There was scarce a score of persons in the Cathedral beside the Dean and some of his clergy, and the choristers, young and old, that performed the beautiful evening prayer.  But Mr. 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 Van Dyck might have painted.  Mons. 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 color 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 sitting opposite him, gazing with no small tenderness and melancholy upon two persons who had so much of his heart for so many years, Lord Castlewood, with a start, pulled at his mother’s sleeve (her face had scarce been lifted from her book), and said, “Look, mother!” so loud, that Esmond could hear on the other side of the church, and the old Dean on his throned stall.  Lady Castlewood looked for an instant as her son bade her, and held up a warning finger to Frank; Esmond felt his whole face flush, and his heart throbbing, as that dear lady beheld him once more.  The rest of the prayers were speedily over; Mr. Esmond did not hear them; nor did his mistress, very likely, whose hood went more closely over her face, and who never lifted her head again until the service was over, the blessing given, and Mr. Dean, and his procession of ecclesiastics, out of the inner chapel.

Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls before the clergy were fairly gone, and running up to Esmond, eagerly embraced him.  “My dear, dearest old Harry!” he said, “are you come back?  Have you been to the wars?  You’ll take me with you when you go again?  Why didn’t you write to us?  Come to mother.”

Mr. Esmond could hardly say more than a “God bless you, my boy,” for his heart was very full and grateful at all this tenderness on the lad’s part; and he was as much moved at seeing Frank as he was 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.