The History of Henry Esmond, Esq., a Colonel in the Service of Her Majesty Queen Anne

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER III.

  A PAPER OUT OF THE "SPECTATOR."

  Doth any young gentleman of my progeny, who may read his oldgrandfather's papers, chance to be presently suffering under the passionof Love? There is a humiliating cure, but one that is easy and almostspecific for the malady--which is, to try an alibi. Esmond went awayfrom his mistress and was cured a half-dozen times; he came back to herside, and instantly fell ill again of the fever. He vowed that he couldleave her and think no more of her, and so he could pretty well, atleast, succeed in quelling that rage and longing he had whenever he waswith her; but as soon as he returned he was as bad as ever again. Trulya ludicrous and pitiable object, at least exhausting everybody's pitybut his dearest mistress's, Lady Castlewood's, in whose tender breast hereposed all his dreary confessions, and who never tired of hearing himand pleading for him.

  Sometimes Esmond would think there was hope. Then again he would beplagued with despair, at some impertinence or coquetry of his mistress.For days they would be like brother and sister, or the dearestfriends--she, simple, fond, and charming--he, happy beyond measure ather good behavior. But this would all vanish on a sudden. Either hewould be too pressing, and hint his love, when she would rebuff himinstantly, and give his vanity a box on the ear; or he would be jealous,and with perfect good reason, of some new admirer that had sprung up,or some rich young gentleman newly arrived in the town, that thisincorrigible flirt would set her nets and baits to draw in. If Esmondremonstrated, the little rebel would say--"Who are you? I shall go myown way, sirrah, and that way is towards a husband, and I don't wantYOU on the way. I am for your betters, Colonel, for your betters: doyou hear that? You might do if you had an estate and were younger; onlyeight years older than I, you say! pish, you are a hundred years older.You are an old, old Graveairs, and I should make you miserable, thatwould be the only comfort I should have in marrying you. But you havenot money enough to keep a cat decently after you have paid your man hiswages, and your landlady her bill. Do you think I am going to live ina lodging, and turn the mutton at a string whilst your honor nurses thebaby? Fiddlestick, and why did you not get this nonsense knocked out ofyour head when you were in the wars? You are come back more dismal anddreary than ever. You and mamma are fit for each other. You might beDarby and Joan, and play cribbage to the end of your lives."

  "At least you own to your worldliness, my poor Trix," says her mother.

  "Worldliness. Oh, my pretty lady! Do you think that I am a child in thenursery, and to be frightened by Bogey! Worldliness, to be sure; andpray, madam, where is the harm of wishing to be comfortable? When youare gone, you dearest old woman, or when I am tired of you and haverun away from you, where shall I go? Shall I go and be head nurse to myPopish sister-in-law, take the children their physic, and whip 'em,and put 'em to bed when they are naughty? Shall I be Castlewood's upperservant, and perhaps marry Tom Tusher? Merci! I have been long enoughFrank's humble servant. Why am I not a man? I have ten times his brains,and had I worn the--well, don't let your ladyship be frightened--hadI worn a sword and periwig instead of this mantle and commode to whichnature has condemned me--(though 'tis a pretty stuff, too--CousinEsmond! you will go to the Exchange to-morrow, and get the exactcounterpart of this ribbon, sir; do you hear?)--I would have made ourname talked about. So would Graveairs here have made something out ofour name if he had represented it. My Lord Graveairs would have donevery well. Yes, you have a very pretty way, and would have made a verydecent, grave speaker." And here she began to imitate Esmond's way ofcarrying himself and speaking to his face, and so ludicrously that hismistress burst out a-laughing, and even he himself could see there wassome likeness in the fantastical malicious caricature.

  "Yes," says she, "I solemnly vow, own, and confess, that I want agood husband. Where's the harm of one? My face is my fortune. Who'llcome?--buy, buy, buy! I cannot toil, neither can I spin, but I can playtwenty-three games on the cards. I can dance the last dance, I can huntthe stag, and I think I could shoot flying. I can talk as wicked as anywoman of my years, and know enough stories to amuse a sulky husband forat least one thousand and one nights. I have a pretty taste for dress,diamonds, gambling, and old China. I love sugar-plums, Malines lace(that you brought me, cousin, is very pretty), the opera, and everythingthat is useless and costly. I have got a monkey and a littleblack boy--Pompey, sir, go and give a dish of chocolate to ColonelGraveairs,--and a parrot and a spaniel, and I must have a husband.Cupid, you hear?"

  "Iss, Missis!" says Pompey, a little grinning negro Lord Peterborrowgave her, with a bird of Paradise in his turbant, and a collar with hismistress's name on it.

  "Iss, Missis!" says Beatrix, imitating the child. "And if husband notcome, Pompey must go fetch one."

