Some young gentlemen of the town, with whom Esmond had made acquaintance, had promised to present him to that most charming of actresses, and lively and agreeable of women, Mrs. Bracegirdle, about whom Harry’s old adversary Mohun had drawn swords, a few years before my poor lord and he fell out.  The famous Mr. Congreve had stamped with his high approval, to the which there was no gainsaying, this delightful person:  and she was acting in Dick Steele’s comedies, and finally, and for twenty-four hours after beholding her, Mr. Esmond felt himself, or thought himself, to be as violently enamored of this lovely brunette, as were a thousand other young fellows about the city.  To have once seen her was to long to behold her again; and to be offered the delightful privilege of her acquaintance, was a pleasure the very idea of which set the young lieutenant’s heart on fire.  A man cannot live with comrades under the tents without finding out that he too is five-and-twenty.  A young fellow cannot be cast down by grief and misfortune ever so severe but some night he begins to sleep sound, and some day when dinner-time comes to feel hungry for a beefsteak.  Time, youth and good health, new scenes and the excitement of action and a campaign, had pretty well brought Esmond’s mourning to an end; and his comrades said that Don Dismal, as they called him, was Don Dismal no more.  So when a party was made to dine at the “Rose,” and go to the playhouse afterward, Esmond was as pleased as another to take his share of the bottle and the play.

How was it that the old aunt’s news, or it might be scandal, about Tom Tusher, caused such a strange and sudden excitement in Tom’s old playfellow?  Hadn’t he sworn a thousand times in his own mind that the Lady of Castlewood, who had treated him with such kindness once, and then had left him so cruelly, was, and was to remain henceforth, indifferent to him for ever?  Had his pride and his sense of justice not long since helped him to cure the pain of that desertion—­was it even a pain to him now?  Why, but last night as he walked across the fields and meadows to Chelsey from Pall Mall, had he not composed two or three stanzas of a song, celebrating Bracegirdle’s brown eyes, and declaring them a thousand times more beautiful than the brightest blue ones that ever languished under the lashes of an insipid fair beauty!  But Tom Tusher!  Tom Tusher, the waiting-woman’s son, raising up his little eyes to his mistress!  Tom Tusher presuming to think of Castlewood’s widow!  Rage and contempt filled Mr. Harry’s heart at the very notion; the honor of the family, of which he was the chief, made it his duty to prevent so monstrous an alliance, and to chastise the upstart who could dare to think of such an insult to their house.  ’Tis true Mr. Esmond often boasted of republican principles, and could remember many fine speeches he had made at college and elsewhere, with worth and not birth for a text:  but Tom Tusher to take the place of the noble Castlewood—­faugh! ’twas as monstrous as King Hamlet’s widow taking off her weeds for Claudius.  Esmond laughed at all widows, all wives, all women; and were the banns about to be published, as no doubt they were, that very next Sunday at Walcote Church, Esmond swore that he would be present to shout No! in the face of the congregation, and to take a private revenge upon the ears of the bridegroom.