guard, or at the Maypole in the Strand; and with respect to the women, as is usual with them, ’twas not a question of party but of faith; their belief was a passion; either Esmond’s mistress or her daughter would have died for it cheerfully.  I have laughed often, talking of King William’s reign, and said I thought Lady Castlewood was disappointed the King did not persecute the family more; and those who know the nature of women may fancy for themselves, what needs not here be written down, the rapture with which these neophytes received the mystery when made known to them; the eagerness with which they looked forward to its completion; the reverence which they paid the minister who initiated them into that secret Truth, now known only to a few, but presently to reign over the world.  Sure there is no bound to the trustingness of women.  Look at Arria worshipping the drunken clodpate of a husband who beats her; look at Cornelia treasuring as a jewel in her maternal heart the oaf her son; I have known a woman preach Jesuit’s bark, and afterwards Dr. Berkeley’s tar-water, as though to swallow them were a divine decree, and to refuse them no better than blasphemy.

On his return from France Colonel Esmond put himself at the head of this little knot of fond conspirators.  No death or torture he knew would frighten them out of their constancy.  When he detailed his plan for bringing the King back, his elder mistress thought that that Restoration was to be attributed under heaven to the Castlewood family and to its chief, and she worshipped and loved Esmond, if that could be, more than ever she had done.  She doubted not for one moment of the success of his scheme, to mistrust which would have seemed impious in her eyes.  And as for Beatrix, when she became acquainted with the plan, and joined it, as she did with all her heart, she gave Esmond one of her searching bright looks.  “Ah, Harry,” says she, “why were you not the head of our house?  You are the only one fit to raise it; why do you give that silly boy the name and the honor?  But ’tis so in the world; those get the prize that don’t deserve or care for it.  I wish I could give you your silly prize, cousin, but I can’t; I have tried, and I can’t.”  And she went away, shaking her head mournfully, but always, it seemed to Esmond, that her liking and respect for him was greatly increased, since she knew what capability he had both to act and bear; to do and to forego.

CHAPTER IX.

The original of the portrait comes to England.