  And Pompey went away grinning with his chocolate tray as Miss Beatrixran up to her mother and ended her sally of mischief in her common way,with a kiss--no wonder that upon paying such a penalty her fond judgepardoned her.

  When Mr. Esmond came home, his health was still shattered; and he took alodging near to his mistresses, at Kensington, glad enough to be servedby them, and to see them day after day. He was enabled to see a littlecompany--and of the sort he liked best. Mr. Steele and Mr. Addison bothdid him the honor to visit him; and drank many a glass of good claretat his lodging, whilst their entertainer, through his wound, was kept todiet drink and gruel. These gentlemen were Whigs, and great admirers ofmy Lord Duke of Marlborough; and Esmond was entirely of the other party.But their different views of politics did not prevent the gentlemen fromagreeing in private, nor from allowing, on one evening when Esmond'skind old patron, Lieutenant-General Webb, with a stick and a crutch,hobbled up to the Colonel's lodging (which was prettily situate atKnightsbridge, between London and Kensington, and looking overthe Gardens), that the Lieutenant-General was a noble and gallantsoldier--and even that he had been hardly used in the Wynendael affair.He took his revenge in talk, that must be confessed; and if Mr. Addisonhad had a mind to write a poem about Wynendael, he might have heard fromthe commander's own lips the story a hundred times over.

  Mr. Esmond, forced to be quiet, betook himself to literature for arelaxation, and composed his comedy, whereof the prompter's copy liethin my walnut escritoire, sealed up and docketed, "The Faithful Fool,a Comedy, as it was performed by her Majesty's Servants." 'Twas avery sentimental piece; and Mr. Steele, who had more of that kind ofsentiment than Mr. Addison, admired it, whilst the other rather sneeredat the performance; though he owned that, here and there, it containedsome pretty strokes. He was bringing out his own play of "Cato" at thetime, the blaze of which quite extinguished Esmond's farthing candle;and his name was never put to the piece, which was printed as by aPerson of Quality. Only nine copies were sold, though Mr. Dennis, thegreat critic, praised it, and said 'twas a work of great merit; andColonel Esmond had the whole impression burned one day in a rage, byJack Lockwood, his man.

  All this comedy was full of bitter satiric strokes against a certainyoung lady. The plot of the piece was quite a new one. A young woman wasrepresented with a great number of suitors, selecting a pert fribble ofa peer, in place of the hero (but ill-acted, I think, by Mr. Wilks,the Faithful Fool,) who persisted in admiring her. In the fifth act,Teraminta was made to discover the merits of Eugenio (the F. F.), andto feel a partiality for him too late; for he announced that he hadbestowed his hand and estate upon Rosaria, a country lass, endowed withevery virtue. But it must be owned that the audience yawned through theplay; and that it perished on the third night, with only half a dozenpersons to behold its agonies. Esmond and his two mistresses came to thefirst night, and Miss Beatrix fell asleep; whilst her mother, who hadnot been to a play since King James the Second's time, thought thepiece, though not brilliant, had a very pretty moral.

  Mr. Esmond dabbled in letters, and wrote a deal of prose and verse atthis time of leisure. When displeased with the conduct of Miss Beatrix,he would compose a satire, in which he relieved his mind. When smartingunder the faithlessness of women, he dashed off a
copy of verses, inwhich he held the whole sex up to scorn. One day, in one of these moods,he made a little joke, in which (swearing him to secrecy) he got hisfriend Dick Steele to help him; and, composing a paper, he had itprinted exactly like Steele's paper, and by his printer, and laid on hismistress's breakfast-table the following--

  "SPECTATOR.

  "No. 341. "Tuesday, April 1, 1712.

  Mutato nomine de te Fabula narratur.--HORACE. Thyself the morain of the fable see.--CREECH.

  "Jocasta is known as a woman of learning and fashion, and as one ofthe most amiable persons of this court and country. She is at home twomornings of the week, and all the wits and a few of the beauties ofLondon flock to her assemblies. When she goes abroad to Tunbridge or theBath, a retinue of adorers rides the journey with her; and besidesthe London beaux, she has a crowd of admirers at the Wells, thepolite amongst the natives of Sussex and Somerset pressing round hertea-tables, and being anxious for a nod from her chair. Jocasta'sacquaintance is thus very numerous. Indeed, 'tis one smart writer's workto keep her visiting-book--a strong footman is engaged to carry it;and it would require a much stronger head even than Jocasta's own toremember the names of all her dear friends.

