's confidence, and treated by

him as a friend, and almost a son, Mr. Webb writ a letter to his Grace

the Commander-in-Chief, in which he said:--

“Your Grace must be aware that the sudden perusal of the London

Gazette, in which your Grace's secretary, Mr. Cardonnel, hath mentioned

Major-General Cadogan's name as the officer commanding in the late

action of Wynendael, must have caused a feeling of anything but pleasure

to the General who fought that action.

“Your Grace must be aware that Mr. Cadogan was not even present at the

battle, though he arrived with squadrons of horse at its close, and put

himself under the command of his superior officer. And as the result of

the battle of Wynendael, in which Lieutenant-General Webb had the good

fortune to command, was the capture of Lille, the relief of Brussels,

then invested by the enemy under the Elector of Bavaria, the restoration

of the great cities of Ghent and Bruges, of which the enemy (by treason

within the walls) had got possession in the previous year, Mr. Webb

cannot consent to forego the honors of such a success and service, for

the benefit of Mr. Cadogan, or any other person.

“As soon as the military operations of the year are over,

Lieutenant-General Webb will request permission to leave the army, and

return to his place in Parliament, where he gives notice to his Grace

the Commander-in Chief, that he shall lay his case before the House of

Commons, the country, and her Majesty the Queen.

“By his eagerness to rectify that false statement of the Gazette, which

had been written by his Grace's secretary, Mr. Cardonnel, Mr. Webb, not

being able to reach his Grace the Commander-in-Chief on account of the

gentlemen seated between them, placed the paper containing the false

statement on his sword, so that it might more readily arrive in the

hands of his Grace the Duke of Marlborough, who surely would wish to do

justice to every officer of his army.

“Mr. Webb knows his duty too well to think of insubordination to his

superior officer, or of using his sword in a campaign against any but

the enemies of her Majesty. He solicits permission to return to England

immediately the military duties will permit, and take with him to

England Captain Esmond, of his regiment, who acted as his aide-de-camp,

and was present during the entire action, and noted by his watch the

time when Mr. Cadogan arrived at its close.”

The Commander-in-Chief could not but grant this permission, nor could

he take notice of Webb's letter, though it was couched in terms the most

insulting. Half the army believed that the cities of Ghent and Bruges

were given up by a treason, which some in our army very well understood;

that the Commander-in-Chief would not have relieved Lille if he could

have helped himself; that he would not have fought that year had not the

Prince of Savoy forced him. When the battle once began, then, for his

own renown, my Lord Marlborough would fight as no man in the world ever

fought better; and no bribe on earth could keep him from beating the

enemy.*

* Our Grandfather's hatred of the Duke of Marlborough

appears all through his account of these campaigns. He

always persisted that the Duke was the greatest traitor and

soldier history ever told of: and declared that he took

bribes on all hands during the war. My Lord Marquis (for so

we may call him here, though he never went by any other name

than Colonel Esmond) was in the habit of telling many

stories which he did not set down in his memoirs, and which

he had from his friend the Jesuit, who was not always

correctly informed, and who persisted that Marlborough was

looking for a bribe of two millions of crowns before the

campaign of Ramillies.

And our Grandmother used to tell us children, that on his

first presentation to my Lord duke, the Duke turned his back

upon my Grandfather; and said to the Duchess, who told my

lady dowager at Chelsey, who afterwards told Colonel Esmond

--“Tom Esmond's bastard has been to my levee: he has the

hang-dog look of his rogue of a father”--an expression which

my Grandfather never forgave. He was as constant in his

dislikes as in his attachments; and exceedingly partial to

Webb, whose side he took against the more celebrated

general. We have General Webb's portrait now at Castlewood,

Va.

But the matter was taken up by the subordinates; and half the army might

have been by the ears, if the quarrel had not been stopped. General

Cadogan sent an intimation to General Webb to say that he was ready if

Webb liked, and would meet him. This was a kind of invitation our

stout old general was always too ready to accept, and 'twas with great

difficulty we got the General to reply that he had no quarrel with Mr.

Cadogan, who had behaved with perfect gallantry, but only with those at

head-quarters, who had belied him. Mr. Cardonnel offered General Webb

reparation; Mr. Webb said he had a cane at the service of Mr. Cardonnel,

and the only satisfaction he wanted from him was one he was not likely

to get, namely, the truth. The officers in our staff of Webb's, and

those in the immediate suite of the General, were ready to come to

blows; and hence arose the only affair in which Mr. Esmond ever engaged

as principal, and that was from a revengeful wish to wipe off an old

injury.

My Lord Mohun, who had a troop in Lord Macclesfield's regiment of the

Horse Guards, rode this campaign with the Duke. He had sunk by this time

to the very worst reputation; he had had another fatal duel in Spain; he

had married, and forsaken his wife; he was a gambler, a profligate, and

debauchee. He joined just before Oudenarde; and, as Esmond feared, as

soon as Frank Castlewood heard of his arrival, Frank was for seeking him

out, and killing him. The wound my lord got at Oudenarde prevented their

meeting, but that was nearly healed, and Mr. Esmond trembled daily lest

any chance should bring his boy and this known assassin together. They

met at the mess-table of Handyside's regiment at Lille; the officer

commanding not knowing of the feud between the two noblemen.

Esmond had not seen the hateful handsome face of Mohun for nine years,

since they had met on that fatal night in Leicester Field. It was

degraded with crime and passion now; it wore the anxious look of a man

who has three deaths, and who knows how many hidden shames, and lusts,

and crimes on his conscience. He bowed with a sickly low bow, and slunk

away when our host presented us round to one another. Frank Castlewood

had not known him till then, so changed was he. He knew the boy well

enough.

'Twas curious to look at the two--especially the young man, whose face

flushed up when he heard the hated name of the other; and who said in

his bad French and his brave boyish voice--“He had long been anxious to

meet my Lord Mohun.” The other only bowed, and moved away from him. I do

him justice, he wished to have no quarrel with the lad.

Esmond put himself between them at table. “D--- it,” says Frank, “why

do you put yourself in the place of a man who is above you in degree? My

Lord Mohun should walk after me. I want to sit by my Lord Mohun.”

Esmond whispered to Lord Mohun, that Frank was hurt in the leg at

Oudenarde; and besought the other to be quiet. Quiet enough he was for

some time; disregarding the many taunts which young Castlewood flung at

him, until after several healths, when my Lord Mohun got to be rather in

liquor.

“Will you go away, my lord?” Mr. Esmond said to him, imploring him to

quit the table.

“No, by G--,” says my Lord Mohun. “I'll not go away for any man;” he was

quite flushed with wine by this time.

The talk got round to the affairs of yesterday. Webb had offered to

challenge the Commander-in-Chief: Webb had been ill-used: Webb was the

bravest, handsomest, vainest man in the army. Lord Mohun did not know

that Esmond was Webb's aide-de-camp. He began to tell some stories

against the General; which, from t'other side of Esmond, young

Castlewood contradicted.

“I can't bear any more of this,” says my Lord Mohun.

“Nor can I, my lord,” says Mr. Esmond, starting up. “The story my Lord

Mohun has told respecting General Webb is false, gentlemen--false, I

repeat,” and making a low bow to Lord Mohun, and without a single word

more, Esmond got up and left the dining-room. These affairs were common

enough among the military of those days. There was a garden behind

the house, and all the party turned instantly into it; and the two

gentlemen's coats were off and their points engaged within two minutes

after Esmond's words had been spoken. If Captain Esmond had put Mohun

out of the world, as he might, a villain would have been punished

and spared further villanies--but who is one man to punish another? I

declare upon my honor that my only thought was to prevent Lord Mohun

from mischief with Frank, and the end of this meeting was, that after

half a dozen passes my lord went home with a hurt which prevented him

from lifting his right arm for three months.

“Oh, Harry! why didn't you kill the villain?” young Castlewood asked. “I

can't walk without a crutch: but I could have met him on horseback with

sword and pistol.” But Harry Esmond said, “'Twas best to have no man's

life on one's conscience, not even that villain's.” And this affair,

which did not occupy three minutes, being over, the gentlemen went back

to their wine, and my Lord Mohun to his quarters, where he was laid up

with a fever which had spared mischief had it proved fatal. And very

soon after this affair Harry Esmond and his General left the camp for

London; whither a certain reputation had preceded the Captain, for my

Lady Castlewood of Chelsey received him as if he had been a conquering

hero. She gave a great dinner to Mr. Webb, where the General's chair

was crowned with laurels; and her ladyship called Esmond's health in

a toast, to which my kind General was graciously pleased to bear the

strongest testimony: and took down a mob of at least forty coaches to

cheer our General as he came out of the House of Commons, the day when

he received the thanks of Parliament for his action. The mob huzza'd and

applauded him, as well as the fine company: it was splendid to see

him waving his hat, and bowing, and laying his hand upon his Order

of Generosity. He introduced Mr. Esmond to Mr. St. John and the Right

Honorable Robert Harley, Esquire, as he came out of the House walking

between them; and was pleased to make many flattering observations

regarding Mr. Esmond's behavior during the three last campaigns.

Mr. St. John (who had the most winning presence of any man I ever saw,

excepting always my peerless young Frank Castlewood) said he had heard

of Mr. Esmond before from Captain Steele, and how he had helped Mr.

Addison to write his famous poem of the “Campaign.”

“'Twas as great an achievement as the victory of Blenheim itself,” Mr.

Harley said, who was famous as a judge and patron of letters, and

so, perhaps, it may be--though for my part I think there are twenty

beautiful lines, but all the rest is commonplace, and Mr. Addison's hymn

worth a thousand such poems.

