The House of Egremont

IN December, 1698, Roger Egremont’s regiment was at Mézières,—then a gay little garrison town. So gay was it that Captain Egremont, being in mourning for his cousin, Father Egremont, lately deceased, and having other troubles upon his mind, preferred to be elsewhere. Therefore, through his friend, Lieutenant-General the Duke of Berwick, Roger succeeded in having himself ordered upon duty connected with the making of military maps in a remote part of the Vosges. This took him to the very kind of place he wished to be in,—a village in the heart of the mountains, where the people were simple and primitive to the last degree, and where, except Roger and the village priest, no one could read or write. Here, in the best room of a peasant’s cottage, lived the head of the house of Egremont. He had a soldier for a servant, and a sergeant and half a dozen more soldiers to help him in his work. It was light enough work,—Roger Egremont often did not see his sergeant or the soldiers for days and even weeks at a time,—military affairs being very quiet. Europe was taking a breathing spell after ten consecutive campaigns, the loss of eight hundred thousand men killed and disabled, the desolation of vast tracts of country, and the making of multitudes of widows and orphans,—and affairs stood very much where they were ten years before.

Those ten years, however, had made the greatest epoch in Roger Egremont’s life, and he too wanted a breathing spell. Fate had dealt him many staggering blows during his thirty-two years of life; the two heaviest, however, were the loss of his dear little Dicky, and the loss of his honor, as he conceived it, by his breach of trust with regard to the woman he most loved and the man he most respected of any in the world. He had made a clean breast to Berwick, but in as few words as possible,—he loved not to dwell upon his own iniquity. And Berwick, without preaching, and without exacting that Roger should be forever crying mea culpa, had conveyed to him that his sin was pardonable. But Roger Egremont could not forgive himself; and he reasoned, truly enough, that if Michelle had been the woman Berwick loved, Berwick could not have forgiven any man, not even himself, for any jeopardy to her. Roger had called himself a miserable sinner, night and morning in his brief prayers, ever since he could remember, without considering himself a sinner at all; but now he judged himself with a just judgment, and saw that he had indeed been a very miserable sinner. And this gave him a different outlook upon humanity than he had ever before known. He had time and opportunity for introspection. The winter was unusually severe, and tremendous snows fell early in December, thus cutting off communication with the South for many weeks. Roger had, for company, a few books, given him by Berwick at parting,—a Thomas à Kempis, some military text-books, and a History of France. Berwick’s reading was not in the way of poets and romancers, although Roger knew him to be a man of the deepest and truest feeling,—he could not yet bring himself to speak of the young wife so lately torn from him. Roger’s reading had always lain very much in the way of romance, and that wicked fellow Molière had been as much his companion as his old friend and fellow-countryman, Will Shakespeare,—and Pierre Ronsard had been closer to him than either. But he had none of these three worthies to keep him company in the Vosges. The library of the village priest consisted of eleven books, five of them volumes of sermons. Roger thought he had got well out of the good priest’s eager offer of his books, by accepting a volume of Bossuet’s sermons,—he remembered that Michelle had liked them. He read them at first as a man reads from sheer desperation, but soon became interested, and concluded that the Bishop of Meaux knew much more of the world, as well as of God and the human heart, than he, Roger Egremont, did. His days were passed in tramping over the mountains in the snow, getting such information as he was desired to get, and drawing maps. In the evening he had a huge fire made in his one poor room, where a single tallow candle served as a chandelier, and by it he read and studied. He should have gone to bed early every night, yet it was sometimes midnight before he stretched himself upon his hard pallet, wrapped in his military roquelaure, to keep out the piercing cold. In those solitary hours over his fire he reviewed his whole life,—all life,—and came to the conclusion that Michelle was right in almost those first words she ever spoke to him,—that work, pain, and death were the three great true things. He began to perceive dimly, though, that by the manner in which the soul meets work, pain, and death, must its happiness be decided. Dicky Egremont had known work and death, and what the world calls pain,—but Roger doubted if Dicky had ever suffered a moment’s real pain on his own account in all his short life.

As for himself, Roger perceived that work was a blessing and not a curse, and began to think that Fate had given him some good schooling. If ever he came into his own, he would know more of the wants of the humbler people than any Egremont who ever lived. For he had known what it was to want money, to wear a shabby coat, to ride a sorry horse,—all valuable experiences to a gentleman of Captain Roger Egremont’s naturally haughty and somewhat reckless temper. But Michelle—ah, then he writhed in his chair before the fire, and had no more ease of mind. What of her? Not one word had he heard, not one line had he written her. He dared not; he knew not what to say. He longed that she should know that he had recovered his manhood, and came to the old château that June morning determined to go to Pont-à-Mousson that very day, only, womanlike, her conscience had waked first, and she had not spent the whole night fighting the right, but had straightway risen and taken the path of duty. It was only a little over six months since those days at la Rivière—it seemed at least a century off. And while Roger would be trying to drive off these thoughts of her, which tortured him, all at once the squalid place would become the little octagon room on the bridge at la Rivière, the icy wind howling overhead the sweet breezes of the springtime, the delicious odor of the asphodel and narcissus would fill the air, turning presently to the rich fragrance of the roses and the lilies; he would feel upon his face and neck the light and wandering touch of Michelle’s soft hair, as on that last, last evening—and Roger Egremont, the veteran of five campaigns in the Low Countries, would feel himself conquered and overborne by these poignant recollections, and would throw himself on his rude bed, and cover his face with his cloak, as if to shut out that vision of too great pain and sweetness. And he knew, by a kind of clairvoyance, that Michelle was thinking these same thoughts of him. He knew, without being told, that she was leading a life of piety and seclusion; he had not seen her daily, and had her mind and heart laid like an open book before his eyes for many weeks, without reading what was writ therein. He sometimes wondered if they would meet again, but of one thing he was as certain as he was that he was a living man, they would never meet unless Michelle were free. He no more desired it than she; they both knew by sharp experience that it was impossible—not to be thought of.

The winter was passing; it was now the middle of February, and a thaw set in. For the first time since Roger had come to that lonely mountain place, it was possible to hear from the outside world. One day he got his first letter for three months. It was from Berwick, and was brief.