  "Either at Epsom Wells or at Tunbridge (for of this important matterJocasta cannot be certain) it was her ladyship's fortune to becomeacquainted with a young gentleman, whose conversation was so sprightly,and manners amiable, that she invited the agreeable young spark to visither if ever he came to London, where her house in Spring Garden shouldbe open to him. Charming as he was, and without any manner of doubta pretty fellow, Jocasta hath such a regiment of the like continuallymarching round her standard, that 'tis no wonder her attentionis distracted amongst them. And so, though this gentleman made aconsiderable impression upon her, and touched her heart for at leastthree-and-twenty minutes, it must be owned that she has forgotten hisname. He is a dark man, and may be eight-and-twenty years old. His dressis sober, though of rich materials. He has a mole on his forehead overhis left eye; has a blue ribbon to his cane and sword, and wears his ownhair.

  "Jocasta was much flattered by beholding her admirer (for that everybodyadmires who sees her is a point which she never can for a moment doubt)in the next pew to her at St. James's Church last Sunday; and the mannerin which he appeared to go to sleep during the sermon--though from underhis fringed eyelids it was evident he was casting glances of respectfulrapture towards Jocasta--deeply moved and interested her. On coming outof church, he found his way to her chair, and made her an elegant bow asshe stepped into it. She saw him at Court afterwards, where he carriedhimself with a most distinguished air, though none of her acquaintancesknew his name; and the next night he was at the play, where her ladyshipwas pleased to acknowledge him from the side-box.

  "During the whole of the comedy she racked her brains so to remember hisname that she did not hear a word of the piece: and having the happinessto meet him once more in the lobby of the playhouse, she went up tohim in a flutter, and bade him remember that she kept two nights in theweek, and that she longed to see him at Spring Garden.

  "He appeared on Tuesday, in a rich suit, showing a very fine taste bothin the tailor and wearer; and though a knot of us were gathered roundthe charming Jocasta, fellows who pretended to know every face uponthe town, not one could tell the gentleman's name in reply to Jocasta'seager inquiries, flung to the right and left of her as he advanced upthe room with a bow that would become a duke.

  "Jocasta acknowledged this salute with one of those smiles and curtsiesof which that lady hath the secret. She curtsies with a languishing air,as if to say, 'You are come at last. I have been pining for you:' andthen she finishes her victim with a killing look, which declares: 'OPhilander! I have no eyes but for you.' Camilla hath as good a curtsyperhaps, and Thalestris much such another look; but the glance and thecurtsy together belong to Jocasta of all the English beauties alone.

  "'Welcome to London, sir,' says she. 'One can see you are from thecountry by your looks.' She would have said 'Epsom,' or 'Tunbridge,'had she remembered rightly at which place she had met the stranger; but,alas! she had forgotten.

  "The gentleman said, 'he had been in town but three days; and one of hisreasons for coming hither was to have the honor of paying his court toJocasta.'

  "She said, 'the waters had agreed with her but indifferently.'

  "'The waters were for the sick,' the gentleman said: 'the young andbeautiful came but to make them sparkle. And as the clergyman read theservice on Sunday,' he added, 'your ladyship reminded me of the angelthat visited the pool.' A murmur of approbation saluted this sally.Manilio, who is a wit when he is not at cards, was in such a rage thathe revoked when he heard it.

  "Jocasta was an angel visiting the waters; but at which of theBethesdas? She was puzzled more and more; and, as her way always is,looked the more innocent and simple, the more artful her intentionswere.

  "'We were discoursing,' says she, 'about spelling of names and wordswhen you came. Why should we say goold and write gold, and call chinachayney, and Cavendish Candish, and Cholmondeley Chumley? If we callPulteney Poltney, why shouldn't we call poultry pultry--and--'

  "'Such an enchantress as your ladyship,' says he, 'is mistress of allsorts of spells.' But this was Dr. Swift's pun, and we all knew it.

  "'And--and how do you spell your name?' says she, coming to the point atlength; for this sprightly conversation had lasted much longer than ishere set down, and been carried on through at least three dishes of tea.

  "'Oh, madam,' says he, 'I SPELL MY NAME WITH THE Y.' And laying down hisdish, my gentleman made another elegant bow, and was gone in a moment.

  "Jocasta hath had no sleep since this mortification, and the stranger'sdisappearance. If balked in anything, she is sure to lose her health andtemper; and we, her servants, suffer, as usual, during the angry fits ofour Queen. Can you help us, Mr. Spectator, who know everything, to readthis riddle for her, and set at rest all our minds? We find in her list,Mr. Berty, Mr. Smith, Mr. Pike, Mr. Tyler--who may be Mr. Bertie, Mr.Smyth, Mr. Pyke, Mr. Tiler, for what we know. She hath turned awaythe clerk of her visiting-book, a poor fellow with a great family ofchildren. Read me this riddle, good Mr. Shortface, and oblige youradmirer--OEDIPUS."

  "THE TRUMPET COFFEE-HOUSE, WHITEHALL.

