The Bishop of Rochester, and other gentlemen engaged in the transaction

which had brought the Prince over, waited upon his Royal Highness,

constantly asking for my Lord Castlewood on their arrival at Kensington,

and being openly conducted to his Royal Highness in that character, who

received them either in my lady's drawing-room below, or above in his

own apartment; and all implored him to quit the house as little as

possible, and to wait there till the signal should be given for him to

appear. The ladies entertained him at cards, over which amusement he

spent many hours in each day and night. He passed many hours more in

drinking, during which time he would rattle and talk very agreeably, and

especially if the Colonel was absent, whose presence always seemed to

frighten him; and the poor “Colonel Noir” took that hint as a command

accordingly, and seldom intruded his black face upon the convivial hours

of this august young prisoner. Except for those few persons of whom the

porter had the list, Lord Castlewood was denied to all friends of the

house who waited on his lordship. The wound he had received had broke

out again from his journey on horseback, so the world and the domestics

were informed. And Doctor A----,* his physician (I shall not mention his

name, but he was physician to the Queen, of the Scots nation, and a man

remarkable for his benevolence as well as his wit), gave orders that he

should be kept perfectly quiet until the wound should heal. With this

gentleman, who was one of the most active and influential of our party,

and the others before spoken of, the whole secret lay; and it was kept

with so much faithfulness, and the story we told so simple and natural,

that there was no likelihood of a discovery except from the imprudence

of the Prince himself, and an adventurous levity that we had the

greatest difficulty to control. As for Lady Castlewood, although she

scarce spoke a word, 'twas easy to gather from her demeanor, and one

or two hints she dropped, how deep her mortification was at finding the

hero whom she had chosen to worship all her life (and whose restoration

had formed almost the most sacred part of her prayers), no more than

a man, and not a good one. She thought misfortune might have chastened

him; but that instructress had rather rendered him callous than humble.

His devotion, which was quite real, kept him from no sin he had a mind

to. His talk showed good-humor, gayety, even wit enough; but there was

a levity in his acts and words that he had brought from among those

libertine devotees with whom he had been bred, and that shocked the

simplicity and purity of the English lady, whose guest he was. Esmond

spoke his mind to Beatrix pretty freely about the Prince, getting her

brother to put in a word of warning. Beatrix was entirely of their

opinion; she thought he was very light, very light and reckless; she

could not even see the good looks Colonel Esmond had spoken of. The

Prince had bad teeth, and a decided squint. How could we say he did not

squint? His eyes were fine, but there was certainly a cast in them. She

rallied him at table with wonderful wit; she spoke of him invariably as

of a mere boy; she was more fond of Esmond than ever, praised him to her

brother, praised him to the Prince, when his Royal Highness was pleased

to sneer at the Colonel, and warmly espoused his cause: “And if your

Majesty does not give him the Garter his father had, when the Marquis

of Esmond comes to your Majesty's court, I will hang myself in my own

garters, or will cry my eyes out.” “Rather than lose those,” says the

Prince, “he shall be made Archbishop and Colonel of the Guard” (it was

Frank Castlewood who told me of this conversation over their supper).

* There can be very little doubt that the Doctor mentioned

by my dear father was the famous Dr. Arbuthnot.--R. E. W.

“Yes,” cries she, with one of her laughs--I fancy I hear it now.

Thirty years afterwards I hear that delightful music. “Yes, he shall be

Archbishop of Esmond and Marquis of Canterbury.”

“And what will your ladyship be?” says the Prince; “you have but to

choose your place.”

“I,” says Beatrix, “will be mother of the maids to the Queen of his

Majesty King James the Third--Vive le Roy!” and she made him a great

curtsy, and drank a part of a glass of wine in his honor.

“The Prince seized hold of the glass and drank the last drop of it,”

Castlewood said, “and my mother, looking very anxious, rose up and asked

leave to retire. But that Trix is my mother's daughter, Harry,” Frank

continued, “I don't know what a horrid fear I should have of her. I

wish--I wish this business were over. You are older than I am,

and wiser, and better, and I owe you everything, and would die for

you--before George I would; but I wish the end of this were come.”

Neither of us very likely passed a tranquil night; horrible doubts and

torments racked Esmond's soul: 'twas a scheme of personal ambition,

a daring stroke for a selfish end--he knew it. What cared he, in his

heart, who was King? Were not his very sympathies and secret convictions

on the other side--on the side of People, Parliament, Freedom? And here

was he, engaged for a Prince that had scarce heard the word liberty;

that priests and women, tyrants by nature, both made a tool of. The

misanthrope was in no better humor after hearing that story, and his

grim face more black and yellow than ever.

CHAPTER X.

WE ENTERTAIN A VERY DISTINGUISHED GUEST AT KENSINGTON.

Should any clue be found to the dark intrigues at the latter end of

Queen Anne's time, or any historian be inclined to follow it, 'twill be

discovered, I have little doubt, that not one of the great personages

about the Queen had a defined scheme of policy, independent of that

private and selfish interest which each was bent on pursuing: St.

John was for St. John, and Harley for Oxford, and Marlborough for

John Churchill, always; and according as they could get help from

St. Germains or Hanover, they sent over proffers of allegiance to

the Princes there, or betrayed one to the other: one cause, or one

sovereign, was as good as another to them, so that they could hold the

best place under him; and like Lockit and Peachem, the Newgate chiefs

in the “Rogues' Opera,” Mr. Gay wrote afterwards, had each in his hand

documents and proofs of treason which would hang the other, only he did

not dare to use the weapon, for fear of that one which his neighbor

also carried in his pocket. Think of the great Marlborough, the greatest

subject in all the world, a conqueror of princes, that had marched

victorious over Germany, Flanders, and France, that had given the law to

sovereigns abroad, and been worshipped as a divinity at home, forced to

sneak out of England--his credit, honors, places, all taken from him;

his friends in the army broke and ruined; and flying before Harley, as

abject and powerless as a poor debtor before a bailiff with a writ. A

paper, of which Harley got possession, and showing beyond doubt that the

Duke was engaged with the Stuart family, was the weapon with which the

Treasurer drove Marlborough out of the kingdom. He fled to Antwerp, and

began intriguing instantly on the other side, and came back to England,

as all know, a Whig and a Hanoverian.

Though the Treasurer turned out of the army and office every man,

military or civil, known to be the Duke's friend, and gave the vacant

posts among the Tory party; he, too, was playing the double game between

Hanover and St. Germains, awaiting the expected catastrophe of the

Queen's death to be Master of the State, and offer it to either family

that should bribe him best, or that the nation should declare for.

Whichever the King was, Harley's object was to reign over him; and to

this end he supplanted the former famous favorite, decried the actions

of the war which had made Marlborough's name illustrious, and disdained

no more than the great fallen competitor of his, the meanest arts,

flatteries, intimidations, that would secure his power. If the greatest

satirist the world ever hath seen had writ against Harley, and not for

him, what a history had he left behind of the last years of Queen Anne's

reign! But Swift, that scorned all mankind, and himself not the least of

all, had this merit of a faithful partisan, that he loved those chiefs

who treated him well, and stuck by Harley bravely in his fall, as he

gallantly had supported him in his better fortune.

Incomparably more brilliant, more splendid, eloquent, accomplished than

his rival, the great St. John could be as selfish as Oxford was, and

could act the double part as skilfully as ambidextrous Churchill. He

whose talk was always of liberty, no more shrunk from using persecution

and the pillory against his opponents than if he had been at Lisbon and

Grand Inquisitor. This lofty patriot was on his knees at Hanover and St.

Germains too; notoriously of no religion, he toasted Church and Queen

as boldly as the stupid Sacheverel, whom he used and laughed at; and

to serve his turn, and to overthrow his enemy, he could intrigue, coax,

bully, wheedle, fawn on the Court favorite and creep up the back-stair

as silently as Oxford, who supplanted Marlborough, and whom he himself

supplanted. The crash of my Lord Oxford happened at this very time

whereat my history is now arrived. He was come to the very last days of

his power, and the agent whom he employed to overthrow the conqueror of

Blenheim, was now engaged to upset the conqueror's conqueror, and hand

over the staff of government to Bolingbroke, who had been panting to

hold it.

In expectation of the stroke that was now preparing, the Irish regiments

in the French service were all brought round about Boulogne in Picardy,

to pass over if need were with the Duke of Berwick; the soldiers of

France no longer, but subjects of James the Third of England and Ireland

King. The fidelity of the great mass of the Scots (though a most active,

resolute, and gallant Whig party, admirably and energetically ordered

and disciplined, was known to be in Scotland too) was notoriously

unshaken in their King. A very great body of Tory clergy, nobility, and

gentry, were public partisans of the exiled Prince; and the indifferents

might be counted on to cry King George or King James, according as

either should prevail. The Queen, especially in her latter days,

inclined towards her own family. The Prince was lying actually in

London, within a stone's cast of his sister's palace; the first Minister

toppling to his fall, and so tottering that the weakest push of

a woman's finger would send him down; and as for Bolingbroke, his

successor, we know on whose side his power and his splendid eloquence

would be on the day when the Queen should appear openly before her

Council and say:--“This, my lords, is my brother; here is my father's

heir, and mine after me.”

During the whole of the previous year the Queen had had many and

repeated fits of sickness, fever, and lethargy, and her death had been

constantly looked for by all her attendants. The Elector of Hanover had

wished to send his son, the Duke of Cambridge--to pay his court to his

cousin the Queen, the Elector said;--in truth, to be on the spot when

death should close her career. Frightened perhaps to have such a memento

mori under her royal eyes, her Majesty had angrily forbidden the young

Prince's coming into England. Either she desired to keep the chances for

her brother open yet; or the people about her did not wish to close with

the Whig candidate till they could make terms with him. The quarrels

of her Ministers before her face at the Council board, the pricks of

conscience very likely, the importunities of her Ministers, and constant

turmoil and agitation round about her, had weakened and irritated the

Princess extremely; her strength was giving way under these continual

trials of her temper, and from day to day it was expected she must

come to a speedy end of them. Just before Viscount Castlewood and his

companion came from France, her Majesty was taken ill. The St.

Anthony's fire broke out on the royal legs; there was no hurry for

the presentation of the young lord at Court, or that person who should

appear under his name; and my Lord Viscount's wound breaking out

opportunely, he was kept conveniently in his chamber until such time as

his physician would allow him to bend his knee before the Queen. At

the commencement of July, that influential lady, with whom it has been

mentioned that our party had relations, came frequently to visit her

young friend, the Maid of Honor, at Kensington, and my Lord Viscount

(the real or supposititious), who was an invalid at Lady Castlewood's

house.