All the town was indignant at my Lord Duke's unjust treatment of General

Webb, and applauded the vote of thanks which the House of Commons gave

to the General for his victory at Wynendael. 'Tis certain that the

capture of Lille was the consequence of that lucky achievement, and the

humiliation of the old French King, who was said to suffer more at

the loss of this great city, than from any of the former victories

our troops had won over him. And, I think, no small part of Mr. Webb's

exultation at his victory arose from the idea that Marlborough had been

disappointed of a great bribe the French King had promised him, should

the siege be raised. The very sum of money offered to him was mentioned

by the Duke's enemies; and honest Mr. Webb chuckled at the notion,

not only of beating the French, but of beating Marlborough too, and

intercepting a convoy of three millions of French crowns, that were on

their way to the Generalissimo's insatiable pockets. When the General's

lady went to the Queen's drawing-room, all the Tory women crowded round

her with congratulations, and made her a train greater than the Duchess

of Marlborough's own. Feasts were given to the General by all the chiefs

of the Tory party, who vaunted him as the Duke's equal in military

skill; and perhaps used the worthy soldier as their instrument, whilst

he thought they were but acknowledging his merits as a commander. As the

General's aide-de-camp and favorite officer, Mr. Esmond came in for a

share of his chief's popularity, and was presented to her Majesty,

and advanced to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel, at the request of his

grateful chief.

We may be sure there was one family in which any good fortune that

happened to Esmond caused such a sincere pride and pleasure, that he,

for his part, was thankful he could make them so happy. With these fond

friends, Blenheim and Oudenarde seemed to be mere trifling incidents of

the war; and Wynendael was its crowning victory. Esmond's mistress never

tired to hear accounts of the battle; and I think General Webb's lady

grew jealous of her, for the General was for ever at Kensington, and

talking on that delightful theme. As for his aide-de-camp, though, no

doubt, Esmond's own natural vanity was pleased at the little share

of reputation which his good fortune had won him, yet it was chiefly

precious to him (he may say so, now that he hath long since outlived

it,) because it pleased his mistress, and, above all, because Beatrix

valued it.

As for the old Dowager of Chelsey, never was an old woman in all England

more delighted nor more gracious than she. Esmond had his quarters in

her ladyship's house, where the domestics were instructed to consider

him as their master. She bade him give entertainments, of which she

defrayed the charges, and was charmed when his guests were carried away

tipsy in their coaches. She must have his picture taken; and accordingly

he was painted by Mr. Jervas, in his red coat, and smiling upon a

bomb-shell, which was bursting at the corner of the piece. She vowed

that unless he made a great match, she should never die easy, and was

for ever bringing young ladies to Chelsey, with pretty faces and pretty

fortunes, at the disposal of the Colonel. He smiled to think how times

were altered with him, and of the early days in his father's lifetime,

when a trembling page he stood before her, with her ladyship's basin and

ewer, or crouched in her coach-step. The only fault she found with

him was, that he was more sober than an Esmond ought to be; and would

neither be carried to bed by his valet, nor lose his heart to any

beauty, whether of St. James's or Covent Garden.

What is the meaning of fidelity in love, and whence the birth of it?

'Tis a state of mind that men fall into, and depending on the man rather

than the woman. We love being in love, that's the truth on't. If we

had not met Joan, we should have met Kate, and adored her. We know our

mistresses are no better than many other women, nor no prettier, nor no

wiser, nor no wittier. 'Tis not for these reasons we love a woman, or

for any special quality or charm I know of; we might as well demand that

a lady should be the tallest woman in the world, like the Shropshire

giantess,* as that she should be a paragon in any other character,

before we began to love her. Esmond's mistress had a thousand faults

beside her charms; he knew both perfectly well! She was imperious, she

was light-minded, she was flighty, she was false, she had no reverence

in her character; she was in everything, even in beauty, the contrast

of her mother, who was the most devoted and the least selfish of women.

Well, from the very first moment he saw her on the stairs at Walcote,

Esmond knew he loved Beatrix. There might be better women--he wanted

that one. He cared for none other. Was it because she was gloriously

beautiful? Beautiful as she was, he had heard people say a score of

times in their company that Beatrix's mother looked as young, and was

the handsomer of the two. Why did her voice thrill in his ear so? She

could not sing near so well as Nicolini or Mrs. Tofts; nay, she sang out

of tune, and yet he liked to hear her better than St. Cecilia. She had

not a finer complexion than Mrs. Steele, (Dick's wife, whom he had now

got, and who ruled poor Dick with a rod of pickle,) and yet to see her

dazzled Esmond; he would shut his eyes, and the thought of her dazzled

him all the same. She was brilliant and lively in talk, but not so

incomparably witty as her mother, who, when she was cheerful, said the

finest things; but yet to hear her, and to be with her, was Esmond's

greatest pleasure. Days passed away between him and these ladies, he

scarce knew how. He poured his heart out to them, so as he never could

in any other company, where he hath generally passed for being moody, or

supercilious and silent. This society** was more delightful than that

of the greatest wits to him. May heaven pardon him the lies he told

the Dowager at Chelsey, in order to get a pretext for going away

to Kensington: the business at the Ordnance which he invented; the

interview with his General, the courts and statesmen's levees which

he DIDN'T frequent and describe; who wore a new suit on Sunday at St.

James's or at the Queen's birthday; how many coaches filled the street

at Mr. Harley's levee; how many bottles he had had the honor to drink

over-night with Mr. St. John at the “Cocoa-Tree,” or at the “Garter”

with Mr. Walpole and Mr. Steele.

* 'Tis not thus WOMAN LOVES: Col. E. hath owned to this

folly for a SCORE OF WOMEN besides.--R.

** And, indeed, so was his to them, a thousand thousand

times more charming, for where was his equal?--R.

Mistress Beatrix Esmond had been a dozen times on the point of making

great matches, so the Court scandal said; but for his part Esmond never

would believe the stories against her; and came back, after three years'

absence from her, not so frantic as he had been perhaps, but still

hungering after her and no other; still hopeful, still kneeling, with

his heart in his hand for the young lady to take. We were now got to

1709. She was near twenty-two years old, and three years at Court, and

without a husband.

“'Tis not for want of being asked,” Lady Castlewood said, looking into

Esmond's heart, as she could, with that perceptiveness affection gives.

“But she will make no mean match, Harry: she will not marry as I would

have her; the person whom I should like to call my son, and Henry Esmond

knows who that is, is best served by my not pressing his claim. Beatrix

is so wilful, that what I would urge on her, she would be sure to

resist. The man who would marry her, will not be happy with her, unless

he be a great person, and can put her in a great position. Beatrix loves

admiration more than love; and longs, beyond all things, for command.

Why should a mother speak so of her child? You are my son, too, Harry.

You should know the truth about your sister. I thought you might cure

yourself of your passion,” my lady added, fondly. “Other people can

cure themselves of that folly, you know. But I see you are still as

infatuated as ever. When we read your name in the Gazette, I pleaded

for you, my poor boy. Poor boy, indeed! You are growing a grave old

gentleman, now, and I am an old woman. She likes your fame well

enough, and she likes your person. She says you have wit, and fire,

and good-breeding, and are more natural than the fine gentlemen of the

Court. But this is not enough. She wants a commander-in-chief, and not

a colonel. Were a duke to ask her, she would leave an earl whom she

had promised. I told you so before. I know not how my poor girl is so

worldly.”

“Well,” says Esmond, “a man can but give his best and his all. She has

that from me. What little reputation I have won, I swear I cared for it

because I thought Beatrix would be pleased with it. What care I to be a

colonel or a general? Think you 'twill matter a few score years hence,

what our foolish honors to-day are? I would have had a little fame, that

she might wear it in her hat. If I had anything better, I would endow

her with it. If she wants my life, I would give it her. If she marries

another, I will say God bless him. I make no boast, nor no complaint. I

think my fidelity is folly, perhaps. But so it is. I cannot help myself.

I love her. You are a thousand times better: the fondest, the fairest,

the dearest of women. Sure, my dear lady, I see all Beatrix's faults as

well as you do. But she is my fate. 'Tis endurable. I shall not die

for not having her. I think I should be no happier if I won her. Que

voulez-vous? as my Lady of Chelsey would say. Je l'aime.”

“I wish she would have you,” said Harry's fond mistress, giving a hand

to him. He kissed the fair hand ['twas the prettiest dimpled little hand

in the world, and my Lady Castlewood, though now almost forty years old,

did not look to be within ten years of her age). He kissed and kept her

fair hand, as they talked together.

“Why,” says he, “should she hear me? She knows what I would say. Far or

near, she knows I'm her slave. I have sold myself for nothing, it may

be. Well, 'tis the price I choose to take. I am worth nothing, or I am

worth all.”