Roger glanced at the date. It was early in the previous November.

He lost not a moment in making his few preparations to start, and had not an hour for speculation until he found himself on the back of his good Merrylegs the third, pushing through the mountain passes on his way to Mézières. What individual good could come to him, Roger Egremont, that Berwick should send for him in such terms? None at all. It must be some public matter. His old enemy, William of Orange, was near his end, perhaps,—Roger devoutly hoped he was,—or there was a great uprising on foot in those isles so dear to him. He rather expected when he got to St. Germains to find the fleur de lys of France floating over the old palace, instead of the royal standard of the Stuarts. Travelling was still difficult, guides were necessary, and he made but slow progress, even after leaving Mézières, until he reached the champagne country. Then Merrylegs was put to it to show what stuff he was made of. At every stage of the journey Roger inquired eagerly of the public news; there was none.

His hopes of a Jacobite rising grew fainter, and when he reached Paris they faded altogether. His unfortunate Majesty James the Second still inhabited the château of St. Germains, with no prospect of leaving it. It was then and there only forced upon Roger Egremont that there must be some individual good fortune waiting upon him at St. Germains.

He stopped not an hour in Paris, but he lost an hour by making a détour so that he would pass by that large, gloomy house of the Scotch Benedictines,—a sad enough place, except for the high-walled garden at the south, on which he could see the tops of cedars and the branches of tall lilacs and guelder-roses, with some delicate promise of leaves upon them. He knew that Michelle loved that place; he knew that she was most likely to be there of any spot on earth. He walked his horse past the house, and along the south wall, and searched it all to find some sign of the woman he loved, but saw none. He wondered, should Michelle be there, would she not feel his presence? He felt that if she walked over his grave he would know it.

On that wide, paved, gay road, enlivened with much company, between Paris and St. Germains, he had leisure to speculate on what good news was waiting him. It was good, but Berwick could not dispose of life or death, and unless Michelle were free—

It was dusk in the spring afternoon before the terrace and the old palace came in sight. Roger rode straight for the palace. As he clattered up to the old gateway, he saw a cavalcade before him. Poor King James, old and feeble, still rode gallantly to hounds three times a week, scorning the calash in which his brother of France would have driven him. He had just returned from one of his hunting parties. Berwick was with him. The Queen and the little Prince of Wales and the little Princess, “La Consolatrice,” were awaiting the King at the gateway. Roger Egremont, riding up, dismounted, and falling on his knee in the muddy street, kissed the hands of his unfortunate master, and then paid his respects to the Queen and her two fair children.

Berwick, who had dismounted to hold the King’s stirrup, turned to Roger and embraced him.

“I had your letter just nine days ago,” said Roger in Berwick’s ear.

“Then you know nothing of what has happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Mr. Egremont,” said the King, “I wish to see you alone for a few moments,” and walked ahead. Roger Egremont followed him up the well-known stair, along those familiar saloons,—ah, how they spoke of Michelle!—into the royal closet. And the King, turning to him, said gently,—

“I wish to give you at once my reasons for wishing you to go to England and claim your estate, now that your half-brother is dead. I presume you have just arrived, although we have been expecting you any day for three months past.”

His half-brother dead. Roger felt a little unsteady on his legs for a moment.

“I—I—your Majesty—I did not know—I had not heard,” Roger stammered, and then hesitated, quivering all over with the suddenness of it.

“You did not know of Hugo Stein’s death? The Duke of Berwick will give you the particulars. You will understand, of course, that you are now the heir-at-law if your half-brother’s contention was right,—which no one believes,—that your father and Madame Stein were married. And if, as you have steadily maintained, your half-brother was a bastard, there is no one to dispute your claim, unless the Prince of Orange should. And I think there is little danger of that. He is an astute man, is my usurping son-in-law and nephew, and he dare not raise any further issue with the Egremonts. He has ceased forcing the oaths upon gentlemen certain to refuse them; so go you to England and claim your own, as soon as you like.”

“But, sir,” asked Roger, recovering himself a little, “can I do that, and still hold my allegiance to your Majesty and my Prince? For, be your Majesty assured that, though I love my estates as much as it lies in a man, I love my honor more, and will not take my own unless I can take it with a clean mind and an upright soul.”

A wan smile came over James Stuart’s wrinkled face. A poor broken king loves loyalty.

“Truly, Mr. Egremont, you speak as becomes a man. But know you, the greatest favor you can do me is to go over to England and maintain your estate and dignity. There is no more to be done for me. To that have I been forced to agree. But when the time comes that a blow must be struck for my son, every gentleman of condition who is on the spot to help him, is worth ten men elsewhere. So shall I give you a writing, saying you go to England at my command. Nobody will ever take you for a Whig.”

“I trust not, sir,” was Roger Egremont’s answer; and being then excused, he backed out of the King’s presence; but once outside, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him to catch Berwick, whom he saw through a window walking toward the terrace, in the misty light of a spring evening.

Berwick paused when he saw Roger coming. The terrace was quite deserted then, and the night was falling softly. There was still an opal sky in the west, and below them, in the meadows, the kine were going home with tinkling bells echoing sweetly over the quiet fields and vineyards.

“So you know the news about Egremont?” said Berwick, smiling.

“Yes,” replied Roger, and spoke no more, as he walked along by Berwick’s side. They were on the terrace then. A few persons were strolling about or sitting upon the benches at the parapet, but it was very quiet, with the strange stillness of twilight.

Roger heard Berwick’s grave, musical voice, but he heeded it not. His body was at St. Germains, but his heart was at Egremont. Echoing in his ears was the sound of the little river at the Dark Pool, the larks as they sang in the park in the morning and the nightingales at evening, and the calling of the dun deer, one to another, in the green heart of the woods.

“You are dreaming, man!” cried Berwick; and Roger, coming out of a veritable dream, looked about him like a man newly awakened.

“And how did my half-brother die?—God forgive him,” asked Roger; and suddenly a passionate sense of the wrongs the dead man had done him rushed over him.

“No,” he almost shouted, his clear voice resounding through the evening stillness and startling the nesting birds in the trees, “surely God will never forgive Hugo Stein. And it maddens me to think he should have gone out of the world with my three debts to him unpaid. One was, for robbing me of my estate; another was, for murdering my cousin; and the third and worst was, for slandering an innocent lady.”

