did not--never meddling at
all), Harry would that instant have questioned the truth on't.

My lady seldom drank wine; but on certain days of the year, such as
birthdays (poor Harry had never a one) and anniversaries, she took a
little; and this day, the 29th December, was one. At the end, then, of
this year, '96, it might have been a fortnight after Mr. Holt's last
visit, Lord Castlewood being still very gloomy in mind, and sitting at
table--my lady bidding a servant bring her a glass of wine, and looking
at her husband with one of her sweet smiles, said--

"My lord, will you not fill a bumper too, and let me call a toast?"

"What is it, Rachel?" says he, holding out his empty glass to be filled.

"'Tis the 29th of December," says my lady, with her fond look of
gratitude: "and my toast is, 'Harry--and God bless him, who saved my
boy's life!'"

My lord looked at Harry hard, and drank the glass, but clapped it down
on the table in a moment, and, with a sort of groan, rose up, and went
out of the room. What was the matter? We all knew that some great grief
was over him.

Whether my lord's prudence had made him richer, or legacies had fallen
to him, which enabled him to support a greater establishment than that
frugal one which had been too much for his small means, Harry Esmond
knew not; but the house of Castlewood was now on a scale much more
costly than it had been during the first years of his lordship's coming
to the title. There were more horses in the stable and more servants in
the hall, and many more guests coming and going now than formerly, when
it was found difficult enough by the strictest economy to keep the house
as befitted one of his lordship's rank, and the estate out of debt. And
it did not require very much penetration to find that many of the new
acquaintances at Castlewood were not agreeable to the lady there: not
that she ever treated them or any mortal with anything but courtesy; but
they were persons who could not be welcome to her; and whose society a
lady so refined and reserved could scarce desire for her children. There
came fuddling squires from the country round, who bawled their songs
under her windows and drank themselves tipsy with my lord's punch and
ale: there came officers from Hexton, in whose company our little lord
was made to hear talk and to drink, and swear too, in a way that made
the delicate lady tremble for her son. Esmond tried to console her by
saying what he knew of his