On the 27th day of July, the lady in question, who held the most

intimate post about the Queen, came in her chair from the Palace hard

by, bringing to the little party in Kensington Square intelligence of

the very highest importance. The final blow had been struck, and my Lord

of Oxford and Mortimer was no longer Treasurer. The staff was as yet

given to no successor, though my Lord Bolingbroke would undoubtedly be

the man. And now the time was come, the Queen's Abigail said: and now my

Lord Castlewood ought to be presented to the Sovereign.

After that scene which Lord Castlewood witnessed and described to his

cousin, who passed such a miserable night of mortification and jealousy

as he thought over the transaction, no doubt the three persons who were

set by nature as protectors over Beatrix came to the same conclusion,

that she must be removed from the presence of a man whose desires

towards her were expressed only too clearly; and who was no more

scrupulous in seeking to gratify them than his father had been before

him. I suppose Esmond's mistress, her son, and the Colonel himself, had

been all secretly debating this matter in their minds, for when Frank

broke out, in his blunt way, with:--“I think Beatrix had best be

anywhere but here,”--Lady Castlewood said:--“I thank you, Frank, I have

thought so, too;” and Mr. Esmond, though he only remarked that it was

not for him to speak, showed plainly, by the delight on his countenance,

how very agreeable that proposal was to him.

“One sees that you think with us, Henry,” says the viscountess, with

ever so little of sarcasm in her tone: “Beatrix is best out of this

house whilst we have our guest in it, and as soon as this morning's

business is done, she ought to quit London.”

“What morning's business?” asked Colonel Esmond, not knowing what had

been arranged, though in fact the stroke next in importance to that of

bringing the Prince, and of having him acknowledged by the Queen,

was now being performed at the very moment we three were conversing

together.

The Court-lady with whom our plan was concerted, and who was a chief

agent in it, the Court physician, and the Bishop of Rochester, who

were the other two most active participators in our plan, had held many

councils in our house at Kensington and elsewhere, as to the means best

to be adopted for presenting our young adventurer to his sister the

Queen. The simple and easy plan proposed by Colonel Esmond had been

agreed to by all parties, which was that on some rather private day,

when there were not many persons about the Court, the Prince should

appear there as my Lord Castlewood, should be greeted by his sister in

waiting, and led by that other lady into the closet of the Queen. And

according to her Majesty's health or humor, and the circumstances that

might arise during the interview, it was to be left to the discretion

of those present at it, and to the Prince himself, whether he should

declare that it was the Queen's own brother, or the brother of Beatrix

Esmond, who kissed her Royal hand. And this plan being determined on,

we were all waiting in very much anxiety for the day and signal of

execution.

Two mornings after that supper, it being the 27th day of July, the

Bishop of Rochester breakfasting with Lady Castlewood and her family,

and the meal scarce over, Doctor A.'s coach drove up to our house at

Kensington, and the Doctor appeared amongst the party there, enlivening

a rather gloomy company; for the mother and daughter had had words in

the morning in respect to the transactions of that supper, and other

adventures perhaps, and on the day succeeding. Beatrix's haughty spirit

brooked remonstrances from no superior, much less from her mother, the

gentlest of creatures, whom the girl commanded rather than obeyed. And

feeling she was wrong, and that by a thousand coquetries (which she

could no more help exercising on every man that came near her, than the

sun can help shining on great and small) she had provoked the Prince's

dangerous admiration, and allured him to the expression of it, she was

only the more wilful and imperious the more she felt her error.

To this party, the Prince being served with chocolate in his bedchamber,

where he lay late, sleeping away the fumes of his wine, the Doctor came,

and by the urgent and startling nature of his news, dissipated instantly

that private and minor unpleasantry under which the family of Castlewood

was laboring.

He asked for the guest; the guest was above in his own apartment: he

bade Monsieur Baptiste go up to his master instantly, and requested that

MY LORD VISCOUNT CASTLEWOOD would straightway put his uniform on, and

come away in the Doctor's coach now at the door.

He then informed Madam Beatrix what her part of the comedy was to

be:--“In half an hour,” says he, “her Majesty and her favorite lady

will take the air in the Cedar-walk behind the new Banqueting-house. Her

Majesty will be drawn in a garden-chair, Madam Beatrix Esmond and HER

BROTHER, MY LORD VISCOUNT CASTLEWOOD, will be walking in the private

garden, (here is Lady Masham's key,) and will come unawares upon the

Royal party. The man that draws the chair will retire, and leave the

Queen, the favorite, and the maid of honor and her brother together;

Mistress Beatrix will present her brother, and then!--and then, my Lord

Bishop will pray for the result of the interview, and his Scots clerk

will say Amen! Quick, put on your hood, Madam Beatrix; why doth not his

Majesty come down? Such another chance may not present itself for months

again.”

The Prince was late and lazy, and indeed had all but lost that chance

through his indolence. The Queen was actually about to leave the garden

just when the party reached it; the Doctor, the Bishop, the maid of

honor and her brother went off together in the physician's coach,

and had been gone half an hour when Colonel Esmond came to Kensington

Square.

The news of this errand, on which Beatrix was gone, of course for a

moment put all thoughts of private jealousy out of Colonel Esmond's

head. In half an hour more the coach returned; the Bishop descended from

it first, and gave his arm to Beatrix, who now came out. His lordship

went back into the carriage again, and the maid of honor entered the

house alone. We were all gazing at her from the upper window, trying to

read from her countenance the result of the interview from which she had

just come.

She came into the drawing-room in a great tremor and very pale; she

asked for a glass of water as her mother went to meet her, and after

drinking that and putting off her hood, she began to speak--“We may all

hope for the best,” says she; “it has cost the Queen a fit. Her Majesty

was in her chair in the Cedar-walk, accompanied only by Lady ----, when

we entered by the private wicket from the west side of the garden, and

turned towards her, the Doctor following us. They waited in a side

walk hidden by the shrubs, as we advanced towards the chair. My heart

throbbed so I scarce could speak; but my Prince whispered, 'Courage,

Beatrix,' and marched on with a steady step. His face was a little

flushed, but he was not afraid of the danger. He who fought so bravely

at Malplaquet fears nothing.” Esmond and Castlewood looked at each other

at this compliment, neither liking the sound of it.

“The Prince uncovered,” Beatrix continued, “and I saw the Queen turning

round to Lady Masham, as if asking who these two were. Her Majesty

looked very pale and ill, and then flushed up; the favorite made us a

signal to advance, and I went up, leading my Prince by the hand, quite

close to the chair: 'Your Majesty will give my Lord Viscount your hand

to kiss,' says her lady, and the Queen put out her hand, which the

Prince kissed, kneeling on his knee, he who should kneel to no mortal

man or woman.

“'You have been long from England, my lord,' says the Queen: 'why were

you not here to give a home to your mother and sister?'

“'I am come, Madam, to stay now, if the Queen desires me,' says the

Prince, with another low bow.

“'You have taken a foreign wife, my lord, and a foreign religion; was

not that of England good enough for you?'

“'In returning to my father's church,' says the Prince, 'I do not love

my mother the less, nor am I the less faithful servant of your majesty.'

“Here,” says Beatrix, “the favorite gave me a little signal with her

hand to fall back, which I did, though I died to hear what should pass;

and whispered something to the Queen, which made her Majesty start and

utter one or two words in a hurried manner, looking towards the Prince,

and catching hold with her hand of the arm of her chair. He advanced

still nearer towards it; he began to speak very rapidly; I caught the

words, 'Father, blessing, forgiveness,'--and then presently the Prince

fell on his knees; took from his breast a paper he had there, handed it

to the Queen, who, as soon as she saw it, flung up both her arms with

a scream, and took away that hand nearest the Prince, and which he

endeavored to kiss. He went on speaking with great animation of gesture,

now clasping his hands together on his heart, now opening them as though

to say: 'I am here, your brother, in your power.' Lady Masham ran round

on the other side of the chair, kneeling too, and speaking with great

energy. She clasped the Queen's hand on her side, and picked up the

paper her Majesty had let fall. The Prince rose and made a further

speech as though he would go; the favorite on the other hand urging her

mistress, and then, running back to the Prince, brought him back once

more close to the chair. Again he knelt down and took the Queen's hand,

which she did not withdraw, kissing it a hundred times; my lady all the

time, with sobs and supplications, speaking over the chair. This while

the Queen sat with a stupefied look, crumpling the paper with one hand,

as my Prince embraced the other; then of a sudden she uttered several

piercing shrieks, and burst into a great fit of hysteric tears and

laughter. 'Enough, enough, sir, for this time,' I heard Lady Masham

say: and the chairman, who had withdrawn round the Banqueting-room, came

back, alarmed by the cries. 'Quick,' says Lady Masham, 'get some help,'

and I ran towards the Doctor, who, with the Bishop of Rochester, came up

instantly. Lady Masham whispered the Prince he might hope for the very

best; and to be ready to-morrow; and he hath gone away to the Bishop

of Rochester's house, to meet several of his friends there. And so the

great stroke is struck,” says Beatrix, going down on her knees, and

clasping her hands. “God save the King: God save the King!”

Beatrix's tale told, and the young lady herself calmed somewhat of

her agitation, we asked with regard to the Prince, who was absent with

Bishop Atterbury, and were informed that 'twas likely he might remain

abroad the whole day. Beatrix's three kinsfolk looked at one another at

this intelligence: 'twas clear the same thought was passing through the

minds of all.

But who should begin to break the news? Monsieur Baptiste, that is Frank

Castlewood, turned very red, and looked towards Esmond; the Colonel

bit his lips, and fairly beat a retreat into the window: it was Lady

Castlewood that opened upon Beatrix with the news which we knew would do

anything but please her.

“We are glad,” says she, taking her daughter's hand, and speaking in a

gentle voice, “that the guest is away.”

Beatrix drew back in an instant, looking round her at us three, and

as if divining a danger. “Why glad?” says she, her breast beginning to

heave; “are you so soon tired of him?”

“We think one of us is devilishly too fond of him,” cries out Frank

Castlewood.

“And which is it--you, my lord, or is it mamma, who is jealous because

he drinks my health? or is it the head of the family” (here she turned

with an imperious look towards Colonel Esmond), “who has taken of late

to preach the King sermons?”

“We do not say you are too free with his Majesty.”

“I thank you, madam,” says Beatrix, with a toss of the head and a

curtsey.

But her mother continued, with very great calmness and dignity--“At

least we have not said so, though we might, were it possible for a

mother to say such words to her own daughter, your father's daughter.”

“Eh? mon pere,” breaks out Beatrix, “was no better than other persons'

fathers.” And again she looked towards the Colonel.

We all felt a shock as she uttered those two or three French words; her

manner was exactly imitated from that of our foreign guest.

“You had not learned to speak French a month ago, Beatrix,” says her

mother, sadly, “nor to speak ill of your father.”

Beatrix, no doubt, saw that slip she had made in her flurry, for she

blushed crimson: “I have learnt to honor the King,” says she, drawing

up, “and 'twere as well that others suspected neither his Majesty nor

me.”