“You are such a treasure,” Esmond's mistress was pleased to say, “that

the woman who has your love, shouldn't change it away against a kingdom,

I think. I am a country-bred woman, and cannot say but the ambitions of

the town seem mean to me. I never was awe-stricken by my Lady Duchess's

rank and finery, or afraid,” she added, with a sly laugh, “of anything

but her temper. I hear of Court ladies who pine because her Majesty

looks cold on them; and great noblemen who would give a limb that

they might wear a garter on the other. This worldliness, which I can't

comprehend, was born with Beatrix, who, on the first day of her waiting,

was a perfect courtier. We are like sisters, and she the eldest sister,

somehow. She tells me I have a mean spirit. I laugh, and say she adores

a coach-and-six. I cannot reason her out of her ambition. 'Tis natural

to her, as to me to love quiet, and be indifferent about rank and

riches. What are they, Harry? and for how long do they last? Our home

is not here.” She smiled as she spoke, and looked like an angel that was

only on earth on a visit. “Our home is where the just are, and where our

sins and sorrows enter not. My father used to rebuke me, and say that

I was too hopeful about heaven. But I cannot help my nature, and grow

obstinate as I grow to be an old woman; and as I love my children so,

sure our Father loves us with a thousand and a thousand times greater

love. It must be that we shall meet yonder, and be happy. Yes, you--and

my children, and my dear lord. Do you know, Harry, since his death, it

has always seemed to me as if his love came back to me, and that we are

parted no more. Perhaps he is here now, Harry--I think he is. Forgiven

I am sure he is: even Mr. Atterbury absolved him, and he died forgiving.

Oh, what a noble heart he had! How generous he was! I was but fifteen

and a child when he married me. How good he was to stoop to me! He was

always good to the poor and humble.” She stopped, then presently, with a

peculiar expression, as if her eyes were looking into heaven, and saw

my lord there, she smiled, and gave a little laugh. “I laugh to see you,

sir,” she says; “when you come, it seems as if you never were away.” One

may put her words down, and remember them, but how describe her sweet

tones, sweeter than music!

My young lord did not come home at the end of the campaign, and wrote

that he was kept at Bruxelles on military duty. Indeed, I believe he

was engaged in laying siege to a certain lady, who was of the suite of

Madame de Soissons, the Prince of Savoy's mother, who was just dead, and

who, like the Flemish fortresses, was taken and retaken a great

number of times during the war, and occupied by French, English, and

Imperialists. Of course, Mr. Esmond did not think fit to enlighten Lady

Castlewood regarding the young scapegrace's doings: nor had he said a

word about the affair with Lord Mohun, knowing how abhorrent that man's

name was to his mistress. Frank did not waste much time or money on pen

and ink; and, when Harry came home with his General, only writ two lines

to his mother, to say his wound in the leg was almost healed, that he

would keep his coming of age next year--that the duty aforesaid would

keep him at Bruxelles, and that Cousin Harry would tell all the news.

But from Bruxelles, knowing how the Lady Castlewood always liked to have

a letter about the famous 29th of December, my lord writ her a long and

full one, and in this he must have described the affair with Mohun; for

when Mr. Esmond came to visit his mistress one day, early in the new

year, to his great wonderment, she and her daughter both came up and

saluted him, and after them the Dowager of Chelsey, too, whose chairman

had just brought her ladyship from her village to Kensington across the

fields. After this honor, I say, from the two ladies of Castlewood, the

Dowager came forward in great state, with her grand tall head-dress of

King James's reign, that, she never forsook, and said, “Cousin Henry,

all our family have met; and we thank you, cousin, for your noble

conduct towards the head of our house.” And pointing to her blushing

cheek, she made Mr. Esmond aware that he was to enjoy the rapture of an

embrace there. Having saluted one cheek, she turned to him the other.

“Cousin Harry,” said both the other ladies, in a little chorus, “we

thank you for your noble conduct;” and then Harry became aware that the

story of the Lille affair had come to his kinswomen's ears. It pleased

him to hear them all saluting him as one of their family.

The tables of the dining-room were laid for a great entertainment; and

the ladies were in gala dresses--my Lady of Chelsey in her highest tour,

my Lady Viscountess out of black, and looking fair and happy a ravir;

and the Maid of Honor attired with that splendor which naturally

distinguished her, and wearing on her beautiful breast the French

officer's star which Frank had sent home after Ramillies.

“You see, 'tis a gala day with us,” says she, glancing down to the star

complacently, “and we have our orders on. Does not mamma look charming?

'Twas I dressed her!” Indeed, Esmond's dear mistress, blushing as

he looked at her, with her beautiful fair hair, and an elegant dress

according to the mode, appeared to have the shape and complexion of a

girl of twenty.

On the table was a fine sword, with a red velvet scabbard, and a

beautiful chased silver handle, with a blue ribbon for a sword-knot.

“What is this?” says the Captain, going up to look at this pretty piece.

Mrs. Beatrix advanced towards it. “Kneel down,” says she: “we dub you

our knight with this”--and she waved the sword over his head. “My Lady

Dowager hath given the sword; and I give the ribbon, and mamma hath sewn

on the fringe.”

“Put the sword on him, Beatrix,” says her mother. “You are our knight,

Harry--our true knight. Take a mother's thanks and prayers for defending

her son, my dear, dear friend.” She could say no more, and even the

Dowager was affected, for a couple of rebellious tears made sad marks

down those wrinkled old roses which Esmond had just been allowed to

salute.

“We had a letter from dearest Frank,” his mother said, “three days

since, whilst you were on your visit to your friend Captain Steele, at

Hampton. He told us all that you had done, and how nobly you had put

yourself between him and that--that wretch.”

“And I adopt you from this day,” says the Dowager, “and I wish I was

richer, for your sake, son Esmond,” she added with a wave of her hand;

and as Mr. Esmond dutifully went down on his knee before her ladyship,

she cast her eyes up to the ceiling, (the gilt chandelier, and the

twelve wax-candles in it, for the party was numerous,) and invoked a

blessing from that quarter upon the newly adopted son.

“Dear Frank,” says the other viscountess, “how fond he is of his

military profession! He is studying fortification very hard. I wish he

were here. We shall keep his coming of age at Castlewood next year.”

“If the campaign permit us,” says Mr. Esmond.

“I am never afraid when he is with you,” cries the boy's mother. “I am

sure my Henry will always defend him.”

“But there will be a peace before next year; we know it for certain,”

cries the Maid of Honor. “Lord Marlborough will be dismissed, and that

horrible duchess turned out of all her places. Her Majesty won't speak

to her now. Did you see her at Bushy, Harry? She is furious, and she

ranges about the park like a lioness, and tears people's eyes out.”

“And the Princess Anne will send for somebody,” says my Lady of Chelsey,

taking out her medal and kissing it.

“Did you see the King at Oudenarde, Harry?” his mistress asked. She was

a staunch Jacobite, and would no more have thought of denying her king

than her God.

“I saw the young Hanoverian only,” Harry said. “The Chevalier de St.

George--”

“The King, sir, the King!” said the ladies and Miss Beatrix; and she

clapped her pretty hands, and cried, “Vive le Roy.”

By this time there came a thundering knock, that drove in the doors of

the house almost. It was three o'clock, and the company were arriving;

and presently the servant announced Captain Steele and his lady.

Captain and Mrs. Steele, who were the first to arrive, had driven to

Kensington from their country-house, the Hovel at Hampton Wick. “Not

from our mansion in Bloomsbury Square,” as Mrs. Steele took care to

inform the ladies. Indeed Harry had ridden away from Hampton that very

morning, leaving the couple by the ears; for from the chamber where

he lay, in a bed that was none of the cleanest, and kept awake by the

company which he had in his own bed, and the quarrel which was going

on in the next room, he could hear both night and morning the curtain

lecture which Mrs. Steele was in the habit of administering to poor

Dick.

At night it did not matter so much for the culprit; Dick was fuddled,

and when in that way no scolding could interrupt his benevolence. Mr.

Esmond could hear him coaxing and speaking in that maudlin manner, which

punch and claret produce, to his beloved Prue, and beseeching her to

remember that there was a distiwisht officer ithe rex roob, who would

overhear her. She went on, nevertheless, calling him a drunken wretch,

and was only interrupted in her harangues by the Captain's snoring.

In the morning, the unhappy victim awoke to a headache, and

consciousness, and the dialogue of the night was resumed. “Why do you

bring captains home to dinner when there's not a guinea in the house?

How am I to give dinners when you leave me without a shilling? How am

I to go traipsing to Kensington in my yellow satin sack before all the

fine company? I've nothing fit to put on; I never have:” and so the

dispute went on--Mr. Esmond interrupting the talk when it seemed to be

growing too intimate by blowing his nose as loudly as ever he could,

at the sound of which trumpet there came a lull. But Dick was charming,

though his wife was odious, and 'twas to give Mr. Steele pleasure, that

the ladies of Castlewood, who were ladies of no small fashion, invited

Mrs. Steele.

Besides the Captain and his lady, there was a great and notable

assemblage of company: my Lady of Chelsey having sent her lackeys

and liveries to aid the modest attendance at Kensington. There was

Lieutenant-General Webb, Harry's kind patron, of whom the Dowager

took possession, and who resplended in velvet and gold lace; there was

Harry's new acquaintance, the Right Honorable Henry St. John, Esquire,

the General's kinsman, who was charmed with the Lady Castlewood, even

more than with her daughter; there was one of the greatest noblemen in

the kingdom, the Scots Duke of Hamilton, just created Duke of Brandon

in England; and two other noble lords of the Tory party, my Lord

Ashburnham, and another I have forgot; and for ladies, her Grace the

Duchess of Ormonde and her daughters, the Lady Mary and the Lady Betty,

the former one of Mistress Beatrix's colleagues in waiting on the Queen.

“What a party of Tories!” whispered Captain Steele to Esmond, as we were

assembled in the parlor before dinner. Indeed, all the company present,

save Steele, were of that faction.

Mr. St. John made his special compliments to Mrs. Steele, and so charmed

her that she declared she would have Steele a Tory too.

“Or will you have me a Whig?” says Mr. St. John. “I think, madam, you

could convert a man to anything.”

