without that his prisoner is rebellious, and his sworn subject undutiful and refractory.  So the lamp was out in Castlewood Hall, and the lord and lady there saw each other as they were.  With her illness and altered beauty my lord’s fire for his wife disappeared; with his selfishness and faithlessness her foolish fiction of love and reverence was rent away.  Love!—­who is to love what is base and unlovely?  Respect!—­who is to respect what is gross and sensual?  Not all the marriage oaths sworn before all the parsons, cardinals, ministers, muftis, and rabbins in the world, can bind to that monstrous allegiance.  This couple was living apart then; the woman happy to be allowed to love and tend her children (who were never of her own good-will away from her), and thankful to have saved such treasures as these out of the wreck in which the better part of her heart went down.

These young ones had had no instructors save their mother, and Doctor Tusher for their theology occasionally, and had made more progress than might have been expected under a tutor so indulgent and fond as Lady Castlewood.  Beatrix could sing and dance like a nymph.  Her voice was her father’s delight after dinner.  She ruled over the house with little imperial ways, which her parents coaxed and laughed at.  She had long learned the value of her bright eyes, and tried experiments in coquetry, in corpore vili, upon rustics and country squires, until she should prepare to conquer the world and the fashion.  She put on a new ribbon to welcome Harry Esmond, made eyes at him, and directed her young smiles at him, not a little to the amusement of the young man, and the joy of her father, who laughed his great laugh, and encouraged her in her thousand antics.  Lady Castlewood watched the child gravely and sadly:  the little one was pert in her replies to her mother, yet eager in her protestations of love and promises of amendment; and as ready to cry (after a little quarrel brought on by her own giddiness) until she had won back her mamma’s favor, as she was to risk the kind lady’s displeasure by fresh outbreaks of restless vanity.  From her mother’s sad looks she fled to her father’s chair and boozy laughter.  She already set the one against the other:  and the little rogue delighted in the mischief which she knew how to make so early.

The young heir of Castlewood was spoiled by father and mother both.  He took their caresses as men do, and as if they were his right.  He had his hawks and his spaniel dog, his little horse and his beagles.  He had learned to ride, and to drink, and to shoot flying:  and he had a small court, the sons of the huntsman and woodman, as became the heir-apparent, taking after the example of my lord his father.  If he had a headache, his mother was as much frightened as if the plague were in the house:  my lord laughed and jeered in his abrupt way—­(indeed, ’twas on the day after New Year’s Day, and an excess of mince-pie)—­and said with some of his usual oaths—­“D—­n