CHAPTER VI.
THE 29TH DECEMBER.
There was scarce a score of persons in the Cathedral beside the Dean andsome of his clergy, and the choristers, young and old, that performedthe beautiful evening prayer. But Mr. Tusher was one of the officiants,and read from the eagle in an authoritative voice, and a great blackperiwig; and in the stalls, still in her black widow's hood, satEsmond's dear mistress, her son by her side, very much grown, and indeeda noble-looking youth, with his mother's eyes, and his father's curlingbrown hair, that fell over his point de Venise--a pretty picture suchas Van Dyck might have painted. Mons. Rigaud's portrait of my LordViscount, done at Paris afterwards, gives but a French version of hismanly, frank, English face. When he looked up there were two sapphirebeams out of his eyes such as no painter's palette has the color tomatch, I think. On this day there was not much chance of seeing thatparticular beauty of my young lord's countenance; for the truth is, hekept his eyes shut for the most part, and, the anthem being rather long,was asleep.
But the music ceasing, my lord woke up, looking about him, and his eyeslighting on Mr. Esmond, who was sitting opposite him, gazing with nosmall tenderness and melancholy upon two persons who had so much of hisheart for so many years, Lord Castlewood, with a start, pulled at hismother's sleeve (her face had scarce been lifted from her book), andsaid, "Look, mother!" so loud, that Esmond could hear on the other sideof the church, and the old Dean on his throned stall. Lady Castlewoodlooked for an instant as her son bade her, and held up a warning fingerto Frank; Esmond felt his whole face flush, and his heart throbbing,as that dear lady beheld him once more. The rest of the prayers werespeedily over; Mr. Esmond did not hear them; nor did his mistress, verylikely, whose hood went more closely over her face, and who never liftedher head again until the service was over, the blessing given, and Mr.Dean, and his procession of ecclesiastics, out of the inner chapel.
Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls before the clergy werefairly gone, and running up to Esmond, eagerly embraced him. "My dear,dearest old Harry!" he said, "are you come back? Have you been to thewars? You'll take me with you when you go again? Why didn't you write tous? Come to mother."
Mr. Esmond could hardly say more than a "God bless you, my boy," forhis heart was very full and grateful at all this tenderness on the lad'spart; and he was as much moved at seeing Frank as he was fearful aboutthat other interview which was now to take place: for he knew not if thewidow 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. "Ithought you might come."
"We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth. Why did you not come fromPortsmouth?" 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 sothat he might see his dear friends again once more; but believingthat his mistress had forbidden him her house, he had obeyed her, andremained 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 marriagering on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of grief and estrangementwas passed. They never had been separated. His mistress had never beenout of his mind all that time. No, not once. No, not in the prison; norin the camp; nor on shore before the enemy; nor at sea under the starsof 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 thetheatre yonder, where he tried to fancy that other eyes were brighterthan hers. Brighter eyes there might be, and faces more beautiful, butnone so dear--no voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, whohad been sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth--goddess now nomore, for he knew of her weaknesses; and by thought, by suffering,and that experience it brings, was older now than she; but more fondlycherished as woman perhaps than ever she had been adored as divinity.What is it? Where lies it? the secret which makes one little hand thedearest of all? Whoever can unriddle that mystery? Here she was, her sonby his side, his dear boy. Here she was, weeping and happy. She tookhis hand in both hers; he felt her tears. It was a rapture ofreconciliation.
"Here comes Squaretoes," says Frank. "Here's Tusher."
Tusher, indeed, now appeared, creaking on his great heels. Mr. Tom haddivested himself of his alb or surplice, and came forward habited in hiscassock and great black periwig. How had Esmond ever been for a momentjealous of this fellow?