“If Mr. St. John ever comes to Bloomsbury Square I will teach him what

I know,” says Mrs. Steele, dropping her handsome eyes. “Do you know

Bloomsbury Square?”

“Do I know the Mall? Do I know the Opera? Do I know the reigning toast?

Why, Bloomsbury is the very height of the mode,” says Mr. St. John.

“'Tis rus in urbe. You have gardens all the way to Hampstead, and

palaces round about you--Southampton House and Montague House.”

“Where you wretches go and fight duels,” cries Mrs. Steele.

“Of which the ladies are the cause!” says her entertainer. “Madam, is

Dick a good swordsman? How charming the 'Tatler' is! We all recognized

your portrait in the 49th number, and I have been dying to know you

ever since I read it. 'Aspasia must be allowed to be the first of

the beauteous order of love.' Doth not the passage run so? 'In this

accomplished lady love is the constant effect, though it is never the

design; yet though her mien carries much more invitation than command,

to behold her is an immediate check to loose behavior, and to love her

is a liberal education.'”

“Oh, indeed!” says Mrs. Steele, who did not seem to understand a word of

what the gentleman was saying.

“Who could fail to be accomplished under such a mistress?” says Mr. St.

John, still gallant and bowing.

“Mistress! upon my word, sir!” cries the lady. “If you mean me, sir, I

would have you know that I am the Captain's wife.”

“Sure we all know it,” answers Mr. St. John, keeping his countenance

very gravely; and Steele broke in saying, “'Twas not about Mrs. Steele I

writ that paper--though I am sure she is worthy of any compliment I can

pay her--but of the Lady Elizabeth Hastings.”

“I hear Mr. Addison is equally famous as a wit and a poet,” says Mr.

St. John. “Is it true that his hand is to be found in your 'Tatler,' Mr.

Steele?”

“Whether 'tis the sublime or the humorous, no man can come near him,”

cries Steele.

“A fig, Dick, for your Mr. Addison!” cries out his lady: “a gentleman

who gives himself such airs and holds his head so high now. I hope your

ladyship thinks as I do: I can't bear those very fair men with white

eyelashes--a black man for me.” (All the black men at table applauded,

and made Mrs. Steele a bow for this compliment.) “As for this Mr.

Addison,” she went on, “he comes to dine with the Captain sometimes,

never says a word to me, and then they walk up stairs both tipsy, to a

dish of tea. I remember your Mr. Addison when he had but one coat to his

back, and that with a patch at the elbow.”

“Indeed--a patch at the elbow! You interest me,” says Mr. St. John.

“'Tis charming to hear of one man of letters from the charming wife of

another.”

“La, I could tell you ever so much about 'em,” continues the voluble

lady. “What do you think the Captain has got now?--a little hunchback

fellow--a little hop-o'-my-thumb creature that he calls a poet--a little

Popish brat!”

“Hush, there are two in the room,” whispers her companion.

“Well, I call him Popish because his name is Pope,” says the lady.

“'Tis only my joking way. And this little dwarf of a fellow has wrote a

pastoral poem--all about shepherds and shepherdesses, you know.”

“A shepherd should have a little crook,” says my mistress, laughing from

her end of the table: on which Mrs. Steele said, “She did not know, but

the Captain brought home this queer little creature when she was in bed

with her first boy, and it was a mercy he had come no sooner; and Dick

raved about his genus, and was always raving about some nonsense or

other.”

“Which of the 'Tatlers' do you prefer, Mrs. Steele?” asked Mr. St. John.

“I never read but one, and think it all a pack of rubbish, sir,” says

the lady. “Such stuff about Bickerstaffe, and Distaff, and Quarterstaff,

as it all is! There's the Captain going on still with the Burgundy--I

know he'll be tipsy before he stops--Captain Steele!”

“I drink to your eyes, my dear,” says the Captain, who seemed to think

his wife charming, and to receive as genuine all the satiric compliments

which Mr. St. John paid her.

All this while the Maid of Honor had been trying to get Mr. Esmond to

talk, and no doubt voted him a dull fellow. For, by some mistake, just

as he was going to pop into the vacant place, he was placed far away

from Beatrix's chair, who sat between his Grace and my Lord Ashburnham,

and shrugged her lovely white shoulders, and cast a look as if to say,

“Pity me,” to her cousin. My Lord Duke and his young neighbor were

presently in a very animated and close conversation. Mrs. Beatrix could

no more help using her eyes than the sun can help shining, and setting

those it shines on a-burning. By the time the first course was done the

dinner seemed long to Esmond; by the time the soup came he fancied they

must have been hours at table: and as for the sweets and jellies he

thought they never would be done.

At length the ladies rose, Beatrix throwing a Parthian glance at her

duke as she retreated; a fresh bottle and glasses were fetched, and

toasts were called. Mr. St. John asked his Grace the Duke of Hamilton

and the company to drink to the health of his Grace the Duke of Brandon.

Another lord gave General Webb's health, “and may he get the command the

bravest officer in the world deserves.” Mr. Webb thanked the company,

complimented his aide-de-camp, and fought his famous battle over again.

“Il est fatiguant,” whispers Mr. St. John, “avec sa trompette de

Wynendael.”

Captain Steele, who was not of our side, loyally gave the health of the

Duke of Marlborough, the greatest general of the age.

“I drink to the greatest general with all my heart,” says Mr. Webb;

“there can be no gainsaying that character of him. My glass goes to the

General, and not to the Duke, Mr. Steele.” And the stout old gentleman

emptied his bumper; to which Dick replied by filling and emptying a pair

of brimmers, one for the General and one for the Duke.

And now his Grace of Hamilton, rising up with flashing eyes (we had all

been drinking pretty freely), proposed a toast to the lovely, to the

incomparable Mrs. Beatrix Esmond; we all drank it with cheers, and my

Lord Ashburnham especially, with a shout of enthusiasm.

“What a pity there is a Duchess of Hamilton,” whispers St. John, who

drank more wine and yet was more steady than most of the others, and we

entered the drawing-room where the ladies were at their tea. As for poor

Dick, we were obliged to leave him alone at the dining-table, where he

was hiccupping out the lines from the “Campaign,” in which the greatest

poet had celebrated the greatest general in the world; and Harry Esmond

found him, half an hour afterwards, in a more advanced stage of liquor,

and weeping about the treachery of Tom Boxer.

The drawing-room was all dark to poor Harry, in spite of the grand

illumination. Beatrix scarce spoke to him. When my Lord Duke went away,

she practised upon the next in rank, and plied my young Lord Ashburnham

with all the fire of her eyes and the fascinations of her wit. Most of

the party were set to cards, and Mr. St. John, after yawning in the face

of Mrs. Steele, whom he did not care to pursue any more; and talking in

his most brilliant animated way to Lady Castlewood, whom he pronounced

to be beautiful, of a far higher order of beauty than her daughter,

presently took his leave, and went his way. The rest of the company

speedily followed, my Lord Ashburnham the last, throwing fiery glances

at the smiling young temptress, who had bewitched more hearts than his

in her thrall.

No doubt, as a kinsman of the house, Mr. Esmond thought fit to be the

last of all in it; he remained after the coaches had rolled away--after

his dowager aunt's chair and flambeaux had marched off in the darkness

towards Chelsey, and the town's people had gone to bed, who had been

drawn into the square to gape at the unusual assemblage of chairs and

chariots, lackeys, and torchmen. The poor mean wretch lingered yet for

a few minutes, to see whether the girl would vouchsafe him a smile, or a

parting word of consolation. But her enthusiasm of the morning was quite

died out, or she chose to be in a different mood. She fell to joking

about the dowdy appearance of Lady Betty, and mimicked the vulgarity

of Mrs. Steele; and then she put up her little hand to her mouth and

yawned, lighted a taper, and shrugged her shoulders, and dropping Mr.

Esmond a saucy curtsy, sailed off to bed.

“The day began so well, Henry, that I hoped it might have ended better,”

was all the consolation that poor Esmond's fond mistress could give him;

and as he trudged home through the dark alone, he thought with bitter

rage in his heart, and a feeling of almost revolt against the sacrifice

he had made:--“She would have me,” thought he, “had I but a name to

give her. But for my promise to her father, I might have my rank and my

mistress too.”

I suppose a man's vanity is stronger than any other passion in him; for

I blush, even now, as I recall the humiliation of those distant days,

the memory of which still smarts, though the fever of balked desire

has passed away more than a score of years ago. When the writer's

descendants come to read this memoir, I wonder will they have lived to

experience a similar defeat and shame? Will they ever have knelt to a

woman who has listened to them, and played with them, and laughed with

them--who beckoning them with lures and caresses, and with Yes smiling

from her eyes, has tricked them on to their knees, and turned her

back and left them. All this shame Mr. Esmond had to undergo; and he

submitted, and revolted, and presently came crouching back for more.

After this feste, my young Lord Ashburnham's coach was for ever rolling

in and out of Kensington Square; his lady-mother came to visit Esmond's

mistress, and at every assembly in the town, wherever the Maid of Honor

made her appearance, you might be pretty sure to see the young gentleman

in a new suit every week, and decked out in all the finery that his

tailor or embroiderer could furnish for him. My lord was for ever paying

Mr. Esmond compliments: bidding him to dinner, offering him horses to

ride, and giving him a thousand uncouth marks of respect and

good-will. At last, one night at the coffee-house, whither my lord came

considerably flushed and excited with drink, he rushes up to Mr. Esmond,

and cries out--“Give me joy, my dearest Colonel; I am the happiest of

men.”

“The happiest of men needs no dearest colonel to give him joy,” says Mr.

