Bess was as good as her word. Papa Mazet was not at home, but Mamma Mazet assisted Bess in undressing Dicky and putting him to bed; and when the apothecary came, he looked very solemn indeed, and said that the young gentleman might recover, and he might not. And this he said every day for six weeks, when Dicky lay raving with fever, or stupid from its effects.
On a certain calm, bright June morning he waked up quite himself. The birds were singing in the trees, in the old garden back of the house, on which his windows opened. He thought at first they were singing “Les Folies en Espagne,” but presently perceived they were not. And by his bedside sat Bess Lukens, as fresh as a rose; toil and sleeplessness left no mark upon her strong frame. Dicky, gathering his wits together, and surmising all that had happened since that faint remembrance of Bess carrying him off by force, said, in a weak voice, but oh, how full of gratitude and affection,—
“Bess Lukens, how good art thou to me—and to all the Egremonts! God bless thee!”
He had never called her Bess before, and his simple words went to the very heart of her. That she, Red Bess, the gaoler’s girl, should have the proud Egremonts acknowledge her goodness to them! It pleased her honest and simple heart more than any praise on earth, except—well, Roger’s was always excepted. So she answered, patting his thin hand, and calling him Dicky for the first time,—
“Thou art a good lad, Dicky Egremont; I care not if thou art a popish priest,”—at which Dicky laughed feebly,—“and I hope you will have sense enough to keep out of England, where you will surely be hanged if you venture again.” A gleam of light appeared in Dicky’s sunken eyes.
“I shall return to England as soon as I am allowed,” he said; “and as for hanging—’tis not a painful death, I believe. An English hangman is sure to do the job properly.”
CHAPTER XVI
ONCE MORE IN THE SALOON OF THE SWANS
ROGER EGREMONT had by 1698 acquired a presentiment that by the sword alone should he prosper. At the peace, in 1697, he was more fortunate than those deserving men who found themselves shut out of the reduced military establishment, and forced to accept that dole of five, ten, or twenty pistoles which poor James Stuart, with tears in his eyes, gave to them wrapped in small pieces of paper, as he sat in his closet at St. Germains. Under the reorganization, Berwick was given a regiment of foot, made out of the Irish brigade, and in this regiment was Roger Egremont, reduced, however, from major, in the war establishment, to captain again. In two years he had not once seen Berwick. Roger had been with his regiment in Flanders, not caring again to revisit France. He had heard, however, several times from Berwick, now a sober married man; brief, naive letters, earnest in friendship, and unconsciously betraying, what his world already knew, that in the society of the beautiful, kind, graceful, and charming Honora de Burgh, Berwick’s noble and tender heart had found perfect happiness. He had a son,—a boy, beautiful like his mother. Then Roger heard, through others, that this sweet wife of Berwick’s was fading away in consumption; and in the winter of 1698 she breathed her last.
Within a month Roger received a letter from Berwick. It read:—
“You have doubtless heard, my friend, of the death of my wife. I will say nothing on that subject. You have seen her, and you know my heart. I intend to travel as soon as the spring opens. Will you go with me? I know of no one else whose company would be so acceptable. Take advantage of the present peace; no one can tell how long it will last. We shall not be called upon, I think, to fight again for James II.; our next fighting will be for James III. I reckon upon your coming with me.”