h 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 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. 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 h