of eighteen, wait, my good friend,
until thou art in love with thy schoolfellow's sister, and then see how
mighty tender thou wilt be towards him. Esmond's general and his grace the
prince-duke were notoriously at variance, and the former's friendship was
in no wise likely to advance any man's promotion, of whose services Webb
spoke well; but rather likely to injure him, so the army said, in the
favour of the greater man. However, Mr. Esmond had the good fortune to be
mentioned very advantageously by Major-General Webb in his report after
the action; and the major of his regiment and two of the captains having
been killed upon the day of Ramillies, Esmond, who was second of the
lieutenants, got his company, and had the honour of serving as Captain
Esmond in the next campaign.

My lord went home in the winter, but Esmond was afraid to follow him. His
dear mistress wrote him letters more than once, thanking him, as mothers
know how to thank, for his care and protection of her boy, extolling
Esmond's own merits with a great deal more praise than they deserved; for
he did his duty no better than any other officer; and speaking sometimes,
though gently and cautiously, of Beatrix. News came from home of at least
half a dozen grand matches that the beautiful maid of honour was about to
make. She was engaged to an earl, our gentlemen of St. James's said, and
then jilted him for a duke, who, in his turn, had drawn off. Earl or duke
it might be who should win this Helen, Esmond knew she would never bestow
herself on a poor captain. Her conduct, it was clear, was little
satisfactory to her mother, who scarcely mentioned her, or else the kind
lady thought it was best to say nothing, and leave time to work out its
cure. At any rate, Harry was best away from the fatal object which always
wrought him so much mischief; and so he never asked for leave to go home,
but remained with his regiment that was garrisoned in Brussels, which city
fell into our hands when the victory of Ramillies drove the French out of
Flanders.

Chapter XIII. I Meet An Old Acquaintance In Flanders, And Find My Mother's
Grave And My Own Cradle There

Being one day in the Church of St. Gudule, at Brussels, admiring the
antique splendour of the architecture (and always entertaining a great
tenderness and reverence for the Mother Church, that hath been as wickedly
persecuted in England as ever she herself persecuted in the days of her
prosperity), Esmond saw