“If you respected your mother a little more,” Frank said, “Trix, you

would do yourself no hurt.”

“I am no child,” says she, turning round on him; “we have lived very

well these five years without the benefit of your advice or example, and

I intend to take neither now. Why does not the head of the house speak?”

she went on; “he rules everything here. When his chaplain has done

singing the psalms, will his lordship deliver the sermon? I am tired of

the psalms.” The Prince had used almost the very same words in regard to

Colonel Esmond that the imprudent girl repeated in her wrath.

“You show yourself a very apt scholar, madam,” says the Colonel;

and, turning to his mistress, “Did your guest use these words in your

ladyship's hearing, or was it to Beatrix in private that he was pleased

to impart his opinion regarding my tiresome sermon?”

“Have you seen him alone?” cries my lord, starting up with an oath: “by

God, have you seen him alone?”

“Were he here, you wouldn't dare so to insult me; no, you would not

dare!” cries Frank's sister. “Keep your oaths, my lord, for your wife;

we are not used here to such language. Till you came, there used to be

kindness between me and mamma, and I cared for her when you never did,

when you were away for years with your horses and your mistress, and

your Popish wife.”

“By ---,” says my lord, rapping out another oath, “Clotilda is an angel;

how dare you say a word against Clotilda?”

Colonel Esmond could not refrain from a smile, to see how easy Frank's

attack was drawn off by that feint:--“I fancy Clotilda is not the

subject in hand,” says Mr. Esmond, rather scornfully; “her ladyship is

at Paris, a hundred leagues off, preparing baby-linen. It is about my

Lord Castlewood's sister, and not his wife, the question is.”

“He is not my Lord Castlewood,” says Beatrix, “and he knows he is not;

he is Colonel Francis Esmond's son, and no more, and he wears a false

title; and he lives on another man's land, and he knows it.” Here was

another desperate sally of the poor beleaguered garrison, and an alerte

in another quarter. “Again, I beg your pardon,” says Esmond. “If there

are no proofs of my claim, I have no claim. If my father acknowledged

no heir, yours was his lawful successor, and my Lord Castlewood hath

as good a right to his rank and small estate as any man in England. But

that again is not the question, as you know very well; let us bring our

talk back to it, as you will have me meddle in it. And I will give

you frankly my opinion, that a house where a Prince lies all day, who

respects no woman, is no house for a young unmarried lady; that you were

better in the country than here; that he is here on a great end, from

which no folly should divert him; and that having nobly done your part

of this morning, Beatrix, you should retire off the scene awhile, and

leave it to the other actors of the play.”

As the Colonel spoke with a perfect calmness and politeness, such as

'tis to be hoped he hath always shown to women,* his mistress stood by

him on one side of the table, and Frank Castlewood on the other, hemming

in poor Beatrix, that was behind it, and, as it were, surrounding her

with our approaches.

* My dear father saith quite truly, that his manner towards

our sex was uniformly courteous. From my infancy upwards,

he treated me with an extreme gentleness, as though I was a

little lady. I can scarce remember (though I tried him

often) ever hearing a rough word from him, nor was he less

grave and kind in his manner to the humblest negresses on

his estate. He was familiar with no one except my mother,

and it was delightful to witness up to the very last days

the confidence between them. He was obeyed eagerly by all

under him; and my mother and all her household lived in a

constant emulation to please him, and quite a terror lest in

any way they should offend him. He was the humblest man

with all this; the least exacting, the more easily

contented; and Mr. Benson, our minister at Castlewood, who

attended him at the last, ever said--“I know not what

Colonel Esmond's doctrine was, but his life and death were

those of a devout Christian.”--R. E. W.

Having twice sallied out and been beaten back, she now, as I expected,

tried the ultima ratio of women, and had recourse to tears. Her

beautiful eyes filled with them; I never could bear in her, nor in any

woman, that expression of pain:--“I am alone,” sobbed she; “you are

three against me--my brother, my mother, and you. What have I done, that

you should speak and look so unkindly at me? Is it my fault that the

Prince should, as you say, admire me? Did I bring him here? Did I do

aught but what you bade me, in making him welcome? Did you not tell me

that our duty was to die for him? Did you not teach me, mother, night

and morning to pray for the King, before even ourselves? What would you

have of me, cousin, for you are the chief of the conspiracy against me;

I know you are, sir, and that my mother and brother are acting but as

you bid them; whither would you have me go?”

“I would but remove from the Prince,” says Esmond, gravely, “a dangerous

temptation; heaven forbid I should say you would yield; I would only

have him free of it. Your honor needs no guardian, please God, but his

imprudence doth. He is so far removed from all women by his rank, that

his pursuit of them cannot but be unlawful. We would remove the dearest

and fairest of our family from the chance of that insult, and that is

why we would have you go, dear Beatrix.”

“Harry speaks like a book,” says Frank, with one of his oaths, “and, by

---, every word he saith is true. You can't help being handsome, Trix;

no more can the Prince help following you. My counsel is that you go out

of harm's way; for, by the Lord, were the Prince to play any tricks with

you, King as he is, or is to be, Harry Esmond and I would have justice

of him.”

“Are not two such champions enough to guard me?” says Beatrix, something

sorrowfully; “sure, with you two watching, no evil could happen to me.”

“In faith, I think not, Beatrix,” says Colonel Esmond; “nor if the

Prince knew us would he try.”

“But does he know you?” interposed Lady Castlewood, very quiet: “he

comes of a country where the pursuit of kings is thought no dishonor

to a woman. Let us go, dearest Beatrix. Shall we go to Walcote or to

Castlewood? We are best away from the city; and when the Prince is

acknowledged, and our champions have restored him, and he hath his own

house at St. James's or Windsor, we can come back to ours here. Do you

not think so, Harry and Frank?”

Frank and Harry thought with her, you may be sure.

“We will go, then,” says Beatrix, turning a little pale; “Lady Masham is

to give me warning to-night how her Majesty is, and to-morrow--”

“I think we had best go to-day, my dear,” says my Lady Castlewood; “we

might have the coach and sleep at Hounslow, and reach home to-morrow.

'Tis twelve o'clock; bid the coach, cousin, be ready at one.”

“For shame!” burst out Beatrix, in a passion of tears and mortification.

“You disgrace me by your cruel precautions; my own mother is the first

to suspect me, and would take me away as my gaoler. I will not go with

you, mother; I will go as no one's prisoner. If I wanted to deceive, do

you think I could find no means of evading you? My family suspects me.

As those mistrust me that ought to love me most, let me leave them; I

will go, but I will go alone: to Castlewood, be it. I have been unhappy

there and lonely enough; let me go back, but spare me at least the

humiliation of setting a watch over my misery, which is a trial I can't

bear. Let me go when you will, but alone, or not at all. You three can

stay and triumph over my unhappiness, and I will bear it as I have borne

it before. Let my gaoler-in-chief go order the coach that is to take me

away. I thank you, Henry Esmond, for your share in the conspiracy. All

my life long I'll thank you, and remember you, and you, brother, and

you, mother, how shall I show my gratitude to you for your careful

defence of my honor?”

She swept out of the room with the air of an empress, flinging glances

of defiance at us all, and leaving us conquerors of the field, but

scared, and almost ashamed of our victory. It did indeed seem hard and

cruel that we three should have conspired the banishment and humiliation

of that fair creature. We looked at each other in silence: 'twas not the

first stroke by many of our actions in that unlucky time, which, being

done, we wished undone. We agreed it was best she should go alone,

speaking stealthily to one another, and under our breaths, like persons

engaged in an act they felt ashamed in doing.

In a half-hour, it might be, after our talk she came back, her

countenance wearing the same defiant air which it had borne when

she left us. She held a shagreen-case in her hand; Esmond knew it as

containing his diamonds which he had given to her for her marriage with

Duke Hamilton, and which she had worn so splendidly on the inauspicious

night of the Prince's arrival. “I have brought back,” says she, “to

the Marquis of Esmond the present he deigned to make me in days when he

trusted me better than now. I will never accept a benefit or a kindness

from Henry Esmond more, and I give back these family diamonds, which

belonged to one king's mistress, to the gentleman that suspected I would

be another. Have you been upon your message of coach-caller, my Lord

Marquis? Will you send your valet to see that I do not run away?” We

were right, yet, by her manner, she had put us all in the wrong; we

were conquerors, yet the honors of the day seemed to be with the poor

oppressed girl.

That luckless box containing the stones had first been ornamented with

a baron's coronet, when Beatrix was engaged to the young gentleman from

whom she parted, and afterwards the gilt crown of a duchess figured

on the cover, which also poor Beatrix was destined never to wear. Lady

Castlewood opened the case mechanically and scarce thinking what she

did; and behold, besides the diamonds, Esmond's present, there lay in

the box the enamelled miniature of the late Duke, which Beatrix had laid

aside with her mourning when the King came into the house; and which the

poor heedless thing very likely had forgotten.

“Do you leave this, too, Beatrix?” says her mother, taking the miniature

out, and with a cruelty she did not very often show; but there are some

moments when the tenderest women are cruel, and some triumphs which

angels can't forego.*

* This remark shows how unjustly and contemptuously even the

best of men will sometimes judge of our sex. Lady

Castlewood had no intention of triumphing over her daughter;

but from a sense of duty alone pointed out her deplorable

wrong.--H. E.

Having delivered this stab, Lady Castlewood was frightened at the effect

of her blow. It went to poor Beatrix's heart: she flushed up and passed

a handkerchief across her eyes, and kissed the miniature, and put it

into her bosom:--“I had forgot it,” says she; “my injury made me forget

my grief: my mother has recalled both to me. Farewell, mother; I think I

never can forgive you; something hath broke between us that no tears

nor years can repair. I always said I was alone; you never loved me,

never--and were jealous of me from the time I sat on my father's knee.

Let me go away, the sooner the better: I can bear to be with you no

more.”

“Go, child,” says her mother, still very stern; “go and bend your

proud knees and ask forgiveness; go, pray in solitude for humility and

repentance. 'Tis not your reproaches that make me unhappy, 'tis your

hard heart, my poor Beatrix; may God soften it, and teach you one day to

feel for your mother.”

If my mistress was cruel, at least she never could be got to own as

much. Her haughtiness quite overtopped Beatrix's; and, if the girl had a

proud spirit, I very much fear it came to her by inheritance.

CHAPTER XI.

OUR GUEST QUITS US AS NOT BEING HOSPITABLE ENOUGH.

Beatrix's departure took place within an hour, her maid going with her

in the post-chaise, and a man armed on the coach-box to prevent any

danger of the road. Esmond and Frank thought of escorting the carriage,

but she indignantly refused their company, and another man was sent to

follow the coach, and not to leave it till it had passed over Hounslow

Heath on the next day. And these two forming the whole of Lady

Castlewood's male domestics, Mr. Esmond's faithful John Lockwood came

to wait on his mistress during their absence, though he would have

preferred to escort Mrs. Lucy, his sweetheart, on her journey into the

country.

