all my son, and Henry Esmond
knows who that is, is best served by my not pressing his claim. Beatrix
is so wilful, that what I would urge on her, she would be sure to
resist. The man who would marry her, will not be happy with her, unless
he be a great person, and can put her in a great position. Beatrix loves
admiration more than love; and longs, beyond all things, for command.
Why should a mother speak so of her child? You are my son, too, Harry.
You should know the truth about your sister. I thought you might cure
yourself of your passion," my lady added, fondly. "Other people can
cure themselves of that folly, you know. But I see you are still as
infatuated as ever. When we read your name in the Gazette, I pleaded
for you, my poor boy. Poor boy, indeed! You are growing a grave old
gentleman, now, and I am an old woman. She likes your fame well
enough, and she likes your person. She says you have wit, and fire,
and good-breeding, and are more natural than the fine gentlemen of the
Court. But this is not enough. She wants a commander-in-chief, and not
a colonel. Were a duke to ask her, she would leave an earl whom she
had promised. I told you so before. I know not how my poor girl is so
worldly."

"Well," says Esmond, "a man can but give his best and his all. She has
that from me. What little reputation I have won, I swear I cared for it
because I thought Beatrix would be pleased with it. What care I to be a
colonel or a general? Think you 'twill matter a few score years hence,
what our foolish honors to-day are? I would have had a little fame, that
she might wear it in her hat. If I had anything better, I would endow
her with it. If she wants my life, I would give it her. If she marries
another, I will say God bless him. I make no boast, nor no complaint. I
think my fidelity is folly, perhaps. But so it is. I cannot help myself.
I love her. You are a thousand times better: the fondest, the fairest,
the dearest of women. Sure, my dear lady, I see all Beatrix's faults as
well as you do. But she is my fate. 'Tis endurable. I shall not die
for not having her. I think I should be no happier if I won her. Que
voulez-vous? as my Lady of Chelsey would say. Je l'aime."

"I wish she would have you," said Harry's fond mistress, giving a hand
to him. He kissed the fair hand ('twas the prettiest dimpled little hand
in the world, and my Lady Castlewood, though now almost forty years old,
did not look to be within ten years of her