Berwick said no word. Roger’s dark face was flushed, and he breathed heavily, clenching and unclenching his fists as he walked.

They had now come to the great green semicircular alcove on the terrace. There was not a soul in that retired spot. Not even the great golden moon, rising behind the trees, lighted up that solitary place.

“Hugo Stein was killed in a drunken frenzy by the Prince of Orlamunde,” said Berwick, quietly.

Roger stopped still as if the name of Orlamunde gave him a shock. Berwick continued in the same quiet voice, but he looked away from Roger as he spoke, and they both moved about a little.

“Yes, the Prince of Orlamunde, the poorest swordsman in Europe, killed Hugo Stein, a master in the art, by a single blow, such as one seldom sees in a lifetime. And the Prince paid for his skill with his life. Hugo Stein, dying, ran him through the body. Hugo Stein was in no drunken frenzy. Though with a mortal wound, his hand was steady to deal one last blow to his enemy. Never were two villains better served.”

Roger Egremont again stood still and walked on and stood still, like a man in a dream. Truly was he in a dream. He had but grasped the idea that Egremont was his once more, when he found—he found—Michelle was free! That was all; but it was enough to make him feel as a mortal does when first rapt into Paradise. He saw himself again at Egremont, and, vision bright and fair, Michelle was beside him. It was so dazzling, so bewildering, that he put his hand before his eyes as if to shield himself from the splendor of his dream.

Again he heard Berwick’s voice.

“There were strange circumstances before the killing. The Prince could not do without the Princess’s dowry, and finding she was in the house of the Scotch Benedictines, contrived a letter to her by Bernstein. In it he told her if she did not return to him, all the children in the French families at Orlamunde should die of a quick disease. He was quite capable of it. The Princess returned with Bernstein.”

Something in Roger’s face made Berwick continue rather quickly,—

“She got no farther than the little inn you remember, near Orlamunde. There Hugo Stein had the villany to meet her. He had been to England, had sworn away your cousin Richard Egremont’s life, and returned to Orlamunde. He had enough money to lose at play, to win back the Prince’s favor, and meant to give the Princess the pleasure of his company on her return—the scoundrel! Then, as he was heaping insults upon her at the inn, up comes the Prince with his crew of miscreants, men and women, the Prince very drunk. And in some way—I know not how—there were words, and in ten minutes Hugo Stein and Prince Karl lay dead, each at the hand of the other.”

Berwick paused. He saw that Roger required time to take in all he was hearing. After a while Berwick went on.

“The Prince’s successor—Prince Heinrich—a very different and a very worthy man, was at Orlamunde. The matter was hushed up as far as possible, and the decencies observed. The first thing Prince Heinrich did was to clear the palace and the schloss of the disreputable gang which Prince Karl had established there, and he at once installed the Princess Michelle at the schloss. She remained there, receiving every attention at the hands of Prince Heinrich, until after the funeral. Then she returned to France in a manner becoming her rank and station. She went directly to the house of the Scotch Benedictines, and is there now in the strictest retirement.”

Yes, he knew it. He had known she would go there; he had even felt her presence there as he passed by the house.

The moon was high in the heavens now. Roger found himself alone on the terrace; he did not know when and how Berwick had left him. His footsteps took him down the steep hillside into the silent meadows along the river, black and silver in the moonlight, to the very spot where he had first seen Michelle. Yes, there it was that he had first known the melting softness of her black eyes, first heard the thrilling music of her voice. There she had told him that work, pain, death, lay before all; it was almost the first word she had spoken to him, and it had made him to think and made him to feel. But work, pain, and death, with love at hand, these made up the sum of perfect life. Work was easy; pain could be endured with joy,—he remembered the thorn that pressed into his hand and hers at la Rivière; and death could be met with courage, if only love stood beside him, not only love for Michelle, but love for all of God’s creatures and love of God’s righteousness. This thought soothed the fever in his soul; he was in danger of losing himself totally in the intoxication and the vainglory which had begun to possess him. He looked up at the star-sown vault of heaven. The stars had never seemed to him cold, unseeing, distant. They had ever been to him near, watchful, and palpitating. Their silent voices, eloquent through all the æons of time, rebuked his pride and composed his joy. There would still be work, pain, and death, and also infinite joy, but from those silent stars he humbly learned how to meet them all.

The first note of time he realized was the chiming of midnight. He roused himself, as it were; he was then again on the terrace. The moon shone brightly upon the river, and it seemed to Roger Egremont as if that silver shining on the water made a radiant path of glory to the heavens. All vast, all bright, all joyous, all noble thoughts were his, and they humbled him, and cast him down upon his knees to ask God to forgive him past iniquities and to keep him from committing them again. And his spirit, coming down from those supernal heights, where the mere human soul cannot walk for long, was lost in simple human happiness and thankfulness.

Roger Egremont walked back to the old château. He had no place provided to sleep. It was no matter; he could have slept out-of-doors. He had spent many nights with the sky for a roof and the earth for a bed, but they were generally very miserable nights; this one happy one would be a change. The sentry, however, at the gateway, recognized him and passed him through, Roger giving him a crown; when the soldier, after a little parley, let him pass. Roger went into the guard-room on the left, where other men were sleeping, and wrapping himself in his cloak, with a log of wood from the fireplace for a pillow, fell into the very sweetest sleep he had ever known in his life.

Next morning Berwick told him it was the King’s wish that he should start at once for England.

“There is nothing to keep me,” said Roger. “I desire to leave a message with you to the Princess Michelle, which I beg you will deliver this day. It is that I will not intrude myself upon her in any way during the year of her widowhood; but one year from to-day I shall be wherever she is, and if she will see me on that day I shall esteem it the greatest happiness and privilege of my life.”

“I will deliver it to the Princess this day,” replied Berwick.

And then, like a douche of ice-cold water came the thought to Roger Egremont,—he must see Bess Lukens. Never had the thought of seeing her been so painful to him, for some inexplicable reason. But it was his duty,—tenfold his duty after her noble service to Dicky.

