ould, nevertheless, so bow down to a title, and cringe to a nobleman
ever so poor. At this, Mistress Beatrix flung up her head, and said, it
became those of low origin to respect their betters; that the parsons made
themselves a great deal too proud, she thought; and that she liked the way
at Lady Sark's best, where the chaplain, though he loved pudding, as all
parsons do, always went away before the custard.

"And when I am a parson," says Mr. Esmond, "will you give me no custard,
Beatrix?"

"You--you are different," Beatrix answered. "You are of our blood."

"My father was a parson, as you call him," said my lady.

"But mine is a peer of Ireland," says Mistress Beatrix, tossing her head.
"Let people know their places. I suppose you will have me go down on my
knees and ask a blessing of Mr. Thomas Tusher, that has just been made a
curate, and whose mother was a waiting-maid."

And she tossed out of the room, being in one of her flighty humours then.

When she was gone, my lady looked so sad and grave, that Harry asked the
cause of her disquietude. She said it was not merely what he said of
Newmarket, but what she had remarked, with great anxiety and terror, that
my lord, ever since his acquaintance with the Lord Mohun especially, had
recurred to his fondness for play, which he had renounced since his
marriage.

"But men promise more than they are able to perform in marriage," said my
lady, with a sigh. "I fear he has lost large sums; and our property,
always small, is dwindling away under this reckless dissipation. I heard
of him in London with very wild company. Since his return letters and
lawyers are constantly coming and going: he seems to me to have a constant
anxiety, though he hides it under boisterousness and laughter. I looked
through--through the door last night, and--and before," said my lady, "and
saw them at cards after midnight; no estate will bear that extravagance,
much less ours, which will be so diminished that my son will have nothing
at all, and my poor Beatrix no portion!"

"I wish I could help you, madam," said Harry Esmond, sighing, and wishing
that unavailingly, and for the thousandth time in his life.

"Who can? Only God," said Lady Esmond--"only God, in whose hands we are."
And so it is, and for his rule over his family, and for his conduct to
wife and children--subjects over whom his power is monarchical--any one who
watches the world must think with trembling sometimes of the account