Esmond. “What is the cause of this supreme felicity?”

“Haven't you heard?” says he. “Don't you know? I thought the family told

you everything: the adorable Beatrix hath promised to be mine.”

“What!” cries out Mr. Esmond, who had spent happy hours with Beatrix

that very morning--had writ verses for her, that she had sung at the

harpsichord.

“Yes,” says he; “I waited on her to-day. I saw you walking towards

Knightsbridge as I passed in my coach; and she looked so lovely,

and spoke so kind, that I couldn't help going down on my knees,

and--and--sure I am the happiest of men in all the world; and I'm very

young; but she says I shall get older: and you know I shall be of age in

four months; and there's very little difference between us; and I'm so

happy. I should like to treat the company to something. Let us have a

bottle--a dozen bottles--and drink the health of the finest woman in

England.”

Esmond left the young lord tossing off bumper after bumper, and strolled

away to Kensington to ask whether the news was true. 'Twas only too

sure: his mistress's sad, compassionate face told him the story; and

then she related what particulars of it she knew, and how my young lord

had made his offer, half an hour after Esmond went away that morning,

and in the very room where the song lay yet on the harpsichord, which

Esmond had writ, and they had sung together.

BOOK III.

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

CHAPTER I.

I COME TO AN END OF MY BATTLES AND BRUISES.

That feverish desire to gain a little reputation which Esmond had had,

left him now perhaps that he had attained some portion of his wish, and

the great motive of his ambition was over. His desire for military honor

was that it might raise him in Beatrix's eyes. 'Twas next to nobility

and wealth, the only kind of rank she valued. It was the stake quickest

won or lost too; for law is a very long game that requires a life to

practise; and to be distinguished in letters or the Church would not

have forwarded the poor gentleman's plans in the least. So he had no

suit to play but the red one, and he played it; and this, in truth, was

the reason of his speedy promotion; for he exposed himself more than

most gentlemen do, and risked more to win more. Is he the only man that

hath set his life against a stake which may be not worth the winning?

Another risks his life (and his honor, too, sometimes,) against a bundle

of bank-notes, or a yard of blue ribbon, or a seat in Parliament; and

some for the mere pleasure and excitement of the sport; as a field of a

hundred huntsmen will do, each out-bawling and out-galloping the other

at the tail of a dirty fox, that is to be the prize of the foremost

happy conqueror.

When he heard this news of Beatrix's engagement in marriage, Colonel

Esmond knocked under to his fate, and resolved to surrender his sword,

that could win him nothing now he cared for; and in this dismal frame of

mind he determined to retire from the regiment, to the great delight of

the captain next in rank to him, who happened to be a young gentleman

of good fortune, who eagerly paid Mr. Esmond a thousand guineas for

his majority in Webb's regiment, and was knocked on the head the next

campaign. Perhaps Esmond would not have been sorry to share his fate. He

was more the Knight of the Woful Countenance than ever he had been. His

moodiness must have made him perfectly odious to his friends under the

tents, who like a jolly fellow, and laugh at a melancholy warrior always

sighing after Dulcinea at home.

Both the ladies of Castlewood approved of Mr. Esmond quitting the army,

and his kind General coincided in his wish of retirement and helped

in the transfer of his commission, which brought a pretty sum into his

pocket. But when the Commander-in-Chief came home, and was forced, in

spite of himself, to appoint Lieutenant-General Webb to the command of a

division of the army in Flanders, the Lieutenant-General prayed Colonel

Esmond so urgently to be his aide-de-camp and military secretary, that

Esmond could not resist his kind patron's entreaties, and again took the

field, not attached to any regiment, but under Webb's orders. What must

have been the continued agonies of fears* and apprehensions which racked

the gentle breasts of wives and matrons in those dreadful days, when

every Gazette brought accounts of deaths and battles, and when the

present anxiety over, and the beloved person escaped, the doubt still

remained that a battle might be fought, possibly, of which the next

Flanders letter would bring the account; so they, the poor tender

creatures, had to go on sickening and trembling through the whole

campaign. Whatever these terrors were on the part of Esmond's mistress,

(and that tenderest of women must have felt them most keenly for both

her sons, as she called them), she never allowed them outwardly to

appear, but hid her apprehension, as she did her charities and devotion.

'Twas only by chance that Esmond, wandering in Kensington, found his

mistress coming out of a mean cottage there, and heard that she had

a score of poor retainers, whom she visited and comforted in their

sickness and poverty, and who blessed her daily. She attended the

early church daily (though of a Sunday, especially, she encouraged and

advanced all sorts of cheerfulness and innocent gayety in her little

household): and by notes entered into a table-book of hers at this time,

and devotional compositions writ with a sweet artless fervor, such as

the best divines could not surpass, showed how fond her heart was, how

humble and pious her spirit, what pangs of apprehension she endured

silently, and with what a faithful reliance she committed the care of

those she loved to the awful Dispenser of death and life.

* What indeed? Psm. xci. 2, 3, 7.--R. E.

As for her ladyship at Chelsey, Esmond's newly adopted mother, she was

now of an age when the danger of any second party doth not disturb the

rest much. She cared for trumps more than for most things in life. She

was firm enough in her own faith, but no longer very bitter against

ours. She had a very good-natured, easy French director, Monsieur

Gauthier by name, who was a gentleman of the world, and would take a

hand of cards with Dean Atterbury, my lady's neighbor at Chelsey, and

was well with all the High Church party. No doubt Monsieur Gauthier knew

what Esmond's peculiar position was, for he corresponded with Holt, and

always treated Colonel Esmond with particular respect and kindness; but

for good reasons the Colonel and the Abbe never spoke on this matter

together, and so they remained perfect good friends.

All the frequenters of my Lady of Chelsey's house were of the Tory and

High Church party. Madame Beatrix was as frantic about the King as her

elderly kinswoman: she wore his picture on her heart; she had a piece

of his hair; she vowed he was the most injured, and gallant, and

accomplished, and unfortunate, and beautiful of princes. Steele, who

quarrelled with very many of his Tory friends, but never with Esmond,

used to tell the Colonel that his kinswoman's house was a rendezvous of

Tory intrigues; that Gauthier was a spy; that Atterbury was a spy;

that letters were constantly going from that house to the Queen at St.

Germains; on which Esmond, laughing, would reply, that they used to

say in the army the Duke of Marlborough was a spy too, and as much in

correspondence with that family as any Jesuit. And without entering very

eagerly into the controversy, Esmond had frankly taken the side of his

family. It seemed to him that King James the Third was undoubtedly King

of England by right: and at his sister's death it would be better to

have him than a foreigner over us. No man admired King William more; a

hero and a conqueror, the bravest, justest, wisest of men--but 'twas by

the sword he conquered the country, and held and governed it by the very

same right that the great Cromwell held it, who was truly and greatly

a sovereign. But that a foreign despotic Prince, out of Germany,

who happened to be descended from King James the First, should

take possession of this empire, seemed to Mr. Esmond a monstrous

injustice--at least, every Englishman had a right to protest, and the

English Prince, the heir-at-law, the first of all. What man of spirit

with such a cause would not back it? What man of honor with such a crown

to win would not fight for it? But that race was destined. That Prince

had himself against him, an enemy he could not overcome. He never dared

to draw his sword, though he had it. He let his chances slip by as he

lay in the lap of opera-girls, or snivelled at the knees of priests

asking pardon; and the blood of heroes, and the devotedness of honest

hearts, and endurance, courage, fidelity, were all spent for him in

vain.

But let us return to my Lady of Chelsey, who, when her son Esmond

announced to her ladyship that he proposed to make the ensuing campaign,

took leave of him with perfect alacrity, and was down to piquet with

her gentlewoman before he had well quitted the room on his last visit.

“Tierce to a king,” were the last words he ever heard her say: the

game of life was pretty nearly over for the good lady, and three months

afterwards she took to her bed, where she flickered out without any

pain, so the Abbe Gauthier wrote over to Mr. Esmond, then with his

General on the frontier of France. The Lady Castlewood was with her at

her ending, and had written too, but these letters must have been taken

by a privateer in the packet that brought them; for Esmond knew nothing

of their contents until his return to England.

My Lady Castlewood had left everything to Colonel Esmond, “as a

reparation for the wrong done to him;” 'twas writ in her will. But

her fortune was not much, for it never had been large, and the honest

viscountess had wisely sunk most of the money she had upon an annuity

which terminated with her life. However, there was the house and

furniture, plate and pictures at Chelsey, and a sum of money lying at

her merchant's, Sir Josiah Child, which altogether would realize a

sum of near three hundred pounds per annum, so that Mr. Esmond found

himself, if not rich, at least easy for life. Likewise there were the

famous diamonds which had been said to be worth fabulous sums, though

the goldsmith pronounced they would fetch no more than four thousand

pounds. These diamonds, however, Colonel Esmond reserved, having a

special use for them: but the Chelsey house, plate, goods, &c., with the

exception of a few articles which he kept back, were sold by his orders;

and the sums resulting from the sale invested in the public securities

so as to realize the aforesaid annual income of three hundred pounds.

Having now something to leave, he made a will and despatched it home.

The army was now in presence of the enemy; and a great battle expected

every day. 'Twas known that the General-in-Chief was in disgrace, and

the parties at home strong against him, and there was no stroke this

great and resolute player would not venture to recall his fortune when

it seemed desperate. Frank Castlewood was with Colonel Esmond; his

General having gladly taken the young nobleman on to his staff. His

studies of fortifications at Bruxelles were over by this time. The

fort he was besieging had yielded, I believe, and my lord had not only

marched in with flying colors, but marched out again. He used to tell

his boyish wickednesses with admirable humor, and was the most charming

young scapegrace in the army.

