The House of Egremont

by Molly Elliot Seawell

“Yes,” she said, in a strange voice, “I shall; you may depend upon it.”

“And when you hear that I have got a step in promotion, or better still, that we are restored to our own in our own country, then look to hear shortly from Roger Egremont, for not a moment will I lose in writing you first and seeking you afterward.”

Roger had not meant to go so far, but when a gentleman has got this distance there is not much farther for him to travel. But at this moment Michelle withdrew her hand, and suddenly disappeared, so suddenly indeed that Roger looked about him amazed, and could not imagine how quickly and silently she must have opened the door of the hut and gone in; for that was what he thought she had done. He waited five minutes, and then himself opened the door, and entering looked about him, expecting to see Michelle. There was no sign of her, however, although he carefully explored every corner by the dim light of the candle. There was but one room, with no loft or other place of concealment. Madame de Beaumanoir was far too deep in her game to notice any one. François had left off playing and was half asleep, after having been well scolded for his inattention half a dozen times that evening. Berwick flashed an inquiring look at Roger, and Roger shook his head, and disappeared as silently as he had come in.

Outside he saw that it was far easier for Michelle to disappear unseen around the corner of the little hut than to go inside, and wondered at his own stupidity in seeking her there. And he was deeply vexed and his masculine self-love was wounded at the moment she had chosen to leave him.

The place was in the heart of the forest, with only a small spot cleared about it. Bright as the moon shone, all was black under the branches of the solemn larches and firs. Roger walked about, listening intently for the fluttering sound of Michelle’s dress, or her light footstep. He made a circle around the hut, calling softly at intervals, “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! Where are you?” But there was no response except the dashing of the water over the rocks in the distance, and the occasional lonely cry of an owl that complained to the moon. Roger began to feel annoyed and even a little alarmed. What business had Michelle to go off in that manner, in a forest by night? She might very well be lost for a time, even for the whole night. And there were wolves about—the charcoal-burner had told of seeing them every winter. As this dreadful thought struck him, Michelle’s soft voice, just at his elbow, caught his ear.

“Are you looking for me, Mr. Egremont?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Roger, turning to her. They were in a bright patch of moonlight, and he could see her quite well. He was vexed with her, and he showed it.

“You have alarmed me much by going off alone. I have been searching for you for the last half-hour.”

“Forgive me the trouble I have caused you,” she said, walking toward the hut and looking back at him. Her cloak was around her, but her dark head was bare, and her eyes shone with strange brilliancy.

“I am a very unhappy woman, Mr. Egremont, and, I fear, a guilty one. I came upon this journey to do my duty to my King and to my country, but I am afraid I shall do both more harm than good by my coming, and as for myself and you—ah, I have done infinite harm! We shall both be miserable for the rest of our lives, perhaps.”