“Where is Mr. George?” says Mr. Esmond; “now is the time.” The bishop looked scared; “I went to his lodging,” he said, “and they told me he was come hither. I returned as quick as coach would carry me; and he hath not been here.”
The colonel burst out with an oath; that was all he could say to their reverences; ran down the stairs again, and bidding the coachman, an old friend and fellow-campaigner, drive as if he was charging the French with his master at Wynendael—they were back at Kensington in half an hour.
Again Esmond went to the curate's house. Mr. George had not returned. The colonel had to go with this blank errand to the gentlemen at the “King's Arms”, that were grown very impatient by this time.
Out of the window of the tavern, and looking over the garden-wall, you can see the green before Kensington Palace, the Palace gate (round which the ministers' coaches were standing), and the barrack building. As we were looking out from this window in gloomy discourse, we heard presently trumpets blowing, and some of us ran to the window of the front room, looking into the High Street of Kensington, and saw a regiment of horse coming.
“It's Ormonde's Guards,” says one.
“No, by God, it's Argyle's old regiment!” says my general, clapping down his crutch.
It was, indeed, Argyle's regiment that was brought from Westminster, and that took the place of the regiment at Kensington on which we could rely.
“Oh, Harry!” says one of the generals there present, “you were born under an unlucky star; I begin to think [pg 450] that there's no Mr. George, nor Mr. Dragon either. 'Tis not the peerage I care for, for our name is so ancient and famous, that merely to be called Lord Lydiard would do me no good; but 'tis the chance you promised me of fighting Marlborough.”
As we were talking, Castlewood entered the room with a disturbed air.
“What news, Frank?” says the colonel, “is Mr. George coming at last?”