"Give us thy hand, Tom Tusher," he said. The chaplain made him a verylow and stately bow. "I am charmed to see Captain Esmond," says he. "Mylord and I have read the Reddas incolumem precor, and applied it, I amsure, to you. You come back with Gaditanian laurels; when I heard youwere bound thither, I wished, I am sure, I was another Septimius. MyLord Viscount, your lordship remembers Septimi, Gades aditure mecum?"
"There's an angle of earth that I love better than Gades, Tusher," saysMr. Esmond. "'Tis that one where your reverence hath a parsonage, andwhere 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 housenear to that of my respected patron, my most honored patroness, mustever be a dear abode to me. But, madam, the verger waits to close thegates on your ladyship."
"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 isa maid of honor, Harry. Such a fine set-up minx!"
"Your heart was never in the Church, Harry," the widow said, in hersweet low tone, as they walked away together. (Now, it seemed they neverhad been parted, and again, as if they had been ages asunder.) "I alwaysthought you had no vocation that way; and that 'twas a pity to shut youout 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 tomy dear lord. How he loved you! 'Twas my lord that made you stay withus."
"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 willknow where to find it; but one of your strong imagination and eagerdesires must try the world first before he tires of it. 'Twas not to bethought of, or if it once was, it was only by my selfishness, that youshould remain as chaplain to a country gentleman and tutor to a littleboy. You are of the blood of the Esmonds, kinsman; and that was alwayswild in youth. Look at Francis. He is but fifteen, and I scarce can keephim in my nest. His talk is all of war and pleasure, and he longs toserve in the next campaign. Perhaps he and the young Lord Churchillshall go the next. Lord Marlborough has been good to us. You know howkind 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. 'Tisthrough my Lady Marlborough's goodness that Beatrix hath her place atCourt; 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 wasvery good to him. And should her mind change," he added gayly, "asladies' minds will, I am strong enough to bear my own burden, and makemy way somehow. Not by the sword very likely. Thousands have a bettergenius for that than I, but there are many ways in which a young man ofgood 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 inthe army, and amongst persons very able to serve him, too; and told hismistress of the flattering aspect of fortune. They walked as thoughthey had never been parted, slowly, with the gray twilight closing roundthem.
"And now we are drawing near to home," she continued, "I knew you wouldcome, Harry, if--if it was but to forgive me for having spoken unjustlyto you after that horrid--horrid misfortune. I was half frantic withgrief then when I saw you. And I know now--they have told me. Thatwretch, whose name I can never mention, even has said it: how you triedto avert the quarrel, and would have taken it on yourself, my poorc
hild: but it was God's will that I should be punished, and that my dearlord should fall."
"He gave me his blessing on his death-bed," Esmond said. "Thank God forthat 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 Ithanked God, 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.
"I know it, I know it," she answered, in a tone of such sweet humility,as made Esmond repent that he should ever have dared to reproach her. "Iknow how wicked my heart has been; and I have suffered too, my dear. Iconfessed to Mr. Atterbury--I must not tell any more. He--I said Iwould not write to you or go to you--and it was better even that havingparted, we should part. But I knew you would come back--I own that. Thatis no one's fault. And to-day, Henry, in the anthem, when they sangit, 'When the Lord turned the captivity of Zion, we were like them thatdream,' I thought, yes, like them that dream--them that dream. And thenit went, 'They that sow in tears shall reap in joy; and he that goethforth and weepeth, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringinghis sheaves with him;' I looked up from the book, and saw you. I was notsurprised when I saw you. I knew you would come, my dear, and saw thegold sunshine round your head."
She smiled an almost wild smile as she looked up at him. The moon was upby this time, glittering keen in the frosty sky. He could see, for thefirst time now clearly, her sweet careworn face.
"Do you know what day it is?" she continued. "It is the 29th ofDecember--it is your birthday! But last year we did not drink it--no,no. My lord was cold, and my Harry was likely to die: and my brainwas in a fever; and we had no wine. But now--now you are come again,bringing your sheaves with you, my dear." She burst into a wild flood ofweeping as she spoke; she laughed and sobbed on the young man's heart,crying out wildly, "bringing your sheaves with you--your sheaves withyou!"
