The House of Egremont

by Molly Elliot Seawell

“Here are pens, ink, and paper,” replied Bess, producing a few inferior specimens of each; “and as for reading, here are five or six books—one, of sermons; a good thing for a papist to read.”

Roger knew so little that he regarded even these things with respect. However, he recalled the names of some of the books in the library at Egremont, and it struck him they would be more useful to him than sermons; so, taking some of the coarse paper Bess offered him, he made out, in a slovenly, ill-spelled way, a list of what he wanted. Bess was in no haste to get him things so useless as she considered books and pens and paper, and it was two whole days before he got what he wished. Meanwhile he avoided his late friends in the gaol—of whom most were rascals of a very black type—and sickened at the thought of his late carouses. And he struggled manfully, if awkwardly, with such literary appliances as the Lukens’s household possessed. In those two days so great was the illumination of his mind that he found out the length, the breadth, the depth, and the height of his ignorance. He discerned that he could scarcely read his own writing, that he knew no arithmetic, no history, no geography,—nothing, in short, except what he had examined with his hands and seen with his eyes.

“HERE ARE PENS, INK, AND PAPER”

Bess brought him a miscellaneous collection, bought, not on the recommendation of the shop-keeper, for it was a principle with her never to take a shopman’s opinion of his own wares, but with a view chiefly to getting the worth of Roger’s money in the size of the books. To poor Roger then all books were alike, and he fell upon them ravenously. Nor did this book hunger abate during the days he stayed in prison. In time—in six short months—he got a very true notion of what he wished to learn, and after that he continued his fierce pursuit of knowledge with order and system. He studied history, poetry, and belles-lettres, and made headway in French and Latin, of which he acquired a scholastic knowledge. He practised much with his pen, and from writing like a footman he acquired the most beautiful handwriting imaginable. He spent every waking hour with a book or a pen in his hand,—even the hour allotted him for exercise in the prison yard; and often he rose in the night to study and to write. His mind, naturally powerful, had been forced by his early ignorance to depend upon its own powers of observation entirely,—a thing commonly neglected by what are called educated men. But when on this noble superstructure of natural talents and keen observation was reared a knowledge of letters and tongues, Roger Egremont was mentally the full stature of a man. In short, the greatest benefactor he ever had was William of Orange, who returned the affront given him by making Roger Egremont twice the man he was before, or was likely ever to be.

Absorbed as Roger was in this new world of books and thought, it is not to be supposed that he was entirely forgetful of all else beside or that he became a saint as he became an educated man. He had still occasional communication with the outside world, and heard with inexpressible and ineffable rage that King William had bestowed the estate of Egremont upon Hugo, who was in the highest favor with the Whigs. The new King gave away English estates rashly, especially to his Dutch followers, and some years later the English Parliament forced a very general restitution; but no one, least of all, Roger Egremont, looked forward to the coming turn of affairs. The Egremonts, root and branch, were dispossessed, and being naturally men of adventure, were speedily heard from in various parts of Europe,—some living honorably, like decent, poor soldiers and exiles, others very basely if brilliantly. For all these was Roger concerned, but chiefly for little Dicky.

Almost a year had passed since Roger’s trial, when, in response to a letter smuggled out of prison by Bess Lukens, Roger got a letter from Dicky, smuggled in. It ran,—

Clermont, April, 1689.

Dear Roger,—Was it you who wrote the beautiful letter signed with your name? I hear you do spend your days in learning. How excellent it is, and when the K. comes to his own again, you, Roger, will be a great man; I know it. I hear the P. of O. has given Hugo your estate. Well, I love you as much when you are poor as when you were rich. The K., the Q., and the little P. are very well. I saw them when I went to pay my devoirs at Christmas. I am studying very hard for a purpose I cannot put on paper. You’ll know it in time—and I am well satisfied. But, oh, Roger, if you and I could only be together at Egremont once again! I love it as much as you do, and it makes me fierce to think it is not yours any more.

Mr. Egremont of the Sandhills and his sons were here of late, playing cards extremely, and have gone to Luxembourg with the Count Deslaudes, and a Scots gentleman, who also plays cards. I hear the Egremonts sometimes play the very shirts off their backs, and it makes me ashamed of the Egremont gentlemen. All of the others are not so, however. Cousin Hilary is grown very sober, and is in the corps of gentlemen-at-arms of the K. He and his family have nothing, poor souls, their estates being sequestered, as you know. For myself, I have found friends, and they give me my education. All I can complain of is that they do not give me all the time I want to play the fiddle. ’Tis but an idle amusement, but I love it. Dear Roger, I long to see you.