Roger was rather pleased to acquiesce in the King’s wish that he should leave at once for England. He would make no stop but for a brief visit in Paris to his friend Bess Lukens,—so he told the King,—and secretly and basely hoped Bess would not be at home.

He rode to the tall old house, and found not only that Bess was absent for the day, but even the two old Mazets. Roger felt a great load lifted from him. He scratched a few lines on a leaf torn from his note-book. In them he told Bess that in a year he should return, and meanwhile that she must write to him and tell him all that concerned her; and he was then and always her loving friend. He made time to ride by the house of the Scotch Benedictines, and even tried to persuade himself that he caught a glimpse, over the wall, of a graceful figure that he knew so well; and then, lifting his hat from his head as he passed the house, spurred on to take the road to Calais—to England—to Egremont.

On a Sunday morning in March, Roger Egremont found himself once more at the edge of the village of Egremont. The village people had known for some months of Hugo Stein’s death, and with that sturdy belief in Roger’s ultimate return which they had ever cherished, they were looking daily for him. And on that Sunday morning Hodge, the shoemaker, leaning over his gate, observed a traveller approaching; and seeing that it was Roger, the shoemaker set up a great shout, that brought the whole village into the street.

Yes, it was Roger! Changed, it is true,—a bronzed soldier, his complexion darkened, his face softened, for he was a softer-hearted and a softer-spoken man than he had been in the old days when he lived more with trees and grass and fish and birds and beasts than with men,—but still Roger, a true Egremont and no bastard. And he was on the ground then, shaking hands with the men, bowing, hat in hand, to the women, and pointing to his horse, crying,—

“Where is Diccon, who gave me Merrylegs? I owe him fifty pounds for that horse; and though the poor beast is long since dead, I have ever since owned a horse named Merrylegs, in his honor.”

Diccon came forward, grinning with delight, to shake hands with “the master.”

“And I have heard of all you did for my cousin, Richard Egremont,—the noblest, sweetest soul,—and I thank every one of you who did him a service. For those who helped to lay him in the soil of Egremont, and especially for those who helped Bess Lukens to punish Hugo Stein for his share in that murder, you shall have my thanks and ten golden sovereigns. And to-night, for the first time since I saw you last, will I sleep without a bag of earth from Egremont under my head, for now I shall sleep at Egremont itself.”

The Egremonts had always been famed for their power to charm the humble people, and no Egremont who ever lived had more this charm than Roger. He was not grossly familiar with them, but kindly with the men and gracefully respectful to the women. In the midst of the handshaking and bowing, Dame Hodge elbowed her way through the crowd.

“Master Roger,” she cried, “thou didst take from me thy last breakfast at Egremont, and now thou shalt take thy first after thy return under my roof.”

“Sure shall I, good dame,” replied Roger, smiling. His eyes were sparkling, his face glowing,—he had grown ten years younger in half an hour.

And then, just as it had been seven years before, he sat and ate of Dame Hodge’s homely fare, in full view of the delighted villagers and tenantry collected from all over the estate; and afterward, coming to the door as he had done on that June morning so long past, he lifted his tankard of ale, and asked the people to drink to the health of King James.

“For I have not come back to you a renegade, my friends, but loyal to my King. I swear to you our King, his Majesty James the Second, would not give one rood of English ground for all of France, and France is a very noble country, although the usurper who sits at Whitehall would have you think otherwise. So, any of you that wish may inform on me,—but here’s to his Majesty, King James; God bless him!”

And as Roger drank solemnly his own toast, taking off his hat as he did it, the people huzzaed. King William was a heavy tax gatherer, and no man likes to pay taxes.

It was then near midday. Roger would have preferred to go alone to Egremont; he wished to dream, to think, to be in ecstasies at every step through that well-known and beloved place; but his humble friends would by no means permit it. A rude procession was formed of villagers, men, women, children, and dogs, and so they marched along, with Roger on Merrylegs at their head, until they reached the hall door. The great house was closed, and looked singularly forlorn; the spring sun glinted against the stone pile, and the brightness without made the silence and quietness within the more apparent. But no white marble palace by moonlight ever appeared half so beautiful to any one as Egremont did to Roger then.

When the motley procession appeared on the great lawn, a prim butler came out from a side door. He had been duly warned by the village people many times that Master Roger, a valorous man, who feared God, but who always took his own part, would come some day, and turn Sir Hugo out. Sir Hugo had been even more effectually disposed of, and here was that terrible Master Roger.

“Open the main door, and do you and every servant about the house come to me,” said Roger.

The butler ran within, and in a minute the great doors were flung wide. The few servants left, caretakers only, were marshalled in the hall, the butler at their head.

“Each one of you is dismissed now and here with a month’s wages,” said Roger to them. “I have no fault to find with you, but no man who served Hugo Stein can serve me. When you are ready to depart, which must be within two days, come to me for your money, and let me not see your faces while you remain. My own good people from Egremont shall serve me until I can get other proper servants.”

There was no ale or beer worth speaking of in the cellars, although much wine, Sir Hugo not much relishing English drinks; and so, to Roger’s relief, he found himself obliged to invite all his friends to go to the village alehouse for the wherewithal to drink his health, and he was at last left alone at Egremont.

So keen were his emotions when the last huzzaing villager was out of sight and sound that he was quite overcome with weakness and weariness. He walked straight to his own little room, a room so small and inconvenient that Hugo Stein had scorned to improve it, and there, locking the door and throwing himself into a chair, he covered his face and felt on his cheeks those rare, scalding tears that are sometimes wrung from strong men. All of his unloved youth, the wrongs his father had committed against him, his long misery of imprisonment, his poverty and exile for so many years came over him, and the first hour he spent at Egremont was among the saddest of his whole life. The past is a ghost which cannot be laid, and when it is driven out by a happy and living present, it yet waits and watches menacingly, to intrude itself and threaten. “Think not to forget me. I am a part of thee, and will be with thee as long as sense and memory inhabit thee.”

