The House of Egremont

by Molly Elliot Seawell

Roger, following her, was stupefied by her language. She was usually the most intelligible of women, and although she often spoke playfully, no one made the meaning of words clearer than Mademoiselle d’Orantia—this woman renowned for her wit and address. Miserable and guilty! What inexplicable words for her to use! And to tell him so plainly that he was linked with that guilt and misery of which she spoke! It made his heart pound against his ribs,—the mere thought of it.

He walked rapidly, and catching up with her, cried, “Mademoiselle, I do not understand;” but she walked so fast and turned her head away so persistently that he could not get another word out of her, and presently they came to the door of the hut, and Roger signing to her to enter first, she went in and left him alone.

Roger remained outside in the chilly night for a time, puzzled and troubled and intoxicated by her words. But presently in his man’s mind came the reflection that women were, after all, fanciful and sensitive creatures, of whom the greatest wits among them were likely to be the most fanciful and sensitive. A man would be a fool who would take them quite literally. Unhappy and guilty—yes, they called themselves unhappy when they missed receiving a love-letter, and wept and raved over trifles, while they could bear the loss of fortune, of health, all that makes life endurable, with smiling composure. And Michelle would call herself guilty if she committed a peccadillo which a man would reckon at not a pin’s consequence; and Roger knew women well enough to recall that the very best of them can, under love or hate, commit deeds of which the mere thought would make a man’s hair to rise on his head.

So, having recovered somewhat from his first dismay, he presently entered the hut. The game was over. Madame de Beaumanoir was wigging François for not having brought some extra packs of cards with him. Berwick sat on a settle by the fireside, and Michelle was by his side. He was speaking to her kindly, very kindly, and she listened to him with a smile upon her pale lips, but with an expression of so much misery in her dark eyes that it gave Roger a shock.

Directly they were separating for the night. The three gentlemen had ensconced themselves in the chaise, and muffled themselves in their cloaks. In five minutes François was snoring. Then Roger said in a low voice to Berwick,—

“When a woman says she is miserable and guilty, I take it she has the vapors—or—or—is in love with a man and cannot see her way to marry him directly. Is not that your opinion?”

“With most women, yes. With all women, no. If Mademoiselle d’Orantia said she was miserable and guilty, I should take it seriously.”

With this for a nightcap, Roger Egremont spent the night.

Next morning it was clear and bright, and they began the descent of the mountains. At every stage they came nearer the springtime.

When, after some days’ travel, they reached the valley of the Moselle, it was full spring, with all its glories. They had then been three weeks on their way.