father. If he had
a headache, his mother was as much frightened as if the plague were in
the house: my lord laughed and jeered in his abrupt way--(indeed, 'twas
on the day after New Year's Day, and an excess of mince-pie)--and said
with some of his usual oaths--"D--n it, Harry Esmond--you see how my
lady takes on about Frank's megrim. She used to be sorry about me, my
boy (pass the tankard, Harry), and to be frightened if I had a headache
once. She don't care about my head now. They're like that--women
are--all the same, Harry, all jilts in their hearts. Stick to
college--stick to punch and buttery ale: and never see a woman that's
handsomer than an old cinder-faced bed-maker. That's my counsel."

It was my lord's custom to fling out many jokes of this nature, in
presence of his wife and children, at meals--clumsy sarcasms which my
lady turned many a time, or which, sometimes, she affected not to hear,
or which now and again would hit their mark and make the poor victim
wince (as you could see by her flushing face and eyes filling with
tears), or which again worked her up to anger and retort, when,
in answer to one of these heavy bolts, she would flash back with a
quivering reply. The pair were not happy; nor indeed was it happy to be
with them. Alas that youthful love and truth should end in bitterness
and bankruptcy! To see a young couple loving each other is no wonder;
but to see an old couple loving each other is the best sight of all.
Harry Esmond became the confidant of one and the other--that is, my
lord told the lad all his griefs and wrongs (which were indeed of Lord
Castlewood's own making), and Harry divined my lady's; his affection
leading him easily to penetrate the hypocrisy under which Lady
Castlewood generally chose to go disguised, and see her heart aching
whilst her face wore a smile. 'Tis a hard task for women in life, that
mask which the world bids them wear. But there is no greater crime than
for a woman who is ill used and unhappy to show that she is so. The
world is quite relentless about bidding her to keep a cheerful face; and
our women, like the Malabar wives, are forced to go smiling and painted
to sacrifice themselves with their husbands; their relations being the
most eager to push them on to their duty, and, under their shouts and
applauses, to smother and hush their cries of pain.

So, into the sad secret of his patron's household, Harry Esmond became
initiated, he scarce knew how. It ha