year's schooling at the famous college
there, with Mr. Tusher as his governor. So much news of them Mr. Esmond
had had during the past year from the old viscountess, his own father's
widow; from the young one there had never been a word.

Twice or thrice in his benefactor's lifetime, Esmond had been to Walcote;
and now, taking but a couple of hours' rest only at the inn on the road,
he was up again long before daybreak, and made such good speed that he was
at Walcote by two o'clock of the day. He rid to the inn of the village,
where he alighted and sent a man thence to Mr. Tusher, with a message that
a gentleman from London would speak with him on urgent business. The
messenger came back to say the doctor was in town, most likely at prayers
in the cathedral. My lady viscountess was there too; she always went to
cathedral prayers every day.

The horses belonged to the post-house at Winchester. Esmond mounted again,
and rode on to the "George"; whence he walked, leaving his grumbling
domestic at last happy with a dinner, straight to the cathedral. The organ
was playing: the winter's day was already growing grey: as he passed under
the street-arch into the cathedral-yard, and made his way into the ancient
solemn edifice.

Chapter VI. The 29th December

There was scarce a score of persons in the Cathedral besides the dean and
some of his clergy, and the choristers, young and old, that performed the
beautiful evening prayer. But Dr. Tusher was one of the officiants, and
read from the eagle, in an authoritative voice, and a great black periwig;
and in the stalls, still in her black widow's hood, sat Esmond's dear
mistress, her son by her side, very much grown, and indeed a noble-looking
youth, with his mother's eyes, and his father's curling brown hair, that
fell over his _point de Venise_--a pretty picture such as Vandyke might
have painted. Monsieur Rigaud's portrait of my lord viscount, done at
Paris afterwards, gives but a French version of his manly, frank, English
face. When he looked up there were two sapphire beams out of his eyes,
such as no painter's palette has the colour to match, I think. On this day
there was not much chance of seeing that particular beauty of my young
lord's countenance; for the truth is, he kept his eyes shut for the most
part, and, the anthem being rather long, was asleep.

But the music ceasing, my lord woke up, looking about him, and his eyes
lighting on Mr. Esmond, who was sittin