Your grandfather fought with more effect as a politician than as a

wit: and having private animosities and grievances of his own and

his General's against the great Duke in command of the army, and more

information on military matters than most writers, who had never seen

beyond the fire of a tobacco-pipe at “Wills's,” he was enabled to do

good service for that cause which he embarked in, and for Mr. St. John

and his party. But he disdained the abuse in which some of the Tory

writers indulged; for instance, Dr. Swift, who actually chose to doubt

the Duke of Marlborough's courage, and was pleased to hint that his

Grace's military capacity was doubtful: nor were Esmond's performances

worse for the effect they were intended to produce, (though no doubt

they could not injure the Duke of Marlborough nearly so much in the

public eyes as the malignant attacks of Swift did, which were carefully

directed so as to blacken and degrade him,) because they were writ

openly and fairly by Mr. Esmond, who made no disguise of them, who was

now out of the army, and who never attacked the prodigious courage and

talents, only the selfishness and rapacity, of the chief.

The Colonel then, having writ a paper for one of the Tory journals,

called the Post-Boy, (a letter upon Bouchain, that the town talked about

for two whole days, when the appearance of an Italian singer supplied

a fresh subject for conversation,) and having business at the Exchange,

where Mistress Beatrix wanted a pair of gloves or a fan very likely,

Esmond went to correct his paper, and was sitting at the printer's, when

the famous Doctor Swift came in, his Irish fellow with him that used

to walk before his chair, and bawled out his master's name with great

dignity.

Mr. Esmond was waiting for the printer too, whose wife had gone to the

tavern to fetch him, and was meantime engaged in drawing a picture of

a soldier on horseback for a dirty little pretty boy of the printer's

wife, whom she had left behind her.

“I presume you are the editor of the Post-Boy, sir?” says the Doctor,

in a grating voice that had an Irish twang; and he looked at the Colonel

from under his two bushy eyebrows with a pair of very clear blue eyes.

His complexion was muddy, his figure rather fat, his chin double. He

wore a shabby cassock, and a shabby hat over his black wig, and he

pulled out a great gold watch, at which he looks very fierce.

“I am but a contributor, Doctor Swift,” says Esmond, with the little boy

still on his knee. He was sitting with his back in the window, so that

the Doctor could not see him.

“Who told you I was Dr. Swift?” says the Doctor, eying the other very

haughtily.

“Your Reverence's valet bawled out your name,” says the Colonel. “I

should judge you brought him from Ireland?”

“And pray, sir, what right have you to judge whether my servant came

from Ireland or no? I want to speak with your employer, Mr. Leach. I'll

thank ye go fetch him.”

“Where's your papa, Tommy?” asks the Colonel of the child, a smutty

little wretch in a frock.

Instead of answering, the child begins to cry; the Doctor's appearance

had no doubt frightened the poor little imp.

“Send that squalling little brat about his business, and do what I bid

ye, sir,” says the Doctor.

“I must finish, the picture first for Tommy,” says the Colonel,

laughing. “Here, Tommy, will you have your Pandour with whiskers or

without?”

“Whisters,” says Tommy, quite intent on the picture.

“Who the devil are ye, sir?” cries the Doctor; “are ye a printer's man

or are ye not?” he pronounced it like NAUGHT.

“Your reverence needn't raise the devil to ask who I am,” says Colonel

Esmond. “Did you ever hear of Doctor Faustus, little Tommy? or Friar

Bacon, who invented gunpowder, and set the Thames on fire?”

Mr. Swift turned quite red, almost purple. “I did not intend any

offence, sir,” says he.

“I dare say, sir, you offended without meaning,” says the other, dryly.

“Who are ye, sir? Do you know who I am, sir? You are one of the pack

of Grub Street scribblers that my friend Mr. Secretary hath laid by the

heels. How dare ye, sir, speak to me in this tone?” cries the Doctor, in

a great fume.

“I beg your honor's humble pardon if I have offended your honor,” says

Esmond in a tone of great humility. “Rather than be sent to the Compter,

or be put in the pillory, there's nothing I wouldn't do. But Mrs.

Leach, the printer's lady, told me to mind Tommy whilst she went for her

husband to the tavern, and I daren't leave the child lest he should fall

into the fire; but if your Reverence will hold him--”

“I take the little beast!” says the Doctor, starting back. “I am

engaged to your betters, fellow. Tell Mr. Leach that when he makes an

appointment with Dr. Swift he had best keep it, do ye hear? And keep a

respectful tongue in your head, sir, when you address a person like me.”

“I'm but a poor broken-down soldier,” says the Colonel, “and I've seen

better days, though I am forced now to turn my hand to writing. We can't

help our fate, sir.”

“You're the person that Mr. Leach hath spoken to me of, I presume. Have

the goodness to speak civilly when you are spoken to--and tell Leach

to call at my lodgings in Bury Street, and bring the papers with him

to-night at ten o'clock. And the next time you see me, you'll know me,

and be civil, Mr. Kemp.”

Poor Kemp, who had been a lieutenant at the beginning of the war, and

fallen into misfortune, was the writer of the Post-Boy, and now took

honest Mr. Leach's pay in place of her Majesty's. Esmond had seen this

gentleman, and a very ingenious, hardworking honest fellow he was,

toiling to give bread to a great family, and watching up many a long

winter night to keep the wolf from his door. And Mr. St. John, who had

liberty always on his tongue, had just sent a dozen of the opposition

writers into prison, and one actually into the pillory, for what he

called libels, but libels not half so violent as those writ on our

side. With regard to this very piece of tyranny, Esmond had remonstrated

strongly with the Secretary, who laughed and said the rascals were

served quite right; and told Esmond a joke of Swift's regarding the

matter. Nay, more, this Irishman, when St. John was about to pardon

a poor wretch condemned to death for rape, absolutely prevented the

Secretary from exercising this act of good-nature, and boasted that he

had had the man hanged; and great as the Doctor's genius might be, and

splendid his ability, Esmond for one would affect no love for him, and

never desired to make his acquaintance. The Doctor was at Court every

Sunday assiduously enough, a place the Colonel frequented but rarely,

though he had a great inducement to go there in the person of a fair

maid of honor of her Majesty's; and the airs and patronage Mr.

Swift gave himself, forgetting gentlemen of his country whom he knew

perfectly, his loud talk at once insolent and servile, nay, perhaps his

very intimacy with Lord Treasurer and the Secretary, who indulged all

his freaks and called him Jonathan, you may be sure, were remarked by

many a person of whom the proud priest himself took no note, during that

time of his vanity and triumph.

'Twas but three days after the 15th of November, 1712 (Esmond minds him

well of the date), that he went by invitation to dine with his General,

the foot of whose table he used to take on these festive occasions, as

he had done at many a board, hard and plentiful, during the campaign.

This was a great feast, and of the latter sort; the honest old gentleman

loved to treat his friends splendidly: his Grace of Ormonde, before he

joined his army as generalissimo, my Lord Viscount Bolingbroke, one of

her Majesty's Secretaries of State, my Lord Orkney, that had served

with us abroad, being of the party. His Grace of Hamilton, Master of

the Ordnance, and in whose honor the feast had been given, upon his

approaching departure as Ambassador to Paris, had sent an excuse to

General Webb at two o'clock, but an hour before the dinner: nothing but

the most immediate business, his Grace said, should have prevented him

having the pleasure of drinking a parting glass to the health of General

Webb. His absence disappointed Esmond's old chief, who suffered much

from his wounds besides; and though the company was grand, it was rather

gloomy. St. John came last, and brought a friend with him: “I'm sure,”

says my General, bowing very politely, “my table hath always a place for

Dr. Swift.”

Mr. Esmond went up to the Doctor with a bow and a smile:--“I gave Dr.

Swift's message,” says he, “to the printer: I hope he brought your

pamphlet to your lodgings in time.” Indeed poor Leach had come to his

house very soon after the Doctor left it, being brought away rather

tipsy from the tavern by his thrifty wife; and he talked of Cousin Swift

in a maudlin way, though of course Mr. Esmond did not allude to this

relationship. The Doctor scowled, blushed, and was much confused, and

said scarce a word during the whole of dinner. A very little stone

will sometimes knock down these Goliaths of wit; and this one was often

discomfited when met by a man of any spirit; he took his place sulkily,

put water in his wine that the others drank plentifully, and scarce said

a word.

The talk was about the affairs of the day, or rather about persons than

affairs: my Lady Marlborough's fury, her daughters in old clothes and

mob-caps looking out from their windows and seeing the company pass to

the Drawing-room; the gentleman-usher's horror when the Prince of

Savoy was introduced to her Majesty in a tie-wig, no man out of a

full-bottomed periwig ever having kissed the Royal hand before; about

the Mohawks and the damage they were doing, rushing through the town,

killing and murdering. Some one said the ill-omened face of Mohun had

been seen at the theatre the night before, and Macartney and Meredith

with him. Meant to be a feast, the meeting, in spite of drink and talk,

was as dismal as a funeral. Every topic started subsided into gloom.