  "MR. SPECTATOR,--I am a gentleman but little acquainted with the town,though I have had a university education, and passed some yearsserving my country abroad, where my name is better known than in thecoffee-house and St. James's.

  "Two years since my uncle died, leaving me a pretty estate in the countyof Kent; and being at Tunbridge Wells last summer, after my mourning wasover, and on the look-out, if truth must be told, for some young ladywho would share with me the solitude of my great Kentish house, and bekind to my tenantry (for whom a woman can do a great deal more good thanthe best-intentioned man can), I was greatly fascinated by a young ladyof London, who was the toast of all the company at the Wells. Every oneknows Saccharissa's beauty; and I think, Mr. Spectator, no one betterthan herself.

  "My table-book informs me that I danced no less than seven-and-twentysets with her at the Assembly. I treated her to the fiddles twice. Iwas admitted on several days to her lodging, and received by her with agreat deal of distinction, and, for a time, was entirely her slave. Itwas only when I found, from common talk of the company at the Wells, andfrom narrowly watching one, who I once thought of asking the most sacredquestion a man can put to a woman, that I became aware how unfit she wasto be a country gentleman's wife; and that this fair creature was but aheartless worldly jilt, playing with affections that she never meant toreturn, and, indeed, incapable of returning them. 'Tis admiration suchwomen want, not love that touches them; and I can conceive, in her oldage, no more wretched creature than this lady will be, when her beautyhath deserted her, when her admirers have left her, and she hath neitherfriendship nor religion to console her.

  "Business calling me to London, I w
ent to St. James's Church lastSunday, and there opposite me sat my beauty of the Wells. Her behaviorduring the whole service was so pert, languishing, and absurd; sheflirted her fan, and ogled and eyed me in a manner so indecent, that Iwas obliged to shut my eyes, so as actually not to see her, and wheneverI opened them beheld hers (and very bright they are) still staring atme. I fell in with her afterwards at Court, and at the playhouse; andhere nothing would satisfy her but she must elbow through the crowdand speak to me, and invite me to the assembly, which she holds at herhouse, not very far from Ch-r-ng Cr-ss.

  "Having made her a promise to attend, of course I kept my promise; andfound the young widow in the midst of a half-dozen of card tables, anda crowd of wits and admirers. I made the best bow I could, and advancedtowards her; and saw by a peculiar puzzled look in her face, though shetried to hide her perplexity, that she had forgotten even my name.

  "Her talk, artful as it was, convinced me that I had guessed aright. Sheturned the conversation most ridiculously upon the spelling of names andwords; and I replied with as ridiculous fulsome compliments as I couldpay her: indeed, one in which I compared her to an angel visiting thesick wells, went a little too far; nor should I have employed it, butthat the allusion came from the Second Lesson last Sunday, which we bothhad heard, and I was pressed to answer her.

  "Then she came to the question, which I knew was awaiting me, and askedhow I SPELT my name? 'Madam,' says I, turning on my heel, 'I spell itwith a Y.' And so I left her, wondering at the light-heartedness of thetown-people, who forget and make friends so easily, and resolved to lookelsewhere for a partner for your constant reader,

  "CYMON WYLDOATS."

  "You know my real name, Mr. Spectator, in which there is no such aletter as HUPSILON. But if the lady, whom I have called Saccharissa,wonders that I appear no more at the tea-tables, she is herebyrespectfully informed the reason Y."

  The above is a parable, whereof the writer will now expound the meaning.Jocasta was no other than Miss Esmond, Maid of Honor to her Majesty.She had told Mr. Esmond this little story of having met a gentlemansomewhere, and forgetting his name, when the gentleman, with no suchmalicious intentions as those of "Cymon" in the above fable, made theanswer simply as above; and we all laughed to think how little MistressJocasta-Beatrix had profited by her artifice and precautions.

  As for Cymon, he was intended to represent yours and her very humbleservant, the writer of the apologue and of this story, which we hadprinted on a "Spectator" paper at Mr. Steele's office, exactly asthose famous journals were printed, and which was laid on the tableat breakfast in place of the real newspaper. Mistress Jocasta, who hadplenty of wit, could not live without her Spectator to her tea; andthis sham Spectator was intended to convey to the young woman thatshe herself was a flirt, and that Cymon was a gentleman of honor andresolution, seeing all her faults, and determined to break the chainsonce and for ever.

  For though enough hath been said about this love-businessalready--enough, at least, to prove to the writer's heirs what a sillyfond fool their old grandfather was, who would like them to consider himas a very wise old gentleman; yet not near all has been told concerningthis matter, which, if it were allowed to take in Esmond's journal thespace it occupied in his time, would weary his kinsmen and women of ahundred years' time beyond all endurance; and form such a diary of follyand drivelling, raptures and rage, as no man of ordinary vanity wouldlike to leave behind him.

