Our messenger found the good priest already at his books, at five o'clock in the morning, and he followed the man eagerly to the house where my poor lord viscount lay—Esmond watching him, and taking his dying words from his mouth.
My lord, hearing of Mr. Atterbury's arrival, and squeezing Esmond's hand, asked to be alone with the priest; and Esmond left them there for this solemn interview. You may be sure that his own prayers and grief accompanied that dying benefactor. My lord had said to him that which confounded the young man—informed him of a secret which greatly concerned him. Indeed, after hearing it, he had had good cause for doubt and dismay; for mental anguish as well as resolution. While the colloquy between Mr. Atterbury and his dying penitent took place within, an immense contest of perplexity was agitating Lord Castlewood's young companion.
At the end of an hour—it may be more—Mr. Atterbury came out of the room looking very hard at Esmond, and holding a paper.
“He is on the brink of God's awful judgement,” the priest whispered. “He has made his breast clean to me. [pg 162] He forgives and believes, and makes restitution. Shall it be in public? Shall we call a witness to sign it?”
“God knows,” sobbed out the young man, “my dearest lord has only done me kindness all his life.”
The priest put the paper into Esmond's hand. He looked at it. It swam before his eyes.
“'Tis a confession,” he said.
“'Tis as you please,” said Mr. Atterbury.
There was a fire in the room, where the cloths were drying for the baths, and there lay a heap in a corner, saturated with the blood of my dear lord's body. Esmond went to the fire, and threw the paper into it. 'Twas a great chimney with glazed Dutch tiles. How we remember such trifles in such awful moments!—the scrap of the book that we have read in a great grief—the taste of that last dish that we have eaten before a duel or some such supreme meeting or parting. On the Dutch tiles at the bagnio was a rude picture representing Jacob in hairy gloves, cheating Isaac of Esau's birthright. The burning paper lighted it up.
“'Tis only a confession, Mr. Atterbury,” said the young man. He leaned his head against the mantelpiece: a burst of tears came to his eyes. They were the first he had shed as he sat by his lord, scared by this calamity and more yet by what the poor dying gentleman had told him, and shocked to think that he should be the agent of bringing this double misfortune on those he loved best.
“Let us go to him,” said Mr. Esmond. And accordingly they went into the next chamber, where, by this time, the dawn had broke, which showed my lord's poor pale face and wild appealing eyes, that wore that awful fatal look of coming dissolution. The surgeon was with him. He went into the chamber as Atterbury came out thence. My lord viscount turned round his sick eyes towards Esmond. It choked the other to hear that rattle in his throat.
“My lord viscount,” says Mr. Atterbury, “Mr. Esmond wants no witnesses, and hath burned the paper.”
“My dearest master!” Esmond said, kneeling down, and taking his hand and kissing it.
My lord viscount sprang up in his bed, and flung his arms round Esmond. “God bl—bless … ,” was all he said. The blood rushed from his mouth, deluging the young man. My dearest lord was no more. He was gone with a blessing [pg 163] on his lips, and love and repentance and kindness in his manly heart.
“Benedicti benedicentes,” says Mr. Atterbury, and the young man kneeling at the bedside, groaned out an Amen.
“Who shall take the news to her?” was Mr. Esmond's next thought. And on this he besought Mr. Atterbury to bear the tidings to Castlewood. He could not face his mistress himself with those dreadful news. Mr. Atterbury complying kindly, Esmond writ a hasty note on his table-book to my lord's man, bidding him get the horses for Mr. Atterbury, and ride with him, and send Esmond's own valise to the Gatehouse prison, whither he resolved to go and give himself up.
[pg 165]
Book II. Contains Mr. Esmond's Military Life, And Other Matters Appertaining To The Esmond Family
Chapter I. I Am In Prison, And Visited, But Not Consoled There
Those may imagine, who have seen death untimely strike down persons revered and beloved, and know how unavailing consolation is, what was Harry Esmond's anguish after being an actor in that ghastly midnight scene of blood and homicide. He could not, he felt, have faced his dear mistress, and told her that story. He was thankful that kind Atterbury consented to break the sad news to her; but, besides his grief, which he took into prison with him, he had that in his heart which secretly cheered and consoled him.
A great secret had been told to Esmond by his unhappy stricken kinsman, lying on his death-bed. Were he to disclose it, as in equity and honour he might do, the discovery would but bring greater grief upon those whom he loved best in the world, and who were sad enough already. Should he bring down shame and perplexity upon all those beings to whom he was attached by so many tender ties of affection and gratitude? degrade his father's widow? impeach and sully his father's and kinsman's honour? and for what? for a barren title, to be worn at the expense of an innocent boy, the son of his dearest benefactress. He had debated this matter in his conscience, whilst his poor lord was making his dying confession. On one side were ambition, temptation, justice even; but love, gratitude, and fidelity, pleaded on the other. And when the struggle was over in Harry's mind, a glow of righteous happiness filled it; and it was with grateful tears in his eyes that he returned thanks to God for that decision which he had been enabled to make.
“When I was denied by my own blood,” thought he; “these dearest friends received and cherished me. When [pg 166] I was a nameless orphan myself, and needed a protector, I found one in yonder kind soul, who has gone to his account repenting of the innocent wrong he has done.”
And with this consoling thought he went away to give himself up at the prison, after kissing the cold lips of his benefactor.
It was on the third day after he had come to the Gatehouse prison (where he lay in no small pain from his wound, which inflamed and ached severely); and with those thoughts and resolutions that have been just spoke of, to depress, and yet to console him, that H. Esmond's keeper came and told him that a visitor was asking for him, and though he could not see her face, which was enveloped in a black hood, her whole figure, too, being veiled and covered with the deepest mourning, Esmond knew at once that his visitor was his dear mistress.
He got up from his bed, where he was lying, being very weak; and advancing towards her, as the retiring keeper shut the door upon him and his guest in that sad place, he put forward his left hand (for the right was wounded and bandaged), and he would have taken that kind one of his mistress, which had done so many offices of friendship for him for so many years.
But the Lady Castlewood went back from him, putting back her hood, and leaning against the great stanchioned door which the gaoler had just closed upon them. Her face was ghastly white, as Esmond saw it, looking from the hood; and her eyes, ordinarily so sweet and tender, were fixed at him with such a tragic glance of woe and anger, as caused the young man, unaccustomed to unkindness from that person, to avert his own glances from her face.
“And this, Mr. Esmond,” she said, “is where I see you; and 'tis to this you have brought me!”
“You have come to console me in my calamity, madam,” said he (though, in truth, he scarce knew how to address her, his emotions at beholding her, so overpowered him).
She