His Grace of Ormonde went away because the conversation got upon Denain,

where we had been defeated in the last campaign. Esmond's General

was affected at the allusion to this action too, for his comrade of

Wynendael, the Count of Nassau Woudenbourg, had been slain there. Mr.

Swift, when Esmond pledged him, said he drank no wine, and took his hat

from the peg and went away, beckoning my Lord Bolingbroke to follow him;

but the other bade him take his chariot and save his coach-hire--he had

to speak with Colonel Esmond; and when the rest of the company withdrew

to cards, these two remained behind in the dark.

Bolingbroke always spoke freely when he had drunk freely. His enemies

could get any secret out of him in that condition; women were even

employed to ply him, and take his words down. I have heard that my Lord

Stair, three years after, when the Secretary fled to France and became

the Pretender's Minister, got all the information he wanted by putting

female spies over St. John in his cups. He spoke freely now:--“Jonathan

knows nothing of this for certain, though he suspects it, and by George,

Webb will take an Archbishopric, and Jonathan a--no,--damme--Jonathan

will take an Arch-bishopric from James, I warrant me, gladly enough.

Your Duke hath the string of the whole matter in his hand,” the

Secretary went on. “We have that which will force Marlborough to keep

his distance, and he goes out of London in a fortnight. Prior hath his

business; he left me this morning, and mark me, Harry, should fate carry

off our august, our beloved, our most gouty and plethoric Queen, and

Defender of the Faith, la bonne cause triomphera. A la sante de la bonne

cause! Everything good comes from France. Wine comes from France; give

us another bumper to the bonne cause.” We drank it together.

“Will the bonne cause turn Protestant?” asked Mr. Esmond.

“No, hang it,” says the other, “he'll defend our Faith as in duty bound,

but he'll stick by his own. The Hind and the Panther shall run in the

same car, by Jove. Righteousness and peace shall kiss each other: and

we'll have Father Massillon to walk down the aisle of St. Paul's, cheek

by jowl with Dr. Sacheverel. Give us more wine; here's a health to the

bonne cause, kneeling--damme, let's drink it kneeling.” He was quite

flushed and wild with wine as he was talking.

“And suppose,” says Esmond, who always had this gloomy apprehension,

“the bonne cause should give us up to the French, as his father and

uncle did before him?”

“Give us up to the French!” starts up Bolingbroke; “is there any English

gentleman that fears that? You who have seen Blenheim and Ramillies,

afraid of the French! Your ancestors and mine, and brave old Webb's

yonder, have met them in a hundred fields, and our children will be

ready to do the like. Who's he that wishes for more men from England? My

Cousin Westmoreland? Give us up to the French, pshaw!”

“His uncle did,” says Mr. Esmond.

“And what happened to his grandfather?” broke out St. John, filling out

another bumper. “Here's to the greatest monarch England ever saw; here's

to the Englishman that made a kingdom of her. Our great King came from

Huntingdon, not Hanover; our fathers didn't look for a Dutchman to rule

us. Let him come and we'll keep him, and we'll show him Whitehall. If

he's a traitor let us have him here to deal with him; and then there are

spirits here as great as any that have gone before. There are men

here that can look at danger in the face and not be frightened at it.

Traitor! treason! what names are these to scare you and me? Are all

Oliver's men dead, or his glorious name forgotten in fifty years? Are

there no men equal to him, think you, as good--ay, as good? God save the

King! and, if the monarchy fails us, God save the British Republic!”

He filled another great bumper, and tossed it up and drained it wildly,

just as the noise of rapid carriage-wheels approaching was stopped at

our door, and after a hurried knock and a moment's interval, Mr. Swift

came into the hall, ran up stairs to the room we were dining in, and

entered it with a perturbed face. St. John, excited with drink, was

making some wild quotation out of Macbeth, but Swift stopped him.

“Drink no more, my lord, for God's sake!” says he. “I come with the most

dreadful news.”

“Is the Queen dead?” cries out Bolingbroke, seizing on a water-glass.

“No, Duke Hamilton is dead: he was murdered an hour ago by Mohun and

Macartney; they had a quarrel this morning; they gave him not so much

time as to write a letter. He went for a couple of his friends, and he

is dead, and Mohun, too, the bloody villain, who was set on him. They

fought in Hyde Park just before sunset; the Duke killed Mohun, and

Macartney came up and stabbed him, and the dog is fled. I have your

chariot below; send to every part of the country and apprehend that

villain; come to the Duke's house and see if any life be left in him.”

“Oh, Beatrix, Beatrix,” thought Esmond, “and here ends my poor girl's

ambition!”

CHAPTER VI.

POOR BEATRIX.

There had been no need to urge upon Esmond the necessity of a separation

between him and Beatrix: Fate had done that completely; and I think from

the very moment poor Beatrix had accepted the Duke's offer, she began

to assume the majestic air of a Duchess, nay, Queen Elect, and to carry

herself as one sacred and removed from us common people. Her mother

and kinsman both fell into her ways, the latter scornfully perhaps, and

uttering his usual gibes at her vanity and his own. There was a certain

charm about this girl of which neither Colonel Esmond nor his fond

mistress could forego the fascination; in spite of her faults and her

pride and wilfulness, they were forced to love her; and, indeed, might

be set down as the two chief flatterers of the brilliant creature's

court.

Who, in the course of his life, hath not been so bewitched, and

worshipped some idol or another? Years after this passion hath been dead

and buried, along with a thousand other worldly cares and ambitions, he

who felt it can recall it out of its grave, and admire, almost as fondly

as he did in his youth, that lovely queenly creature. I invoke that

beautiful spirit from the shades and love her still; or rather I should

say such a past is always present to a man; such a passion once felt

forms a part of his whole being, and cannot be separated from it; it

becomes a portion of the man of to-day, just as any great faith or

conviction, the discovery of poetry, the awakening of religion, ever

afterwards influence him; just as the wound I had at Blenheim, and of

which I wear the scar, hath become part of my frame and influenced my

whole body, nay, spirit subsequently, though 'twas got and healed forty

years ago. Parting and forgetting! What faithful heart can do these?

Our great thoughts, our great affections, the Truths of our life, never

leave us. Surely, they cannot separate from our consciousness; shall

follow it whithersoever that shall go; and are of their nature divine

and immortal.

With the horrible news of this catsstrophe, which was confirmed by the

weeping domestics at the Duke's own door, Esmond rode homewards as quick

as his lazy coach would carry him, devising all the time how he should

break the intelligence to the person most concerned in it; and if a

satire upon human vanity could be needed, that poor soul afforded it in

the altered company and occupations in which Esmond found her. For

days before, her chariot had been rolling the street from mercer to

toyshop--from goldsmith to laceman: her taste was perfect, or at least

the fond bridegroom had thought so, and had given her entire authority

over all tradesmen, and for all the plate, furniture and equipages, with

which his Grace the Ambassador wished to adorn his splendid mission. She

must have her picture by Kneller, a duchess not being complete without

a portrait, and a noble one he made, and actually sketched in, on a

cushion, a coronet which she was about to wear. She vowed she would wear

it at King James the Third's coronation, and never a princess in the

land would have become ermine better. Esmond found the ante-chamber

crowded with milliners and toyshop women, obsequious goldsmiths with

jewels, salvers, and tankards; and mercers' men with hangings, and

velvets, and brocades. My Lady Duchess elect was giving audience to

one famous silversmith from Exeter Change, who brought with him a great

chased salver, of which he was pointing out the beauties as Colonel

Esmond entered. “Come,” says she, “cousin, and admire the taste of this

pretty thing.” I think Mars and Venus were lying in the golden bower,

that one gilt Cupid carried off the war-god's casque--another his

sword--another his great buckler, upon which my Lord Duke Hamilton's

arms with ours were to be engraved--and a fourth was kneeling down to

the reclining goddess with the ducal coronet in her hands, God help us!

The next time Mr. Esmond saw that piece of plate, the arms were changed,

the ducal coronet had been replaced by a viscount's; it formed part of

the fortune of the thrifty goldsmith's own daughter, when she married my

Lord Viscount Squanderfield two years after.

“Isn't this a beautiful piece?” says Beatrix, examining it, and she

pointed out the arch graces of the Cupids, and the fine carving of the

languid prostrate Mars. Esmond sickened as he thought of the warrior

dead in his chamber, his servants and children weeping around him; and

of this smiling creature attiring herself, as it were, for that nuptial

death-bed. “'Tis a pretty piece of vanity,” says he, looking gloomily at

the beautiful creature: there were flambeaux in the room lighting up the

brilliant mistress of it. She lifted up the great gold salver with her

fair arms.