  The truth is, that, whether she laughed at him or encouraged him;whether she smiled or was cold, and turned her smiles on another;worldly and ambitious, as he knew her to be; hard and careless, as sheseemed to grow with her court life, and a hundred admirers that came toher and left her; Esmond, do what he would, never could get Beatrix outof his mind; thought of her constantly at home or away. If he read hisname in a Gazette, or escaped the shot of a cannon-ball or a greaterdanger in the campaign, as has happened to him more than once, theinstant thought after the honor achieved or the danger avoided, was,"What will SHE say of it?" "Will this distinction or the idea of thisperil elate her or touch her, so as to be better inclined towards me?"He could no more help this passionate fidelity of temper than he couldhelp the eyes he saw with--one or the other seemed a part of his nature;and knowing every one of her faults as well as the keenest of herdetractors, and the folly of an attachment to such a woman, of which thefruition could never bring him happiness for above a week, there was yeta charm about this Circe from which the poor deluded gentleman couldnot free himself; and for a much longer period than Ulysses (anothermiddle-aged officer, who had travelled much, and been in the foreignwars,) Esmond felt himself enthralled and besotted by the wiles of thisenchantress. Quit her! He could no more quit her, as the Cymon ofthis story was made to quit his false one, than he could lose hisconsciousness of yesterday. She had but to raise her finger, and hewould come back from ever so far; she had but to say I have discardedsuch and such an adorer, and the poor infatuated wretch would be sure tocome and roder about her mother's house, willing to be put on the ranksof suitors, though he knew he might be cast off the next week. If hewere like Ulysses in his folly, at least she was in so far like Penelopethat she had a crowd of suitors, and undid day after day and night afternight the handiwork of fascination and the web of coquetry with whichshe was wont to allure and entertain them.

  Part of her coquetry may have come from her position about the Court,where the beautiful maid of honor was the light about which a thousandbeaux came and fluttered; where she was sure to have a ring of admirersround her, crowding to listen to her repartees as much as to admire herbeauty; and where she spoke and listened to much free talk, such asone never would have thought the lips or ears of Rachel Castlewood'sdaughter would have uttered or heard. When in waiting at Windsor orHampton, the Court ladies and gentlemen would be making riding partiestogether; Mrs. Beatrix in a horseman's coat and hat, the foremost afterthe stag-hounds and over the park fences, a crowd of young fellows ather heels. If the English country ladies at this time were the most pureand modest of any ladies in the world--the English town and court ladiespermitted themselves words and behavior that were neither modest norpure; and claimed, some of them, a freedom which those who love thatsex most would never wish to grant them. The gentlemen of my family thatfollow after me (for I don't encourage the ladies to pursue any suchstudies), may read in the works of Mr. Congreve, and Dr. Swift andothers, what was the conversation and what the habits of our time.

  The most beautiful woman in England in 1712, when Esmond returned tothis country, a lady of high birth, and though of no fortune to be sure,with a thousand fascinations of wit and manners, Beatrix Esmond wasnow six-and-twenty years old, and Beatrix Esmond still. Of her hundredadorers she had not chosen one for a husband; and those who had askedhad been jilted by her; and more still had left her. A succession ofnear ten years' crops of beauties had come up since her time, and hadbeen reaped by proper HUSBANDmen, if we may make an agricultural simile,and had been housed comfortably long ago. Her own contemporaries weresober mothers by this time; girls with not a tithe of her charms, orher wit, having made good matches, and now claiming precedence overthe spinster who but lately had derided and outshone them. The youngbeauties were beginning to look down on Beatrix as an old maid, andsneer, and call her one of Charles II.'s ladies, and ask whether herportrait was not in the Hampton Court Gallery? But still she reigned,at least in one man's opinion, superior over all the little missesthat were the toasts of the young lads; and in Esmond's eyes was everperfectly lovely and young.

  Who knows how many were nearly made happy by possessing her, or, rather,how many were fortunate in escaping this siren? 'Tis a marvel to thinkthat her mother was the purest and simplest woman in the whole world,and that this girl should have been born from her. I am inclined tofancy, my mistress, who never said a harsh word to her children (andbut twice or thrice only to one person), must have been too fond andpressing with the maternal authority; for her son and her daughter bothrevolted early; nor after their
first flight from the nest could theyever be brought back quite to the fond mother's bosom. Lady Castlewood,and perhaps it was as well, knew little of her daughter's life and realthoughts. How was she to apprehend what passes in Queen's ante-chambersand at Court tables? Mrs. Beatrix asserted her own authority soresolutely that her mother quickly gave in. The maid of honor had herown equipage; went from home and came back at her own will: her motherwas alike powerless to resist her or to lead her, or to command or topersuade her.