Roger looked about him and saw Dicky’s short, boyish figure flitting from room to room upstairs and down, indoors and out; heard Dicky’s sweet young voice, as when they had been lads together there, heard the vibrant music of Dicky’s violin in “Les Folies en Espagne.” He rose and went out of the house, through the well remembered path to the Dark Pool. He stood bareheaded by the low mound where Dicky slept so peacefully. It was quite green, although the time was early spring, but it had been newly turfed. There was nothing to mark it. Roger sat down by it, and pulled up carefully some weeds that had grown amid the soft grass. Could Dicky have but lived to see that hour! The sun was shining upon it, the Dark Pool was not dark, but full of light. Work, pain, death,—these were no more for Dicky, but joy and peace and life. This thought soothed him. And then Nature, the mighty mother, sweetly spoke to him as she had done in all that place for so many years. He listened to the voice of the laughing, sobbing, merry, melancholy river; he renewed his friendship with the trees, the fields. Once more he claimed acquaintance with the flying and creeping things, and the dun deer came timidly forth and ate out of his hand.

And that night he slept sweetly, ah, so sweetly, under his own roof, an exile no more, and prayed and swore in the same breath that the King should one day sleep at his palace of Whitehall as happily as he, Roger Egremont, slept at Egremont.

Next morning he began his reign by pitching out of the house and making a bonfire on the lawn of everything in the house savoring of Hugo Stein. The top of the pile was a handsome oil portrait of William of Orange. Roger drove his foot through the face before burning it.

He then sat himself down, and in his beautiful clerkly handwriting, strange to all whom he addressed, he wrote a letter to every Tory gentleman he knew in the county, advising them of his return, by the advice and consent of his Majesty James the Second, and boldly announcing that, if asked to take the oaths, he should refuse, and stood ready to go to Newgate again if need were. There was little danger, however. A Tory parliament was giving King William ample employment just then. Especially did it concern itself with forcing upon him the restitution of estates and crown revenues which he had bestowed upon his favorites. And so perpetually troublesome had been the Egremonts that a convenient blindness on the part of the government toward Roger Egremont was the only policy to be pursued. When certain red-hot Whigs in the county informed some of the court people that Roger Egremont had inaugurated his new reign at Egremont by making a bonfire of the portrait of King William, given by that Prince himself to Sir Hugo, they were met by a strange indifference,—so much so that they felt no inclination to repeat other disloyal things which Roger Egremont said and did. The government shrewdly suspected that this Jacobite gentleman would not object to a persecution, and they wisely declined to oblige him.

On the contrary, an intimation from a high quarter was given him, that if he did not molest the Government, the Government would not molest him—only, he must not visit London, and his comings and goings across the seas would be watched. To this, Roger made no objection. He had called his tenants about him, confirmed such arrangements as seemed necessary, and on the first quarter-day, and every quarter-day thereafter, the rents were paid him without cavil. Hugo Stein had left no will, so there was no one to dispute anything with Roger, unless it were King William—and that astute person had larger affairs on hand than the dispossession of one single Tory gentleman. Besides, the King was very weary and tired of life, and it seemed as if his earthly troubles would soon be overpast—and he cared less than nothing for sister-in-law Anne, or who and what she would find in England when he was gone. So, partly from policy, partly from lassitude and disgust, King William was minded to let bygones be bygones with Roger Egremont—which was better for both than another arrest, another state trial, and another raking up of the popular fury which had attended the trials of the Egremonts.

Roger Egremont settled himself down for a year of preparation for the greatest happiness in the world; he had no reason to doubt that Michelle was doing the same thing. And meanwhile there was happiness in finding himself once more master of Egremont. No man was ever less fitted for exile than Roger Egremont. His soul had struck deep roots in the soil, the air, the sky of his native country. He had always spoken French with an abominable English accent, and was proud rather than ashamed that no language sat well upon his tongue except his own. And he was now restored to that spot so dearly loved and longed for, and he had everything to hope. Even King William’s declining health gave him great joy, for he knew that the Orange Prince was not to be dispossessed by any force poor, feeble King James could bring to bear against him. Only the King of kings could get William of Orange out of England. But Roger had high hopes that God would soon remove the usurping King to Abraham’s bosom, and would by no means admit that any better quarters in the next world than Abraham’s bosom would be provided for him.

Roger Egremont was extremely well received in the county, not only by the Tory families, but by the Whigs as well. For was he not young—not yet three and thirty—and rich? For Hugh Stein had been a careful manager, and albeit he had made way with much ready money, such as the eight thousand pounds from the sale of the oak timber, yet he had not been able to alienate an acre of the land, and he had added several hundred acres to the estate. Many Whig fathers of handsome daughters thought it would be a righteous action to make a son-in-law even of so obstinate a Tory as Roger Egremont, and convert him. So thought many of the daughters, for Roger was a soldierly-looking man, much handsomer than he had been in his first youth, one who had seen hard campaigning, who was familiar with foreign courts and camps and cities, could sing charmingly when he chose, which was not often, and, better than ever, “could fight, could drink, and could be gallant to the ladies.”

But however gallant he might be to the sex in general, no one could say that he singled out any fair one in particular. He did not frequent gay places, and went not near London. He wore black that year for Dicky, and had the poor lad’s body laid in the family vault, with great honor. He had occasional short letters from Bess Lukens, and wrote her in reply long answers, telling her more than he told any one else of his daily life, his happenings, his hopes, his dreams, and always winding up with saying that he would be at St. Germains the next March. This specific promise gave a strange discomfort to Bess Lukens; she knew not why, and did not care to speculate. He wrote to Berwick too, sending all the political news he could gather, and dwelling joyfully upon the fact that William of Orange was said to be failing fast, and made no secret of his hatred for the English people since they had forced him to send his Dutch guards home.

At Christmas there was much merry-making for the tenantry and poor people at Egremont, and Roger Egremont threw open his house for the first time since his return from France. Many very ardent Whig maidens were inclined to forgive Mr. Egremont his outrageous conduct to the present government, and all of the Tory young ladies thought him the charmingest fellow alive. To this flattering treatment Roger responded with the most delightful gallantry and impudence, but gave no sign of abandoning his bachelorhood. And the last of February he departed on a mysterious errand to France. King William was very ailing then, and the Tory gentlemen wished Mr. Egremont to delay his journey for a few days, in view of the supposed imminence of the King’s death. This, however, Mr. Egremont declared he could not do, but he would return almost immediately, feeling it his duty to be in England, if possible, when William exchanged Whitehall for Abraham’s bosom.