'Tis needless to say that Colonel Esmond had left every penny of his

little fortune to this boy. It was the Colonel's firm conviction that

the next battle would put an end to him: for he felt aweary of the sun,

and quite ready to bid that and the earth farewell. Frank would not

listen to his comrade's gloomy forebodings, but swore they would keep

his birthday at Castlewood that autumn, after the campaign. He had

heard of the engagement at home. “If Prince Eugene goes to London,” says

Frank, “and Trix can get hold of him, she'll jilt Ashburnham for his

Highness. I tell you, she used to make eyes at the Duke of Marlborough,

when she was only fourteen, and ogling poor little Blandford. I wouldn't

marry her, Harry--no, not if her eyes were twice as big. I'll take my

fun. I'll enjoy for the next three years every possible pleasure. I'll

sow my wild oats then, and marry some quiet, steady, modest, sensible

viscountess; hunt my harriers; and settle down at Castlewood. Perhaps

I'll represent the county--no, damme, YOU shall represent the county.

You have the brains of the family. By the Lord, my dear old Harry, you

have the best head and the kindest heart in all the army; and every man

says so--and when the Queen dies, and the King comes back, why shouldn't

you go to the House of Commons, and be a Minister, and be made a Peer,

and that sort of thing? YOU be shot in the next action! I wager a dozen

of Burgundy you are not touched. Mohun is well of his wound. He is

always with Corporal John now. As soon as ever I see his ugly face I'll

spit in it. I took lessons of Father--of Captain Holt at Bruxelles. What

a man that is! He knows everything.” Esmond bade Frank have a care; that

Father Holt's knowledge was rather dangerous; not, indeed, knowing as

yet how far the Father had pushed his instructions with his young pupil.

The gazetteers and writers, both of the French and English side,

have given accounts sufficient of that bloody battle of Blarignies or

Malplaquet, which was the last and the hardest earned of the victories

of the great Duke of Marlborough. In that tremendous combat near upon

two hundred and fifty thousand men were engaged, more than thirty

thousand of whom were slain or wounded (the Allies lost twice as

many men as they killed of the French, whom they conquered): and this

dreadful slaughter very likely took place because a great general's

credit was shaken at home, and he thought to restore it by a victory. If

such were the motives which induced the Duke of Marlborough to venture

that prodigious stake, and desperately sacrifice thirty thousand brave

lives, so that he might figure once more in a Gazette, and hold his

places and pensions a little longer, the event defeated the dreadful and

selfish design, for the victory was purchased at a cost which no nation,

greedy of glory as it may be, would willingly pay for any triumph. The

gallantry of the French was as remarkable as the furious bravery of

their assailants. We took a few score of their flags, and a few pieces

of their artillery; but we left twenty thousand of the bravest soldiers

of the world round about the intrenched lines, from which the enemy was

driven. He retreated in perfect good order; the panic-spell seemed to

be broke, under which the French had labored ever since the disaster

of Hochstedt; and, fighting now on the threshold of their country, they

showed an heroic ardor of resistance, such as had never met us in the

course of their aggressive war. Had the battle been more successful,

the conqueror might have got the price for which he waged it. As it was,

(and justly, I think,) the party adverse to the Duke in England were

indignant at the lavish extravagance of slaughter, and demanded more

eagerly than ever the recall of a chief whose cupidity and desperation

might urge him further still. After this bloody fight of Malplaquet, I

can answer for it, that in the Dutch quarters and our own, and amongst

the very regiments and commanders whose gallantry was most conspicuous

upon this frightful day of carnage, the general cry was, that there was

enough of the war. The French were driven back into their own boundary,

and all their conquests and booty of Flanders disgorged. As for the

Prince of Savoy, with whom our Commander-in-Chief, for reasons of his

own, consorted more closely than ever, 'twas known that he was animated

not merely by a political hatred, but by personal rage against the old

French King: the Imperial Generalissimo never forgot the slight put by

Lewis upon the Abbe de Savoie; and in the humiliation or ruin of his

most Christian Majesty, the Holy Roman Emperor found his account.

But what were these quarrels to us, the free citizens of England and

Holland! Despot as he was, the French monarch was yet the chief of

European civilization, more venerable in his age and misfortunes than at

the period of his most splendid successes; whilst his opponent was but

a semi-barbarous tyrant, with a pillaging, murderous horde of Croats

and Pandours, composing a half of his army, filling our camp with their

strange figures, bearded like the miscreant Turks their neighbors, and

carrying into Christian warfare their native heathen habits of rapine,

lust, and murder. Why should the best blood in England and France be

shed in order that the Holy Roman and Apostolic master of these ruffians

should have his revenge over the Christian king? And it was to this end

we were fighting; for this that every village and family in England was

deploring the death of beloved sons and fathers. We dared not speak to

each other, even at table, of Malplaquet, so frightful were the gaps

left in our army by the cannon of that bloody action. 'Twas heartrending

for an officer who had a heart to look down his line on a parade-day

afterwards, and miss hundreds of faces of comrades--humble or of high

rank--that had gathered but yesterday full of courage and cheerfulness

round the torn and blackened flags. Where were our friends? As the great

Duke reviewed us, riding along our lines with his fine suite of prancing

aides-de-camp and generals, stopping here and there to thank an officer

with those eager smiles and bows of which his Grace was always lavish,

scarce a huzzah could be got for him, though Cadogan, with an oath, rode

up and cried--“D--n you, why don't you cheer?” But the men had no

heart for that: not one of them but was thinking, “Where's my

comrade?--where's my brother that fought by me, or my dear captain that

led me yesterday?” 'Twas the most gloomy pageant I ever looked on; and

the “Te Deum” sung by our chaplains, the most woful and dreary satire.

Esmond's General added one more to the many marks of honor which he

had received in the front of a score of battles, and got a wound in

the groin, which laid him on his back; and you may be sure he

consoled himself by abusing the Commander-in-Chief, as he lay

groaning,--“Corporal John's as fond of me,” he used to say, “as King

David was of General Uriah; and so he always gives me the post of

danger.” He persisted, to his dying day, in believing that the Duke

intended he should be beat at Wynendael, and sent him purposely with a

small force, hoping that he might be knocked on the head there. Esmond

and Frank Castlewood both escaped without hurt, though the division

which our General commanded suffered even more than any other, having to

sustain not only the fury of the enemy's cannonade, which was very hot

and well served, but the furious and repeated charges of the famous

Maison du Roy, which we had to receive and beat off again and again,

with volleys of shot and hedges of iron, and our four lines of

musqueteers and pikemen. They said the King of England charged us

no less than twelve times that day, along with the French Household.

Esmond's late regiment, General Webb's own Fusileers, served in the

division which their colonel commanded. The General was thrice in the

centre of the square of the Fusileers, calling the fire at the French

charges, and, after the action, his Grace the Duke of Berwick sent his

compliments to his old regiment and their Colonel for their behavior on

the field.

We drank my Lord Castlewood's health and majority, the 25th of

September, the army being then before Mons: and here Colonel Esmond was

not so fortunate as he had been in actions much more dangerous, and was

hit by a spent ball just above the place where his former wound was,

which caused the old wound to open again, fever, spitting of blood,

and other ugly symptoms, to ensue; and, in a word, brought him near to

death's door. The kind lad, his kinsman, attended his elder comrade with

a very praiseworthy affectionateness and care until he was pronounced

out of danger by the doctors, when Frank went off, passed the winter at

Bruxelles, and besieged, no doubt, some other fortress there. Very few

lads would have given up their pleasures so long and so gayly as Frank

did; his cheerful prattle soothed many long days of Esmond's pain and

languor. Frank was supposed to be still at his kinsman's bedside for

a month after he had left it, for letters came from his mother at

home full of thanks to the younger gentleman for his care of his elder

brother (so it pleased Esmond's mistress now affectionately to style

him); nor was Mr. Esmond in a hurry to undeceive her, when the good

young fellow was gone for his Christmas holiday. It was as pleasant to

Esmond on his couch to watch the young man's pleasure at the idea of

being free, as to note his simple efforts to disguise his satisfaction

on going away. There are days when a flask of champagne at a cabaret,

and a red-cheeked partner to share it, are too strong temptations for

any young fellow of spirit. I am not going to play the moralist, and

cry “Fie.” For ages past, I know how old men preach, and what young

men practise; and that patriarchs have had their weak moments too, long

since Father Noah toppled over after discovering the vine. Frank went

off, then, to his pleasures at Bruxelles, in which capital many young

fellows of our army declared they found infinitely greater diversion

even than in London: and Mr. Henry Esmond remained in his sick-room,

where he writ a fine comedy, that his mistress pronounced to be sublime,

and that was acted no less than three successive nights in London in the

next year.

