ere abject sighs and impotent longing. What nights of rage, what days of
torment, of passionate unfulfilled desire, of sickening jealousy, can he
recall! Beatrix thought no more of him than of the lackey that followed
her chair. His complaints did not touch her in the least; his raptures
rather fatigued her; she cared for his verses no more than for Dan
Chaucer's, who's dead these ever so many hundred years; she did not hate
him; she rather despised him, and just suffered him.

One day, after talking to Beatrix's mother, his dear, fond, constant
mistress--for hours--for all day long--pouring out his flame and his passion,
his despair and rage, returning again and again to the theme, pacing the
room, tearing up the flowers on the table, twisting and breaking into bits
the wax out of the standish, and performing a hundred mad freaks of
passionate folly; seeing his mistress at last quite pale and tired out
with sheer weariness of compassion, and watching over his fever for the
hundredth time, Esmond seized up his hat, and took his leave. As he got
into Kensington Square, a sense of remorse came over him for the wearisome
pain he had been inflicting upon the dearest and kindest friend ever man
had. He went back to the house, where the servant still stood at the open
door, ran up the stairs, and found his mistress where he had left her in
the embrasure of the window, looking over the fields towards Chelsea. She
laughed, wiping away at the same time the tears which were in her kind
eyes; he flung himself down on his knees, and buried his head in her lap.
She had in her hand the stalk of one of the flowers, a pink, that he had
torn to pieces. "Oh, pardon me, pardon me, my dearest and kindest," he
said; "I am in hell, and you are the angel that brings me a drop of
water."

"I am your mother, you are my son, and I love you always," she said,
holding her hands over him; and he went away comforted and humbled in
mind, as he thought of that amazing and constant love and tenderness with
which this sweet lady ever blessed and pursued him.

Chapter XI. The Famous Mr. Joseph Addison

The gentlemen ushers had a table at Kensington, and the Guard a very
splendid dinner daily at St. James's, at either of which ordinaries Esmond
was free to dine. Dick Steele liked the Guard-table better than his own at
the gentleman ushers', where there was less wine and more ceremony; and
Esmond had many a jolly afternoon in company of his friend,