“Vanity!” says she, haughtily. “What is vanity in you, sir, is propriety

in me. You ask a Jewish price for it, Mr. Graves; but have it I will, if

only to spite Mr. Esmond.”

“Oh, Beatrix, lay it down!” says Mr. Esmond. “Herodias! you know not

what you carry in the charger.”

She dropped it with a clang; the eager goldsmith running to seize

his fallen ware. The lady's face caught the fright from Esmond's pale

countenance, and her eyes shone out like beacons of alarm:--“What is it,

Henry!” says she, running to him, and seizing both his hands. “What do

you mean by your pale face and gloomy tones?”

“Come away, come away!” says Esmond, leading her: she clung frightened

to him, and he supported her upon his heart, bidding the scared

goldsmith leave them. The man went into the next apartment, staring with

surprise, and hugging his precious charger.

“Oh, my Beatrix, my sister!” says Esmond, still holding in his arms the

pallid and affrighted creature, “you have the greatest courage of any

woman in the world; prepare to show it now, for you have a dreadful

trial to bear.”

She sprang away from the friend who would have protected her:--“Hath he

left me?” says she. “We had words this morning: he was very gloomy, and

I angered him: but he dared not, he dared not!” As she spoke a burning

blush flushed over her whole face and bosom. Esmond saw it reflected in

the glass by which she stood, with clenched hands, pressing her swelling

heart.

“He has left you,” says Esmond, wondering that rage rather than sorrow

was in her looks.

“And he is alive,” cried Beatrix, “and you bring me this commission! He

has left me, and you haven't dared to avenge me! You, that pretend to

be the champion of our house, have let me suffer this insult! Where is

Castlewood? I will go to my brother.”

“The Duke is not alive, Beatrix,” said Esmond.

She looked at her cousin wildly, and fell back to the wall as though

shot in the breast:--“And you come here, and--and--you killed him?”

“No; thank heaven!” her kinsman said. “The blood of that noble heart

doth not stain my sword! In its last hour it was faithful to thee,

Beatrix Esmond. Vain and cruel woman! kneel and thank the awful heaven

which awards life and death, and chastises pride, that the noble

Hamilton died true to you; at least that 'twas not your quarrel, or your

pride, or your wicked vanity, that drove him to his fate. He died by the

bloody sword which already had drank your own father's blood. O woman, O

sister! to that sad field where two corpses are lying--for the murderer

died too by the hand of the man he slew--can you bring no mourners but

your revenge and your vanity? God help and pardon thee, Beatrix, as he

brings this awful punishment to your hard and rebellious heart.”

Esmond had scarce done speaking, when his mistress came in. The colloquy

between him and Beatrix had lasted but a few minutes, during which time

Esmond's servant had carried the disastrous news through the household.

The army of Vanity Fair, waiting without, gathered up all their

fripperies and fled aghast. Tender Lady Castlewood had been in talk

above with Dean Atterbury, the pious creature's almoner and director;

and the Dean had entered with her as a physician whose place was at

a sick-bed. Beatrix's mother looked at Esmond and ran towards her

daughter, with a pale face and open heart and hands, all kindness

and pity. But Beatrix passed her by, nor would she have any of the

medicaments of the spiritual physician. “I am best in my own room and by

myself,” she said. Her eyes were quite dry; nor did Esmond ever see them

otherwise, save once, in respect to that grief. She gave him a cold hand

as she went out: “Thank you, brother,” she said, in a low voice, and

with a simplicity more touching than tears; “all you have said is true

and kind, and I will go away and ask pardon.” The three others remained

behind, and talked over the dreadful story. It affected Dr. Atterbury

more even than us, as it seemed. The death of Mohun, her husband's

murderer, was more awful to my mistress than even the Duke's unhappy

end. Esmond gave at length what particulars he knew of their quarrel,

and the cause of it. The two noblemen had long been at war with respect

to the Lord Gerard's property, whose two daughters my Lord Duke and

Mohun had married. They had met by appointment that day at the lawyer's

in Lincoln's Inn Fields; had words which, though they appeared very

trifling to those who heard them, were not so to men exasperated by long

and previous enmity. Mohun asked my Lord Duke where he could see his

Grace's friends, and within an hour had sent two of his own to arrange

this deadly duel. It was pursued with such fierceness, and sprung from

so trifling a cause, that all men agreed at the time that there was

a party, of which these three notorious brawlers were but agents, who

desired to take Duke Hamilton's life away. They fought three on a side,

as in that tragic meeting twelve years back, which hath been recounted

already, and in which Mohun performed his second murder. They rushed

in, and closed upon each other at once without any feints or crossing

of swords even, and stabbed one at the other desperately, each receiving

many wounds; and Mohun having his death-wound, and my Lord Duke lying

by him, Macartney came up and stabbed his Grace as he lay on the ground,

and gave him the blow of which he died. Colonel Macartney denied

this, of which the horror and indignation of the whole kingdom would

nevertheless have him guilty, and fled the country, whither he never

returned.

What was the real cause of the Duke Hamilton's death?--a paltry quarrel

that might easily have been made up, and with a ruffian so low, base,

profligate, and degraded with former crimes and repeated murders, that

a man of such renown and princely rank as my Lord Duke might have

disdained to sully his sword with the blood of such a villain. But his

spirit was so high that those who wished his death knew that his courage

was like his charity, and never turned any man away; and he died by the

hands of Mohun, and the other two cut-throats that were set on him. The

Queen's ambassador to Paris died, the loyal and devoted servant of the

House of Stuart, and a Royal Prince of Scotland himself, and carrying

the confidence, the repentance of Queen Anne along with his own open

devotion, and the good-will of millions in the country more, to the

Queen's exiled brother and sovereign.

That party to which Lord Mohun belonged had the benefit of his

service, and now were well rid of such a ruffian. He, and Meredith, and

Macartney, were the Duke of Marlborough's men; and the two colonels had

been broke but the year before for drinking perdition to the Tories. His

Grace was a Whig now and a Hanoverian, and as eager for war as Prince

Eugene himself. I say not that he was privy to Duke Hamilton's death, I

say that his party profited by it; and that three desperate and bloody

instruments were found to effect that murder.

As Esmond and the Dean walked away from Kensington discoursing of this

tragedy, and how fatal it was to the cause which they both had at heart,

the street-criers were already out with their broadsides, shouting

through the town the full, true, and horrible account of the death of

Lord Mohun and Duke Hamilton in a duel. A fellow had got to Kensington,

and was crying it in the square there at very early morning, when Mr.

Esmond happened to pass by. He drove the man from under Beatrix's very

window, whereof the casement had been set open. The sun was shining

though 'twas November: he had seen the market-carts rolling into London,

the guard relieved at the palace, the laborers trudging to their work in

the gardens between Kensington and the City--the wandering merchants

and hawkers filling the air with their cries. The world was going to its

business again, although dukes lay dead and ladies mourned for them; and

kings, very likely, lost their chances. So night and day pass away,

and to-morrow comes, and our place knows us not. Esmond thought of the

courier, now galloping on the North road to inform him, who was Earl of

Arran yesterday, that he was Duke of Hamilton to-day, and of a thousand

great schemes, hopes, ambitions, that were alive in the gallant heart,

beating a few hours since, and now in a little dust quiescent.

CHAPTER VII.

I VISIT CASTLEWOOD ONCE MORE.

Thus, for a third time, Beatrix's ambitious hopes were circumvented, and

she might well believe that a special malignant fate watched and pursued

her, tearing her prize out of her hand just as she seemed to grasp it,

and leaving her with only rage and grief for her portion. Whatever her

feelings might have been of anger or of sorrow, (and I fear me that the

former emotion was that which most tore her heart,) she would take no

confidant, as people of softer natures would have done under such a

calamity; her mother and her kinsman knew that she would disdain their

pity, and that to offer it would be but to infuriate the cruel wound

which fortune had inflicted. We knew that her pride was awfully humbled

and punished by this sudden and terrible blow; she wanted no teaching of

ours to point out the sad moral of her story. Her fond mother could give

but her prayers, and her kinsman his faithful friendship and patience to

the unhappy, stricken creature; and it was only by hints, and a word or

two uttered months afterwards, that Beatrix showed she understood their

silent commiseration, and on her part was secretly thankful for their

forbearance. The people about the Court said there was that in her

manner which frightened away scoffing and condolence: she was above

their triumph and their pity, and acted her part in that dreadful

tragedy greatly and courageously; so that those who liked her least were

yet forced to admire her. We, who watched her after her disaster, could

not but respect the indomitable courage and majestic calm with which she

bore it. “I would rather see her tears than her pride,” her mother said,

who was accustomed to bear her sorrows in a very different way, and

to receive them as the stroke of God, with an awful submission and

meekness. But Beatrix's nature was different to that tender parent's;

she seemed to accept her grief and to defy it; nor would she allow it (I

believe not even in private and in her own chamber) to extort from her

the confession of even a tear of humiliation or a cry of pain. Friends

and children of our race, who come after me, in which way will you bear

your trials? I know one that prays God will give you love rather than

pride, and that the Eye all-seeing shall find you in the humble place.

