** And, indeed, so was his to them, a thousand thousand
     times more charming, for where was his equal?—­R.

Mistress Beatrix Esmond had been a dozen times on the point of making great matches, so the Court scandal said; but for his part Esmond never would believe the stories against her; and came back, after three years’ absence from her, not so frantic as he had been perhaps, but still hungering after her and no other; still hopeful, still kneeling, with his heart in his hand for the young lady to take.  We were now got to 1709.  She was near twenty-two years old, and three years at Court, and without a husband.

“’Tis not for want of being asked,” Lady Castlewood said, looking into Esmond’s heart, as she could, with that perceptiveness affection gives.  “But she will make no mean match, Harry:  she will not marry as I would have her; the person whom I should like to call my son, and Henry Esmond knows who that is, is best served by my not pressing his claim.  Beatrix is so wilful, that what I would urge on her, she would be sure to resist.  The man who would marry her, will not be happy with her, unless he be a great person, and can put her in a great position.  Beatrix loves admiration more than love; and longs, beyond all things, for command.  Why should a mother speak so of her child?  You are my son, too, Harry.  You should know the truth about your sister.  I thought you might cure yourself of your passion,” my lady added, fondly.  “Other people can cure themselves of that folly, you know.  But I see you are still as infatuated as ever.  When we read your name in the Gazette, I pleaded for you, my poor boy.  Poor boy, indeed!  You are growing a grave old gentleman, now, and I am an old woman.  She likes your fame well enough, and she likes your person.  She says you have wit, and fire, and good-breeding, and are more natural than the fine gentlemen of the Court.  But this is not enough.  She wants a commander-in-chief, and not a colonel.  Were a duke to ask her, she would leave an earl whom she had promised.  I told you so before.  I know not how my poor girl is so worldly.”

“Well,” says Esmond, “a man can but give his best and his all.  She has that from me.  What little reputation I have won, I swear I cared for it because I thought Beatrix would be pleased with it.  What care I to be a colonel or a general?  Think you ’twill matter a few score years hence, what our foolish honors to-day are?  I would have had a little fame, that she might wear it in her hat.  If I had anything better, I would endow her with it.  If she wants my life, I would give it her.  If she marries another, I will say God bless him.  I make no boast, nor no complaint.  I think my fidelity is folly, perhaps.  But so it is.  I cannot help myself.  I love her.  You are a thousand times better:  the fondest, the fairest, the dearest of women.  Sure, my dear lady, I see all Beatrix’s faults as well as you do.  But she is my fate.  ’Tis endurable.  I shall not die for not having her.  I think I should be no happier if I won her.  Que voulez-vous? as my Lady of Chelsey would say.  Je l’aime.”