his kinswoman’s house was a rendezvous of Tory intrigues; that Gauthier was a spy; that Atterbury was a spy; that letters were constantly going from that house to the Queen at St. Germains; on which Esmond, laughing, would reply, that they used to say in the army the Duke of Marlborough was a spy too, and as much in correspondence with that family as any Jesuit.  And without entering very eagerly into the controversy, Esmond had frankly taken the side of his family.  It seemed to him that King James the Third was undoubtedly King of England by right:  and at his sister’s death it would be better to have him than a foreigner over us.  No man admired King William more; a hero and a conqueror, the bravest, justest, wisest of men—­but ’twas by the sword he conquered the country, and held and governed it by the very same right that the great Cromwell held it, who was truly and greatly a sovereign.  But that a foreign despotic Prince, out of Germany, who happened to be descended from King James the First, should take possession of this empire, seemed to Mr. Esmond a monstrous injustice—­at least, every Englishman had a right to protest, and the English Prince, the heir-at-law, the first of all.  What man of spirit with such a cause would not back it?  What man of honor with such a crown to win would not fight for it?  But that race was destined.  That Prince had himself against him, an enemy he could not overcome.  He never dared to draw his sword, though he had it.  He let his chances slip by as he lay in the lap of opera-girls, or snivelled at the knees of priests asking pardon; and the blood of heroes, and the devotedness of honest hearts, and endurance, courage, fidelity, were all spent for him in vain.

But let us return to my Lady of Chelsey, who, when her son Esmond announced to her ladyship that he proposed to make the ensuing campaign, took leave of him with perfect alacrity, and was down to piquet with her gentlewoman before he had well quitted the room on his last visit.  “Tierce to a king,” were the last words he ever heard her say:  the game of life was pretty nearly over for the good lady, and three months afterwards she took to her bed, where she flickered out without any pain, so the Abbe Gauthier wrote over to Mr. Esmond, then with his General on the frontier of France.  The Lady Castlewood was with her at her ending, and had written too, but these letters must have been taken by a privateer in the packet that brought them; for Esmond knew nothing of their contents until his return to England.

My Lady Castlewood had left everything to Colonel Esmond, “as a reparation for the wrong done to him;” ’twas writ in her will.  But her fortune was not much, for it never had been large, and the honest viscountess had wisely sunk most of the money she had upon an annuity which terminated with her life.  However, there was the house and furniture, plate and pictures at Chelsey, and a sum of money lying at her merchant’s, Sir Josiah