  She had been engaged once, twice, thrice, to be married, Esmondbelieved. When he quitted home, it hath been said, she was promised tomy Lord Ashburnham, and now, on his return, behold his lordship was justmarried to Lady Mary Butler, the Duke of Ormonde's daughter, and hisfine houses, and twelve thousand a year of fortune, for which MissBeatrix had rather coveted him, was out of her power. To her Esmondcould say nothing in regard to the breaking of this match; and, askinghis mistress about it, all Lady Castlewood answered was: "do not speakto me about it, Harry. I cannot tell you how or why they parted, and Ifear to inquire. I have told you before, that with all her kindness, andwit, and generosity, and that sort of splendor of nature she has, I cansay but little good of poor Beatrix, and look with dread at the marriageshe will form. Her mind is fixed on ambition only, and making agreat figure; and, this achieved, she will tire of it as she doesof everything. Heaven help her husband, whoever he shall be! My LordAshburnham was a most excellent young man, gentle and yet manly, of verygood parts, so they told me, and as my little conversation would enableme to judge: and a kind temper--kind and enduring I'm sure he must havebeen, from all that he had to endure. But he quitted her at last,from some crowning piece of caprice or tyranny of hers; and now he hasmarried a young woman that will make him a thousand times happier thanmy poor girl ever could."

  The rupture, whatever its cause was, (I heard the scandal, but indeedshall not take pains to repeat at length in this diary the trumperycoffee-house story,) caused a good deal of low talk; and Mr. Esmond waspresent at my lord's appearance at the Birthday with his bride, overwhom the revenge that Beatrix took was to look so imperial and lovelythat the modest downcast young lady could not appear beside her, andLord Ashburnham, who had his reasons for wishing to avoid her, slunkaway quite shamefaced, and very early. This time his Grace the Duke ofHamilton, whom Esmond had seen about her before, was constant at MissBeatrix's side: he was one of the most splendid gentlemen of Europe,accomplished by books, by travel, by long command of the best company,distinguished as a statesman, having been ambassador in King Williamn'stime, and a noble speaker in the Scots' Parliament, where he had led theparty that was against the Union, and though now five or six and fortyyears of age, a gentleman so high in stature, accomplished in wit, andfavored in person, that he might pretend to the hand of any Princess inEurope.

  "Should you like the Duke for a cousin?" says Mr. Secretary St. John,whispering to Colonel Esmond in French; "it appears that the widowerconsoles himself."

  But to return to our little Spectator paper and the conversation whichgrew out of it. Miss Beatrix at first was quite BIT (as the phrase ofthat day was) and did not "smoke" the authorship of the story; indeedEsmond had tried to imitate as well as he could Mr. Steele's manner(as for the other author of the Spectator, his prose style I think isaltogether inimitable); and Dick, who was the idlest and best-natured ofmen, would have let the piece pass into his journal and go to posterityas one of his own lucubrations, but that Esmond did not care to havea lady's name whom he loved sent forth to the world in a light sounfavorable. Beatrix pished and psha'd over the paper; Colonel Esmondwatching with no little interest her countenance as she read it.

  "How stupid your friend Mr. Steele becomes!" cries Miss Beatrix. "Epsomand Tunbridge! Will he never have done with Epsom and Tunbridge, andwith beaux at church, and Jocastas and Lindamiras? Why does he not callwomen Nelly and Betty, as their godfathers and godmothers did for themin their baptism?"

  "Beatrix. Beatrix!" says her mother, "speak gravely of grave things."

  "Mamma thinks the Church Catechism came from heaven, I believe,"says Beatrix, with a laugh, "and was brought down by a bishop from amountain. Oh, how I used to break my heart over it! Besides, I had aPopish godmother, mamma; why did you give me one?"

  "I gave you the Queen's name," says her mother blushing. "And a verypretty name it is," said somebody else.

  Beatrix went on reading--"Spell my name with a Y--why, you wretch," saysshe, turning round to Colonel Esmond, "you have been telling my story toMr. Steele--or stop--you have written the paper yourself to turn me intoridicule. For shame, sir!"

  Poor Mr. Esmond felt rather frightened, and told a truth, which wasnevertheless an entire falsehood. "Upon my honor," says he, "I have noteven read the Spectator of this morning." Nor had he, for that was notthe Spectator, but a sham newspaper put in its place.

  She went on reading: her face rather flushed as she read. "No," shesays, "I think you couldn't have written it. I think it must have beenMr. Steele when he was drunk--and afraid of his horrid vulgar wife.Whenever I see an enormous compliment to a woman, and some outrageouspanegyric about female virtue, I always feel sure that the Captain andhis better half have fallen out over-night, and that he has been broughthome tipsy, or has been found out in--"

  "Beatrix!" cries the Lady Castlewood.