As he had sometimes felt, gazing up from the deck at midnight into theboundless starlit depths overhead, in a rapture of devout wonder at thatendless brightness and beauty--in some such a way now, the depth of thispure devotion (which was, for the first time, revealed to him) quitesmote upon him, and filled his heart with thanksgiving. Gracious God,who was he, weak and friendless creature, that such a love should bepoured out upon him? Not in vain--not in vain has he lived--hard andthankless should he be to think so--that has such a treasure given him.What is ambition compared to that, but selfish vanity? To be rich, to befamous? What do these profit a year hence, when other names sound louderthan yours, when you lie hidden away under the ground, along withidle titles engraven on your coffin? But only true love lives afteryou--follows your memory with secret blessing--or precedes you, andintercedes for you. Non omnis moriar--if dying, I yet live in a tenderheart or two; nor am lost and hopeless living, if a sainted departedsoul still loves and prays for me.
"If--if 'tis so, dear lady," Mr. Esmond said, "why should I ever leaveyou? If God hath given me this great boon--and near or far from me, as Iknow now, the heart of my dearest mistress follows me, let me have thatblessing near me, nor ever part with it till death separate us. Comeaway--leave this Europe, this place which has so many sad recollectionsfor you. Begin a new life in a new world. My good lord often talkedof visiting that land in Virginia which King Charles gave us--gave hisancestor. Frank will give us that. No man there will ask if there is ablot on my name, or inquire in the woods what my title is."
"And my children--and my duty--and my good father, Henry?" she brokeout. "He has none but me now! for soon my sister will leave him, and theold man will be alone. He has conformed since the new Queen's reign; andhere in Winchester, where they love him, they have found a church forhim. When the children leave me, I will stay with him. I cannot followthem into the great world, where their way lies--it scares me. They willcome and visit me; and you will, sometimes, Henry--yes, sometimes, asnow, in the Holy Advent season, when I have seen and blessed you oncemore."
"I would leave all to follow you," said Mr. Esmond; "and can you not beas generous for me, dear lady?"
"Hush, boy!" she said, and it was with a mother's sweet plaintive toneand look that she spoke. "The world is beginning for you. For me, I havebeen so weak and sinful that I must leave it, and pray out an expiation,dear Henry. Had we houses of religion as there were once, and manydivines of our Church would have them again, I often think I wouldretire to one and pass my life in penance. But I would love youstill--yes, there is no sin in such a love as mine now; and my dear lordin heaven may see my heart; and knows the tears that have washed my sinaway--and now--now my duty is here, by my children whilst they need me,and by my poor old father, and--"
"And not by me?" Henry said.
"Hush!" she said again, and raised her hand up to his lip. "I have beenyour nurse. You could not see me, Harry, when you were in the small-pox,and I came and sat by you. Ah! I prayed that I might die, but it wouldhave been in sin, Henry. Oh, it is horrid to look back to that time.It is over now and past, and it has been forgiven me. When you need meagain, I will come ever so far. When your heart is wounded, then cometo me, my dear. Be silent! let me say all. You never loved me, dearHenry--no, you do not now, and I thank heaven for it. I used to watchyou, and knew by a thousand signs that it was so. Do you remember howglad you were to go away to college? 'Twas I sent you. I told my papathat, and Mr. Atterbury too, when I spoke to him in London. And theyboth gave me absolution--both--and they are godly men, having authorityto bind and to loose. And they forgave me, as my dear lord forgave mebefore he went to heaven."
"I think the angels are not all in heaven," Mr. Esmond said. And asa brother folds a sister to his heart; and as a mother cleaves to herson's breast--so for a few moments Esmond's beloved mistress came to himand blessed him.
The History of Henry Esmond, Esq., a Colonel in the Service of Her Majesty Queen Anne Page 23