gasped out, with a faint smile, and pressure of his cold hand. Are they all gone? Let me make thee a death-bed confession.'

And with sacred Death waiting, as it were, at the bed-foot, as an awful witness of his words, the poor dying soul gasped out his last wishes in respect of his family;-his humble profession of contrition for his faults; and his charity towards the world he was leaving. Some things he said concerned Harry Esmond as much as they astonished him. And my lord viscount, sinking visibly, was in the midst of these strange confessions, when the ecclesiastic for whom my lord had sent, Mr. Atterbury, arrived.

This gentleman had reached to no great church dignity as yet, but was only preacher at St. Bride's, drawing all the town thither by his eloquent sermons. He was godson to my lord, who had been pupil to his father; had paid a visit to Castlewood from Oxford more than once; and it was by his advice, I think, that Harry Esmond was sent to Cambridge, rather than to Oxford, of which place Mr. Atterbury, though a distinguished member, spoke but ill.

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 layEsmond 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.

ESMOND

G

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, lord has only done me kindness all his life.'

my dearest

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. choked the other to hear that rattle in his throat.

It

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.

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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 tablebook 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.

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

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