Here, as he lay nursing himself, ubiquitous Mr. Holt reappeared, and

stopped a whole month at Mons, where he not only won over Colonel Esmond

to the King's side in politics (that side being always held by the

Esmond family); but where he endeavored to reopen the controversial

question between the churches once more, and to recall Esmond to that

religion in which, in his infancy, he had been baptized. Holt was a

casuist, both dexterous and learned, and presented the case between

the English church and his own in such a way that those who granted

his premises ought certainly to allow his conclusions. He touched on

Esmond's delicate state of health, chance of dissolution, and so forth;

and enlarged upon the immense benefits that the sick man was likely to

forego--benefits which the church of England did not deny to those of

the Roman communion, as how should she, being derived from that church,

and only an offshoot from it? But Mr. Esmond said that his church was

the church of his country, and to that he chose to remain faithful:

other people were welcome to worship and to subscribe any other set of

articles, whether at Rome or at Augsburg. But if the good Father meant

that Esmond should join the Roman communion for fear of consequences,

and that all England ran the risk of being damned for heresy, Esmond,

for one, was perfectly willing to take his chance of the penalty along

with the countless millions of his fellow-countrymen, who were bred

in the same faith, and along with some of the noblest, the truest, the

purest, the wisest, the most pious and learned men and women in the

world.

As for the political question, in that Mr. Esmond could agree with the

Father much more readily, and had come to the same conclusion,

though, perhaps, by a different way. The right divine, about which Dr.

Sacheverel and the High Church party in England were just now making a

bother, they were welcome to hold as they chose. If Richard Cromwell,

and his father before him had been crowned and anointed (and bishops

enough would have been found to do it), it seemed to Mr. Esmond that

they would have had the right divine just as much as any Plantagenet, or

Tudor, or Stuart. But the desire of the country being unquestionably

for an hereditary monarchy, Esmond thought an English king out of St.

Germains was better and fitter than a German prince from Herrenhausen,

and that if he failed to satisfy the nation, some other Englishman might

be found to take his place; and so, though with no frantic enthusiasm,

or worship of that monstrous pedigree which the Tories chose to consider

divine, he was ready to say, “God save King James!” when Queen Anne went

the way of kings and commoners.

“I fear, Colonel, you are no better than a republican at heart,” says

the priest with a sigh.

“I am an Englishman,” says Harry, “and take my country as I find her.

The will of the nation being for church and king, I am for church and

king too; but English church and English king; and that is why your

church isn't mine, though your king is.”

Though they lost the day at Malplaquet, it was the French who were

elated by that action, whilst the conquerors were dispirited, by it; and

the enemy gathered together a larger army than ever, and made prodigious

efforts for the next campaign. Marshal Berwick was with the French this

year; and we heard that Mareschal Villars was still suffering of his

wound, was eager to bring our Duke to action, and vowed he would fight

us in his coach. Young Castlewood came flying back from Bruxelles, as

soon as he heard that fighting was to begin; and the arrival of the

Chevalier de St. George was announced about May. “It's the King's third

campaign, and it's mine,” Frank liked saying. He was come back a greater

Jacobite than ever, and Esmond suspected that some fair conspirators

at Bruxelles had been inflaming the young man's ardor. Indeed, he owned

that he had a message from the Queen, Beatrix's godmother, who had given

her name to Frank's sister the year before he and his sovereign were

born.

However desirous Marshal Villars might be to fight, my Lord Duke did not

seem disposed to indulge him this campaign. Last year his Grace had been

all for the Whigs and Hanoverians; but finding, on going to England, his

country cold towards himself, and the people in a ferment of High Church

loyalty, the Duke comes back to his army cooled towards the Hanoverians,

cautious with the Imperialists, and particularly civil and polite

towards the Chevalier de St. George. 'Tis certain that messengers and

letters were continually passing between his Grace and his brave nephew,

the Duke of Berwick, in the opposite camp. No man's caresses were more

opportune than his Grace's, and no man ever uttered expressions of

regard and affection more generously. He professed to Monsieur de Torcy,

so Mr. St. John told the writer, quite an eagerness to be cut in pieces

for the exiled Queen and her family; nay more, I believe, this year

he parted with a portion of the most precious part of himself--his

money--which he sent over to the royal exiles. Mr. Tunstal, who was in

the Prince's service, was twice or thrice in and out of our camp; the

French, in theirs of Arlieu and about Arras. A little river, the Canihe

I think 'twas called, (but this is writ away from books and Europe; and

the only map the writer hath of these scenes of his youth, bears no

mark of this little stream,) divided our pickets from the enemy's.

Our sentries talked across the stream, when they could make themselves

understood to each other, and when they could not, grinned, and handed

each other their brandy-flasks or their pouches of tobacco. And one fine

day of June, riding thither with the officer who visited the outposts,

(Colonel Esmond was taking an airing on horseback, being too weak for

military duty,) they came to this river, where a number of English and

Scots were assembled, talking to the good-natured enemy on the other

side.

Esmond was especially amused with the talk of one long fellow, with a

great curling red moustache, and blue eyes, that was half a dozen

inches taller than his swarthy little comrades on the French side of the

stream, and being asked by the Colonel, saluted him, and said that he

belonged to the Royal Cravats.

From his way of saying “Royal Cravat,” Esmond at once knew that the

fellow's tongue had first wagged on the banks of the Liffey, and not

the Loire; and the poor soldier--a deserter probably--did not like to

venture very deep into French conversation, lest his unlucky brogue

should peep out. He chose to restrict himself to such few expressions

in the French language as he thought he had mastered easily; and

his attempt at disguise was infinitely amusing. Mr. Esmond whistled

Lillibullero, at which Teague's eyes began to twinkle, and then flung

him a dollar, when the poor boy broke out with a “God bless--that is,

Dieu benisse votre honor,” that would infallibly have sent him to the

provost-marshal had he been on our side of the river.

Whilst this parley was going on, three officers on horseback, on the

French side, appeared at some little distance, and stopped as if eying

us, when one of them left the other two, and rode close up to us who

were by the stream. “Look, look!” says the Royal Cravat, with great

agitation, “pas lui, that's he; not him, l'autre,” and pointed to the

distant officer on a chestnut horse, with a cuirass shining in the sun,

and over it a broad blue ribbon.

“Please to take Mr. Hamilton's services to my Lord Marlborough--my Lord

Duke,” says the gentleman in English: and, looking to see that the party

were not hostilely disposed, he added, with a smile, “There's a friend

of yours, gentlemen, yonder; he bids me to say that he saw some of your

faces on the 11th of September last year.”

As the gentleman spoke, the other two officers rode up, and came quite

close. We knew at once who it was. It was the King, then two-and-twenty

years old, tall and slim, with deep brown eyes, that looked melancholy,

though his lips wore a smile. We took off our hats and saluted him. No

man, sure, could see for the first time, without emotion, the youthful

inheritor of so much fame and misfortune. It seemed to Mr. Esmond that

the Prince was not unlike young Castlewood, whose age and figure he

resembled. The Chevalier de St. George acknowledged the salute, and

looked at us hard. Even the idlers on our side of the river set up a

hurrah. As for the Royal Cravat, he ran to the Prince's stirrup, knelt

down and kissed his boot, and bawled and looked a hundred ejaculations

and blessings. The prince bade the aide-de-camp give him a piece of

money; and when the party saluting us had ridden away, Cravat spat upon

the piece of gold by way of benediction, and swaggered away, pouching

his coin and twirling his honest carroty moustache.

The officer in whose company Esmond was, the same little captain of

Handyside's regiment, Mr. Sterne, who had proposed the garden at Lille,

when my Lord Mohun and Esmond had their affair, was an Irishman too, and

as brave a little soul as ever wore a sword. “Bedad,” says Roger Sterne,

“that long fellow spoke French so beautiful that I shouldn't have known

he wasn't a foreigner, till he broke out with his hulla-ballooing, and

only an Irish calf can bellow like that.” And Roger made another remark

in his wild way, in which there was sense as well as absurdity--“If that

young gentleman,” says he, “would but ride over to our camp, instead of

Villars's, toss up his hat and say, 'Here am I, the King, who'll follow

me?' by the Lord, Esmond, the whole army would rise and carry him home

again, and beat Villars, and take Paris by the way.”

The news of the Prince's visit was all through the camp quickly, and

scores of ours went down in hopes to see him. Major Hamilton, whom

we had talked with, sent back by a trumpet several silver pieces for

officers with us. Mr. Esmond received one of these; and that medal, and

a recompense not uncommon amongst Princes, were the only rewards he

ever had from a Royal person, whom he endeavored not very long after to

serve.

Esmond quitted the army almost immediately after this, following his

general home; and, indeed, being advised to travel in the fine weather

and attempt to take no further part in the campaign. But he heard from

the army, that of the many who crowded to see the Chevalier de St.

George, Frank Castlewood had made himself most conspicuous: my Lord

Viscount riding across the little stream bareheaded to where the Prince

was, and dismounting and kneeling before him to do him homage. Some

said that the Prince had actually knighted him, but my lord denied

that statement, though he acknowledged the rest of the story, and

said:--“From having been out of favor with Corporal John,” as he called

the Duke, “before his Grace warned him not to commit those follies, and

smiled on him cordially ever after.”

“And he was so kind to me,” Frank writ, “that I thought I would put in a

good word for Master Harry, but when I mentioned your name he looked as

black as thunder, and said he had never heard of you.”

CHAPTER II.

I GO HOME, AND HARP ON THE OLD STRING.

After quitting Mons and the army, and as he was waiting for a packet

at Ostend, Esmond had a letter from his young kinsman Castlewood at

Bruxelles, conveying intelligence whereof Frank besought him to be the

bearer to London, and which caused Colonel Esmond no small anxiety.

The young scapegrace, being one-and-twenty years old, and being anxious

to sow his “wild otes,” as he wrote, had married Mademoiselle de

Wertheim, daughter of Count de Wertheim, Chamberlain to the Emperor,

and having a post in the Household of the Governor of the Netherlands.

