ve a start of surprise at his altered manner:
indeed, it was quite a different bearing to that of the Cambridge student
who had paid her a visit two years since, and whom she had dismissed with
five pieces sent by the groom of the chamber. She eyed him, then trembled
a little more than was her wont, perhaps, and said, "Welcome, cousin", in
a frightened voice.

His resolution, as has been said before, had been quite different, namely,
so to bear himself through life as if the secret of his birth was not
known to him; but he suddenly and rightly determined on a different
course. He asked that her ladyship's attendants should be dismissed, and
when they were private--"Welcome, nephew, at least, madam, it should be,"
he said, "A great wrong has been done to me and to you, and to my poor
mother, who is no more."

"I declare before Heaven that I was guiltless of it," she cried out,
giving up her cause at once. "It was your wicked father who----"

"Who brought this dishonour on our family," says Mr. Esmond. "I know it
full well. I want to disturb no one. Those who are in present possession
have been my dearest benefactors, and are quite innocent of intentional
wrong to me. The late lord, my dear patron, knew not the truth until a few
months before his death, when Father Holt brought the news to him."

"The wretch! he had it in confession! He had it in confession!" cried out
the dowager lady.

"Not so. He learned it elsewhere as well as in confession," Mr. Esmond
answered. "My father, when wounded at the Boyne, told the truth to a
French priest, who was in hiding after the battle, as well as to the
priest there, at whose house he died. This gentleman did not think fit to
divulge the story till he met with Mr. Holt at St. Omer's. And the latter
kept it back for his own purpose, and until he had learned whether my
mother was alive or no. She is dead years since: my poor patron told me
with his dying breath; and I doubt him not. I do not know even whether I
could prove a marriage. I would not if I could. I do not care to bring
shame on our name, or grief upon those whom I love, however hardly they
may use me. My father's son, madam, won't aggravate the wrong my father
did you. Continue to be his widow, and give me your kindness. 'Tis all I
ask from you; and I shall never speak of this matter again."

"_Mais vous etes un noble jeune homme!_" breaks out my lady, speaking, as
usual with her when she was agitated, in the French l