Meanwhile, it has been said, that for Harry Esmond his benefactress’s sweet face had lost none of its charms.  It had always the kindest of looks and smiles for him—­smiles, not so gay and artless perhaps as those which Lady Castlewood had formerly worn, when, a child herself, playing with her children, her husband’s pleasure and authority were all she thought of; but out of her griefs and cares, as will happen I think when these trials fall upon a kindly heart, and are not too unbearable, grew up a number of thoughts and excellences which had never come into existence, had not her sorrow and misfortunes engendered them.  Sure, occasion is the father of most that is good in us.  As you have seen the awkward fingers and clumsy tools of a prisoner cut and fashion the most delicate little pieces of carved work; or achieve the most prodigious underground labors, and cut through walls of masonry, and saw iron bars and fetters; ’tis misfortune that awakens ingenuity, or fortitude, or endurance, in hearts where these qualities had never come to life but for the circumstance which gave them a being.

“’Twas after Jason left her, no doubt,” Lady Castlewood once said with one of her smiles to young Esmond (who was reading to her a version of certain lines out of Euripides), “that Medea became a learned woman and a great enchantress.”

“And she could conjure the stars out of heaven,” the young tutor added, “but she could not bring Jason back again.”

“What do you mean?” asked my lady, very angry.

“Indeed I mean nothing,” said the other, “save what I’ve read in books.  What should I know about such matters?  I have seen no woman save you and little Beatrix, and the parson’s wife and my late mistress, and your ladyship’s woman here.”

“The men who wrote your books,” says my lady, “your Horaces, and Ovids, and Virgils, as far as I know of them, all thought ill of us, as all the heroes they wrote about used us basely.  We were bred to be slaves always; and even of our own times, as you are still the only lawgivers, I think our sermons seem to say that the best woman is she who bears her master’s chains most gracefully.  ’Tis a pity there are no nunneries permitted by our church:  Beatrix and I would fly to one, and end our days in peace there away from you.”

“And is there no slavery in a convent?” says Esmond.

“At least if women are slaves there, no one sees them,” answered the lady.  “They don’t work in street gangs with the public to jeer them:  and if they suffer, suffer in private.  Here comes my lord home from hunting.  Take away the books.  My lord does not love to see them.  Lessons are over for to-day, Mr. Tutor.”  And with a curtsy and a smile she would end this sort of colloquy.

Indeed “Mr. Tutor,” as my lady called Esmond, had now business enough on his hands in Castlewood house.  He had three pupils, his lady and her two children, at whose lessons she would always be present; besides writing my lord’s letters, and arranging his accompts for him—­when these could be got from Esmond’s indolent patron.