“’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 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.
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.
