tch! he had it in confession! he had it in confession!" cried
out the Dowager Lady.

"Not so. He learned it elsewhere as well as in confession," Mr. Esmond
answered. "My father, when wounded at the Boyne, told the truth to a
French priest, who was in hiding after the battle, as well as to the
priest there, at whose house he died. This gentleman did not think fit
to divulge the story till he met with Mr. Holt at Saint Omer's. And
the latter kept it back for his own purpose, and until he had learned
whether my mother was alive or no. She is dead years since, my poor
patron told me with his dying breath, and I doubt him not. I do not know
even whether I could prove a marriage. I would not if I could. I do
not care to bring shame on our name, or grief upon those whom I love,
however hardly they may use me. My father's son, madam, won't aggravate
the wrong my father did you. Continue to be his widow, and give me
your kindness. 'Tis all I ask from you; and I shall never speak of this
matter again."

"Mais vous etes un noble jeune homme!" breaks out my lady, speaking, as
usual with her when she was agitated, in the French language.

"Noblesse oblige," says Mr. Esmond, making her a low bow. "There are
those alive to whom, in return for their love to me, I often fondly said
I would give my life away. Shall I be their enemy now, and quarrel about
a title? What matters who has it? 'Tis with the family still."

"What can there be in that little prude of a woman that makes men so
raffoler about her?" cries out my Lady Dowager. "She was here for a
month petitioning the King. She is pretty, and well conserved; but she
has not the bel air. In his late Majesty's Court all the men pretended
to admire her, and she was no better than a little wax doll. She is
better now, and looks the sister of her daughter; but what mean you
all by bepraising her? Mr. Steele, who was in waiting on Prince George,
seeing her with her two children going to Kensington, writ a poem about
her, and says he shall wear her colors, and dress in black for the
future. Mr. Congreve says he will write a 'Mourning Widow,' that shall
be better than his 'Mourning Bride.' Though their husbands quarrelled
and fought when that wretch Churchill deserted the King (for which he
deserved to be hung), Lady Marlborough has again gone wild about the
little widow; insulted me in my own drawing-room, by saying 'twas not
the OLD widow, but the young Viscountess, she had come to see