So you may either read the sentence, that the elder of Esmond’s two kinswomen pardoned the younger her beauty, when that had lost somewhat of its freshness, perhaps; and forgot most her grievances against the other, when the subject of them was no longer prosperous and enviable; or we may say more benevolently (but the sum comes to the same figures, worked either way,) that Isabella repented of her unkindness towards Rachel, when Rachel was unhappy; and, bestirring herself in behalf of the poor widow and her children, gave them shelter and friendship.  The ladies were quite good friends as long as the weaker one needed a protector.  Before Esmond went away on his first campaign, his mistress was still on terms of friendship (though a poor little chit, a woman that had evidently no spirit in her, &c.) with the elder Lady Castlewood; and Mistress Beatrix was allowed to be a beauty.

But between the first year of Queen Anne’s reign, and the second, sad changes for the worse had taken place in the two younger ladies, at least in the elder’s description of them.  Rachel, Viscountess Castlewood, had no more face than a dumpling, and Mrs. Beatrix was grown quite coarse, and was losing all her beauty.  Little Lord Blandford—­(she never would call him Lord Blandford; his father was Lord Churchill—­the King, whom he betrayed, had made him Lord Churchill, and he was Lord Churchill still)—­might be making eyes at her; but his mother, that vixen of a Sarah Jennings, would never hear of such a folly.  Lady Marlborough had got her to be a maid of honor at Court to the Princess, but she would repent of it.  The widow Francis (she was but Mrs. Francis Esmond) was a scheming, artful, heartless hussy.  She was spoiling her brat of a boy, and she would end by marrying her chaplain.

“What, Tusher!” cried Mr. Esmond, feeling a strange pang of rage and astonishment.

“Yes—­Tusher, my 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.