We had a gloomy and silent meal; it seemed as if a darkness was over the

house, since the bright face of Beatrix had been withdrawn from it. In

the afternoon came a message from the favorite to relieve us somewhat

from this despondency. “The Queen hath been much shaken,” the note said;

“she is better now, and all things will go well. Let MY LORD CASTLEWOOD

be ready against we send for him.”

At night there came a second billet: “There hath been a great battle in

Council; Lord Treasurer hath broke his staff, and hath fallen never to

rise again; no successor is appointed. Lord B----receives a great Whig

company to-night at Golden Square. If he is trimming, others are true;

the Queen hath no more fits, but is a-bed now, and more quiet. Be ready

against morning, when I still hope all will be well.”

The Prince came home shortly after the messenger who bore this billet

had left the house. His Royal Highness was so much the better for the

Bishop's liquor, that to talk affairs to him now was of little service.

He was helped to the Royal bed; he called Castlewood familiarly by his

own name; he quite forgot the part upon the acting of which his crown,

his safety, depended. 'Twas lucky that my Lady Castlewood's servants

were out of the way, and only those heard him who would not betray

him. He inquired after the adorable Beatrix, with a royal hiccup in his

voice; he was easily got to bed, and in a minute or two plunged in that

deep slumber and forgetfulness with which Bacchus rewards the votaries

of that god. We wished Beatrix had been there to see him in his cups. We

regretted, perhaps, that she was gone.

One of the party at Kensington Square was fool enough to ride to

Hounslow that night, coram latronibus, and to the inn which the family

used ordinarily in their journeys out of London. Esmond desired my

landlord not to acquaint Madam Beatrix with his coming, and had the grim

satisfaction of passing by the door of the chamber where she lay with

her maid, and of watching her chariot set forth in the early morning. He

saw her smile and slip money into the man's hand who was ordered to ride

behind the coach as far as Bagshot. The road being open, and the other

servant armed, it appeared she dispensed with the escort of a second

domestic; and this fellow, bidding his young mistress adieu with many

bows, went and took a pot of ale in the kitchen, and returned in company

with his brother servant, John Coachman, and his horses, back to London.

They were not a mile out of Hounslow when the two worthies stopped for

more drink, and here they were scared by seeing Colonel Esmond gallop by

them. The man said in reply to Colonel Esmond's stern question, that his

young mistress had sent her duty; only that, no other message: she had

had a very good night, and would reach Castlewood by nightfall. The

Colonel had no time for further colloquy, and galloped on swiftly to

London, having business of great importance there, as my reader very

well knoweth. The thought of Beatrix riding away from the danger soothed

his mind not a little. His horse was at Kensington Square (honest Dapple

knew the way thither well enough) before the tipsy guest of last night

was awake and sober.

The account of the previous evening was known all over the town early

next day. A violent altercation had taken place before the Queen in

the Council Chamber; and all the coffee-houses had their version of the

quarrel. The news brought my Lord Bishop early to Kensington Square,

where he awaited the waking of his Royal master above stairs, and spoke

confidently of having him proclaimed as Prince of Wales and heir to

the throne before that day was over. The Bishop had entertained on the

previous afternoon certain of the most influential gentlemen of the

true British party. His Royal highness had charmed all, both Scots and

English, Papists and Churchmen: “Even Quakers,” says he, “were at our

meeting; and, if the stranger took a little too much British punch and

ale, he will soon grow more accustomed to those liquors; and my Lord

Castlewood,” says the Bishop with a laugh, “must bear the cruel charge

of having been for once in his life a little tipsy. He toasted your

lovely sister a dozen times, at which we all laughed,” says the Bishop,

“admiring so much fraternal affection.--Where is that charming nymph,

and why doth she not adorn your ladyship's tea-table with her bright

eyes?”

Her ladyship said, dryly, that Beatrix was not at home that morning;

my Lord Bishop was too busy with great affairs to trouble himself much

about the presence or absence of any lady, however beautiful.

We were yet at table when Dr. A---- came from the Palace with a look of

great alarm; the shocks the Queen had had the day before had acted on

her severely; he had been sent for, and had ordered her to be blooded.

The surgeon of Long Acre had come to cup the Queen, and her Majesty was

now more easy and breathed more freely. What made us start at the name

of Mr. Ayme? “Il faut etre aimable pour etre aime,” says the merry

Doctor; Esmond pulled his sleeve, and bade him hush. It was to Ayme's

house, after his fatal duel, that my dear Lord Castlewood, Frank's

father, had been carried to die.

No second visit could be paid to the Queen on that day at any rate; and

when our guest above gave his signal that he was awake, the Doctor, the

Bishop, and Colonel Esmond waited upon the Prince's levee, and

brought him their news, cheerful or dubious. The Doctor had to go away

presently, but promised to keep the Prince constantly acquainted with

what was taking place at the Palace hard by. His counsel was, and the

Bishop's, that as soon as ever the Queen's malady took a favorable turn,

the Prince should be introduced to her bedside; the Council summoned;

the guard at Kensington and St. James's, of which two regiments were to

be entirely relied on, and one known not to be hostile, would declare

for the Prince, as the Queen would before the Lords of her Council,

designating him as the heir to her throne.

With locked doors, and Colonel Esmond acting as secretary, the Prince

and his Lordship of Rochester passed many hours of this day, composing

Proclamations and Addresses to the Country, to the Scots, to the Clergy,

to the People of London and England; announcing the arrival of the exile

descendant of three sovereigns, and his acknowledgment by his sister as

heir to the throne. Every safeguard for their liberties, the Church and

People could ask, was promised to them. The Bishop could answer for the

adhesion of very many prelates, who besought of their flocks and brother

ecclesiastics to recognize the sacred right of the future sovereign, and

to purge the country of the sin of rebellion.

During the composition of these papers, more messengers than one came

from the Palace regarding the state of the august patient there lying.

At mid-day she was somewhat better; at evening the torpor again seized

her, and she wandered in her mind. At night Dr. A---- was with us again,

with a report rather more favorable: no instant danger at any rate was

apprehended. In the course of the last two years her Majesty had had

many attacks similar, but more severe.

By this time we had finished a half-dozen of Proclamations, (the wording

of them so as to offend no parties, and not to give umbrage to Whigs or

Dissenters, required very great caution,) and the young Prince, who had

indeed shown, during a long day's labor, both alacrity at seizing the

information given him, and ingenuity and skill in turning the phrases

which were to go out signed by his name, here exhibited a good-humor and

thoughtfulness that ought to be set down to his credit.

“Were these papers to be mislaid,” says he, “or our scheme to come to

mishap, my Lord Esmond's writing would bring him to a place where I

heartily hope never to see him; and so, by your leave, I will copy the

papers myself, though I am not very strong in spelling; and if they are

found they will implicate none but the person they most concern;” and

so, having carefully copied the Proclamations out, the Prince burned

those in Colonel Esmond's handwriting: “And now, and now, gentlemen,”

says he, “let us go to supper, and drink a glass with the ladies. My

Lord Esmond, you will sup with us to-night; you have given us of late

too little of your company.”

The Prince's meals were commonly served in the chamber which had been

Beatrix's bedroom, adjoining that in which he slept. And the dutiful

practice of his entertainers was to wait until their Royal guest bade

them take their places at table before they sat down to partake of the

meal. On this night, as you may suppose, only Frank Castlewood and his

mother were in waiting when the supper was announced to receive the

Prince; who had passed the whole of the day in his own apartment, with

the Bishop as his Minister of State, and Colonel Esmond officiating as

Secretary of his Council.

The Prince's countenance wore an expression by no means pleasant; when

looking towards the little company assembled, and waiting for him, he

did not see Beatrix's bright face there as usual to greet him. He asked

Lady Esmond for his fair introducer of yesterday: her ladyship only cast

her eyes down, and said quietly, Beatrix could not be of the supper that

night; nor did she show the least sign of confusion, whereas Castlewood

turned red, and Esmond was no less embarrassed. I think women have an

instinct of dissimulation; they know by nature how to disguise their

emotions far better than the most consummate male courtiers can do. Is

not the better part of the life of many of them spent in hiding their

feelings, in cajoling their tyrants, in masking over with fond smiles

and artful gayety, their doubt, or their grief, or their terror?

Our guest swallowed his supper very sulkily; it was not till the second

bottle his Highness began to rally. When Lady Castlewood asked leave to

depart, he sent a message to Beatrix, hoping she would be present at the

next day's dinner, and applied himself to drink, and to talk afterwards,

for which there was subject in plenty.

The next day, we heard from our informer at Kensington that the Queen

was somewhat better, and had been up for an hour, though she was not

well enough yet to receive any visitor.

At dinner a single cover was laid for his Royal Highness; and the two

gentlemen alone waited on him. We had had a consultation in the morning

with Lady Castlewood, in which it had been determined that, should his

Highness ask further questions about Beatrix, he should be answered by

the gentlemen of the house.

He was evidently disturbed and uneasy, looking towards the door

constantly, as if expecting some one. There came, however, nobody,

except honest John Lockwood, when he knocked with a dish, which those

within took from him; so the meals were always arranged, and I believe

the council in the kitchen were of opinion that my young lord had

brought over a priest, who had converted us all into Papists, and that

Papists were like Jews, eating together, and not choosing to take their

meals in the sight of Christians.

The Prince tried to cover his displeasure; he was but a clumsy

dissembler at that time, and when out of humor could with difficulty

keep a serene countenance; and having made some foolish attempts at

trivial talk, he came to his point presently, and in as easy a manner

as he could, saying to Lord Castlewood, he hoped, he requested, his

lordship's mother and sister would be of the supper that night. As

the time hung heavy on him, and he must not go abroad, would not Miss

Beatrix hold him company at a game of cards?

At this, looking up at Esmond, and taking the signal from him, Lord

Castlewood informed his Royal Highness* that his sister Beatrix was not

at Kensington; and that her family had thought it best she should quit

the town.

* In London we addressed the Prince as Royal Highness

invariably, though the women persisted in giving him the

title of King.

“Not at Kensington!” says he; “is she ill? she was well yesterday;

wherefore should she quit the town? Is it at your orders, my lord, or

Colonel Esmond's, who seems the master of this house?”

“Not of this, sir,” says Frank very nobly, “only of our house in the

country, which he hath given to us. This is my mother's house, and

Walcote is my father's, and the Marquis of Esmond knows he hath but to

give his word, and I return his to him.”

“The Marquis of Esmond!--the Marquis of Esmond,” says the Prince,

tossing off a glass, “meddles too much with my affairs, and presumes

on the service he hath done me. If you want to carry your suit with

Beatrix, my lord, by blocking her up in gaol, let me tell you that is

not the way to win a woman.”