At noon, on the sixth day after leaving Egremont, he knocked at the door of the Scotch Benedictines in Paris. He had taken off his mourning, and wore a plain but handsome riding-dress of brown and silver.

In a moment or two he was walking, hat in hand, through the long corridors, his masculine footsteps resounding strangely in that quiet place. And then he was shown into the garden. It was at the back of the great building, and fronted south, so that, although it was but March, there was something soft and balmy and even April-like about it.

In this sheltered garden spot the hyacinths and narcissus were freshly blooming, while a great bed of violets was darkly green, with the violet buds showing faintly against the polished leaves. The crocuses were peeping up shyly, those tender flowers, the harbingers of sunshine. All these things Roger Egremont felt rather than saw, for he had ever been open-eyed to the pictures which Nature unfolds, and attentive to her lightest whisper.

There was a long box-bordered walk through the garden, and at the end a little circular place enclosed with ancient box trees. In it was a stone bench set upon the mossy ground, green, like a carpet. This sweet spot was as secluded as if it were in the green heart of the woods at la Rivière. The sun shone radiantly, and standing full in the golden light of noon was Michelle. She still wore a black gown and a black hood, which showed off the milky whiteness of her skin and the dark beauty of her eyes. She was standing with one hand on the back of the stone bench as if to support herself; and when her eyes fell on Roger, she advanced a step and raised her arms, in a motion like a bird about to begin its flight.

How Roger got over that space between the flagged walk and the stone bench he never knew,—only, that he was holding her slender hands in his, that her eyes were downcast, and tears were falling upon her pale cheeks and making crystal drops upon her black gown. The first thought that came into Roger’s mind was, that Michelle was, in truth, beautiful,—far more so than he had ever dreamed, even in those times of strange flowering out of her beauty, such as on that ill-starred wedding morning. She was no longer in the first flush of her youth; she was not radiant in satin and blazing with jewels, but dressed, with a nun-like simplicity, in black; agitation had driven the color from her cheeks; but yet, but yet, for the first time since he had first seen her, in the meadows of St. Germains, Roger Egremont thought her absolutely beautiful.

Roger spoke a few incoherent words, and Michelle replied, she knew not what. Such a meeting as theirs, with the recollections of seven years behind them, with those weeks of rapture, mixed with anguish, at la Rivière, standing out, glowing with delight, and, alas! red with shame,—does not bring the soft, unthinking joy which comes to those who have not suffered greatly. Each read the heart of the other, and read there shame and sorrow for that one lapse from integrity; but with that remorse was a deep, deep thankfulness. They had escaped the actual wrong-doing, but each had the feeling of a person who has walked blindfold on the edge of a precipice; and one single step—it made Roger Egremont, strong man as he was, tremble at the thought of that one step which would have cast them both into the abyss. And as for Michelle, innocent woman that she was, she knew in her heart what Magdalen felt when she washed the feet of the Saviour with tears.

In a little while the habit of self-command asserted itself. They became outwardly calm, and sat down on the bench together, and began to examine each other with the tender furtiveness of lovers. Roger was transformed by happiness. He never had, and never could have, regular beauty; but he had, in great perfection, that masculine comeliness which counts with women far more than beauty. He had lost that look of sadness which, in evil moments, changed to surliness. His eyes were bright and glancing, and he showed his white teeth often in a smile. He was not so sunburned as he had been in his campaigning days, and looked like a man with whom the world went well.

There was little to say of themselves after Roger had said,—

“This day a year ago I sent you word I would return on this day, and here I am.”

Michelle understood, and for the first time she felt and looked like a woman receiving her lover. She blushed deeply, the rich color transforming her, and her eyes fell before Roger’s gaze. He went on calmly explaining to her the necessity for his immediate return. It was a Saturday. He would go direct to St. Germains that night. The Sunday would suffice for such few preparations as were necessary, and for the preparation of letters from the powers at St. Germains to their followers in England; and on the Monday morning—

Michelle knew what he meant, and her eloquent eyes assented so quickly that no words were necessary. And then Roger suddenly said,—

“One thing must I tell you. On that last morning at—at la Rivière, after battling with myself the whole night long, I had the will, through God’s goodness, to take you to Pont-à-Mousson. But you had already gone; you did right first—you always will do it first.”

Michelle turned to him with an angel’s smile.

“Do you think, Roger Egremont, that I could see you daily, and all day long, for thirty-seven days, and not be driven—yes, driven, by the undying soul of honor in you, to do the right thing, no matter how late?”

Both were deeply agitated.

Roger rose and walked about the sunny little enclosed space to recover himself. Michelle sat still, and presently each grew calm. Then Roger came back, and, seating himself, began to talk about Egremont, telling her of the place, and the changes he meant to make for her; and they were released from the strained and intense emotions which had overpowered them by Michelle’s saying, with a smile,—

“I think you have told me all this about Egremont before.”

And then they laughed, and for the first time felt as they had done before that time at la Rivière.

“I can tell you this one more thing about Egremont and your life there,” said Roger, still smiling, but with a look in his eye which meant determination: “When Egremont and its master are yours, you will no longer be a princess. I have seen commoners married to women of rank who would not abate their titles, and I never envied those men. You will be Madam Roger Egremont, no more and no less.”

“Truly,” answered Michelle, “I would not have it any other way.” She was faintly annoyed with Roger that he had not waited a little for her to make this gracious concession, which she fully meant to do, and she spoke with something of the princess in her voice. “I can no longer be the Princess d’Orantia, and that I should be the Princess of Orlamunde is not to be thought of. And I meant, had you given me time and occasion to tell you, that—that—”

“To be ‘Madam Roger Egremont,’” said Roger, finishing the sentence for her, and regretting the mistake he had made, “is to be well enough named. Is that what you would say?”

“Yes,” replied Michelle, softly.

“But,” continued Roger, taking her hand, “you will ever be a princess to me.”

At last it was time to go,—that is, the sisters were walking in the garden for their recreation. Roger, when he rose, took from his breast-pocket a little case, which he handed to Michelle. It was a miniature of himself which he had caused to be made for her. It was set round with fine pearls. While Michelle’s eyes were fixed with delight upon the miniature, Roger said: “Those pearls are part of a string which belonged to my mother. I found them in Hugo Stein’s strong-box at Egremont, and I wished that you should have something which had been my mother’s.” Then, with an elaborate air of making a clean breast of it, he took out a little brooch, small, but very beautiful, of brilliants.

