In his turn, he made his obeisance to the King and Queen, sitting, not in state, but as the father and mother of a large family. The King greeted him kindly.
“I hear you have earned promotion, Mr. Egremont.”
“Thanks, your Majesty, to the good offices of the Duke of Berwick, who sees to it that no man, however humble, goes without his reward,” replied Roger. The ablest courtier in the world could not have turned a speech better to please the King’s ear, or the Queen’s either for that matter, as she looked chiefly to the half-brother of her child, for that child’s restoration to his father’s throne.
“I should like to see you privately to-morrow morning, that I may know particularly of all my former gentlemen-at-arms,” said the poor King.
Then the Queen spoke—her sweet and thrilling voice, with her beautiful black eyes, being her great charm. “The Duke of Berwick has told us much of you, Mr. Egremont. I hope that you will never go so far away from us that we cannot get you on short notice.”
“I hope so, too, your Majesty; and when your Majesties are returned to England, no one will be a more assiduous courtier than myself.”
Then the little Prince of Wales, walking up fearlessly, without asking permission of his governor, Lord Middleton, twisted his little hand in Roger’s sword-belt, and said, “I know your name. It is Roger Egremont, for the Duke of Berwick told me a story about your fighting for the King, my father, in a garden. Tell me all about it now.”
“If your Royal Highness’s governor will permit,” replied Roger, gravely; and Lord Middleton nodding his head, the little fellow led Roger off to a window-seat, and planting himself between his new friend’s knees, asked all about the battle of Neerwinden, and showed so much intelligence for a little lad that Roger was charmed.
When the levee was dismissed and Roger was rising to go, there passed before him a vision of delicate loveliness which waked him for a moment from that indifference to women which had long possessed him. It was Honora de Burgh, her widow’s robe showing off her pure complexion, her eyes so wonderfully bright and clear; they reminded him of another pair of eyes he had often seen at St. Germains, and never without a thrill. Some one whispered the name of the Irish beauty, and Roger knew it was the woman that Berwick was said to admire so profoundly. Roger looked at her more attentively still. He noticed that she seemed but a frail flower,—the color on her cheek, the light in her eyes was too vivid; the painful thought suddenly occurred to him that she was not destined to outlive her youth. Sad, sad, prescience!
The town was so full of English, Irish, and Scotch that Roger could not pass along the narrow streets without running into his own country people. All were sanguine of being in their native land within three months. William of Orange had not been a kind or a faithful husband, but yet he grieved much at the death of his wife, and his health was said to be breaking. He was credited at St. Germains with having twenty different diseases, each certain of a fatal ending in a short space of time—the wish being father to the thought.