The House of Egremont

by Molly Elliot Seawell

The gentleman with the fiddle entered then, and then began one of the great joys of the Jacobites, the singing of songs to the confusion of their enemies. The weaker party must have its revenge, sure; and the revenge of the Jacobites was to make the finest songs ever sung, some of them full of wild longings for their country, and trolled forth with moist eyes, and choking of the throats of men; others, shouted out, proclaiming everlasting constancy to their King, and a willingness to do and die for him; others again, a roar of vengeance against traitors and ingrates, robbers and despoilers,—no epithet was vile enough for William of Orange, no scathing contempt bitter enough for the ungrateful daughters of the King,—and sung with a fervor that came from the souls of all who sang, and went to the souls of all who listened. At the choruses every man joined in, whether he could sing musically or not; at least he could stand upon his legs, and shout out the sentiments which filled his heart. Poor souls; it was all the revenge they had, unless it was to see William of Orange having his own troubles with his English parliament; Mary, his wife, wretched and jealous, dying prematurely, and at enmity with all of the same blood as herself; poor foolish Anne, mourning the loss of her many children, and of her husband, and on her death-bed vainly crying out, begging that the justice she refused her brother should be done him. The Stuarts, too, were an unhappy race, but it is remarkable that they all knew how to make their exit, and had always some one to weep for them as they lay a-dying.

The evening was exactly like many those same men had spent in that same place, but it was the last. When, at the end, they all stood up and roared out their last song, it was to dub their company “the Devil’s Own,”—a name not wholly inappropriate; and then, in the midst of the carousing and shouting, it came over them that it was their last evening in that hospitable place; they grew suddenly quiet as they drank to the King, and afterward went soberly off.

Roger and Dicky went up to the garret, where a rude pallet was spread on the floor for Dicky.

They sat late, talking, looking out upon the river and the valley, until the moon, faint and pallid, sank out of sight, and the earth grew dark, while the heavens were bright with stars.

Roger told all of his affairs to Dicky, even of the journey all the way to Orlamunde,—all, that is, except the most important; and that was his deep and hopeless passion for Mademoiselle d’Orantia; but this, Dicky guessed for himself.

“And, Roger, do you know it is quite possible that I may be ordained and go to England before you come back?” said Dicky. This meant that he might face imprisonment and death before they should meet again.

“I cannot gainsay thee, boy,” said Roger, kindly; “you ever had an adventurous spirit,—’tis too much like my own for me to rebuke it, although you wear a gown and I a sword. And, Dicky, forget not poor Bess Lukens; though why should I call her poor? She hath now more pounds than we have shillings, I dare say, and seems singularly happy and content. She values our friendship, and I think she likes to say the Egremonts are her friends. She does not realize how little our service is worth, poor and exiled as we are. Pray, when you can get leave, go and see her.”

“Indeed I will; I never saw an honester creature in all my life than that girl.”

Dicky knew nothing of man’s love for woman, except by observation, but he saw that Roger Egremont was not in the least in love with Red Bess. Then they lay down to rest; Roger’s last conscious sight was of Dicky kneeling and praying very earnestly by the unshuttered window.

“Pray for me, Dicky,” he said sleepily, and in another moment he was walking in the forest with Michelle, who put her hand in his and told him she was going to Orlamunde to marry him, and kissed him with great delight.