Esmond was scared when he was first presented to
her--the kind priest acting as master of the ceremonies at that solemn
introduction--and he stared at her with eyes almost as great as her own,
as he had stared at the player woman who acted the wicked tragedy-queen,
when the players came down to Ealing Fair. She sat in a great chair by
the fire-corner; in her lap was a spaniel-dog that barked furiously; on
a little table by her was her ladyship's snuff-box and her sugar-plum
box. She wore a dress of black velvet, and a petticoat of flame-colored
brocade. She had as many rings on her fingers as the old woman of
Banbury Cross; and pretty small feet which she was fond of showing, with
great gold clocks to her stockings, and white pantofles with red heels;
and an odor of musk was shook out of her garments whenever she moved
or quitted the room, leaning on her tortoise-shell stick, little Fury
barking at her heels.

Mrs. Tusher, the parson's wife, was with my lady. She had been
waiting-woman to her ladyship in the late lord's time, and, having her
soul in that business, took naturally to it when the Viscountess of
Castlewood returned to inhabit her father's house.

"I present to your ladyship your kinsman and little page of honor,
Master Henry Esmond," Mr. Holt said, bowing lowly, with a sort of
comical humility. "Make a pretty bow to my lady, Monsieur; and then
another little bow, not so low, to Madame Tusher--the fair priestess of
Castlewood."

"Where I have lived and hope to die, sir," says Madame Tusher, giving a
hard glance at the brat, and then at my lady.

Upon her the boy's whole attention was for a time directed. He could not
keep his great eyes off from her. Since the Empress of Ealing, he had
seen nothing so awful.

"Does my appearance please you, little page?" asked the lady.

"He would be very hard to please if it didn't," cried Madame Tusher.

"Have done, you silly Maria," said Lady Castlewood.

"Where I'm attached, I'm attached, Madame--and I'd die rather than not
say so."

"Je meurs ou je m'attache," Mr. Holt said with a polite grin. "The ivy
says so in the picture, and clings to the oak like a fond parasite as it
is."

"Parricide, sir!" cries Mrs. Tusher.

"Hush, Tusher--you are always bickering with Father Holt," cried my
lady. "Come and kiss my hand, child;" and the oak held out a BRANCH to
little Harry Esmond, who took and dutifully kissed the lean old hand,
upon the gnarled knuckles of which