“I was not aware, sir, that I had spoken of my suit to Madam Beatrix to

your Royal Highness.”

“Bah, bah, Monsieur! we need not be a conjurer to see that. It makes

itself seen at all moments. You are jealous, my lord, and the maid of

honor cannot look at another face without yours beginning to scowl. That

which you do is unworthy, Monsieur; is inhospitable--is, is lache, yes,

lache:” (he spoke rapidly in French, his rage carrying him away with each

phrase:) “I come to your house; I risk my life; I pass it in ennui; I

repose myself on your fidelity; I have no company but your lordship's

sermons or the conversations of that adorable young lady, and you take

her from me, and you, you rest! Merci, Monsieur! I shall thank you

when I have the means; I shall know to recompense a devotion a little

importunate, my lord--a little importunate. For a month past your airs

of protector have annoyed me beyond measure. You deign to offer me the

crown, and bid me take it on my knees like King John--eh! I know my

history, Monsieur, and mock myself of frowning barons. I admire your

mistress, and you send her to a Bastile of the Province; I enter your

house, and you mistrust me. I will leave it, Monsieur; from to-night I

will leave it. I have other friends whose loyalty will not be so ready

to question mine. If I have garters to give away, 'tis to noblemen who

are not so ready to think evil. Bring me a coach and let me quit this

place, or let the fair Beatrix return to it. I will not have your

hospitality at the expense of the freedom of that fair creature.”

This harangue was uttered with rapid gesticulation such as the French

use, and in the language of that nation. The Prince striding up and down

the room; his face flushed, and his hands trembling with anger. He was

very thin and frail from repeated illness and a life of pleasure. Either

Castlewood or Esmond could have broke him across their knee, and in

half a minute's struggle put an end to him; and here he was insulting

us both, and scarce deigning to hide from the two, whose honor it most

concerned, the passion he felt for the young lady of our family. My Lord

Castlewood replied to the Prince's tirade very nobly and simply.

“Sir,” says he, “your Royal Highness is pleased to forget that others

risk their lives, and for your cause. Very few Englishmen, please God,

would dare to lay hands on your sacred person, though none would ever

think of respecting ours. Our family's lives are at your service, and

everything we have except our honor.”

“Honor! bah, sir, who ever thought of hurting your honor?” says the

Prince with a peevish air.

“We implore your Royal Highness never to think of hurting it,” says Lord

Castlewood with a low bow. The night being warm, the windows were open

both towards the Gardens and the Square. Colonel Esmond heard through

the closed door the voice of the watchman calling the hour, in the

square on the other side. He opened the door communicating with the

Prince's room; Martin, the servant that had rode with Beatrix to

Hounslow, was just going out of the chamber as Esmond entered it, and

when the fellow was gone, and the watchman again sang his cry of “Past

ten o'clock, and a starlight night,” Esmond spoke to the Prince in a low

voice, and said--“Your Royal Highness hears that man.”

“Apres, Monsieur?” says the Prince.

“I have but to beckon him from the window, and send him fifty yards, and

he returns with a guard of men, and I deliver up to him the body of the

person calling himself James the Third, for whose capture Parliament

hath offered a reward of 500L., as your Royal Highness saw on our ride

from Rochester. I have but to say the word, and, by the heaven that made

me, I would say it if I thought the Prince, for his honor's sake, would

not desist from insulting ours. But the first gentleman of England knows

his duty too well to forget himself with the humblest, or peril his

crown for a deed that were shameful if it were done.”

“Has your lordship anything to say,” says the Prince, turning to Frank

Castlewood, and quite pale with anger; “any threat or any insult, with

which you would like to end this agreeable night's entertainment?”

“I follow the head of our house,” says Castlewood, bowing gravely. “At

what time shall it please the Prince that we should wait upon him in the

morning?”

“You will wait on the Bishop of Rochester early, you will bid him bring

his coach hither; and prepare an apartment for me in his own house, or

in a place of safety. The King will reward you handsomely, never fear,

for all you have done in his behalf. I wish you a good night, and

shall go to bed, unless it pleases the Marquis of Esmond to call his

colleague, the watchman, and that I should pass the night with the

Kensington guard. Fare you well, be sure I will remember you. My Lord

Castlewood, I can go to bed to-night without need of a chamberlain.” And

the Prince dismissed us with a grim bow, locking one door as he spoke,

that into the supping-room, and the other through which we passed, after

us. It led into the small chamber which Frank Castlewood or MONSIEUR

BAPTISTE occupied, and by which Martin entered when Colonel Esmond but

now saw him in the chamber.

At an early hour next morning the Bishop arrived, and was closeted for

some time with his master in his own apartment, where the Prince laid

open to his counsellor the wrongs which, according to his version, he

had received from the gentlemen of the Esmond family. The worthy prelate

came out from the conference with an air of great satisfaction; he was a

man full of resources, and of a most assured fidelity, and possessed of

genius, and a hundred good qualities; but captious and of a most jealous

temper, that could not help exulting at the downfall of any favorite;

and he was pleased in spite of himself to hear that the Esmond Ministry

was at an end.

“I have soothed your guest,” says he, coming out to the two gentlemen

and the widow; who had been made acquainted with somewhat of the dispute

of the night before. (By the version we gave her, the Prince was only

made to exhibit anger because we doubted of his intentions in respect

to Beatrix; and to leave us, because we questioned his honor.) “But I

think, all things considered, 'tis as well he should leave this house;

and then, my Lady Castlewood,” says the Bishop, “my pretty Beatrix may

come back to it.”

“She is quite as well at home at Castlewood,” Esmond's mistress said,

“till everything is over.”

“You shall have your title, Esmond, that I promise you,” says the

good Bishop, assuming the airs of a Prime Minister. “The Prince hath

expressed himself most nobly in regard of the little difference of last

night, and I promise you he hath listened to my sermon, as well as to

that of other folks,” says the Doctor, archly; “he hath every great and

generous quality, with perhaps a weakness for the sex which belongs to

his family, and hath been known in scores of popular sovereigns from

King David downwards.”

“My lord, my lord!” breaks out Lady Esmond, “the levity with which

you speak of such conduct towards our sex shocks me, and what you call

weakness I call deplorable sin.”

“Sin it is, my dear creature,” says the Bishop, with a shrug, taking

snuff; “but consider what a sinner King Solomon was, and in spite of a

thousand of wives too.”

“Enough of this, my lord,” says Lady Castlewood, with a fine blush, and

walked out of the room very stately.

The Prince entered it presently with a smile on his face, and if he felt

any offence against us on the previous night, at present exhibited none.

He offered a hand to each gentleman with great courtesy. “If all your

bishops preach so well as Doctor Atterbury.” says he, “I don't know,

gentlemen, what may happen to me. I spoke very hastily, my lords, last

night, and ask pardon of both of you. But I must not stay any longer,”

says he, “giving umbrage to good friends, or keeping pretty girls away

from their homes. My Lord Bishop hath found a safe place for me, hard

by at a curate's house, whom the Bishop can trust, and whose wife is so

ugly as to be beyond all danger; we will decamp into those new quarters,

and I leave you, thanking you for a hundred kindnesses here. Where is

my hostess, that I may bid her farewell; to welcome her in a house of my

own, soon, I trust, where my friends shall have no cause to quarrel with

me.”

Lady Castlewood arrived presently, blushing with great grace, and tears

filling her eyes as the Prince graciously saluted her. She looked so

charming and young, that the doctor, in his bantering way, could not

help speaking of her beauty to the Prince; whose compliment made her

blush, and look more charming still.

CHAPTER XII.

A GREAT SCHEME, AND WHO BALKED IT.

As characters written with a secret ink come out with the application

of fire, and disappear again and leave the paper white, as soon as it is

cool; a hundred names of men, high in repute and favoring the Prince's

cause, that were writ in our private lists, would have been visible

enough on the great roll of the conspiracy, had it ever been laid open

under the sun. What crowds would have pressed forward, and subscribed

their names and protested their loyalty, when the danger was over! What

a number of Whigs, now high in place and creatures of the all-powerful

Minister, scorned Mr. Walpole then! If ever a match was gained by the

manliness and decision of a few at a moment of danger; if ever one was

lost by the treachery and imbecility of those that had the cards in

their hands, and might have played them, it was in that momentous game

which was enacted in the next three days, and of which the noblest crown

in the world was the stake.

From the conduct of my Lord Bolingbroke, those who were interested

in the scheme we had in hand, saw pretty well that he was not to be

trusted. Should the Prince prevail, it was his lordship's gracious

intention to declare for him: should the Hanoverian party bring in their

sovereign, who more ready to go on his knee, and cry, “God Save King

George?” And he betrayed the one Prince and the other; but exactly at

the wrong time. When he should have struck for King James, he faltered

and coquetted with the Whigs; and having committed himself by the most

monstrous professions of devotion, which the Elector rightly scorned,

he proved the justness of their contempt for him by flying and taking

renegade service with St. Germains, just when he should have kept

aloof: and that Court despised him, as the manly and resolute men who

established the Elector in England had before done. He signed his own

name to every accusation of insincerity his enemies made against him;

and the King and the Pretender alike could show proofs of St. John's

treachery under his own hand and seal.

Our friends kept a pretty close watch upon his motions, as on those of

the brave and hearty Whig party, that made little concealment of theirs.

They would have in the Elector, and used every means in their power to

effect their end. My Lord Marlborough was now with them. His expulsion

from power by the Tories had thrown that great captain at once on the

Whig side. We heard he was coming from Antwerp; and, in fact, on the day

of the Queen's death, he once more landed on English shore. A great part

of the army was always with their illustrious leader; even the Tories

in it were indignant at the injustice of the persecution which the Whig

officers were made to undergo. The chiefs of these were in London, and

at the head of them one of the most intrepid men in the world, the Scots

Duke of Argyle, whose conduct on the second day after that to which I

have now brought down my history, ended, as such honesty and bravery

deserved to end, by establishing the present Royal race on the English

throne.

Meanwhile there was no slight difference of opinion amongst the

councillors surrounding the Prince, as to the plan his Highness should

pursue. His female Minister at Court, fancying she saw some amelioration

in the Queen, was for waiting a few days, or hours it might be, until

he could be brought to her bedside, and acknowledged as her heir. Mr.

Esmond was for having him march thither, escorted by a couple of troops

of Horse Guards, and openly presenting himself to the Council. During

the whole of the night of the 29th-30th July, the Colonel was engaged

with gentlemen of the military profession, whom 'tis needless here to

name; suffice it to say that several of them had exceeding high rank in

the army, and one of them in especial was a General, who, when he heard

the Duke of Marlborough was coming on the other side, waved his crutch

over his head with a huzzah, at the idea that he should march out and

engage him. Of the three Secretaries of State, we knew that one was

devoted to us. The Governor of the Tower was ours; the two companies

on duty at Kensington barrack were safe; and we had intelligence, very

speedy and accurate, of all that took place at the Palace within.

