fearful about
that other interview which was now to take place: for he knew not if the
widow would reject him as she had done so cruelly a year ago.

"It was kind of you to come back to us, Henry," Lady Esmond said. "I
thought you might come."

"We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth. Why did you not come from
Portsmouth?" Frank asked, or my Lord Viscount, as he now must be called.

Esmond had thought of that too. He would have given one of his eyes so
that he might see his dear friends again once more; but believing
that his mistress had forbidden him her house, he had obeyed her, and
remained at a distance.

"You had but to ask, and you know 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 passed. 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 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
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, 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? Whoever 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.

"Here comes Squaretoes," says Frank. "Here's Tusher."

Tusher, indeed, now appeared, creaking on his great heels. Mr. Tom had
divested himself of his alb or surplice, and came forward habited in his
cassock and great black periwig. How had Esmond ever been for a moment
jealous of this fellow?

"Give us thy hand, Tom Tusher," he said. The chaplain made him a very
low and stately bow. "I am charmed to see Captain Esmond," says he. "My
lord and I have read the Reddas incolumem precor, a