Not that we should judge proud spirits otherwise than charitably. 'Tis

nature hath fashioned some for ambition and dominion, as it hath formed

others for obedience and gentle submission. The leopard follows his

nature as the lamb does, and acts after leopard law; she can neither

help her beauty, nor her courage, nor her cruelty; nor a single spot on

her shining coat; nor the conquering spirit which impels her; nor the

shot which brings her down.

During that well-founded panic the Whigs had, lest the Queen should

forsake their Hanoverian Prince, bound by oaths and treaties as she was

to him, and recall her brother, who was allied to her by yet stronger

ties of nature and duty; the Prince of Savoy, and the boldest of that

party of the Whigs, were for bringing the young Duke of Cambridge over,

in spite of the Queen, and the outcry of her Tory servants, arguing that

the Electoral Prince, a Peer and Prince of the Blood-Royal of this Realm

too, and in the line of succession to the crown, had, a right to sit

in the Parliament whereof he was a member, and to dwell in the country

which he one day was to govern. Nothing but the strongest ill will

expressed by the Queen, and the people about her, and menaces of the

Royal resentment, should this scheme be persisted in, prevented it from

being carried into effect.

The boldest on our side were, in like manner, for having our Prince into

the country. The undoubted inheritor of the right divine; the feelings

of more than half the nation, of almost all the clergy, of the gentry of

England and Scotland with him; entirely innocent of the crime for which

his father suffered--brave, young, handsome, unfortunate--who in England

would dare to molest the Prince should he come among us, and fling

himself upon British generosity, hospitality, and honor? An invader with

an army of Frenchmen behind him, Englishmen of spirit would resist to

the death, and drive back to the shores whence he came; but a Prince,

alone, armed with his right only, and relying on the loyalty of his

people, was sure, many of his friends argued, of welcome, at least of

safety, among us. The hand of his sister the Queen, of the people his

subjects, never could be raised to do him a wrong. But the Queen was

timid by nature, and the successive Ministers she had, had private

causes for their irresolution. The bolder and honester men, who had at

heart the illustrious young exile's cause, had no scheme of interest of

their own to prevent them from seeing the right done, and, provided only

he came as an Englishman, were ready to venture their all to welcome and

defend him.

St. John and Harley both had kind words in plenty for the Prince's

adherents, and gave him endless promises of future support; but hints

and promises were all they could be got to give; and some of his friends

were for measures much bolder, more efficacious, and more open. With

a party of these, some of whom are yet alive, and some whose names Mr.

Esmond has no right to mention, he found himself engaged the year after

that miserable death of Duke Hamilton, which deprived the Prince of

his most courageous ally in this country. Dean Atterbury was one of the

friends whom Esmond may mention, as the brave bishop is now beyond exile

and persecution, and to him, and one or two more, the Colonel opened

himself of a scheme of his own, that, backed by a little resolution on

the Prince's part, could not fail of bringing about the accomplishment

of their dearest wishes.

My young Lord Viscount Castlewood had not come to England to keep his

majority, and had now been absent from the country for several years.

The year when his sister was to be married and Duke Hamilton died, my

lord was kept at Bruxelles by his wife's lying-in. The gentle Clotilda

could not bear her husband out of her sight; perhaps she mistrusted the

young scapegrace should he ever get loose from her leading-strings; and

she kept him by her side to nurse the baby and administer posset to the

gossips. Many a laugh poor Beatrix had had about Frank's uxoriousness:

his mother would have gone to Clotilda when her time was coming, but

that the mother-in-law was already in possession, and the negotiations

for poor Beatrix's marriage were begun. A few months after the horrid

catastrophe in Hyde Park, my mistress and her daughter retired to

Castlewood, where my lord, it was expected, would soon join them. But,

to say truth, their quiet household was little to his taste; he could be

got to come to Walcote but once after his first campaign; and then the

young rogue spent more than half his time in London, not appearing at

Court or in public under his own name and title, but frequenting plays,

bagnios, and the very worst company, under the name of Captain Esmond

(whereby his innocent kinsman got more than once into trouble); and so

under various pretexts, and in pursuit of all sorts of pleasures,

until he plunged into the lawful one of marriage, Frank Castlewood

had remained away from this country, and was unknown, save amongst the

gentlemen of the army, with whom he had served abroad. The fond heart of

his mother was pained by this long absence. 'Twas all that Henry Esmond

could do to soothe her natural mortification, and find excuses for his

kinsman's levity.

In the autumn of the year 1713, Lord Castlewood thought of returning

home. His first child had been a daughter; Clotilda was in the way of

gratifying his lordship with a second, and the pious youth thought that,

by bringing his wife to his ancestral home, by prayers to St. Philip of

Castlewood, and what not, heaven might be induced to bless him with a

son this time, for whose coming the expectant mamma was very anxious.

The long-debated peace had been proclaimed this year at the end of

March; and France was open to us. Just as Frank's poor mother had

made all things ready for Lord Castlewood's reception, and was eagerly

expecting her son, it was by Colonel Esmond's means that the kind lady

was disappointed of her longing, and obliged to defer once more the

darling hope of her heart.

Esmond took horses to Castlewood. He had not seen its ancient gray

towers and well-remembered woods for nearly fourteen years, and since he

rode thence with my lord, to whom his mistress with her young children

by her side waved an adieu. What ages seemed to have passed since then,

what years of action and passion, of care, love, hope, disaster! The

children were grown up now, and had stories of their own. As for

Esmond, he felt to be a hundred years old; his dear mistress only seemed

unchanged; she looked and welcomed him quite as of old. There was the

fountain in the court babbling its familiar music, the old hall and its

furniture, the carved chair my late lord used, the very flagon he drank

from. Esmond's mistress knew he would like to sleep in the little room

he used to occupy; 'twas made ready for him, and wall-flowers and sweet

herbs set in the adjoining chamber, the chaplain's room.

In tears of not unmanly emotion, with prayers of submission to the awful

Dispenser of death and life, of good and evil fortune, Mr. Esmond passed

a part of that first night at Castlewood, lying awake for many hours as

the clock kept tolling (in tones so well remembered), looking back, as

all men will, that revisit their home of childhood, over the great gulf

of time, and surveying himself on the distant bank yonder, a sad little

melancholy boy with his lord still alive--his dear mistress, a girl yet,

her children sporting around her. Years ago, a boy on that very bed,

when she had blessed him and called him her knight, he had made a vow

to be faithful and never desert her dear service. Had he kept that fond

boyish promise? Yes, before heaven; yes, praise be to God! His life had

been hers; his blood, his fortune, his name, his whole heart ever since

had been hers and her children's. All night long he was dreaming his

boyhood over again, and waking fitfully; he half fancied he heard Father

Holt calling to him from the next chamber, and that he was coming in and

out of from the mysterious window.

Esmond rose up before the dawn, passed into the next room, where the

air was heavy with the odor of the wall-flowers; looked into the brazier

where the papers had been burnt, into the old presses where Holt's books

and papers had been kept, and tried the spring and whether the window

worked still. The spring had not been touched for years, but yielded at

length, and the whole fabric of the window sank down. He lifted it and

it relapsed into its frame; no one had ever passed thence since Holt

used it sixteen years ago.

Esmond remembered his poor lord saying, on the last day of his life,

that Holt used to come in and out of the house like a ghost, and

knew that the Father liked these mysteries, and practised such secret

disguises, entrances and exits: this was the way the ghost came and

went, his pupil had always conjectured. Esmond closed the casement up

again as the dawn was rising over Castlewood village; he could hear the

clinking at the blacksmith's forge yonder among the trees, across the

green, and past the river, on which a mist still lay sleeping.

Next Esmond opened that long cupboard over the woodwork of the

mantel-piece, big enough to hold a man, and in which Mr. Holt used to

keep sundry secret properties of his. The two swords he remembered so

well as a boy, lay actually there still, and Esmond took them out and

wiped them, with a strange curiosity of emotion. There were a bundle of

papers here, too, which no doubt had been left at Holt's last visit to

the place, in my Lord Viscount's life, that very day when the priest had

been arrested and taken to Hexham Castle. Esmond made free with these

papers, and found treasonable matter of King William's reign, the names

of Charnock and Perkins, Sir John Fenwick and Sir John Friend, Rookwood

and Lodwick, Lords Montgomery and Allesbury, Clarendon and Yarmouth,

that had all been engaged in plots against the usurper; a letter from

the Duke of Berwick too, and one from the King at St. Germains, offering

to confer upon his trusty and well-beloved Francis Viscount Castlewood

the titles of Earl and Marquis of Esmond, bestowed by patent royal, and

in the fourth year of his reign, upon Thomas Viscount Castlewood and

the heirs-male of his body, in default of which issue the ranks and

dignities were to pass to Francis aforesaid.