“This,” he said, “is for Bess Lukens. It too belonged to my mother,—and I thought, considering Bess Lukens’s services to my family, it would be a recognition which the poor girl would value, if I gave her something which had an association,—a sentiment, a—”

Roger stopped short. His look and manner were as nearly awkward as a graceful man’s could be,—but the expression of Michelle’s eyes was a little disconcerting. He always appeared ridiculous in his own eyes whenever he spoke of one of those two women to the other.

“It is very pretty,” was Michelle’s reply. “And, as you say, she deserves something at your hands. Was it not noble of her to go to England when Father Egremont was imprisoned?”

Her words were warm, but there was that curious coldness in her eyes with which a woman praises a suspected rival.

“She is one of the finest creatures in the world,” cried Roger, with great sincerity,—and Michelle agreed with him promptly, her lips smiling, but her eyes very cold and unmoved. She had ever paid Bess Lukens the compliment of being jealous of her.

Michelle led the way to a little garden door which let Roger out into the street without passing through the convent. Merrylegs was stamping outside. Something passed,—one hurried kiss,—which no eyes but those of Merrylegs saw, and Roger, flinging himself into the saddle, went clattering down the stony street. Michelle listened as long as she could distinguish the hoof-beats,—and then, going back to the little sunny place with the stone bench, sat and dreamed for long over every word he had spoken, every look of his bold eyes, every tone of his voice,—and afterwards going into the chapel prayed fervently a long time.

Meanwhile Roger went straight to Papa Mazet’s house; clearly his first duty, after seeing Michelle, was to go to see Bess Lukens. But all the way he was thinking to himself that it was a Saturday afternoon, and perhaps Bess had gone to St. Germains, as she often did, to spend the Sunday with Madame Michot; and if he did not go to Madame Michot’s until the next afternoon, she might have left for Paris; and meanly and cravenly he hoped it would so fall out,—so mean and craven sometimes is even a brave and honorable man where women are concerned.

Bess Lukens had indeed gone to St. Germains. Roger went in, talked awhile kindly with the two old Mazets, and then struck out for St. Germains. He reached there at sunset, and, as in duty bound, reported straightway at the palace,—his duty jumped with his humor in this.

He was very warmly received, his letters read with avidity, and Berwick, who was at Marly, two miles off, was sent for. He was charmed to see Roger. The two men embraced, and Roger told the gladsome news of all the aches and pains which racked poor King William’s body. And then, the King urging upon Roger the necessity of immediate return to England, Roger smiled and craved permission to remain, and be married early on the Monday morning to the Princess Michelle. To this, the King gave his joyful consent, and sending for the Queen told her the pleasant story,—and there were more congratulations. Berwick got orders to go to Marly by sunrise, with a letter from King James, asking the approval of his brother of France to the marriage, and Berwick was charged with making all things ready, and going with François Delaunay after Michelle, on the Sunday afternoon,—all of which Berwick swore on his honor should be done.

A man cannot without much hard work prepare in a single day to be married and go a journey. Therefore it is not strange that it was near five o’clock on the Sunday afternoon before Roger Egremont had a moment in which to go to the inn of Michot. He still harbored the craven wish that Bess might be gone to Paris by that time; and, thinking this, he turned into the forest from the town, meaning to go that way to the inn, instead of by the terrace, crowded with people on Sunday.

He was walking through the forest, toward the sloping hillside at the end of the terrace, when suddenly, under the dappled shadows of the trees in which the buds were springing, he came face to face with Bess Lukens. She was, as usually, very richly dressed, and her velvet hat and feathers shading her glowing complexion and liquid, red-brown eyes, brought out the deep tints of both, as well as the warm color of the little auburn curls that clustered about the nape of her white neck. A white satin mantle hung, with graceful abandon over one beautifully formed shoulder, while, with her other hand, she held up her train of purple silk. Never had Bess Lukens looked handsomer, and never had her brilliant coloring and splendid attire contrasted more strongly, in Roger’s mind, with Michelle’s chastened loveliness and nun-like black garb.

Bess’s bright face lighted up radiantly at the sight of Roger Egremont, and then as suddenly paled. She remembered that he had said he would return in a year precisely, and it was just a year, and Michelle’s year of widowhood had expired; all these thoughts rushed into Bess’s mind while Roger was warmly greeting her, and wondering just how short a time he could decently spend with her.

“I have much to say to you, Bess,” he said. “Let us turn off into this quiet path, where there is a bench.”

“Yes,” replied Bess, leading the way and seating herself. “I was sitting in this very place that night you passed me by near eight years ago, when I so frightened you by drawing my sword on you.”

“How different all is now with both of us,—as different as the seasons. Then it was summer time and so shaded one could scarcely see the sun at noonday. Now, there is scarce a leaf in sight, but spring is coming; it is coming fast; I feel it in my blood.”

Then he asked her about herself. It was the same story, simply and straightforwardly told. Mamma Mazet was becoming childish in mind; Papa Mazet was failing fast, but both the old people were happy and satisfied, and wanted for nothing.

“And God is good enough to let me repay them for all their kindness to me by being a little kind to them in their old age,” she said.

“I can never repay you for your kindness to me and to my dear Dicky, but I can at least show you that I remember it,” said Roger. “And if you will but come to Egremont—”

There was something in Roger Egremont’s face and manner different from anything Bess had ever seen in him, and she knew him well. There was a joyousness and still a quietness, a gentleness and yet an exaltation. Looking at him, Bess could scarcely recall those first days in which she had known him, when he had made the corridors of Newgate ring with his oaths, his ribald songs, his drunkenness— Alas, let us say no more about it; he had atoned for it.

Presently, as they sat talking, Roger took from his breast a small packet, and taking from it the little brooch of brilliants handed it to Bess.

“This, Bess,” he said, “belonged to my mother. I do not remember her, but I reverence everything that was hers. And so I brought you this from Egremont, asking you to wear it as a token of the gratitude of the Egremonts.”

