Then Dicky had a whole batch of news about Egremont, to which Roger listened thirstily. Hugo Stein was in high favor with the Whig government, who found his knowledge of languages useful in matters requiring a trusty agent on the continent. He was now known as Sir Hugo Egremont, William of Orange having made him a baronet on the last royal birthday. He was much on the seas, between England and the continent. Possibly he did not find England a very agreeable residence; he was in no great favor in Devonshire. The estate did not suffer by these absences. Hugo was as thrifty as any Flemish weaver, and was always increasing his store. He had added several hundred acres of land to Egremont, but, wishing to dispose of some which was of the original estate but not in the entail, he had been infuriated to find that he was not considered competent to make a title. True, the gentleman, who had been very anxious to buy this same land in Roger’s time, was a Jacobite, and as such, might very well doubt the legality of the bestowal of estates which William of Orange so liberally indulged in, yet his reasons were plausible. The “parliament men,” as William of Orange angrily called them, were perpetually meddling with these grants of estates, and some very prudent Whigs were not satisfied with such titles as the new incumbents could give. Sir Hugo had made desperate efforts after this to sell this land, at any sort of a price,—rightly considering that his whole estate was in jeopardy, if he could not alienate an acre,—but he had been totally unsuccessful, and was furiously chagrined thereby.
All this delighted Roger beyond measure, and he indulged himself in calling his half-brother a thief, rogue, rascal, scoundrel, liar, and traitor, and enjoyed it very much.
Then he had to tell Dicky in detail all he had done and seen and heard since last they met, although Dicky had had a pretty full account of it in Roger’s letters.
The short winter afternoon was closing when they parted. Roger’s spirit was always calmed and cheered by Dicky. Here was indeed a single-minded man,—a man who craved not riches, nor glory, nor slothful ease, but who earnestly desired to help his fellow-creatures; a man free from vanity,—Dicky Egremont modestly and humbly owned that he was not a man of books in an order where learning was held in vast esteem,—and who, knowing his own limitations, was the stronger thereby. When Dicky Egremont became Father Egremont, so Roger thought, he would never be a great teacher in the schools of Louvain and Clermont, or St. Omer’s, or Paris, but he would be found ever with the poor and the ignorant and the timid. He was so devoid of fear that he always had his wits about him, so Roger remembered, and therefore, great as would be his danger in venturing into England, yet he would have every chance for his life which coolness and resource could give.
On the Monday Roger returned to St. Germains, Berwick had come from Choisy, where he had been in attendance on Monseigneur, and had already been twice to the inn of Michot to see him. As soon as Roger had seen Merrylegs, who was leading the life of a gentleman in the inn stables, he set off for the château, by way of the terrace. It was quite full of people, and he was stopped every few steps to speak to some one. Presently he saw the Queen approaching with several ladies and gentlemen in attendance. He recognized at once Honora de Burgh, in her black hood and gown, looking as fragile and beautiful as an anemone. And by her side was the tall figure of Berwick—the Pike, he was still called. Roger was passing the Queen with a low reverence, when she stopped him and spoke graciously; and then Berwick, grasping his hand, introduced him to Sarsfield’s beautiful young widow.
“The Duke of Berwick has told me much of you, Major Egremont,” she said,—and her voice was exquisitely sweet, but something in that voice, those eyes which smiled as did her lips, had a foreboding; she looked, as indeed she was, too frail for earth.
She was most gracious to Roger then, and in the evening at the palace. And that night, when Berwick went back with Roger to the inn, the story came out; Berwick, blushing like a girl, told that he was to marry the beautiful young widow in the spring. And he did not, as men commonly do, ask Roger when he meant to do likewise; he had great knowledge of the human heart; he knew that Roger Egremont had once loved, and his love had proved unfortunate. Roger grasped Berwick’s hand, and wished him joy from the very bottom of a faithful heart, and said, with truth, that any man might love that sweet and gracious and lovely flower of a woman, Madame Sarsfield. Berwick asked Roger his plans, and in reply got that Roger had a month’s leave, but thought he would rejoin his regiment in Brabant long before it was out. He had paid his duty to the King; he had seen the only three persons in the world who cared to see him,—his cousin Richard Egremont, his old friend Bess Lukens, and Berwick himself. As for his cousins of the Sandhills, he sincerely hoped he would never clap eyes on any one of them again,—either the gambling, dissolute Edward or the sanctimonious Anthony. As for Madame de Beaumanoir,—at this he halted; the old lady had been so uniformly friendly to him that he felt an ingrate in saying he did not wish to see her, and was glad to hear she was not at St. Germains.
“Tut, man,” cried Berwick with the enthusiasm of a man in love, “you have vapors, like women. You will be asking for an extension of leave within two more days!—that I warrant.”
Nevertheless, before the end of the week, Roger, on Merrylegs, was trotting soberly back to Brabant. He reckoned himself fortunate in one way. No one had mentioned to him the name of the Princess of Orlamunde. He was as certain that she was a miserable woman as he was that he himself was a living man; but he could not bear to have her misery spoken of to him.