At noon, on the 30th of July, a message came to the Prince's friends

that the Committee of Council was sitting at Kensington Palace, their

Graces of Ormonde and Shrewsbury, the Archbishop of Canterbury and

the three Secretaries of State, being there assembled. In an hour

afterwards, hurried news was brought that the two great Whig Dukes,

Argyle and Somerset, had broke into the Council-chamber without a

summons, and taken their seat at table. After holding a debate there,

the whole party proceeded to the chamber of the Queen, who was lying in

great weakness, but still sensible, and the Lords recommended his Grace

of Shrewsbury as the fittest person to take the vacant place of Lord

Treasurer; her Majesty gave him the staff, as all know. “And now,” writ

my messenger from Court, “NOW OR NEVER IS THE TIME.”

Now or never was the time indeed. In spite of the Whig Dukes, our side

had still the majority in the Council, and Esmond, to whom the message

had been brought, (the personage at Court not being aware that the

Prince had quitted his lodging in Kensington Square,) and Esmond's

gallant young aide-de-camp, Frank Castlewood, putting on sword and

uniform, took a brief leave of their dear lady, who embraced and blessed

them both, and went to her chamber to pray for the issue of the great

event which was then pending.

Castlewood sped to the barrack to give warning to the captain of the

Guard there; and then went to the “King's Arms” tavern at Kensington,

where our friends were assembled, having come by parties of twos

and threes, riding or in coaches, and were got together in the upper

chamber, fifty-three of them; their servants, who had been instructed to

bring arms likewise, being below in the garden of the tavern, where they

were served with drink. Out of this garden is a little door that leads

into the road of the Palace, and through this it was arranged that

masters and servants were to march; when that signal was given, and that

Personage appeared, for whom all were waiting. There was in our company

the famous officer next in command to the Captain-General of the Forces,

his Grace the Duke of Ormonde, who was within at the Council. There

were with him two more lieutenant-generals, nine major-generals and

brigadiers, seven colonels, eleven Peers of Parliament, and twenty-one

members of the House of Commons. The Guard was with us within and

without the Palace: the Queen was with us; the Council (save the two

Whig Dukes, that must have succumbed); the day was our own, and with a

beating heart Esmond walked rapidly to the Mall of Kensington, where

he had parted with the Prince on the night before. For three nights

the Colonel had not been to bed: the last had been passed summoning the

Prince's friends together, of whom the great majority had no sort of

inkling of the transaction pending until they were told that he was

actually on the spot, and were summoned to strike the blow. The night

before and after the altercation with the Prince, my gentleman, having

suspicions of his Royal Highness, and fearing lest he should be minded

to give us the slip, and fly off after his fugitive beauty, had spent,

if the truth must be told, at the “Greyhound” tavern, over against my

Lady Castlewood's house in Kensington Square, with an eye on the door,

lest the Prince should escape from it. The night before that he had

passed in his boots at the “Crown” at Hounslow, where he must watch

forsooth all night, in order to get one moment's glimpse of Beatrix in

the morning. And fate had decreed that he was to have a fourth night's

ride and wakefulness before his business was ended.

He ran to the curate's house in Kensington Mall, and asked for Mr.

Bates, the name the Prince went by. The curate's wife said Mr. Bates had

gone abroad very early in the morning in his boots, saying he was going

to the Bishop of Rochester's house at Chelsey. But the Bishop had been

at Kensington himself two hours ago to seek for Mr. Bates, and had

returned in his coach to his own house, when he heard that the gentleman

was gone thither to seek him.

This absence was most unpropitious, for an hour's delay might cost a

kingdom; Esmond had nothing for it but to hasten to the “King's Arms,”

and tell the gentlemen there assembled that Mr. George (as we called the

Prince there) was not at home, but that Esmond would go fetch him; and

taking a General's coach that happened to be there, Esmond drove across

the country to Chelsey, to the Bishop's house there.

The porter said two gentlemen were with his lordship, and Esmond ran

past this sentry up to the locked door of the Bishop's study, at which

he rattled, and was admitted presently. Of the Bishop's guests one was a

brother prelate, and the other the Abbe G----.

“Where is Mr. George?” says Mr. Esmond; “now is the time.” The Bishop

looked scared: “I went to his lodging,” he said, “and they told me he

was come hither. I returned as quick as coach would carry me; and he

hath not been here.”

The Colonel burst out with an oath; that was all he could say to their

reverences; ran down the stairs again, and bidding the coachman, an old

friend and fellow-campaigner, drive as if he was charging the French

with his master at Wynendael--they were back at Kensington in half an

hour.

Again Esmond went to the curate's house. Mr. Bates had not returned. The

Colonel had to go with this blank errand to the gentlemen at the “King's

Arms,” that were grown very impatient by this time.

Out of the window of the tavern, and looking over the garden wall, you

can see the green before Kensington Palace, the Palace gate (round which

the Ministers' coaches were standing), and the barrack building. As

we were looking out from this window in gloomy discourse, we heard

presently trumpets blowing, and some of us ran to the window of the

front-room, looking into the High Street of Kensington, and saw a

regiment of Horse coming.

“It's Ormonde's Guards,” says one.

“No, by God, it's Argyle's old regiment!” says my General, clapping down

his crutch.

It was, indeed, Argyle's regiment that was brought from Westminster,

and that took the place of the regiment at Kensington on which we could

rely.

“Oh, Harry!” says one of the generals there present, “you were born

under an unlucky star; I begin to think that there's no Mr. George, nor

Mr. Dragon either. 'Tis not the peerage I care for, for our name is so

ancient and famous, that merely to be called Lord Lydiard would do me no

good; but 'tis the chance you promised me of fighting Marlborough.”

As we were talking, Castlewood entered the room with a disturbed air.

“What news, Frank?” says the Colonel. “Is Mr. George coming at last?”

“Damn him, look here!” says Castlewood, holding out a paper. “I found

it in the book--the what you call it, 'Eikum Basilikum,'--that villain

Martin put it there--he said his young mistress bade him. It was

directed to me, but it was meant for him I know, and I broke the seal

and read it.”

The whole assembly of officers seemed to swim away before Esmond's eyes

as he read the paper; all that was written on it was:--“Beatrix Esmond

is sent away to prison, to Castlewood, where she will pray for happier

days.”

“Can you guess where he is?” says Castlewood.

“Yes,” says Colonel Esmond. He knew full well, Frank knew full well: our

instinct told whither that traitor had fled.

He had courage to turn to the company and say, “Gentlemen, I fear

very much that Mr. George will not be here to-day; something hath

happened--and--and--I very much fear some accident may befall him, which

must keep him out of the way. Having had your noon's draught, you had

best pay the reckoning and go home; there can be no game where there is

no one to play it.”

Some of the gentlemen went away without a word, others called to pay

their duty to her Majesty and ask for her health. The little army

disappeared into the darkness out of which it had been called; there had

been no writings, no paper to implicate any man. Some few officers and

Members of Parliament had been invited over night to breakfast at the

“King's Arms,” at Kensington; and they had called for their bill and

gone home.

CHAPTER XIII.

AUGUST 1ST, 1714.

“Does my mistress know of this?” Esmond asked of Frank, as they walked

along.

“My mother found the letter in the book, on the toilet-table. She had

writ it ere she had left home,” Frank said. “Mother met her on the

stairs, with her hand upon the door, trying to enter, and never left her

after that till she went away. He did not think of looking at it there,

nor had Martin the chance of telling him. I believe the poor devil meant

no harm, though I half killed him; he thought 'twas to Beatrix's brother

he was bringing the letter.”

Frank never said a word of reproach to me for having brought the villain

amongst us. As we knocked at the door I said, “When will the horses be

ready?” Frank pointed with his cane, they were turning the street that

moment.

We went up and bade adieu to our mistress; she was in a dreadful state

of agitation by this time, and that Bishop was with her whose company

she was so fond of.

“Did you tell him, my lord,” says Esmond, “that Beatrix was at

Castlewood?” The Bishop blushed and stammered: “Well,” says he,

“I . . .”

“You served the villain right,” broke out Mr. Esmond, “and he has lost a

crown by what you told him.”

My mistress turned quite white, “Henry, Henry,” says she, “do not kill

him.”

“It may not be too late,” says Esmond; “he may not have gone to

Castlewood; pray God, it is not too late.” The Bishop was breaking

out with some banale phrases about loyalty, and the sacredness of the

Sovereign's person; but Esmond sternly bade him hold his tongue, burn

all papers, and take care of Lady Castlewood; and in five minutes he

and Frank were in the saddle, John Lockwood behind them, riding towards

Castlewood at a rapid pace.

We were just got to Alton, when who should meet us but old Lockwood, the

porter from Castlewood, John's father, walking by the side of the Hexton

flying-coach, who slept the night at Alton. Lockwood said his young

mistress had arrived at home on Wednesday night, and this morning,

Friday, had despatched him with a packet for my lady at Kensington,

saying the letter was of great importance.

We took the freedom to break it, while Lockwood stared with wonder,

and cried out his “Lord bless me's,” and “Who'd a thought it's,” at the

sight of his young lord, whom he had not seen these seven years.

The packet from Beatrix contained no news of importance at all. It was

written in a jocular strain, affecting to make light of her captivity.

She asked whether she might have leave to visit Mrs. Tusher, or to walk

beyond the court and the garden wall. She gave news of the peacocks,

and a fawn she had there. She bade her mother send her certain gowns

and smocks by old Lockwood; she sent her duty to a certain Person, if

certain other persons permitted her to take such a freedom; how that,

as she was not able to play cards with him, she hoped he would read good

books, such as Doctor Atterbury's sermons and “Eikon Basilike:” she was

going to read good books; she thought her pretty mamma would like to

know she was not crying her eyes out.

“Who is in the house besides you, Lockwood?” says the Colonel.

“There be the laundry-maid, and the kitchen-maid, Madam Beatrix's maid,

the man from London, and that be all; and he sleepeth in my lodge away

from the maids,” says old Lockwood.

Esmond scribbled a line with a pencil on the note, giving it to the old

man, and bidding him go on to his lady. We knew why Beatrix had been

so dutiful on a sudden, and why she spoke of “Eikon Basilike.” She writ

this letter to put the Prince on the scent, and the porter out of the

way.

“We have a fine moonlight night for riding on,” says Esmond; “Frank, we

may reach Castlewood in time yet.” All the way along they made inquiries

at the post-houses, when a tall young gentleman in a gray suit, with a

light brown periwig, just the color of my lord's, had been seen to pass.

