The House of Egremont

by Molly Elliot Seawell

If the day was sweet and intimate, what was the evening, spent with no company but their own and that of their dear Pierre Ronsard? They were as far separated from the rest of the universe as if they were on a planet of their own. There were no words to express their deep delight.

It was late before they parted, and early next morning when they met; and neither on that morning nor any other morning did Roger Egremont—this gentleman who prided himself upon his virgin honor, his life open as day, his reverence for a woman’s name and fame—propose to the Princess of Orlamunde, a wife fugitive from her husband and intrusted to his care, to proceed one step upon her way. And Michelle—this woman whose path had been like that of a star—trembled every day, when the sun rose, lest Roger should say, “Come, we must be going.”

As if it were not enough that they had long felt themselves born for each other, they discovered in this daily companionship a multitude and variety of intellectual gifts in common, and their tastes seemed to coincide to a miracle. All the things which Roger Egremont had loved during his whole life, and had never expected to find any human being to sympathize fully with, he discovered Michelle also loved and understood. Neither one of them, in their wildest dreaming, had imagined how entirely each would suffice for the other. They never had a weary or dull moment. There was nothing, from politics and campaigning to the harvesting of wheat, in which Michelle did not prove an intelligent companion. In some things, in the politics of Europe, for example, she was better informed than Roger was; but she used her knowledge so gracefully and discreetly that it did not ever offend his masculine self-love. She was, by far, the most intellectual woman he had ever known; and besides all her gifts and graces, she had, in perfection, all those delicate reserves which a woman should have, the want of which had always shocked Roger in poor Bess Lukens. Although every hour she remained at la Rivière Michelle risked her name and fame, yet did she as scrupulously observe etiquette as if she had been living in the palace of Versailles, with two thousand pairs of critical eyes fixed on her. When Roger, one day, tried to converse with her as she stood at her bedroom window, she shut the window in his face, and sharply rated him afterward for his impropriety. On the night of their arrival, old Marianne had given him a bed in a dark closet of a room, next her own, and he could only reach it either by going outside or going through old Marianne’s room. He would have dearly liked one of the pleasant rooms in the upper part of the building, but he never had the courage to suggest changing his wretched quarters, well knowing that he would not be allowed to. Never did two people more strictly observe all the outward canons of decorum than these two lovers, shut up together in that lonely, sweet place; and never did two people place themselves in a position where this decorum would be more incredulously received if they should assert it.

Every day they spent together the devil provided them with some new source of pleasure. In a dark cupboard Roger found an old viol de gamba. He glued it together, restrung it, and found in it endless pleasure. To it he sang those love songs which made Michelle’s eyes shine like stars. And then—oh, joy, discovering that Michelle had some knowledge of the viol, he taught her the accompaniments. She was quick to learn, but she ever seemed to need more teaching, and then—their hands and eyes met. And Roger, giving poignant meaning to all those burning words, sang as she played, watching the color come and go in her cheek. Then there were long afternoons spent in the woods, hunting the wild roses, which bloomed late in those ferny depths. And there were long, sweet moonlit evenings, when the nightingales sang to them as they walked up and down the terrace, under the quivering aspen leaves, which made black shadows on the white earth. Oh, how keen was their joy!

Even their homeliest wants brought with them charm and amusement and pleasure. Roger gave old Pierre a long string of names, such as Chief Steward, Master of the Horse, Groom of the Chambers, and Cellarer. Michelle called Marianne her Lady-in-Waiting, Mistress of the Robes, and femme de chambre.

There was some antiquated table furniture found in the cupboards and closets of the old château, but there was only one porcelain teacup. Over this teacup Roger and Michelle made merry, squabbled like children, and had endless amusement. They even had that luxury of luxuries—a lovers’ quarrel. Roger, setting a trap in the woods, as he had often done when a lad at Egremont, caught a hare. Michelle insisted that he should set it free; Roger declared it would make excellent soup. He released the little creature at last, but he showed some temper and crossness in the doing; Michelle grew cold to him, and they had the pleasure of quarrelling and the rapture of reconciliation.

Their quiet, intimate talk, day by day, covered many subjects, and avoided others. Neither spoke of the past except in connection with the other. Especially did they wish that the memory of the last five unhappy years should be lost in oblivion, as a prisoner would drop his manacles into the ocean, never to be seen or heard of again. And into that same ocean, they felt, as every day they spent together passed, that a pearl had been dropped.

They did not speak of the future at all, nor indeed suffer themselves so much as to think of it. For them there was neither past nor future,—only the present hour; and the golden glow of each hour together eclipsed all that had gone before, and made them careless as to what was to come afterward.

But in the midst of this deep delight, were they happy? No! a thousand times no! They were not guilty, but before them always yawned an abyss,—an abyss into which each might plunge the other. And already, as far as the verdict of the world might go, they were lost in this abyss. Roger had agreed to take upon himself the charge of Michelle, from an honorable man like Berwick. How could he meet Berwick’s eye again? He positively trembled and broke out in a cold sweat when he thought of it; and that was but a part of what he had to fear. And Michelle—for her husband’s sins against her might be shed the blood of honest men; her King and benefactor might take vengeance for her wrongs; and what would be his position in the eyes of the world, when it came out, where and how and with whom she had passed her time since leaving Orlamunde? Many nights this thought drove her from her bed, and Roger, awake too, and fighting with his conscience, would hear above him her light step, as she walked the floor in her anguish.

Neither of them had ever tried living without the approval of the conscience; for, whatever wrong and folly Michelle had committed at Orlamunde, she was just enough to herself to know she had not committed it wilfully, or willingly, or wantonly; she had been driven to it by the gang of miscreants who had surrounded her. But no one forced her to remain at la Rivière; she stayed because she had neither the wish nor the will to leave it—and she dared not think much on this; that way, madness lay.