resolutions that have been just
spoke of, to depress, and yet to console him, that H. Esmond's keeper came
and told him that a visitor was asking for him, and though he could not
see her face, which was enveloped in a black hood, her whole figure, too,
being veiled and covered with the deepest mourning, Esmond knew at once
that his visitor was his dear mistress.

He got up from his bed, where he was lying, being very weak; and advancing
towards her, as the retiring keeper shut the door upon him and his guest
in that sad place, he put forward his left hand (for the right was wounded
and bandaged), and he would have taken that kind one of his mistress,
which had done so many offices of friendship for him for so many years.

But the Lady Castlewood went back from him, putting back her hood, and
leaning against the great stanchioned door which the gaoler had just
closed upon them. Her face was ghastly white, as Esmond saw it, looking
from the hood; and her eyes, ordinarily so sweet and tender, were fixed at
him with such a tragic glance of woe and anger, as caused the young man,
unaccustomed to unkindness from that person, to avert his own glances from
her face.

"And this, Mr. Esmond," she said, "is where I see you; and 'tis to this
you have brought me!"

"You have come to console me in my calamity, madam," said he (though, in
truth, he scarce knew how to address her, his emotions at beholding her,
so overpowered him).

She advanced a little, but stood silent and trembling, looking out at him
from her black draperies, with her small white hands clasped together, and
quivering lips and hollow eyes.

"Not to reproach me," he continued, after a pause, "My grief is sufficient
as it is."

"Take back your hand--do not touch me with it!" she cried. "Look! there's
blood on it!"

"I wish they had taken it all," said Esmond; "if you are unkind to me."

"Where is my husband?" she broke out. "Give me back my husband, Henry? Why
did you stand by at midnight and see him murdered? Why did the traitor
escape who did it? You, the champion of your house, who offered to die for
us! You that he loved and trusted, and to whom I confided him--you that
vowed devotion and gratitude, and I believed you--yes, I believed you--why
are you here, and my noble Francis gone? Why did you come among us? You
have only brought us grief and sorrow; and repentance, bitter, bitter
repentance, as a return for our love and kindness. Did I ever do you a