  "Well, mamma! Do not cry out before you are hurt. I am not going to sayanything wrong. I won't give you more annoyance than you can help, youpretty kind mamma. Yes, and your little Trix is a naughty little Trix,and she leaves undone those things which she ought to have done, anddoes those things which she ought not to have done, and there's--wellnow--I won't go on. Yes, I will, unless you kiss me." And with this theyoung lady lays aside her paper, and runs up to her mother and performsa variety of embraces with her ladyship, saying as plain as eyes couldspeak to Mr. Esmond--"There, sir: would not YOU like to play the verysame pleasant game?"

  "Indeed, madam, I would," says he.

  "Would what?" asked Miss Beatrix.

  "What you meant when you looked at me in that provoking way," answersEsmond.

  "What a confessor!" cries Beatrix, with a laugh.

  "What is it Henry would like, my dear?" asks her mother, the kind soul,who was always thinking what we would like, and how she could please us.

  The girl runs up to her--"Oh, you silly kind mamma," she says, kissingher again, "that's what Harry would like;" and she broke out into agreat joyful laugh; and Lady Castlewood blushed as bashful as a maid ofsixteen.

  "Look at her, Harry," whispers Beatrix, running up, and speaking in hersweet low tones. "Doesn't the blush become her? Isn't she pretty? Shelooks younger than I am, and I am sure she is a hundred million thousandtimes better."

  Esmond's kind mistress left the room, carrying her blushes away withher.

  "If we girls at Court could grow such roses as that," continues Beatrix,with her laugh, "what wouldn't we do to preserve 'em? We'd clip theirstalks and put 'em in salt and water. But those flowers don't bloomat Hampton Court and Windsor, Henry." She paused for a minute, and thesmile fading away from her April face, gave place to a menacing showerof tears; "Oh, how good she is, Harry," Beatrix went on to say. "Oh,what a saint she is! Her goodness frightens me. I'm not fit to live withher. I should be better I think if she were not so perfect. She has hada great sorrow in her life, and a great secret; and repented of it. Itcould not have been my father's death. She talks freely about that; norcould she have loved him very much--though who knows what we women dolove, and why?"

  "What, and why, indeed," says Mr. Esmond.

  "No one knows," Beatrix went on, without noticing this interruptionexcept by a look, "what my mother's life is. She hath been at earlyprayer this morning; she passes hours in her closet; if you were tofollow her thither, you would find her at prayers now. She tends thepoor of the place--the horrid dirty poor! She sits through the curate'ssermons--oh, those dreary sermons! And you see on a beau dire; butgood as they are, people like her are not f
it to commune with us of theworld. There is always, as it were, a third person present, even when Iand my mother are alone. She can't be frank with me quite; who is alwaysthinking of the next world, and of her guardian angel, perhaps that's incompany. Oh, Harry, I'm jealous of that guardian angel!" here broke outMistress Beatrix. "It's horrid, I know; but my mother's life is allfor heaven, and mine--all for earth. We can never be friends quite; andthen, she cares more for Frank's little finger than she does for me--Iknow she does: and she loves you, sir, a great deal too much; and I hateyou for it. I would have had her all to myself; but she wouldn't. In mychildhood, it was my father she loved--(oh, how could she? I rememberhim kind and handsome, but so stupid, and not being able to speak afterdrinking wine). And then it was Frank; and now, it is heaven and theclergyman. How I would have loved her! From a child I used to be in arage that she loved anybody but me; but she loved you all better--all, Iknow she did. And now, she talks of the blessed consolation of religion.Dear soul! she thinks she is happier for believing, as she must, thatwe are all of us wicked and miserable sinners; and this world is only apied-a-terre for the good, where they stay for a night, as we do, comingfrom Walcote, at that great, dreary, uncomfortable Hounslow Inn, inthose horrid beds--oh, do you remember those horrid beds?--and thechariot comes and fetches them to heaven the next morning."

  "Hush, Beatrix," says Mr. Esmond.

  "Hush, indeed. You are a hypocrite, too, Henry, with your grave airsand your glum face. We are all hypocrites. O dear me! We are all alone,alone, alone," says poor Beatrix, her fair breast heaving with a sigh.

  "It was I that writ every line of that paper, my dear," says Mr. Esmond."You are not so worldly as you think yourself, Beatrix, and better thanwe believe you. The good we have in us we doubt of; and the happinessthat's to our hand we throw away. You bend your ambition on a greatmarriage and establishment--and why? You'll tire of them when you winthem; and be no happier with a coronet on your coach--"

  "Than riding pillion with Lubin to market," says Beatrix. "Thank you,Lubin!"