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

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

back in a week's time. I put these papers hastily into the crypt whence

I had taken them, being interrupted by a tapping of a light finger at

the ring of the chamber-door: 'twas my kind mistress, with her face full

of love and welcome. She, too, had passed the night wakefuly, no doubt;

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

things we divine without speaking, and know though they happen out of

our sight. This fond lady hath told me that she knew both days when

I was wounded abroad. Who shall say how far sympathy reaches, and how

truly love can prophesy? “I looked into your room,” was all she said;

“the bed was vacant, the little old bed! I knew I should find you here.”

And tender and blushing faintly with a benediction in her eyes, the

gentle creature kissed him.

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

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

the green woods above were singing their delicious choruses under the

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

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

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

dial, the forest-crowned heights, the fair yellow plain cheerful with

crops and corn, the shining river rolling through it towards the pearly

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

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

minds as that fair and always-remembered scene our eyes beheld once

more. We forget nothing. The memory sleeps, but wakens again; I often

think how it shall be when, after the last sleep of death, the

reveillee shall arouse us for ever, and the past in one flash of

self-consciousness rush back, like the soul revivified.

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

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

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

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

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

it entirely before his mistress (always as staunch a little loyalist as

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

before her across the grass.

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

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

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

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

word or two, to the death of her hopes.

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

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

singing to some of them. We had a pair of beautiful old organs in

Castlewood Church, on which she played admirably, so that the music

there became to be known in the country for many miles round, and no

doubt people came to see the fair organist as well as to hear her.

Parson Tusher and his wife were established at the vicarage, but his

wife had brought him no children wherewith Tom might meet his enemies

at the gate. Honest Tom took care not to have many such, his great

shovel-hat was in his hand for everybody. He was profuse of bows

and compliments. He behaved to Esmond as if the Colonel had been a

Commander-in-Chief; he dined at the hall that day, being Sunday, and

would not partake of pudding except under extreme pressure. He deplored

my lord's perversion, but drank his lordship's health very devoutly;

and an hour before at church sent the Colonel to sleep, with a long,

learned, and refreshing sermon.

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

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

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

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

the adjoining chamber, that had been Viscountess Isabel's sleeping

apartment, and where Esmond perfectly well remembered seeing the old

lady sitting up in the bed, in her night-rail, that morning when the

troop of guard came to fetch her. The most beautiful woman in England

lay in that bed now, whereof the great damask hangings were scarce faded

since Esmond saw them last.

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

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

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

his aunt's legacy of diamonds.

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

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

quiet low voice. She held out the black shagreen case with her fair

arm, that did not shake in the least. Esmond saw she wore a black velvet

bracelet on it, with my Lord Duke's picture in enamel; he had given it

her but three days before he fell.

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

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

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

will not make my yellow face look any handsomer.”

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

wife has a lovely complexion and shape.”

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

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

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

have sighed for, for ten years, what foregone!”

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

wants to be paid. Oh fie, cousin!”

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

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

which to endow you; will you take it? There was a chance for me once,

you said; is it impossible to recall it? Never shake your head, but hear

me; say you will hear me a year hence. If I come back to you and bring

you fame, will that please you? If I do what you desire most--what he

who is dead desired most--will that soften you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

shall be a feast in your house, and you shall be proud to wear them. I

say no more now; put aside these words, and lock away yonder box until

the day when I shall remind you of both. All I pray of you now is, to

wait and to remember.”

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

“Yes, to-morrow,” says Esmond.

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

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

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

to show. “Hear a last word. I do love you. I do admire you--who would

not, that has known such love as yours has been for us all? But I think

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

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

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

read to us about when we were children. I would do anything for such

a man, bear anything for him: but I never found one. You were ever too

much of a slave to win my heart; even my Lord Duke could not command it.

I had not been happy had I married him. I knew that three months after

our engagement--and was too vain to break it. Oh, Harry! I cried once or

twice, not for him, but with tears of rage because I could not be sorry

for him. I was frightened to find I was glad of his death; and were

I joined to you, I should have the same sense of servitude, the same

longing to escape. We should both be unhappy, and you the most, who are

as jealous as the Duke was himself. I tried to love him; I tried, indeed

I did: affected gladness when he came: submitted to hear when he was by

me, and tried the wife's part I thought I was to play for the rest of my

days. But half an hour of that complaisance wearied me, and what would

a lifetime be? My thoughts were away when he was speaking; and I was

thinking, Oh that this man would drop my hand, and rise up from before

my feet! I knew his great and noble qualities, greater and nobler than

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

million times better. But 'twas not for these I took him. I took him to

have a great place in the world, and I lost it. I lost it, and do not

deplore him--and I often thought, as I listened to his fond vows and

ardent words, Oh, if I yield to this man, and meet THE OTHER, I shall

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

good like an angel. I wonder how she should have had such a child. She

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

she, but I would do it out of defiance. I do not care for what the

parsons tell me with their droning sermons: I used to see them at court

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

weary of the world! I wait but for one thing, and when 'tis done, I will

take Frank's religion and your poor mother's, and go into a nunnery, and

end like her. Shall I wear the diamonds then?--they say the nuns wear

their best trinkets the day they take the veil. I will put them away as

you bid me; farewell, cousin: mamma is pacing the next room racking her

little head to know what we have been saying. She is jealous, all women

are. I sometimes think that is the only womanly quality I have.”

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

privilege. The cheek was as cold as marble.

Esmond's mistress showed no signs of jealousy when he returned to

the room where she was. She had schooled herself so as to look quite

inscrutably, when she had a mind. Amongst her other feminine qualities

she had that of being a perfect dissembler.

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

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

eager for some outward excitement to counteract that gnawing malady

which he was inwardly enduring.

CHAPTER VIII.

I TRAVEL TO FRANCE AND BRING HOME A PORTRAIT OF RIGAUD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his business.

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

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

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

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

out of humor with his matrimonial chain, and clogged with the obstinate

embraces which Clotilda kept round his neck. Colonel Esmond was not

presented to her; but Monsieur Simon was, a gentleman of the Royal

Cravat (Esmond bethought him of the regiment of his honest Irishman,

whom he had seen that day after Malplaquet, when he first set eyes on

the young King); and Monsieur Simon was introduced to the Viscountess

Castlewood, nee Comptesse Wertheim; to the numerous counts, the Lady

Clotilda's tall brothers; to her father the chamberlain; and to the lady

his wife, Frank's mother-in-law, a tall and majestic person of large

proportions, such as became the mother of such a company of grenadiers

as her warlike sons formed. The whole race were at free quarters in the

little castle nigh to Bruxelles which Frank had taken; rode his horses;

drank his wine; and lived easily at the poor lad's charges. Mr. Esmond

had always maintained a perfect fluency in the French, which was his

mother tongue; and if this family (that spoke French with the twang

which the Flemings use) discovered any inaccuracy in Mr. Simon's

pronunciation, 'twas to be attributed to the latter's long residence

in England, where he had married and remained ever since he was taken

prisoner at Blenheim. His story was perfectly pat; there were none there

to doubt it save honest Frank, and he was charmed with his kinsman's

scheme, when he became acquainted with it; and, in truth, always admired

Colonel Esmond with an affectionate fidelity, and thought his cousin

the wisest and best of all cousins and men. Frank entered heart and soul

into the plan, and liked it the better as it was to take him to Paris,

out of reach of his brothers, his father, and his mother-in-law, whose

attentions rather fatigued him.

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

Wales; had not a little of the Prince's air, height, and figure; and,

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

before-named, took no small pride in his resemblance to a person so

illustrious; which likeness he increased by all means in his power,

wearing fair brown periwigs, such as the Prince wore, and ribbons, and

so forth, of the Chevalier's color.

This resemblance was, in truth, the circumstance on which Mr. Esmond's

scheme was founded; and having secured Frank's secrecy and enthusiasm,

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

whom its success depended. The place whither Mr. Simon next travelled

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

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

correspondent there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

subjects. The next time Mr. Esmond saw him, 'twas when Monsieur Simon

took a packet of laces to Miss Oglethorpe: the Prince's ante-chamber in

those days, at which ignoble door men were forced to knock for admission

to his Majesty. The admission was given, the envoy found the King and

the mistress together; the pair were at cards and his Majesty was

in liquor. He cared more for three honors than three kingdoms; and

a half-dozen glasses of ratafia made him forget all his woes and his

losses, his father's crown, and his grandfather's head.

