“Great heavens! madam,” cried Harry.  “What have I done that thus, for a second time, you insult me?  Do you wish me to blush for what I used to be proud of, that I lived on your bounty?  Next to doing you a service (which my life would pay for), you know that to receive one from you is my highest pleasure.  What wrong have I done you that you should wound me so, cruel woman?”

“What wrong?” she said, looking at Esmond with wild eyes.  “Well, none—­none that you know of, Harry, or could help.  Why did you bring back the small-pox,” she added, after a pause, “from Castlewood village?  You could not help it, could you?  Which of us knows whither fate leads us?  But we were all happy, Henry, till then.”  And Harry went away from this colloquy, thinking still that the estrangement between his patron and his beloved mistress was remediable, and that each had at heart a strong attachment to the other.

The intimacy between the Lords Mohun and Castlewood appeared to increase as long as the former remained in the country; and my Lord of Castlewood especially seemed never to be happy out of his new comrade’s sight.  They sported together, they drank, they played bowls and tennis:  my Lord Castlewood would go for three days to Sark, and bring back my Lord Mohun to Castlewood—­where indeed his lordship made himself very welcome to all persons, having a joke or a new game at romps for the children, all the talk of the town for my lord, and music and gallantry and plenty of the beau langage for my lady, and for Harry Esmond, who was never tired of hearing his stories of his campaigns and his life at Vienna, Venice, Paris, and the famous cities of Europe which he had visited both in peace and war.  And he sang at my lady’s harpsichord, and played cards or backgammon, or his new game of billiards with my lord (of whom he invariably got the better) always having a consummate good-humor, and bearing himself with a certain manly grace, that might exhibit somewhat of the camp and Alsatia perhaps, but that had its charm, and stamped him a gentleman:  and his manner to Lady Castlewood was so devoted and respectful, that she soon recovered from the first feelings of dislike which she had conceived against him—­nay, before long, began to be interested in his spiritual welfare, and hopeful of his conversion, lending him books of piety, which he promised dutifully to study.  With her my lord talked of reform, of settling into quiet life, quitting the court and town, and buying some land in the neighborhood—­though it must be owned that, when the two lords were together over their Burgundy after dinner, their talk was very different, and there was very little question of conversion on my Lord Mohun’s part.  When they got to their second bottle, Harry Esmond used commonly to leave these two noble topers, who, though they talked freely enough, heaven knows, in his presence (Good Lord, what a set of stories, of Alsatia and Spring Garden, of the taverns and gaming-houses, of the ladies of the court, and mesdames of the theatres, he can recall out of their godly conversation!)—­although, I say, they talked before Esmond freely, yet they seemed pleased when he went away, and then they had another bottle, and then they fell to cards, and then my Lord Mohun came to her ladyship’s drawing-room; leaving his boon companion to sleep off his wine.