“P.S.,” the young gentleman wrote: “Clotilda is OLDER THAN ME, which

perhaps may be objected to her: but I am so OLD A RAIK that the age

makes no difference, and I am DETERMINED to reform. We were married at

St. Gudule, by Father Holt. She is heart and soul for the GOOD CAUSE.

And here the cry is Vif-le-Roy, which my mother will JOIN IN, and Trix

TOO. Break this news to 'em gently: and tell Mr. Finch, my agent, to

press the people for their rents, and send me the RYNO anyhow. Clotilda

sings, and plays on the Spinet BEAUTIFULLY. She is a fair beauty. And

if it's a son, you shall stand GODFATHER. I'm going to leave the army,

having had ENUF OF SOLDERING; and my Lord Duke RECOMMENDS me. I shall

pass the winter here: and stop at least until Clo's lying in. I call

her OLD CLO, but nobody else shall. She is the cleverest woman in all

Bruxelles: understanding painting, music, poetry, and perfect at COOKERY

AND PUDDENS. I borded with the Count, that's how I came to know her.

There are four Counts her brothers. One an Abbey--three with the

Prince's army. They have a lawsuit for AN IMMENCE FORTUNE: but are now

in a PORE WAY. Break this to mother, who'll take anything from YOU.

And write, and bid Finch write AMEDIATELY. Hostel de l'Aigle Noire,

Bruxelles, Flanders.”

So Frank had married a Roman Catholic lady, and an heir was expected,

and Mr. Esmond was to carry this intelligence to his mistress at London.

'Twas a difficult embassy; and the Colonel felt not a little tremor as

he neared the capital.

He reached his inn late, and sent a messenger to Kensington to announce

his arrival and visit the next morning. The messenger brought back news

that the Court was at Windsor, and the fair Beatrix absent and engaged

in her duties there. Only Esmond's mistress remained in her house at

Kensington. She appeared in court but once in the year; Beatrix was

quite the mistress and ruler of the little mansion, inviting the company

thither, and engaging in every conceivable frolic of town pleasure.

Whilst her mother, acting as the young lady's protectress and elder

sister, pursued her own path, which was quite modest and secluded.

As soon as ever Esmond was dressed (and he had been awake long before

the town), he took a coach for Kensington, and reached it so early that

he met his dear mistress coming home from morning prayers. She carried

her prayer-book, never allowing a footman to bear it, as everybody else

did: and it was by this simple sign Esmond knew what her occupation had

been. He called to the coachman to stop, and jumped out as she looked

towards him. She wore her hood as usual, and she turned quite pale when

she saw him. To feel that kind little hand near to his heart seemed

to give him strength. They were soon at the door of her ladyship's

house--and within it.

With a sweet sad smile she took his hand and kissed it.

“How ill you have been: how weak you look, my dear Henry,” she said.

'Tis certain the Colonel did look like a ghost, except that ghosts do

not look very happy, 'tis said. Esmond always felt so on returning to

her after absence, indeed whenever he looked in her sweet kind face.

“I am come back to be nursed by my family,” says he. “If Frank had

not taken care of me after my wound, very likely I should have gone

altogether.”

“Poor Frank, good Frank!” says his mother. “You'll always be kind to

him, my lord,” she went on. “The poor child never knew he was doing you

a wrong.”

“My lord!” cries out Colonel Esmond. “What do you mean, dear lady?”

“I am no lady,” says she; “I am Rachel Esmond, Francis Esmond's widow,

my lord. I cannot bear that title. Would we never had taken it from him

who has it now. But we did all in our power, Henry: we did all in our

power; and my lord and I--that is--”

“Who told you this tale, dearest lady?” asked the Colonel.

“Have you not had the letter I writ you? I writ to you at Mons directly

I heard it,” says Lady Esmond.

“And from whom?” again asked Colonel Esmond--and his mistress then told

him that on her death-bed the Dowager Countess, sending for her, had

presented her with this dismal secret as a legacy. “'Twas very malicious

of the Dowager,” Lady Esmond said, “to have had it so long, and to

have kept the truth from me.” “Cousin Rachel,” she said,--and Esmond's

mistress could not forbear smiling as she told the story--“Cousin

Rachel,” cries the Dowager, “I have sent for you, as the doctors say

I may go off any day in this dysentery; and to ease my conscience of a

great load that has been on it. You always have been a poor creature and

unfit for great honor, and what I have to say won't, therefore, affect

you so much. You must know, Cousin Rachel, that I have left my house,

plate, and furniture, three thousand pounds in money, and my diamonds

that my late revered Saint and Sovereign, King James, presented me with,

to my Lord Viscount Castlewood.”

“To my Frank?” says Lady Castlewood; “I was in hopes--”

To Viscount Castlewood, my dear; Viscount Castlewood and Baron Esmond

of Shandon in the Kingdom of Ireland, Earl and Marquis of Esmond under

patent of his Majesty King James the Second, conferred upon my husband

the late Marquis--for I am Marchioness of Esmond before God and man.”

“And have you left poor Harry nothing, dear Marchioness?” asks Lady

Castlewood (she hath told me the story completely since with her quiet

arch way; the most charming any woman ever had: and I set down the

narrative here at length, so as to have done with it). “And have you

left poor Harry nothing?” asks my dear lady: “for you know, Henry,” she

says with her sweet smile, “I used always to pity Esau--and I think I am

on his side--though papa tried very hard to convince me the other way.”

“Poor Harry!” says the old lady. “So you want something left to poor

Harry: he,--he! (reach me the drops, cousin). Well, then, my dear, since

you want poor Harry to have a fortune, you must understand that ever

since the year 1691, a week after the battle of the Boyne, where the

Prince of Orange defeated his royal sovereign and father, for which

crime he is now suffering in flames (ugh! ugh!) Henry Esmond hath been

Marquis of Esmond and Earl of Castlewood in the United Kingdom, and

Baron and Viscount Castlewood of Shandon in Ireland, and a Baronet--and

his eldest son will be, by courtesy, styled Earl of Castlewood--he! he!

What do you think of that, my dear?”

“Gracious mercy! how long have you known this?” cries the other lady

(thinking perhaps that the old Marchioness was wandering in her wits).

“My husband, before he was converted, was a wicked wretch,” the sick

sinner continued. “When he was in the Low Countries he seduced a

weaver's daughter; and added to his wickedness by marrying her. And then

he came to this country and married me--a poor girl--a poor innocent

young thing--I say,”--“though she was past forty, you know, Harry, when

she married: and as for being innocent”--“Well,” she went on, “I knew

nothing of my lord's wickedness for three years after our marriage, and

after the burial of our poor little boy I had it done over again, my

dear: I had myself married by Father Holt in Castlewood chapel, as soon

as ever I heard the creature was dead--and having a great illness then,

arising from another sad disappointment I had, the priest came and told

me that my lord had a son before our marriage, and that the child was at

nurse in England; and I consented to let the brat be brought home, and a

queer little melancholy child it was when it came.

“Our intention was to make a priest of him: and he was bred for this,

until you perverted him from it, you wicked woman. And I had again hopes

of giving an heir to my lord, when he was called away upon the King's

business, and died fighting gloriously at the Boyne water.

“Should I be disappointed--I owed your husband no love, my dear, for he

had jilted me in the most scandalous way and I thought there would be

time to declare the little weaver's son for the true heir. But I was

carried off to prison, where your husband was so kind to me--urging

all his friends to obtain my release, and using all his credit in my

favor--that I relented towards him, especially as my director counselled

me to be silent; and that it was for the good of the King's service

that the title of our family should continue with your husband the late

viscount, whereby his fidelity would be always secured to the King. And

a proof of this is, that a year before your husband's death, when he

thought of taking a place under the Prince of Orange, Mr. Holt went to

him, and told him what the state of the matter was, and obliged him to

raise a large sum for his Majesty; and engaged him in the true cause so

heartily, that we were sure of his support on any day when it should be

considered advisable to attack the usurper. Then his sudden death came;

and there was a thought of declaring the truth. But 'twas determined

to be best for the King's service to let the title still go with the

younger branch; and there's no sacrifice a Castlewood wouldn't make for

that cause, my dear.

“As for Colonel Esmond, he knew the truth already.” (“And then, Harry,”

my mistress said, “she told me of what had happened at my dear husband's

death-bed”). “He doth not intend to take the title, though it belongs to

him. But it eases my conscience that you should know the truth, my dear.

And your son is lawfully Viscount Castlewood so long as his cousin doth

not claim the rank.”

This was the substance of the Dowager's revelation. Dean Atterbury had

knowledge of it, Lady Castlewood said, and Esmond very well knows how:

that divine being the clergyman for whom the late lord had sent on his

death-bed: and when Lady Castlewood would instantly have written to her

son, and conveyed the truth to him, the Dean's advice was that a letter

should be writ to Colonel Esmond rather; that the matter should be

submitted to his decision, by which alone the rest of the family were

bound to abide.

“And can my dearest lady doubt what that will be?” says the Colonel.

“It rests with you, Harry, as the head of our house.”

“It was settled twelve years since, by my dear lord's bedside,” says

Colonel Esmond. “The children must know nothing of this. Frank and his

heirs after him must bear our name. 'Tis his rightfully; I have not even

a proof of that marriage of my father and mother, though my poor lord,

on his death-bed, told me that Father Holt had brought such a proof to

Castlewood. I would not seek it when I was abroad. I went and looked at

my poor mother's grave in her convent. What matter to her now? No court

of law on earth, upon my mere word, would deprive my Lord Viscount and

set me up. I am the head of the house, dear lady; but Frank is Viscount

of Castlewood still. And rather than disturb him, I would turn monk, or

disappear in America.”