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

scarce in a condition to hear him; and he doubted whether a King who

drank so much could keep a secret in his fuddled head; or whether a hand

that shook so, was strong enough to grasp at a crown. However, at last,

and after taking counsel with the Prince's advisers, amongst whom were

many gentlemen, honest and faithful, Esmond's plan was laid before the

King, and her actual Majesty Queen Oglethorpe, in council. The Prince

liked the scheme well enough; 'twas easy and daring, and suited to his

reckless gayety and lively youthful spirit. In the morning after he had

slept his wine off, he was very gay, lively, and agreeable. His manner

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

justice, her Oglethorpean Majesty was kind, acute, resolute, and of good

counsel; she gave the Prince much good advice that he was too weak

to follow, and loved him with a fidelity which he returned with an

ingratitude quite Royal.

Having his own forebodings regarding his scheme should it ever be

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

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

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

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

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

could be dealt with as easy as the German. Monsieur Simon trotted

on that long journey from Nancy to Paris, and saw that famous town,

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

magnificence and more misery is heaped together, more rags and lace,

more filth and gilding, than in any city in this world. Here he was

put in communication with the King's best friend, his half brother, the

famous Duke of Berwick; Esmond recognized him as the stranger who had

visited Castlewood now near twenty years ago. His Grace opened to him

when he found that Mr. Esmond was one of Webb's brave regiment, that had

once been his Grace's own. He was the sword and buckler indeed of the

Stuart cause: there was no stain on his shield except the bar across it,

which Marlborough's sister left him. Had Berwick been his father's heir,

James the Third had assuredly sat on the English throne. He could dare,

endure, strike, speak, be silent. The fire and genius, perhaps, he had

not (that were given to baser men), but except these he had some of the

best qualities of a leader. His Grace knew Esmond's father and history;

and hinted at the latter in such a way as made the Colonel to think he

was aware of the particulars of that story. But Esmond did not choose to

enter on it, nor did the Duke press him. Mr. Esmond said, “No doubt he

should come by his name if ever greater people came by theirs.”

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

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

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

Queen the dutiful remembrances of her goddaughter, and the lady whom,

in the days of her prosperity, her Majesty had befriended. The

Queen remembered Rachel Esmond perfectly well, had heard of my Lord

Castlewood's conversion, and was much edified by that act of heaven in

his favor. She knew that others of that family had been of the only true

church too: “Your father and your mother, M. le Marquis,” her Majesty

said (that was the only time she used the phrase). Monsieur Simon bowed

very low, and said he had found other parents than his own, who had

taught him differently; but these had only one king: on which her

Majesty was pleased to give him a medal blessed by the Pope, which had

been found very efficacious in cases similar to his own, and to promise

she would offer up prayers for his conversion and that of the family:

which no doubt this pious lady did, though up to the present moment, and

after twenty-seven years, Colonel Esmond is bound to say that neither

the medal nor the prayers have had the slightest known effect upon his

religious convictions.

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

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

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

his Majesty's Court.

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

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

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

of health, and ordered by the physicians not to travel; otherwise 'twas

well known that the Viscount Castlewood proposed returning to England,

and taking up his residence at his own seat.

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

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

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

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

very soon after which time my Lady Castlewood and her daughter, and

their kinsman, Colonel Esmond, who had been at Castlewood all this

time, likewise returned to London; her ladyship occupying her house

at Kensington, Mr. Esmond returning to his lodgings at Knightsbridge,

nearer the town, and once more making his appearance at all public

places, his health greatly improved by his long stay in the country.

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

the place of honor in her ladyship's drawing-room. His lordship was

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

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

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

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

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

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

only I must own that Doctor Tusher happening to come up to London, and

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

day Miss Beatrix happened to be looking at it when the Doctor arrived,)

the Vicar of Castlewood vowed he could not see any resemblance in the

piece to his old pupil, except, perhaps, a little about the chin and the

periwig; but we all of us convinced him that he had not seen Frank for

five years or more; that he knew no more about the Fine Arts than a

ploughboy, and that he must be mistaken; and we sent him home assured

that the piece was an excellent likeness. As for my Lord Bolingbroke,

who honored her ladyship with a visit occasionally, when Colonel Esmond

showed him the picture he burst out laughing, and asked what devilry he

was engaged on? Esmond owned simply that the portrait was not that of

Viscount Castlewood; besought the Secretary on his honor to keep the

secret; said that the ladies of the house were enthusiastic Jacobites,

as was well known; and confessed that the picture was that of the

Chevalier St. George.

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

at Monsieur Rigaud's whilst his lordship was sitting for his picture,

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

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

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

Oglethorpe, the Prince's mistress, but that young lady quitting Paris,

had left the work on the artist's hands; and taking this piece home,

when my lord's portrait arrived, Colonel Esmond, alias Monsieur Simon,

had copied the uniform and other accessories from my lord's picture to

fill up Rigaud's incomplete canvas: the Colonel all his life having been

a practitioner of painting, and especially followed it during his long

residence in the cities of Flanders, among the masterpieces of Van Dyck

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

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

Lady Viscountess, her mother, arrived from Castlewood; the former to

resume her services at Court, which had been interrupted by the fatal

catastrophe of Duke Hamilton's death. She once more took her place,

then, in her Majesty's suite and at the Maids' table, being always a

favorite with Mrs. Masham, the Queen's chief woman, partly perhaps on

account of their bitterness against the Duchess of Marlborough, whom

Miss Beatrix loved no better than her rival did. The gentlemen about the

Court, my Lord Bolingbroke amongst others, owned that the young lady had

come back handsomer than ever, and that the serious and tragic air which

her face now involuntarily wore became her better than her former smiles

and archness.

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

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

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

despatched into the kingdom of Ireland to see my lord's estate there:

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

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

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

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

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

servant the Viscountess had was dismissed too--with a gratuity--on the

pretext that her ladyship's train of domestics must be diminished; so,

finally, there was not left in the household a single person who had

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

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

intended, 'twas necessary that the very smallest number of persons

should be put in possession of his secret. It scarce was known, except

to three or four out of his family, and it was kept to a wonder.

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

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

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

to own he had lost at play, and by other extravagances; and that instead

of having great entertainments as he had hoped at Castlewood this year,

he must live as quiet as he could, and make every effort to be saving.

So far every word of poor Frank's letter was true, nor was there a doubt

that he and his tall brothers-in-law had spent a great deal more than

they ought, and engaged the revenues of the Castlewood property, which

the fond mother had husbanded and improved so carefully during the time

of her guardianship.

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

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

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

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

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

lawyers of Gray's inn might be invited to meet him with their account,

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

settle with them speedily, raise a sum of money whereof he stood in

need, and be back to his viscountess by the time of her lying-in.” Then

his lordship gave some of the news of the town, sent his remembrance to

kinsfolk, and so the letter ended. 'Twas put in the common post, and no

doubt the French police and the English there had a copy of it, to which

they were exceeding welcome.

Two days after another letter was despatched by the public post of

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

at Court there, ended by the following sentences, in which, but for

those that had the key, 'twould be difficult for any man to find any

secret lurked at all:--

“(The King will take) medicine on Thursday. His Majesty is better than

he hath been of late, though incommoded by indigestion from his too

great appetite. Madame Maintenon continues well. They have performed a

play of Mons. Racine at St. Cyr. The Duke of Shrewsbury and Mr. Prior,

our envoy, and all the English nobility here were present at it. (The

Viscount Castlewood's passports) were refused to him, 'twas said; his

lordship being sued by a goldsmith for Vaisselle plate, and a pearl

necklace supplied to Mademoiselle Meruel of the French Comedy. 'Tis a

pity such news should get abroad (and travel to England) about our young

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

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

and horses (under that lord's name), of which extravagance his

unfortunate Viscountess knows nothing.

“(His Majesty will be) eighty-two years of age on his next birthday. The

Court prepares to celebrate it with a great feast. Mr. Prior is in a sad

way about their refusing at home to send him his plate. All here admired

my Lord Viscount's portrait, and said it was a masterpiece of Rigaud.

Have you seen it? It is (at the Lady Castlewood's house in Kensington

Square). I think no English painter could produce such a piece.

“Our poor friend the Abbe hath been at the Bastile, but is now

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

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

rogue will have repented in prison.

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

departs for England.

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

Mat and some more over-night, and tipsy or sober am

“Thine ever ----.”

