The Ontario Readers: The High School Reader, 1886 Part 38

"You had but to ask, and you knew 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 pa.s.sed. 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 sh.o.r.e 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, G.o.ddess to him during his youth--G.o.ddess 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? 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....

"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 had never 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 gaily, "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 grey 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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.

But I knew you would come back--I own that. 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 day 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 quite smote upon him, and filled his heart with thanksgiving. Gracious G.o.d, 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 t.i.tles 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[N] _From "The History of Henry Esmond, Esq., a Colonel in the Service of Her Majesty Queen Anne. Written by himself."_

The late Lord Castlewood had been killed in a duel, and young Esmond, who had lived in his house as a dependant (reputed to have been illegitimately related to a former Viscount of Castlewood), devotedly attending him at his death-bed, received from the dying man confession and proof that he, the supposed obscure orphan, was the true inheritor, and in justice ought to have been the possessor, of the Castlewood t.i.tles and estates. But Esmond, for the love he had borne his patron, and from devotion to Lady Castlewood, who had much befriended him, immediately destroyed the proofs which were given him of his honorable parentage, and ever afterwards kept his claim a secret. After the duel, while Esmond was in prison, Lady Castlewood visited him, and in the wildness of her grief for her murdered husband, reproached her loyal kinsman for not having saved her lord's life, or avenged his death. In the estrangement which these reproaches occasioned, Esmond sought his fortune abroad in war; but subsequently, desiring to learn of the welfare of his mistress and her family, whose happiness he prized more than his own, he returned to England, and went to Winchester, near which was Walcote, Lady Castlewood's home. The family were attending service in the cathedral, and there the reconciliation took place.--Esmond had formerly been promised the living of Walcote, but the vacancy occurring while the estrangement continued. Lady Castlewood had given it to one Mr. Tusher.

LXIV. THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS.

(DECEMBER, 1697.)

WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN.--1813-1865.

The Rhine is running deep and red, the island lies before,-- "Now is there one of all the host will dare to venture o'er?

For not alone the river's sweep might make a brave man quail; The foe are on the further side, their shot comes fast as hail.

G.o.d help us, if the middle isle we may not hope to win!

Now is there any of the host will dare to venture in?"

"The ford is deep, the banks are steep, the island-sh.o.r.e lies wide; Nor man nor horse could stem its force, or reach the further side.

See there! amidst the willow-boughs the serried bayonets gleam; They've flung their bridge,--they've won the isle; the foe have cross'd the stream!

Their volley flashes sharp and strong,--by all the saints! I trow There never yet was soldier born could force that pa.s.sage now!"

So spoke the bold French Mareschal with him who led the van, Whilst rough and red before their view the turbid river ran.

Nor bridge nor boat had they to cross the wild and swollen Rhine, And thundering on the other bank far stretch'd the German line.

Hard by there stood a swarthy man was leaning on his sword, And a sadden'd smile lit up his face as he heard the Captain's word.

"I've seen a wilder stream ere now than that which rushes there; I've stemm'd a heavier torrent yet and never thought to dare.

If German steel be sharp and keen, is ours not strong and true?

There may be danger in the deed, but there is honor too."

The old lord in his saddle turn'd, and hastily he said, "Hath bold Duguesclin's fiery heart awaken'd from the dead?

Thou art the leader of the Scots,--now well and sure I know, That gentle blood in dangerous hour ne'er yet ran cold nor slow, And I have seen ye in the fight do all that mortal may: If honor is the boon ye seek, it may be won this day,-- The prize is in the middle isle, there lies the adventurous way, And armies twain are on the plain, the daring deed to see,-- Now ask thy gallant company if they will follow thee!"

Right gladsome look'd the Captain then, and nothing did he say, But he turn'd him to his little band,--O, few, I ween, were they!

The relics of the bravest force that ever fought in fray.

No one of all that company but bore a gentle name, Not one whose fathers had not stood in Scotland's fields of fame.

All they had march'd with great Dundee to where he fought and fell, And in the deadly battle-strife had venged their leader well: And they had bent the knee to earth when every eye was dim, As o'er their hero's buried corpse they sang the funeral hymn; And they had trod the Pa.s.s once more, and stoop'd on either side To pluck the heather from the spot where he had dropp'd and died; And they had bound it next their hearts, and ta'en a last farewell Of Scottish earth and Scottish sky, where Scotland's glory fell.

Then went they forth to foreign lands like bent and broken men, Who leave their dearest hope behind, and may not turn again.

"The stream," he said, "is broad and deep, and stubborn is the foe,-- Yon island-strength is guarded well,--say, brothers, will ye go?

From home and kin for many a year our steps have wander'd wide, And never may our bones be laid our fathers' graves beside.

No children have we to lament, no wives to wail our fall; The traitor's and the spoiler's hand have reft our hearths of all.

But we have hearts, and we have arms, as strong to will and dare As when our ancient banners flew within the northern air.

Come, brothers! let me name a spell shall rouse your souls again, And send the old blood bounding free through pulse and heart and vein.

Call back the days of bygone years,--be young and strong once more; Think yonder stream, so stark and red, is one we've cross'd before.

Rise, hill and glen! rise, crag and wood! rise up on either hand,-- Again upon the Garry's banks, on Scottish soil we stand!

Again I see the tartans wave, again the trumpets ring; Again I hear our leader's call: 'Upon them for the King!'

Stay'd we behind that glorious day for roaring flood or linn?

The soul of Graeme is with us still,--now, brothers, will ye in?"

No stay,--no pause. With one accord, they grasp'd each other's hand, Then plunged into the angry flood, that bold and dauntless band.

High flew the spray above their heads, yet onward still they bore, Midst cheer, and shout, and answering yell, and shot, and cannon-roar,-- "Now, by the Holy Cross! I swear, since earth and sea began, Was never such a daring deed essay'd by mortal man!"

Thick blew the smoke across the stream, and faster flash'd the flame: The water plash'd in hissing jets as ball and bullet came.

Yet onwards push'd the Cavaliers all stern and undismay'd, With thousand armed foes before, and none behind to aid.

Once, as they near'd the middle stream, so strong the torrent swept, That scarce that long and living wall their dangerous footing kept.

Then rose a warning cry behind, a joyous shout before: "The current's strong,--the way is long,--they'll never reach the sh.o.r.e!

See, see! they stagger in the midst, they waver in their line!

Fire on the madmen! break their ranks, and whelm them in the Rhine!"

Have you seen the tall trees swaying when the blast is sounding shrill, And the whirlwind reels in fury down the gorges of the hill?