“I had but three days’ leave from Chelsey,” Esmond said, as gayly as he could.  “My aunt—­she lets me call her aunt—­is my mistress now!  I owe her my lieutenancy and my laced coat.  She has taken me into high favor; and my new General is to dine at Chelsey to-morrow—­General Lumley, madam—­who has appointed me his aide-de-camp, and on whom I must have the honor of waiting.  See, here is a letter from the Dowager; the post brought it last night; and I would not speak of it, for fear of disturbing our last merry meeting.”

My lady glanced at the letter, and put it down with a smile that was somewhat contemptuous.  “I have no need to read the letter,” says she—­(indeed, ’twas as well she did not; for the Chelsey missive, in the poor Dowager’s usual French jargon, permitted him a longer holiday than he said.  “Je vous donne,” quoth her ladyship, “oui jour, pour vous fatigay parfaictement de vos parens fatigans")—­“I have no need to read the letter,” says she.  “What was it Frank told you last night?”

“He told me little I did not know,” Mr. Esmond answered.  “But I have thought of that little, and here’s the result:  I have no right to the name I bear, dear lady; and it is only by your sufferance that I am allowed to keep it.  If I thought for an hour of what has perhaps crossed your mind too—­”

“Yes, I did, Harry,” said she; “I thought of it; and think of it.  I would sooner call you my son than the greatest prince in Europe—­yes, than the greatest prince.  For who is there so good and so brave, and who would love her as you would?  But there are reasons a mother can’t tell.”

“I know them,” said Mr. Esmond, interrupting her with a smile.  “I know there’s Sir Wilmot Crawley of Queen’s Crawley, and Mr. Anthony Henley of the Grange, and my Lord Marquis of Blandford, that seems to be the favored suitor.  You shall ask me to wear my Lady Marchioness’s favors and to dance at her ladyship’s wedding.”

“Oh!  Harry, Harry, it is none of these follies that frighten me,” cried out Lady Castlewood.  “Lord Churchill is but a child, his outbreak about Beatrix was a mere boyish folly.  His parents would rather see him buried than married to one below him in rank.  And do you think that I would stoop to sue for a husband for Francis Esmond’s daughter; or submit to have my girl smuggled into that proud family to cause a quarrel between son and parents, and to be treated only as an inferior?  I would disdain such a meanness.  Beatrix would scorn it.  Ah!  Henry, ’tis not with you the fault lies, ’tis with her.  I know you both, and love you:  need I be ashamed of that love now?  No, never, never, and ’tis not you, dear Harry, that is unworthy.  ’Tis for my poor Beatrix I tremble—­whose headstrong will frightens me; whose jealous temper (they say I was jealous too, but, pray God, I am cured of that sin) and whose vanity no words or prayers of mine can cure—­only suffering, only experience, and remorse afterwards.  Oh!  Henry, she will make no man happy who loves her.  Go away, my son:  leave her:  love us always, and think kindly of us:  and for me, my dear, you know that these walls contain all that I love in the world.”