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

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

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

that The King will take the Viscount Castlewood's passports and travel

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

Castlewood's house in Kensington Square, where his friends may visit

him; they are to ask for the Lord Castlewood. This note may have passed

under Mr. Prior's eyes, and those of our new allies the French, and

taught them nothing; though it explains sufficiently to persons in

London what the event was which was about to happen, as 'twill show

those who read my memoirs a hundred years hence, what was that errand on

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

that about which others were conspiring, and thousands of Jacobites

all over the country clumsily caballing; alone to effect that which the

leaders here were only talking about; to bring the Prince of Wales into

the country openly in the face of all, under Bolingbroke's very eyes,

the walls placarded with the proclamation signed with the Secretary's

name, and offering five hundred pounds reward for his apprehension:

this was a stroke, the playing and winning of which might well give any

adventurous spirit pleasure: the loss of the stake might involve a heavy

penalty, but all our family were eager to risk that for the glorious

chance of winning the game.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and with respect to the women, as is usual with them, 'twas not a

question of party but of faith; their belief was a passion; either

Esmond's mistress or her daughter would have died for it cheerfully. I

have laughed often, talking of King William's reign, and said I thought

Lady Castlewood was disappointed the King did not persecute the family

more; and those who know the nature of women may fancy for themselves,

what needs not here be written down, the rapture with which these

neophytes received the mystery when made known to them; the eagerness

with which they looked forward to its completion; the reverence which

they paid the minister who initiated them into that secret Truth, now

known only to a few, but presently to reign over the world. Sure there

is no bound to the trustingness of women. Look at Arria worshipping the

drunken clodpate of a husband who beats her; look at Cornelia treasuring

as a jewel in her maternal heart the oaf her son; I have known a woman

preach Jesuit's bark, and afterwards Dr. Berkeley's tar-water, as though

to swallow them were a divine decree, and to refuse them no better than

blasphemy.

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

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

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

bringing the King back, his elder mistress thought that that Restoration

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

name and the honor? But 'tis so in the world; those get the prize that

don't deserve or care for it. I wish I could give you YOUR silly prize,

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

shaking her head mournfully, but always, it seemed to Esmond, that her

liking and respect for him was greatly increased, since she knew what

capability he had both to act and bear; to do and to forego.

CHAPTER IX.

THE ORIGINAL OF THE PORTRAIT COMES TO ENGLAND.

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

having a confidential French gentleman in his suite, who acted as

secretary to his lordship, and who, being a Papist, and a foreigner of

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

served in his chamber, and not with the domestics of the house. The

Viscountess gave up her bedchamber contiguous to her daughter's, and

having a large convenient closet attached to it, in which a bed was

put up, ostensibly for Monsieur Baptiste, the Frenchman; though, 'tis

needless to say, when the doors of the apartments were locked, and the

two guests retired within it, the young viscount became the servant of

the illustrious Prince whom he entertained, and gave up gladly the more

convenient and airy chamber and bed to his master. Madam Beatrix

also retired to the upper region, her chamber being converted into

a sitting-room for my lord. The better to carry the deceit, Beatrix

affected to grumble before the servants, and to be jealous that she was

turned out of her chamber to make way for my lord.

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

of expectation caused the hearts of the gentle ladies of Castlewood to

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

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

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

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

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

toilet was of silver and crystal; there was a copy of “Eikon Basilike”

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

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

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

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

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

were all of the English Church, she carried away with her to the upper

apartment, which she destined for herself. The ladies showed Mr. Esmond,

when they were completed, the fond preparations they had made. 'Twas

then Beatrix knelt down and kissed the linen sheets. As for her mother,

Lady Castlewood made a curtsy at the door, as she would have done to the

altar on entering a church, and owned that she considered the chamber in

a manner sacred.

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

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

the lord of the house, whom his fond mother had been for so many years

without seeing. Both ladies were perfect housewives, having the greatest

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

notable superintendence over the kitchen. Calves enough were killed to

feed an army of prodigal sons, Esmond thought, and laughed when he came

to wait on the ladies, on the day when the guests were to arrive, to

find two pairs of the finest and roundest arms to be seen in England (my

Lady Castlewood was remarkable for this beauty of her person), covered

with flour up above the elbows, and preparing paste, and turning

rolling-pins in the housekeeper's closet. The guest would not arrive

till supper-time, and my lord would prefer having that meal in his own

chamber. You may be sure the brightest plate of the house was laid out

there, and can understand why it was that the ladies insisted that they

alone would wait upon the young chief of the family.

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

awaited the King in that very town where his father had last set his

foot on the English shore. A room had been provided at an inn there for

my Lord Castlewood and his servant; and Colonel Esmond timed his ride so

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

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

at the inn gate, and the Colonel running down, the next moment embraced

his dear young lord.

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

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

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

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

out in a cavalier tone in the French language to my lord's companion,

and affecting to grumble that my lord's fellow was a Frenchman, and did

not know the money or habits of the country:--“My man will see to the

horses, Baptiste,” says Colonel Esmond: “do you understand English?”

“Very leetle!” “So, follow my lord and wait upon him at dinner in his

own room.” The landlord and his people came up presently bearing the

dishes; 'twas well they made a noise and stir in the gallery, or they

might have found Colonel Esmond on his knee before Lord Castlewood's

servant, welcoming his Majesty to his kingdom, and kissing the hand

of the King. We told the landlord that the Frenchman would wait on

his master; and Esmond's man was ordered to keep sentry in the gallery

without the door. The Prince dined with a good appetite, laughing and

talking very gayly, and condescendingly bidding his two companions

to sit with him at table. He was in better spirits than poor Frank

Castlewood, who Esmond thought might be woe-begone on account of parting

with his divine Clotilda; but the Prince wishing to take a short siesta

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

the cause of poor Frank's discomfiture came out; and bursting into

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the weight of the obligation.”

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

sure a father may dispossess himself in favor of his son. I abdicate the

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

him.

“The K---, HE laughed,” Frank said, pointing to the door where the

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

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

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

you 'le grand serieux,' Don Bellianis of Greece, and I don't know what

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

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

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

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

Canterbury to run after a barmaid there, had I not implored him to come

on. He hath a house at Chaillot, where he used to go and bury himself

for weeks away from the Queen, and with all sorts of bad company,” says

Frank, with a demure look; “you may smile, but I am not the wild fellow

I was; no, no, I have been taught better,” says Castlewood devoutly,

making a sign on his breast.

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

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

so long as my Frank is there.”

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

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

next chamber of the august sleeper, just waking, calling out:--“Eh,

La-Fleur, un verre d'eau!” His Majesty came out yawning:--“A pest,” says

he, “upon your English ale, 'tis so strong that, ma foi, it hath turned

my head.”

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

very quickly to London, reaching Kensington at nightfall. Mr. Esmond's

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

whilst we had fresh beasts provided along the road. And galloping by

the Prince's side the Colonel explained to the Prince of Wales what his

movements had been; who the friends were that knew of the expedition;

whom, as Esmond conceived, the Prince should trust; entreating him,

above all, to maintain the very closest secrecy until the time should

come when his Royal Highness should appear. The town swarmed with

friends of the Prince's cause; there were scores of correspondents with

St. Germains; Jacobites known and secret; great in station and humble;

about the Court and the Queen; in the Parliament, Church, and among the

merchants in the City. The Prince had friends numberless in the army,

in the Privy Council, and the Officers of State. The great object, as it

seemed, to the small band of persons who had concerted that bold stroke,

who had brought the Queen's brother into his native country, was, that

his visit should remain unknown till the proper time came, when his

presence should surprise friends and enemies alike; and the latter

should be found so unprepared and disunited, that they should not

find time to attack him. We feared more from his friends than from his

enemies. The lies and tittle-tattle sent over to St. Germains by the

Jacobite agents about London, had done an incalculable mischief to his

cause, and wofully misguided him, and it was from these especially, that

the persons engaged in the present venture were anxious to defend the

chief actor in it.*

* The managers were the Bishop, who cannot be hurt by having

his name mentioned, a very active and loyal Nonconformist

Divine, a lady in the highest favor at Court, with whom

Beatrix Esmond had communication, and two noblemen of the

greatest rank, and a member of the House of Commons, who was

implicated in more transactions than one in behalf of the

Stuart family.

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

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

water, where Lady Esmond's coach was already in waiting. In another hour

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

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

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

retained a most tender affection for his parent.

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

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

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

Baptiste was constantly neglecting his part with an inconceivable

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

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

the country the Prince came to govern, had hurt the susceptibility of

the two gentlemen forming his escort; nor could either help owning in

his secret mind that they would have had his behavior otherwise,

and that the laughter and the lightness, not to say license, which

characterized his talk, scarce befitted such a great Prince, and such a

solemn occasion. Not but that he could act at proper times with spirit

and dignity. He had behaved, as we all knew, in a very courageous manner

on the field. Esmond had seen a copy of the letter the Prince had writ

with his own hand when urged by his friends in England to abjure his

religion, and admired that manly and magnanimous reply by which he

refused to yield to the temptation. Monsieur Baptiste took off his

hat, blushing at the hint Colonel Esmond ventured to give him, and

said:--“Tenez, elle est jolie, la petite mere. Foi de Chevalier! elle

est charmante; mais l'autre, qui est cette nymphe, cet astre qui brille,

cette Diane qui descend sur nous?” And he started back, and pushed

forward, as Beatrix was descending the stair. She was in colors for the

first time at her own house; she wore the diamonds Esmond gave her; it

had been agreed between them, that she should wear these brilliants on

the day when the King should enter the house, and a Queen she looked,

radiant in charms, and magnificent and imperial in beauty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

forward before my Lord Viscount. 'Twas lucky the servants' eyes were

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

servant, or at least a very insolent and rude one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

lighted tapers. He flung down his burden sulkily in the bedchamber:--“A

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

French.