Bess’s eyes filled with tears, although her wide, handsome mouth came open in a happy smile. This, indeed, was gratifying to her pride. Bess Lukens, the turnkey’s niece, reckoned worthy to wear an ornament which had belonged to one of the ladies of Egremont! She kissed the brooch, pinned it proudly on her breast, and then turned her eyes full on Roger. And she saw in his countenance a painful constraint, a hesitation in meeting her eye; verily, the bravest man who walks the earth is a coward and a poltroon where there are two women in the case.

“And how long do you remain in France, Roger?” she said.

There was a pause before Roger spoke. A little wind bent the young boughs above them, and even this slight sound was heard in the perfect stillness. It was so long before Roger answered that Bess turned her beautiful face fuller toward him. He had a strange sense of being about to deal cruelly with her, a sense so poignant and painful that he was moved to be over with it quickly, and he said,—

“I am to be married to the Princess Michelle at seven o’clock to-morrow morning.”

There was not a sound. Bess continued to look at him, the blood slowly leaving her face. That feeling of pity for her, and pain at the thought of her pain, made it impossible for Roger to meet her glance. He looked another way. The only sign of emotion she gave was her quickened breathing; it was as if she caught her breath in gasps. After five minutes, which seemed to Roger Egremont an hour, Bess spoke in a voice that slightly trembled.

“I can truly say, God bless thee and make thee forever happy.”

Then there was another pause. After she had spoken, she became more agitated, and in her struggle to regain her composure she rose to her feet and walked toward the château. Roger rose too, and that piercing feeling of pity for her made him keep by her side. Without a word they passed through the forest glades, and when they came to the edge of the woods they stopped. Bess’s eyes sought Roger’s with a troubled expression.

“Why have I brought you here?” she asked. “I forget.” Then, recovering herself, she said in a calm voice,—

“I remember now. There are vespers at six o’clock in the chapel, and the King and Queen like to hear me sing with the congregation. The others sing softly when I begin. ’Tis there I am bound.”

They went on in silence.

As they came within sight of the clock over the gateway of the old palace, Roger saw that it was six o’clock, and the sweet spring afternoon was closing in. He walked with Bess through the courtyard and to the chapel door. There was close by a stair, narrow, dark, and winding, which led to the organ-loft. Already there was a whisper of music from the organ floating through the white arches of the chapel. At this door, where Bess and Roger stood alone in the waning light, she turned to him. It was dusky where he stood, and the outlines of her fair face were not perfectly clear to him, but her red-brown eyes shone with a lambent light, both bright and soft; their expression reminded him of something far away in time and distance,—the eyes of a partridge, caught and hurt in a trap at Egremont; he had in mercy killed the poor creature. He felt unnerved under that soft gaze, with its mute, involuntary reproach.

“Good-bye, Roger,” she said, in a voice clear and soft, and very unlike her usual tones, which were ringing and rich with life and humor and courage. “When the vespers are over do not wait for me. I shall go through the park alone; I am not afraid. ’Tis our last meeting before you are married, perhaps our very last; so I say, God bless thee,—if a blessing is of any good from such an imperfect creature as Bess Lukens. We have lived the importantest part of our lives together. I was but the turnkey’s niece, and you were an unlettered country gentleman when we were first acquainted in Newgate gaol. Since then, both of us have had good fortune; yours is but beginning, I hope. But those we know in our dark time, and by whose side we live and fight and conquer and are sometimes overthrown, are always more to us than those we know in the pleasant primrose path. So I think you will no more forget me than I shall forget you.”

“Truly,” replied Roger; “if I forget you, Bess Lukens, may God forget me.”

She went noiselessly up the stair, and her figure melted away in the darkness. Roger Egremont walked into the chapel and seated himself in a dark corner. All the church was dusk, except the altar, where two candles twinkled and the sanctuary lamp burned steadily and softly. A few persons came in quietly, the King leaning upon the arm of the Queen, who gently supported him to his armchair. The priest came out on the altar, and the golden voice of the organ was uplifted. Roger listened for the echo of those glorious tones of Bess Lukens’s in the psalms, but he heard them not. The church was quite dark, but as the music swelled and died two little acolytes in white cassocks, and with faces like angels, came out and lighted all the candles on the altar, making a glory of light in the holy place. And then, with a mighty rush of melody from organ and voices, came the Magnificat. Bess’s voice, more pure, more sweet, more thrilling than Roger Egremont had ever heard it, rose above the waves of music.

“My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God, my Saviour.” He translated to himself the sonorous Latin hymn; it was as if Bess Lukens spoke it to him, instead of singing it with the other voices in the choir and congregation. It breathed of hope, of gladness, of peace, of a willingness to suffer, of joy in doing rightly, of all that the human soul should feel which lives not for itself, but for something higher. No one need pity Bess Lukens, a woman so strong, so tender, so truly humble in heart, who, beginning with all the burdens that could drag a woman downward, had yet contrived to uplift herself,—soul, mind, heart,—and would go on, becoming better herself and making others better. So thought Roger Egremont when the music died away, the priest left the altar, every human being but himself went out of the church, and he remained to think reverently and tenderly of her who had been a friend when he most needed one, and whom he had once reckoned so far beneath him that he was ashamed to own that he knew her, and now he justly counted so far, so far above him!

Next morning, at sunrise, Roger Egremont and Michelle were married in the old chapel. There was but a handful of persons present; the King and Queen, as became the master and mistress of faithful servants, Berwick, the Duchess de Beaumanoir, and François,—not a dozen in all. When the benediction had been pronounced, and Roger Egremont and his wife walked out of the chapel, the sun was just blazing over the tree-tops in the forest; the gorgeous pennons of the day were advancing over all the earth. A delicate silver haze lay over the low-lying meadows through which the river flowed mysteriously, sometimes showing itself, and then veiling itself in misty splendor. The shrill, sweet song of birds rang softly from those fair meadows; it was far away, and the echoes were faint, as if they came from elfland. One happy bird, cutting the blue air with joyous wing, burst into a rapture of song, and rose far, far, far into the eastern sky, until it seemed to be singing at the very gates of the morning. A wind from heaven blew over the green earth. It was the spring.