Part 21 (1/2)

Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls before the clergy were fairly gone, and running up to Esmond, eagerly embraced him. ”My dear, dearest old Harry!” he said, ”are you come back? Have you been to the wars? You'll take me with you when you go again? Why didn't you write to us? Come to mother.”

Mr. Esmond could hardly say more than a ”G.o.d bless you, my boy,” for his heart was very full and grateful at all this tenderness on the lad's part; and he was as much moved at seeing Frank as he was fearful about that other interview which was now to take place: for he knew not if the widow would reject him as she had done so cruelly a year ago.

”It was kind of you to come back to us, Henry,” Lady Esmond said. ”I thought you might come.”

”We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth. Why did you not come from Portsmouth?” Frank asked, or my Lord Viscount, as he now must be called.

Esmond had thought of that too. He would have given one of his eyes so that he might see his dear friends again once more; but believing that his mistress had forbidden him her house, he had obeyed her, and remained at a distance.

”You had but to ask, and you know I would be here,” he said.

She gave him her hand, her little fair hand; there was only her marriage ring on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of grief and estrangement was pa.s.sed. They never had been separated. His mistress had never been out of his mind all that time. No, not once. No, not in the prison; nor in the camp; nor on sh.o.r.e before the enemy; nor at sea under the stars of solemn midnight; nor as he watched the glorious rising of the dawn: not even at the table, where he sat carousing with friends, or at the theatre yonder, where he tried to fancy that other eyes were brighter than hers. Brighter eyes there might be, and faces more beautiful, but none so dear--no voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who had been sister, mother, G.o.ddess to him during his youth--G.o.ddess now no more, for he knew of her weaknesses; and by thought, by suffering, and that experience it brings, was older now than she; but more fondly cherished as woman perhaps than ever she had been adored as divinity.

What is it? Where lies it? the secret which makes one little hand the dearest of all? Whoever can unriddle that mystery? Here she was, her son by his side, his dear boy. Here she was, weeping and happy. She took his hand in both hers; he felt her tears. It was a rapture of reconciliation.

”Here comes Squaretoes,” says Frank. ”Here's Tusher.”

Tusher, indeed, now appeared, creaking on his great heels. Mr. Tom had divested himself of his alb or surplice, and came forward habited in his ca.s.sock and great black periwig. How had Esmond ever been for a moment jealous of this fellow?

”Give us thy hand, Tom Tusher,” he said. The chaplain made him a very low and stately bow. ”I am charmed to see Captain Esmond,” says he. ”My lord and I have read the Reddas incolumem precor, and applied it, I am sure, to you. You come back with Gaditanian laurels; when I heard you were bound thither, I wished, I am sure, I was another Septimius. My Lord Viscount, your lords.h.i.+p remembers Septimi, Gades aditure mec.u.m?”

”There's an angle of earth that I love better than Gades, Tusher,” says Mr. Esmond. ”'Tis that one where your reverence hath a parsonage, and where our youth was brought up.”

”A house that has so many sacred recollections to me,” says Mr. Tusher (and Harry remembered how Tom's father used to flog him there)--”a house near to that of my respected patron, my most honored patroness, must ever be a dear abode to me. But, madam, the verger waits to close the gates on your ladys.h.i.+p.”

”And Harry's coming home to supper. Huzzay! huzzay!” cries my lord.

”Mother, I shall run home and bid Beatrix put her ribbons on. Beatrix is a maid of honor, Harry. Such a fine set-up minx!”

”Your heart was never in the Church, Harry,” the widow said, in her sweet low tone, as they walked away together. (Now, it seemed they never had been parted, and again, as if they had been ages asunder.) ”I always thought you had no vocation that way; and that 'twas a pity to shut you out from the world. You would but have pined and chafed at Castlewood: and 'tis better you should make a name for yourself. I often said so to my dear lord. How he loved you! 'Twas my lord that made you stay with us.”

”I asked no better than to stay near you always,” said Mr. Esmond.

”But to go was best, Harry. When the world cannot give peace, you will know where to find it; but one of your strong imagination and eager desires must try the world first before he tires of it. 'Twas not to be thought of, or if it once was, it was only by my selfishness, that you should remain as chaplain to a country gentleman and tutor to a little boy. You are of the blood of the Esmonds, kinsman; and that was always wild in youth. Look at Francis. He is but fifteen, and I scarce can keep him in my nest. His talk is all of war and pleasure, and he longs to serve in the next campaign. Perhaps he and the young Lord Churchill shall go the next. Lord Marlborough has been good to us. You know how kind they were in my misfortune. And so was your--your father's widow.

No one knows how good the world is, till grief comes to try us. 'Tis through my Lady Marlborough's goodness that Beatrix hath her place at Court; and Frank is under my Lord Chamberlain. And the dowager lady, your father's widow, has promised to provide for you--has she not?”

Esmond said, ”Yes. As far as present favor went, Lady Castlewood was very good to him. And should her mind change,” he added gayly, ”as ladies' minds will, I am strong enough to bear my own burden, and make my way somehow. Not by the sword very likely. Thousands have a better genius for that than I, but there are many ways in which a young man of good parts and education can get on in the world; and I am pretty sure, one way or other, of promotion!” Indeed, he had found patrons already in the army, and amongst persons very able to serve him, too; and told his mistress of the flattering aspect of fortune. They walked as though they had never been parted, slowly, with the gray twilight closing round them.

”And now we are drawing near to home,” she continued, ”I knew you would come, Harry, if--if it was but to forgive me for having spoken unjustly to you after that horrid--horrid misfortune. I was half frantic with grief then when I saw you. And I know now--they have told me. That wretch, whose name I can never mention, even has said it: how you tried to avert the quarrel, and would have taken it on yourself, my poor child: but it was G.o.d's will that I should be punished, and that my dear lord should fall.”

”He gave me his blessing on his death-bed,” Esmond said. ”Thank G.o.d for that legacy!”

”Amen, amen! dear Henry,” said the lady, pressing his arm. ”I knew it.

Mr. Atterbury, of St. Bride's, who was called to him, told me so. And I thanked G.o.d, too, and in my prayers ever since remembered it.”

”You had spared me many a bitter night, had you told me sooner,” Mr.

Esmond said.