  "I'm a dismal shepherd, to be sure," answers Esmond, with a blush;"and require a nymph that can tuck my bed-clothes up, and make mewater-gruel. Well, Tom Lockwood can do that. He took me out of the fireupon his shoulders, and nursed me through my illness as love will scarceever do. Only good wages, and a hope of my clothes, and the contents ofmy portmanteau. How long was it that Jacob served an apprenticeship forRachel?"

  "For mamma?" says Beatrix. "It is mamma your honor wants, and that Ishould have the happiness of calling you papa?"

  Esmond blushed again. "I spoke of a Rachel that a shepherd courted fivethousand years ago; when shepherds were longer lived than now. And mymeaning was, that since I saw you first after our separation--a childyou were then . . ."

  "And I put on my best stockings to captivate you, I remember, sir . . ."

  "You have had my heart ever since then, such as it was; and such as youwere, I cared for no other woman. What little reputation I have won, itwas that you might be pleased with it: and indeed, it is not much; andI think a hundred fools in the army have got and deserved quite as much.Was there something in the air of that dismal old Castlewood that madeus all gloomy, and dissatisfied, and lonely under its ruined old roof?We were all so, even when together and united, as it seemed, followingour separate schemes, each as we sat round the table."

  "Dear, dreary old place!" cries Beatrix. "Mamma hath never had the heartto go back thither since we left it, when--never mind how many yearsago." And she flung back her curls, and looked over her fair shoulder atthe mirror superbly, as if she said, "Time, I defy you."

  "Yes," says Esmond, who had the art, as she owned, of divining many ofher thoughts. "You can afford to look in the glass still; and only bepleased by the truth it tells you. As for me, do you know what my schemeis? I think of asking Frank to give me the Virginian estate King Charlesgave our grandfather. (She gave a superb curtsy, as much as to say,'Our grandfather, indeed! Thank you, Mr. Bastard.') Yes, I know you arethinking of my bar-sinister, and so am I. A man cannot get over it inthis country; unless, indeed, he wears it across a king's arms, when'tis a highly honorable coat; and I am thinking of retiring into theplantations, and building myself a wigwam in the woods, and perhaps, ifI want company, suiting myself with a squaw. We will send your ladyshipfurs over for the winter; and, when you are old, we'll provide you withtobacco. I am not quite clever enough, or not rogue enough--I know notwhich--for the Old World. I may make a place for myself in the New,which is not so full; and found a family there. When you are a motheryourself, and a great lady, perhaps I shall send you over from theplantation some day a little barbarian that is half Esmond half Mohock,and you will be kind to him for his father's sake, who was, after all,your kinsman; and whom you loved a little."

  "What folly you are talking, Harry," says Miss Beatrix, looking with hergreat eyes.

  "'Tis sober earnest," says Esmond. And, indeed, the scheme had beendwelling a good deal in his mind for some time past, and especiallysince his return home, when he found how hopeless, and even degradingto himself, his passion was. "No," says he, then: "I have tried half adozen times now. I can bear being away from you well enough; but beingwith you is intolerable" (another low curtsy on Mistress Beatrix'spart), "and I will go. I have enough to buy axes and guns for my men,and beads and blankets for the savages; and I'll go and live amongstthem."

  "Mon ami," she says quite kindly, and taking Esmond's hand, with an airof great compassion, "you can't think that in our position anything morethan our present friendship is possible. You are our elder brother--assuch we view you, pitying your misfortune, not rebuking you with it.Why, you are old enough and grave enough to be our father. I alwaysthought you a hundred years old, Harry, with your solemn face and graveair. I feel as a sister to you, and can no more. Isn't that enough,sir?" And she put her face quite close to his--who knows with whatintention?

  "It's too much," says Esmond, turning away. "I can't bear this life,and shall leave it. I shall stay, I think, to see you married, and thenfreight a ship, and call it the 'Beatrix,' and bid you all . . ."

  Here the servant, flinging the door open, announced his Grace the Dukeof Hamilton, and Esmond started back with something like an imprecationon his lips, as the nobleman entered, looking splendid in his star andgreen ribbon. He gave Mr. Esmond just that gracious bow which he wouldhave given to a lackey who fetched him a chair or took his hat, andseated himself by Miss Beatrix, as the poor Colonel went out of the roomwith a hang-dog look.

  Esmond's mistress was in the lower room as he passed down stairs. Sheoften met him as he was coming away from Beatrix; and she beckoned himinto the apartment.

  "Has she told you, Harry?" Lady Castlewood said.

  "She has been very frank--very," says Esmond.

  "But--but about what is going to happen?"

  "What is going to happen?" says he, his heart beating.

  "His Grace the Duke of Hamilton has proposed to her," says my lady. "Hemade his offer yesterday. They will marry as soon as his mourning isover; and you have heard his Grace is appointed Ambassador to Paris; andthe Ambassadress goes with him."