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

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

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

which the Prince spoke of the ladies, nor the eyes with which he

regarded them.

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

apartment which was to be called my lord's parlor, were already lighted

and awaiting their occupier; and the collation laid for my lord's

supper. Lord Castlewood and his mother and sister came up the stair

a minute afterwards, and, so soon as the domestics had quitted the

apartment, Castlewood and Esmond uncovered, and the two ladies went down

on their knees before the Prince, who graciously gave a hand to each.

He looked his part of Prince much more naturally than that of servant,

which he had just been trying, and raised them both with a great deal of

nobility, as well as kindness in his air. “Madam,” says he, “my mother

will thank your ladyship for your hospitality to her son; for you,

madam,” turning to Beatrix, “I cannot bear to see so much beauty in such

a posture. You will betray Monsieur Baptiste if you kneel to him; sure

'tis his place rather to kneel to you.”

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

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

that she seemed, as it were, like Venus revealing herself a goddess in a

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

with a wonderful lustre. A pang, as of rage and jealousy, shot through

Esmond's heart, as he caught the look she gave the Prince; and he

clenched his hand involuntarily and looked across to Castlewood, whose

eyes answered his alarm-signal, and were also on the alert. The Prince

gave his subjects an audience of a few minutes, and then the two ladies

and Colonel Esmond quitted the chamber. Lady Castlewood pressed his hand

as they descended the stair, and the three went down to the lower rooms,

where they waited awhile till the travellers above should be refreshed

and ready for their meal.

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

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

on the diamonds.

“Were I the Mogul Emperor,” says the Colonel, “you should have all that

were dug out of Golconda.”

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

head on her beautiful breast,--“so are you all, all!” And when she

looked up again, as she did in a moment, and after a sigh, her eyes,

as they gazed at her cousin, wore that melancholy and inscrutable look

which 'twas always impossible to sound.

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

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

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

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

dissimilar, though Frank's were the handsomer of the two. The Prince

sat down and bade the ladies sit. The gentlemen remained standing: there

was, indeed, but one more cover laid at the table:--“Which of you will

take it?” says he.

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

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

voice; “the Marquis of Esmond will have the honor of serving the King.”

“I shall have the honor of waiting on his Royal Highness,” says Colonel

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

presented it to the King on his knee.

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

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

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

by poor Mr. Esmond's yellow countenance, that, I dare say, looked very

glum.

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

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

cottage he had at Fulham, the moon shining on his handsome serene

face:--“What cheer, brother?” says Addison, laughing: “I thought it was

a footpad advancing in the dark, and behold 'tis an old friend. We

may shake hands, Colonel, in the dark, 'tis better than fighting by

daylight. Why should we quarrel, because I am a Whig and thou art

a Tory? Turn thy steps and walk with me to Fulham, where there is a

nightingale still singing in the garden, and a cool bottle in a cave I

know of; you shall drink to the Pretender if you like, and I will drink

my liquor my own way: I have had enough of good liquor?--no, never!

There is no such word as enough as a stopper for good wine. Thou wilt

not come? Come any day, come soon. You know I remember Simois and the

Sigeia tellus, and the praelia mixta mero, mixta mero,” he repeated,

with ever so slight a touch of merum in his voice, and walked back a

little way on the road with Esmond, bidding the other remember he was

always his friend, and indebted to him for his aid in the “Campaign”

poem. And very likely Mr. Under-Secretary would have stepped in and

taken t'other bottle at the Colonel's lodging, had the latter invited

him, but Esmond's mood was none of the gayest, and he bade his friend an

inhospitable good-night at the door.

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

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

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

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

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

divine, that boldly declares that Parliament and people consecrate the

Sovereign, not bishops, nor genealogies, nor oils, nor coronations.”

The eager gaze of the young Prince, watching every movement of Beatrix,

haunted Esmond and pursued him. The Prince's figure appeared before him

in his feverish dreams many times that night. He wished the deed undone

for which he had labored so. He was not the first that has regretted his

own act, or brought about his own undoing. Undoing? Should he write

that word in his late years? No, on his knees before heaven, rather be

thankful for what then he deemed his misfortune, and which hath caused

the whole subsequent happiness of his life.

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

all his life, and the Colonel knew that he could answer for John's

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

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

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

courting Miss Beatrix's maid, he was to ask no questions, and betray no

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

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

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

in the kitchen such stories as he remembered of my Lord Viscount's youth

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

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

respecting my Lord Viscount's early days. Jack's ideas of painting

had not been much cultivated during his residence in Flanders with his

master; and, before my young lord's return, he had been easily got to

believe that the picture brought over from Paris, and now hanging in

Lady Castlewood's drawing-room, was a perfect likeness of her son, the

young lord. And the domestics having all seen the picture many times,

and catching but a momentary imperfect glimpse of the two strangers on

the night of their arrival, never had a reason to doubt the fidelity

of the portrait; and next day, when they saw the original of the piece

habited exactly as he was represented in the painting, with the same

periwig, ribbons, and uniform of the Guard, quite naturally addressed

the gentleman as my Lord Castlewood, my Lady Viscountess's son.

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

wore the secretary's gray frock; and John Lockwood was instructed to

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

devout in that religion, his attendant might be no other than his

chaplain from Bruxelles; hence, if he took his meals in my lord's

company there was little reason for surprise. Frank was further

cautioned to speak English with a foreign accent, which task he

performed indifferently well, and this caution was the more necessary

because the Prince himself scarce spoke our language like a native of

the island: and John Lockwood laughed with the folks below stairs at the

manner in which my lord, after five years abroad, sometimes forgot his

own tongue, and spoke it like a Frenchman. “I warrant,” says he, “that,

with the English beef and beer, his lordship will soon get back the

proper use of his mouth;” and, to do his new lordship justice, he took

to beer and beef very kindly.

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

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

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

his appearance in Lady Castlewood's parlor and drawing-room, calling

Beatrix “sister,” and her ladyship “mother,” or “madam” before the

servants. And, choosing to act entirely up to the part of brother and

son, the Prince sometimes saluted Mrs. Beatrix and Lady Castlewood with

a freedom which his secretary did not like, and which, for his part, set

Colonel Esmond tearing with rage.

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

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

is the gentleman--has been tampering with Mrs. Lucy (Jack's sweetheart),

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

rather relieved than otherwise when he found that the ancillary beauty

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

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

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

misfortunes in Europe, was often content to lay the dignity of his birth

and grief at the wooden shoes of a French chambermaid, and to repent

afterwards (for he was very devout) in ashes taken from the dust-pan.

'Tis for mortals such as these that nations suffer, that parties

struggle, that warriors fight and bleed. A year afterwards gallant heads

were falling, and Nithsdale in escape, and Derwentwater on the scaffold;

whilst the heedless ingrate, for whom they risked and lost all, was

tippling with his seraglio of mistresses in his petite maison of

Chaillot.

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

Prince and warn him that the girl whom his Highness was bribing was John

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

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

himself Lord Castlewood was not his young master: and the Colonel

besought the Prince to consider what the effect of a single man's

jealousy might be, and to think of other designs he had in hand, more

important than the seduction of a waiting-maid, and the humiliation of a

brave man.

Ten times, perhaps, in the course of as many days, Mr. Esmond had to

warn the royal young adventurer of some imprudence or some freedom. He

received these remonstrances very testily, save perhaps in this affair

of poor Lockwood's, when he deigned to burst out a-laughing, and said,

“What! the soubrette has peached to the amoureux, and Crispin is angry,

and Crispin has served, and Crispin has been a corporal, has he? Tell

him we will reward his valor with a pair of colors, and recompense his

fidelity.”

Colonel Esmond ventured to utter some other words of entreaty, but the

Prince, stamping imperiously, cried out, “Assez, milord: je m'ennuye

a la preche; I am not come to London to go to the sermon.” And he

complained afterwards to Castlewood, that “le petit jaune, le noir

Colonel, le Marquis Misanthrope” (by which facetious names his Royal

Highness was pleased to designate Colonel Esmond), “fatigued him with

his grand airs and virtuous homilies.”