He had set off at six that morning, and we at three in the afternoon. He

rode almost as quickly as we had done; he was seven hours a-head of us

still when we reached the last stage.

We rode over Castlewood Downs before the breaking of dawn. We passed the

very spot where the car was upset fourteen years since, and Mohun lay.

The village was not up yet, nor the forge lighted, as we rode through

it, passing by the elms, where the rooks were still roosting, and by

the church, and over the bridge. We got off our horses at the bridge and

walked up to the gate.

“If she is safe,” says Frank, trembling, and his honest eyes filling

with tears, “a silver statue to Our Lady!” He was going to rattle at

the great iron knocker on the oak gate; but Esmond stopped his kinsman's

hand. He had his own fears, his own hopes, his own despairs and griefs,

too; but he spoke not a word of these to his companion, or showed any

signs of emotion.

He went and tapped at the little window at the porter's lodge, gently,

but repeatedly, until the man came to the bars.

“Who's there?” says he, looking out; it was the servant from Kensington.

“My Lord Castlewood and Colonel Esmond,” we said, from below. “Open the

gate and let us in without any noise.”

“My Lord Castlewood?” says the other; “my lord's here, and in bed.”

“Open, d--n you,” says Castlewood, with a curse.

“I shall open to no one,” says the man, shutting the glass window as

Frank drew a pistol. He would have fired at the porter, but Esmond again

held his hand.

“There are more ways than one,” says he, “of entering such a great house

as this.” Frank grumbled that the west gate was half a mile round. “But

I know of a way that's not a hundred yards off,” says Mr. Esmond; and

leading his kinsman close along the wall, and by the shrubs which had

now grown thick on what had been an old moat about the house, they came

to the buttress, at the side of which the little window was, which was

Father Holt's private door. Esmond climbed up to this easily, broke a

pane that had been mended, and touched the spring inside, and the two

gentlemen passed in that way, treading as lightly as they could; and so

going through the passage into the court, over which the dawn was now

reddening, and where the fountain plashed in the silence.

They sped instantly to the porter's lodge, where the fellow had not

fastened his door that led into the court; and pistol in hand came

upon the terrified wretch, and bade him be silent. Then they asked

him (Esmond's head reeled, and he almost fell as he spoke) when Lord

Castlewood had arrived? He said on the previous evening, about eight of

the clock.--“And what then?”--His lordship supped with his sister.--“Did

the man wait?” Yes, he and my lady's maid both waited: the other

servants made the supper; and there was no wine, and they could give

his lordship but milk, at which he grumbled; and--and Madam Beatrix kept

Miss Lucy always in the room with her. And there being a bed across

the court in the Chaplain's room, she had arranged my lord was to sleep

there. Madam Beatrix had come down stairs laughing with the maids, and

had locked herself in, and my lord had stood for a while talking to her

through the door, and she laughing at him. And then he paced the court

awhile, and she came again to the upper window; and my lord implored her

to come down and walk in the room; but she would not, and laughed at him

again, and shut the window; and so my lord, uttering what seemed curses,

but in a foreign language, went to the Chaplain's room to bed.

“Was this all!”--“All,” the man swore upon his honor; all as he hoped

to be saved.--“Stop, there was one thing more. My lord, on arriving, and

once or twice during supper, did kiss his sister, as was natural, and

she kissed him.” At this Esmond ground his teeth with rage, and wellnigh

throttled the amazed miscreant who was speaking, whereas Castlewood,

seizing hold of his cousin's hand, burst into a great fit of laughter.

“If it amuses thee,” says Esmond in French, “that your sister should be

exchanging of kisses with a stranger, I fear poor Beatrix will give thee

plenty of sport.”--Esmond darkly thought, how Hamilton, Ashburnham, had

before been masters of those roses that the young Prince's lips were now

feeding on. He sickened at that notion. Her cheek was desecrated, her

beauty tarnished; shame and honor stood between it and him. The love

was dead within him; had she a crown to bring him with her love, he felt

that both would degrade him.

But this wrath against Beatrix did not lessen the angry feelings of the

Colonel against the man who had been the occasion if not the cause of

the evil. Frank sat down on a stone bench in the court-yard, and fairly

fell asleep, while Esmond paced up and down the court, debating what

should ensue. What mattered how much or how little had passed between

the Prince and the poor faithless girl? They were arrived in time

perhaps to rescue her person, but not her mind; had she not instigated

the young Prince to come to her; suborned servants, dismissed others,

so that she might communicate with him? The treacherous heart within her

had surrendered, though the place was safe; and it was to win this that

he had given a life's struggle and devotion; this, that she was ready to

give away for the bribe of a coronet or a wink of the Prince's eye.

When he had thought his thoughts out he shook up poor Frank from his

sleep, who rose yawning, and said he had been dreaming of Clotilda.

“You must back me,” says Esmond, “in what I am going to do. I have been

thinking that yonder scoundrel may have been instructed to tell that

story, and that the whole of it may be a lie; if it be, we shall find it

out from the gentleman who is asleep yonder. See if the door leading to

my lady's rooms,” (so we called the rooms at the north-west angle of the

house,) “see if the door is barred as he saith.” We tried; it was indeed

as the lackey had said, closed within.

“It may have been opened and shut afterwards,” says poor Esmond; “the

foundress of our family let our ancestor in in that way.”

“What will you do, Harry, if--if what that fellow saith should turn out

untrue?” The young man looked scared and frightened into his kinsman's

face; I dare say it wore no very pleasant expression.

“Let us first go see whether the two stories agree,” says Esmond; and

went in at the passage and opened the door into what had been his own

chamber now for wellnigh five-and-twenty years. A candle was still

burning, and the Prince asleep dressed on the bed--Esmond did not care

for making a noise. The Prince started up in his bed, seeing two men

in his chamber. “Qui est la” says he, and took a pistol from under his

pillow.

“It is the Marquis of Esmond,” says the Colonel, “come to welcome his

Majesty to his house of Castlewood, and to report of what hath happened

in London. Pursuant to the King's orders, I passed the night before

last, after leaving his Majesty, in waiting upon the friends of the

King. It is a pity that his Majesty's desire to see the country and to

visit our poor house should have caused the King to quit London without

notice yesterday, when the opportunity happened which in all human

probability may not occur again; and had the King not chosen to ride to

Castlewood, the Prince of Wales might have slept at St. James's.”

“'Sdeath! gentlemen,” says the Prince, starting off his bed, whereon he

was lying in his clothes, “the Doctor was with me yesterday morning, and

after watching by my sister all night, told me I might not hope to see

the Queen.”

“It would have been otherwise,” says Esmond with another bow; “as, by

this time, the Queen may be dead in spite of the Doctor. The Council

was met, a new Treasurer was appointed, the troops were devoted to the

King's cause; and fifty loyal gentlemen of the greatest names of this

kingdom were assembled to accompany the Prince of Wales, who might have

been the acknowledged heir of the throne, or the possessor of it by this

time, had your Majesty not chosen to take the air. We were ready; there

was only one person that failed us, your Majesty's gracious--”

“Morbleu, Monsieur, you give me too much Majesty,” said the Prince, who

had now risen up and seemed to be looking to one of us to help him to

his coat. But neither stirred.

“We shall take care,” says Esmond, “not much oftener to offend in that

particular.”

“What mean you, my lord?” says the Prince, and muttered something about

a guet-a-pens, which Esmond caught up.

“The snare, Sir,” said he, “was not of our laying; it is not we that

invited you. We came to avenge, and not to compass, the dishonor of our

family.”

“Dishonor! Morbleu, there has been no dishonor,” says the Prince,

turning scarlet, “only a little harmless playing.”

“That was meant to end seriously.”

“I swear,” the Prince broke out impetuously, “upon the honor of a

gentleman, my lords--”

“That we arrived in time. No wrong hath been done, Frank,” says Colonel

Esmond, turning round to young Castlewood, who stood at the door as the

talk was going on. “See! here is a paper whereon his Majesty has deigned

to commence some verses in honor, or dishonor, of Beatrix. Here is

'Madame' and 'Flamme,' 'Cruelle' and 'Rebelle,' and 'Amour' and 'Jour'

in the Royal writing and spelling. Had the Gracious lover been happy,

he had not passed his time in sighing.” In fact, and actually as he was

speaking, Esmond cast his eyes down towards the table, and saw a paper

on which my young Prince had been scrawling a madrigal, that was to

finish his charmer on the morrow.

“Sir,” says the Prince, burning with rage (he had assumed his Royal coat

unassisted by this time), “did I come here to receive insults?”

“To confer them, may it please your Majesty,” says the Colonel, with a

very low bow, “and the gentlemen of our family are come to thank you.”

“Malediction!” says the young man, tears starting into his eyes with

helpless rage and mortification. “What will you with me, gentlemen?”

“If your Majesty will please to enter the next apartment,” says Esmond,

preserving his grave tone, “I have some papers there which I would

gladly submit to you, and by your permission I will lead the way;”

and, taking the taper up, and backing before the Prince with very great

ceremony, Mr. Esmond passed into the little Chaplain's room, through

which we had just entered into the house:--“Please to set a chair for

his Majesty, Frank,” says the Colonel to his companion, who wondered

almost as much at this scene, and was as much puzzled by it, as the

other actor in it. Then going to the crypt over the mantel-piece, the

Colonel opened it, and drew thence the papers which so long had lain

there.

“Here, may it please your Majesty,” says he, “is the Patent of Marquis

sent over by your Royal Father at St. Germains to Viscount Castlewood,

my father: here is the witnessed certificate of my father's marriage

to my mother, and of my birth and christening; I was christened of that

religion of which your sainted sire gave all through life so shining

example. These are my titles, dear Frank, and this what I do with them:

here go Baptism and Marriage, and here the Marquisate and the August

Sign-Manual, with which your predecessor was pleased to honor our race.”

And as Esmond spoke he set the papers burning in the brazier. “You will

please, sir, to remember,” he continued, “that our family hath ruined

itself by fidelity to yours: that my grandfather spent his estate, and

gave his blood and his son to die for your service; that my dear lord's

grandfather (for lord you are now, Frank, by right and title too) died

for the same cause; that my poor kinswoman, my father's second wife,

after giving away her honor to your wicked perjured race, sent all her

wealth to the King; and got in return, that precious title that lies in

ashes, and this inestimable yard of blue ribbon. I lay this at your feet

and stamp upon it: I draw this sword, and break it and deny you; and,

had you completed the wrong you designed us, by heaven I would have

driven it through your heart, and no more pardoned you than your father

pardoned Monmouth. Frank will do the same, won't you, cousin?”

Frank, who had been looking on with a stupid air at the papers, as they

flamed in the old brazier, took out his sword and broke it, holding his

head down:--“I go with my cousin,” says he, giving Esmond a grasp of

the hand. “Marquis or not, by ---, I stand by him any day. I beg your

Majesty's pardon for swearing; that is--that is--I'm for the Elector of

Hanover. It's all your Majesty's own fault. The Queen's dead most likely

by this time. And you might have been King if you hadn't come dangling

after Trix.”

