and papa had gotten a new chaise, with two little horses, which he drove himself, beside the coach, which mamma went in; and Dr. Tusher was a cross old plague, and they did not like to learn from him at all; and papa did not care about them learning, and laughed when they were at their books, but mamma liked them to learn, and taught them; and “I don’t think papa is fond of mamma,” said Miss Beatrix, with her great eyes.  She had come quite close up to Harry Esmond by the time this prattle took place, and was on his knee, and had examined all the points of his dress, and all the good or bad features of his homely face.

“You shouldn’t say that papa is not fond of mamma,” said the boy, at this confession.  “Mamma never said so; and mamma forbade you to say it, Miss Beatrix.”

’Twas this, no doubt, that accounted for the sadness in Lady Castlewood’s eyes, and the plaintive vibrations of her voice.  Who does not know of eyes, lighted by love once, where the flame shines no more?—­of lamps extinguished, once properly trimmed and tended?  Every man has such in his house.  Such mementoes make our splendidest chambers look blank and sad; such faces seen in a day cast a gloom upon our sunshine.  So oaths mutually sworn, and invocations of heaven, and priestly ceremonies, and fond belief, and love, so fond and faithful that it never doubted but that it should live for ever, are all of no avail towards making love eternal:  it dies, in spite of the banns and the priest; and I have often thought there should be a visitation of the sick for it, and a funeral service, and an extreme unction, and an abi in pace.  It has its course, like all mortal things—­its beginning, progress, and decay.  It buds and it blooms out into sunshine, and it withers and ends.  Strephon and Chloe languish apart; join in a rapture:  and presently you hear that Chloe is crying, and Strephon has broken his crook across her back.  Can you mend it so as to show no marks of rupture?  Not all the priests of Hymen, not all the incantations to the gods, can make it whole!

Waking up from dreams, books, and visions of college honors, in which for two years, Harry Esmond had been immersed, he found himself, instantly, on his return home, in the midst of this actual tragedy of life, which absorbed and interested him more than all his tutor had taught him.  The persons whom he loved best in the world, and to whom he owed most, were living unhappily together.  The gentlest and kindest of women was suffering ill usage and shedding tears in secret:  the man who made her wretched by neglect, if not by violence, was Harry’s benefactor and patron.  In houses where, in place of that sacred, inmost flame of love, there is discord at the centre, the whole household becomes hypocritical, and each lies to his neighbor.  The husband (or it may be the wife) lies when the visitor comes in, and wears a grin of reconciliation or politeness before him.  The wife lies (indeed, her business is to do that,