maid's son; and who has got all the qualities of
his father the lackey in black, and his accomplished mamma the
waiting-woman," cries my lady. "What do you suppose that a sentimental
widow, who will live down in that dingy dungeon of a Castlewood, where
she spoils her boy, kills the poor with her drugs, has prayers twice a
day and sees nobody but the chaplain--what do you suppose she can do,
mon Cousin, but let the horrid parson, with his great square toes and
hideous little green eyes, make love to her? Cela c'est vu, mon Cousin.
When I was a girl at Castlewood, all the chaplains fell in love with
me--they've nothing else to do."

My lady went on with more talk of this kind, though, in truth, Esmond
had no idea of what she said further, so entirely did her first words
occupy his thought. Were they true? Not all, nor half, nor a tenth part
of what the garrulous old woman said, was true. Could this be so? No
ear had Esmond for anything else, though his patroness chatted on for an
hour.

Some young gentlemen of the town, with whom Esmond had made
acquaintance, had promised to present him to that most charming of
actresses, and lively and agreeable of women, Mrs. Bracegirdle, about
whom Harry's old adversary Mohun had drawn swords, a few years before my
poor lord and he fell out. The famous Mr. Congreve had stamped with his
high approval, to the which there was no gainsaying, this delightful
person: and she was acting in Dick Steele's comedies, and finally, and
for twenty-four hours after beholding her, Mr. Esmond felt himself, or
thought himself, to be as violently enamored of this lovely brunette,
as were a thousand other young fellows about the city. To have once seen
her was to long to behold her again; and to be offered the delightful
privilege of her acquaintance, was a pleasure the very idea of which set
the young lieutenant's heart on fire. A man cannot live with comrades
under the tents without finding out that he too is five-and-twenty. A
young fellow cannot be cast down by grief and misfortune ever so severe
but some night he begins to sleep sound, and some day when dinner-time
comes to feel hungry for a beefsteak. Time, youth and good health, new
scenes and the excitement of action and a campaign, had pretty well
brought Esmond's mourning to an end; and his comrades said that Don
Dismal, as they called him, was Don Dismal no more. So when a party was
made to dine at the "Rose," and go to the playhouse afterwa