“There are not in the world such good hearts and open purses as in Devonshire.”
One afternoon, about a month afterward, Bess Lukens determined to hire a coach, and take the air. Not that she had ever learned to enjoy herself in a coach, or that the motion ever failed to turn her brilliant complexion into a sickly green, and to make her feel a horrible coach-sickness which is only a trifle less than seasickness. But she considered it due to her altered position, she being now a regularly engaged singer at the King’s Opera, under the Abbé d’Albret; and also as a mark of respectability, as well as prosperity. Her old friend Mamma Mazet, now grown very feeble, was asked to accompany her, but the old lady having declined, Bess, set forth alone in the coach; she wore a silk sack, and a hat with feathers in it. She drove out of Paris, and for a mile or two along that beautifully paved road which led to Versailles. There was sure to be much good company seen on this road, and on this joyous May afternoon there were coaches, chaises, and cavaliers in plenty. Bess had some acquaintances in this gay throng. Her beauty and her voice had made her well known in that idle society, which concerned itself chiefly with personal affairs. But the reputation she had acquired and which she carefully fostered of never having a civil word in return for a compliment from a gentleman, kept her from being over popular. The afternoon was bright and balmy, and the motion of the coach affecting her less than usual, she remained out until nearly sunset. Returning by way of the unfinished gate of St. Martin, she caught sight of a familiar figure sitting on a pile of rubbish left by the builders. It was Richard Egremont,—but looking so ill that Bess was alarmed when she saw him. His usually round, fresh face was haggard, and his short and somewhat stocky figure was but skin and bone. When Bess saw him she stopped the coach, and called out to him joyfully. Dicky, however, made no reply, but looked at her with strange, lack-lustre eyes. Bess, jumping out of the coach, went up to him and caught his hand,—it was burning with fever.
“Why, Mr. Egremont!” she cried; “how glad I am to see you back again, and alive! We were in great misery here for some weeks, knowing you to have been caught, and thinking you would be hanged. But the good God saved your life.”
“I think,” said Dicky, with a look of wandering in his eyes, “that I did wrong to return. I am going back to England to-morrow. I was very well treated while I was there,—not in prison a day—not a day. If I had but my fiddle now—”
Bess looked at him hard, then catching him by his arm proceeded to drag him toward the coach.
“What are you going to do with me?” feebly asked Dicky.
“Take you home, put you to bed, and send for an apothecary,” replied Bess, literally shoving him into the coach.
“But—but—my superiors—” he faltered vaguely; to which Bess made a brief and comprehensive reply.
“Drat your superiors!” she said. “Drive home, coachman, as quickly as you can.”