Michelle had been as sweet, as kind to Roger, as ever she was,—nay, sweeter and kinder. But Roger saw that she avoided, with the utmost art, being alone with him for a moment. This made him receive her kindness somewhat sullenly; he thought a lady who had showed him so much favor as Michelle had done that night at the charcoal-burner’s hut contracted a debt to him of more of the same good treatment. Nevertheless, finding in a contest of wit between them that Michelle was his superior in finesse, he concluded to take his defeats good-humoredly. One thing was certain, he could not say any more to her, or to any woman, concerning his love, than what he had already said, for was he not, so far, a mere gentleman adventurer? But he had a campaign before him, under a fighting general, and what might he not accomplish, even in a single campaign? Roger Egremont was of a sanguine nature, which helped him over many of the rough places in life, and he was far too much of a man to think that life was to be spent in Arcady. Rather did he incline to make the most of those bright hours, such as he had known upon that blessed journey, because they were so fleeting—and so fleeting because they were so golden.
They were nearing the end of their travel, and Roger remembered that the principality of Orlamunde lay between the Rhine and the Moselle and they were then in the beautiful Moselle country. They followed a straight course, crossing many times the bright, winding river, that now hides all its loveliness in dark woods, and then reveals it all in fair fields and meadows. The season was far advanced, the vineyards were sprouting. Nature daily and hourly performed miracles of change and beauty before their eyes.
At last, on a heavenly April evening, toward sunset, they caught sight, from a wooded height, of a distant silver thread. It was the Rhine.
They spurred forward. Michelle had carried out her promise, and had made the whole journey from France in her saddle, and was then riding between Roger and Berwick. She looked at Berwick and said in a strange voice, “Yonder is the Rhine.”
“And Orlamunde but five miles away from this spot,” replied Berwick.
Roger turned in his saddle to survey the country they had just passed over. It was one of those moments when he realized that there was something in this expedition known to all but him and it gave him discomfort.
In a little while they reached a small but comfortable inn, with a little wood behind it and a charming garden in front of it, and shielding it from the highroad. They seemed to be expected, for the landlord himself bustled out to receive them, the best rooms in the house were prepared for them, and even dressed with flowers, and the best supper the inn could furnish was awaiting them, together with wines of the best vintages of the Rhine and the Moselle. Roger did not pay great attention to this,—the baggage wagon and servants had arrived some hours in advance, and there had been time to make preparations for so large a party.
After the supper, served by the landlord himself with many smirks and bows, the ladies, with their three cavaliers, went out into the garden sweet and gay, to watch the sunset after a day so fair and bright, and Michelle then said to Roger,—
“Mr. Egremont, will you not sing to us the whole of that song of exile composed by Captain Ogilvie, the Irish gentleman? I think it the very sweetest air and charmingest words I ever heard.”
And Roger, blushing with delight, went to the inn, and borrowing an old Spanish guitar, on which he could thrum a little, returned and sang with much taste, although with no great voice, that song beloved of the exiles,—