THE 29TH DECEMBER.
There was scarce a score of persons in the Cathedral beside the Dean and
some of his clergy, and the choristers, young and old, that performed
the beautiful evening prayer. But Mr. Tusher was one of the officiants,
and read from the eagle in an authoritative voice, and a great black
periwig; and in the stalls, still in her black widow's hood, sat
Esmond's dear mistress, her son by her side, very much grown, and indeed
a noble-looking youth, with his mother's eyes, and his father's curling
brown hair, that fell over his point de Venise--a pretty picture such
as Van Dyck might have painted. Mons. Rigaud's portrait of my Lord
Viscount, done at Paris afterwards, gives but a French version of his
manly, frank, English face. When he looked up there were two sapphire
beams out of his eyes such as no painter's palette has the color to
match, I think. On this day there was not much chance of seeing that
particular beauty of my young lord's countenance; for the truth is, he
kept 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 eyes
lighting on Mr. Esmond, who was sitting opposite him, gazing with no
small tenderness and melancholy upon two persons who had so much of his
heart for so many years, Lord Castlewood, with a start, pulled at his
mother's sleeve (her face had scarce been lifted from her book), and
said, “Look, mother!” so loud, that Esmond could hear on the other side
of the church, and the old Dean on his throned stall. Lady Castlewood
looked for an instant as her son bade her, and held up a warning finger
to Frank; Esmond felt his whole face flush, and his heart throbbing,
as that dear lady beheld him once more. The rest of the prayers were
speedily over; Mr. Esmond did not hear them; nor did his mistress, very
likely, whose hood went more closely over her face, and who never lifted
her 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 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 “God 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 passed. 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 shore 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, goddess to him during his youth--goddess 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
cassock 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 lordship remembers Septimi, Gades aditure mecum?”
“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 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 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 God'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 God 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 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. “I
know how wicked my heart has been; and I have suffered too, my dear. I
confessed to Mr. Atterbury--I must not tell any more. He--I said I
would not write to you or go to you--and it was better even that having
parted, we should part. But I knew you would come back--I own that. That
is no one's fault. And to-day, Henry, in the anthem, when they sang
it, 'When the Lord turned the captivity of Zion, we were like them that
dream,' I thought, yes, like them that dream--them that dream. And then
it went, 'They that sow in tears shall reap in joy; and he that goeth
forth and weepeth, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing
his sheaves with him;' I looked up from the book, and saw you. I was not
surprised when I saw you. I knew you would come, my dear, and saw the
gold sunshine round your head.”
She smiled an almost wild smile as she looked up at him. The moon was up
by this time, glittering keen in the frosty sky. He could see, for the
first time now clearly, her sweet careworn face.
“Do you know what day it is?” she continued. “It is the 29th of
December--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 brain
was 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 of
weeping as she spoke; she laughed and sobbed on the young man's heart,
crying out wildly, “bringing your sheaves with you--your sheaves with
you!”
As he had sometimes felt, gazing up from the deck at midnight into the
boundless starlit depths overhead, in a rapture of devout wonder at that
endless brightness and beauty--in some such a way now, the depth of this
pure devotion (which was, for the first time, revealed to him) quite
smote upon him, and filled his heart with thanksgiving. Gracious God,
who was he, weak and friendless creature, that such a love should be
poured out upon him? Not in vain--not in vain has he lived--hard and
thankless 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 be
famous? What do these profit a year hence, when other names sound louder
than yours, when you lie hidden away under the ground, along with
idle titles engraven on your coffin? But only true love lives after
you--follows your memory with secret blessing--or precedes you, and
intercedes for you. Non omnis moriar--if dying, I yet live in a tender
heart or two; nor am lost and hopeless living, if a sainted departed
soul still loves and prays for me.
“If--if 'tis so, dear lady,” Mr. Esmond said, “why should I ever leave
you? If God hath given me this great boon--and near or far from me, as I
know now, the heart of my dearest mistress follows me, let me have that
blessing near me, nor ever part with it till death separate us. Come
away--leave this Europe, this place which has so many sad recollections
for you. Begin a new life in a new world. My good lord often talked
of visiting that land in Virginia which King Charles gave us--gave his
ancestor. Frank will give us that. No man there will ask if there is a
blot on my name, or inquire in the woods what my title is.”
“And my children--and my duty--and my good father, Henry?” she broke
out. “He has none but me now! for soon my sister will leave him, and the
old man will be alone. He has conformed since the new Queen's reign; and
here in Winchester, where they love him, they have found a church for
him. When the children leave me, I will stay with him. I cannot follow
them into the great world, where their way lies--it scares me. They will
come and visit me; and you will, sometimes, Henry--yes, sometimes, as
now, in the Holy Advent season, when I have seen and blessed you once
more.”
“I would leave all to follow you,” said Mr. Esmond; “and can you not be
as generous for me, dear lady?”
“Hush, boy!” she said, and it was with a mother's sweet plaintive tone
and look that she spoke. “The world is beginning for you. For me, I have
been 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 many
divines of our Church would have them again, I often think I would
retire to one and pass my life in penance. But I would love you
still--yes, there is no sin in such a love as mine now; and my dear lord
in heaven may see my heart; and knows the tears that have washed my sin
away--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 been
your 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 would
have 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 me
again, I will come ever so far. When your heart is wounded, then come
to me, my dear. Be silent! let me say all. You never loved me, dear
Henry--no, you do not now, and I thank heaven for it. I used to watch
you, and knew by a thousand signs that it was so. Do you remember how
glad you were to go away to college? 'Twas I sent you. I told my papa
that, and Mr. Atterbury too, when I spoke to him in London. And they
both gave me absolution--both--and they are godly men, having authority
to bind and to loose. And they forgave me, as my dear lord forgave me
before he went to heaven.”
“I think the angels are not all in heaven,” Mr. Esmond said. And as
a brother folds a sister to his heart; and as a mother cleaves to her
son's breast--so for a few moments Esmond's beloved mistress came to him
and blessed him.