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 lay—Esmond 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. [pg 162] 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, “my dearest lord has only done me kindness all his life.”
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.