ld pay to Museau's heirs
the sum which he had promised for his ransom. This question had been the
cause of no small unhappiness to poor George at home. Museau dead, Madam
Esmond argued with much eagerness, and not a little rancour, the bargain
fell to the ground, and her son was free. The man was a rogue in the
first instance. She would not pay the wages of iniquity. Mr. Esmond had
a small independence from his father, and might squander his patrimony
if he chose. He was of age, and the money was in his power; but she
would be no party to such extravagance, as giving twelve thousand livres
to a parcel of peasants in Normandy with whom we were at war, and who
would very likely give it all to the priests and the pope. She would not
subscribe to any such wickedness. If George wanted to squander away his
father's money (she must say that formerly he had not been so eager,
and when Harry's benefit was in question had refused to touch a penny of
it!)--if he wished to spend it now, why not give it to his own flesh and
blood, to poor Harry, who was suddenly deprived of his inheritance, and
not to a set of priest-ridden peasants in France? This dispute had raged
between mother and son during the whole of the latter's last days
in Virginia. It had never been settled. On the morning of George's
departure, Madam Esmond had come to his bedside after a sleepless night,
and asked him whether he still persisted in his intention to fling away
his father's property?

He replied in a depth of grief and perplexity, that his word was passed,
and he must do as his honour bade him. She answered that she would
continue to pray that Heaven might soften his proud heart, and enable
her to bear her heavy trials: and the last view George had of his
mother's face was as she stood yet a moment by his bedside, pale and
with tearless eyes, before she turned away and slowly left his chamber.

"Where didst thou learn the art of winning over everybody to thy side,
Harry?" continued George; "and how is it that you and all the world
begin by being friends? Teach me a few lessons in popularity, nay,
I don't know that I will have them; and when I find and hear certain
people hate me, I think I am rather pleased than angry. At first, at
Richmond, Mr. Esmond Warrington, the only prisoner who had escaped from
Braddock's field--the victim of so much illness and hardship--was a
favourite with the town-folks, and received privately and publicly with
no little kind