“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 head 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 theater 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? Who ever can unriddle that mystery?”
And then when Esmond gently reproaches her that she had never told him of her sorrow for her cruel words, and that the knowledge would have spared him many a bitter night:
“‘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 home 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.’”
“‘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 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 there 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 while they need me, and by my poor old father, and—’
“‘And not by me?’ Henry said.
“‘Hush!’ she said again, and raised her hand to his lip. ‘I have been your nurse. You could not see me, Henry, when you were in the smallpox, 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.’