“Thus to lose a crown,” says the young Prince, starting up, and speaking

French in his eager way; “to lose the loveliest woman in the world; to

lose the loyalty of such hearts as yours, is not this, my lords, enough

of humiliation?--Marquis, if I go on my knees will you pardon me?--No,

I can't do that, but I can offer you reparation, that of honor, that

of gentlemen. Favor me by crossing the sword with mine: yours is

broke--see, yonder in the armoire are two;” and the Prince took them out

as eager as a boy, and held them towards Esmond:--“Ah! you will? Merci,

monsieur, merci!”

Extremely touched by this immense mark of condescension and repentance

for wrong done, Colonel Esmond bowed down so low as almost to kiss the

gracious young hand that conferred on him such an honor, and took his

guard in silence. The swords were no sooner met, than Castlewood knocked

up Esmond's with the blade of his own, which he had broke off short at

the shell; and the Colonel falling back a step dropped his point with

another very low bow, and declared himself perfectly satisfied.

“Eh bien, Vicomte!” says the young Prince, who was a boy, and a French

boy, “il ne nous reste qu'une chose a faire:” he placed his sword upon

the table, and the fingers of his two hands upon his breast:--“We have

one more thing to do,” says he; “you do not divine it?” He stretched out

his arms:--“Embrassons nous!”

The talk was scarce over when Beatrix entered the room:--What came she

to seek there? She started and turned pale at the sight of her

brother and kinsman, drawn swords, broken sword-blades, and papers yet

smouldering in the brazier.

“Charming Beatrix,” says the Prince, with a blush which became him very

well, “these lords have come a-horseback from London, where my sister

lies in a despaired state, and where her successor makes himself

desired. Pardon me for my escapade of last evening. I had been so long a

prisoner, that I seized the occasion of a promenade on horseback, and my

horse naturally bore me towards you. I found you a Queen in your little

court, where you deigned to entertain me. Present my homages to your

maids of honor. I sighed as you slept, under the window of your chamber,

and then retired to seek rest in my own. It was there that these

gentlemen agreeably roused me. Yes, milords, for that is a happy day

that makes a Prince acquainted, at whatever cost to his vanity, with

such a noble heart as that of the Marquis of Esmond. Mademoiselle,

may we take your coach to town? I saw it in the hangar, and this poor

Marquis must be dropping with sleep.”

“Will it please the King to breakfast before he goes?” was all Beatrix

could say. The roses had shuddered out of her cheeks; her eyes were

glaring; she looked quite old. She came up to Esmond and hissed out a

word or two:--“If I did not love you before, cousin,” says she, “think

how I love you now.” If words could stab, no doubt she would have killed

Esmond; she looked at him as if she could.

But her keen words gave no wound to Mr. Esmond; his heart was too hard.

As he looked at her, he wondered that he could ever have loved her.

His love of ten years was over; it fell down dead on the spot, at

the Kensington Tavern, where Frank brought him the note out of “Eikon

Basilike.” The Prince blushed and bowed low, as she gazed at him, and

quitted the chamber. I have never seen her from that day.

Horses were fetched and put to the chariot presently. My lord rode

outside, and as for Esmond he was so tired that he was no sooner in the

carriage than he fell asleep, and never woke till night, as the coach

came into Alton.

As we drove to the “Bell” Inn comes a mitred coach with our old friend

Lockwood beside the coachman. My Lady Castlewood and the Bishop were

inside; she gave a little scream when she saw us. The two coaches

entered the inn almost together; the landlord and people coming out with

lights to welcome the visitors.

We in our coach sprang out of it, as soon as ever we saw the dear lady,

and above all, the Doctor in his cassock. What was the news? Was there

yet time? Was the Queen alive? These questions were put hurriedly, as

Boniface stood waiting before his noble guests to bow them up the stair.

“Is she safe?” was what Lady Castlewood whispered in a flutter to

Esmond.

“All's well, thank God,” says he, as the fond lady took his hand

and kissed it, and called him her preserver and her dear. SHE wasn't

thinking of Queens and crowns.

The Bishop's news was reassuring: at least all was not lost; the Queen

yet breathed, or was alive when they left London, six hours since. (“It

was Lady Castlewood who insisted on coming,” the Doctor said.) Argyle

had marched up regiments from Portsmouth, and sent abroad for more; the

Whigs were on the alert, a pest on them, (I am not sure but the Bishop

swore as he spoke,) and so too were our people. And all might be saved,

if only the Prince could be at London in time. We called for horses,

instantly to return to London. We never went up poor crestfallen

Boniface's stairs, but into our coaches again. The Prince and his Prime

Minister in one, Esmond in the other, with only his dear mistress as a

companion.

Castlewood galloped forwards on horseback to gather the Prince's friends

and warn them of his coming. We travelled through the night. Esmond

discoursing to his mistress of the events of the last twenty-four hours;

of Castlewood's ride and his; of the Prince's generous behavior and

their reconciliation. The night seemed short enough; and the starlit

hours passed away serenely in that fond company.

So we came along the road; the Bishop's coach heading ours; and, with

some delays in procuring horses, we got to Hammersmith about four

o'clock on Sunday morning, the first of August, and half an hour after,

it being then bright day, we rode by my Lady Warwick's house, and so

down the street of Kensington.

Early as the hour was, there was a bustle in the street and many people

moving to and fro. Round the gate leading to the Palace, where the

guard is, there was especially a great crowd. And the coach ahead of us

stopped, and the Bishop's man got down to know what the concourse meant?

There presently came from out of the gate--Horse Guards with their

trumpets, and a company of heralds with their tabards. The trumpets

blew, and the herald-at-arms came forward and proclaimed GEORGE, by the

Grace of God, of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, King, Defender of

the Faith. And the people shouted God save the King!

Among the crowd shouting and waving their hats, I caught sight of one

sad face, which I had known all my life, and seen under many disguises.

It was no other than poor Mr. Holt's, who had slipped over to England

to witness the triumph of the good cause; and now beheld its enemies

victorious, amidst the acclamations of the English people. The poor

fellow had forgot to huzzah or to take his hat off, until his neighbors

in the crowd remarked his want of loyalty, and cursed him for a Jesuit

in disguise, when he ruefully uncovered and began to cheer. Sure he

was the most unlucky of men: he never played a game but he lost it; or

engaged in a conspiracy but 'twas certain to end in defeat. I saw him in

Flanders after this, whence he went to Rome to the head-quarters of his

Order; and actually reappeared among us in America, very old, and

busy, and hopeful. I am not sure that he did not assume the hatchet and

moccasins there; and, attired in a blanket and war-paint, skulk about

a missionary amongst the Indians. He lies buried in our neighboring

province of Maryland now, with a cross over him, and a mound of earth

above him; under which that unquiet spirit is for ever at peace.

With the sound of King George's trumpets, all the vain hopes of the weak

and foolish young Pretender were blown away; and with that music, too, I

may say, the drama of my own life was ended. That happiness, which hath

subsequently crowned it, cannot be written in words; 'tis of its nature

sacred and secret, and not to be spoken of, though the heart be ever so

full of thankfulness, save to Heaven and the One Ear alone--to one fond

being, the truest and tenderest and purest wife ever man was blessed

with. As I think of the immense happiness which was in store for me, and

of the depth and intensity of that love which, for so many years, hath

blessed me, I own to a transport of wonder and gratitude for such a

boon--nay, am thankful to have been endowed with a heart capable of

feeling and knowing the immense beauty and value of the gift which God

hath bestowed upon me. Sure, love vincit omnia; is immeasurably above

all ambition, more precious than wealth, more noble than name. He knows

not life who knows not that: he hath not felt the highest faculty of

the soul who hath not enjoyed it. In the name of my wife I write the

completion of hope, and the summit of happiness. To have such a love is

the one blessing, in comparison of which all earthly joy is of no value;

and to think of her, is to praise God.

It was at Bruxelles, whither we retreated after the failure of our

plot--our Whig friends advising us to keep out of the way--that the

great joy of my life was bestowed upon me, and that my dear mistress

became my wife. We had been so accustomed to an extreme intimacy and

confidence, and had lived so long and tenderly together, that we

might have gone on to the end without thinking of a closer tie; but

circumstances brought about that event which so prodigiously multiplied

my happiness and hers (for which I humbly thank Heaven), although a

calamity befell us, which, I blush to think, hath occurred more than

once in our house. I know not what infatuation of ambition urged the

beautiful and wayward woman, whose name hath occupied so many of these

pages, and who was served by me with ten years of such constant fidelity

and passion; but ever after that day at Castlewood, when we rescued her,

she persisted in holding all her family as her enemies, and left us, and

escaped to France, to what a fate I disdain to tell. Nor was her son's

house a home for my dear mistress; my poor Frank was weak, as perhaps

all our race hath been, and led by women. Those around him were

imperious, and in a terror of his mother's influence over him, lest

he should recant, and deny the creed which he had adopted by their

persuasion. The difference of their religion separated the son and the

mother: my dearest mistress felt that she was severed from her children

and alone in the world--alone but for one constant servant on whose

fidelity, praised be Heaven, she could count. 'Twas after a scene of

ignoble quarrel on the part of Frank's wife and mother (for the poor lad

had been made to marry the whole of that German family with whom he had

connected himself), that I found my mistress one day in tears, and then

besought her to confide herself to the care and devotion of one who,

by God's help, would never forsake her. And then the tender matron, as

beautiful in her Autumn, and as pure as virgins in their spring, with

blushes of love and “eyes of meek surrender,” yielded to my respectful

importunity, and consented to share my home. Let the last words I write

thank her, and bless her who hath blessed it.

By the kindness of Mr. Addison, all danger of prosecution, and every

obstacle against our return to England, was removed; and my son Frank's

gallantry in Scotland made his peace with the King's government. But we

two cared no longer to live in England: and Frank formally and joyfully

yielded over to us the possession of that estate which we now occupy,

far away from Europe and its troubles, on the beautiful banks of the

Potomac, where we have built a new Castlewood, and think with grateful

hearts of our old home. In our Transatlantic country we have a season,

the calmest and most delightful of the year, which we call the Indian

summer: I often say the autumn of our life resembles that happy and

serene weather, and am thankful for its rest and its sweet sunshine.

Heaven hath blessed us with a child, which each parent loves for her

resemblance to the other. Our diamonds are turned into ploughs and axes

for our plantations; and into negroes, the happiest and merriest, I

think, in all this country: and the only jewel by which my wife sets

any store, and from which she hath never parted, is that gold button she

took from my arm on the day when she visited me in prison, and which she

wore ever after, as she told me, on the tenderest heart in the world.