The House of Egremont

by Molly Elliot Seawell

Roger gazed at her stupidly.

“I—I—was but putting it in order,” he stammered. “I was not thinking of—of—killing myself. How ridiculous! But I don’t know why I should have thought of the pistol at this moment. Only, when I thought of meeting Berwick, the notion of seeing if my pistol were in good condition, came to me in the strangest, strangest way!”

All that day, they were constrained in each other’s company—for the first time. In the afternoon Roger went out alone. He did not come back until toward sunset, and as it was then June, the sun was late in setting. He came up to Michelle, as she sat on the window-seat of the bridge-room, trifling with some embroidery. He looked wearied, as if he had walked far and fast. “Here,” he said, throwing himself in a chair, and holding out one of his strong, brown hands to her, “I have got a thorn in my hand; will you get it out?”

Michelle, to see the better in the waning light, got upon one knee, and took his hand in her two small, soft ones. She trembled, and was so agitated that she could not see the thorn. As she bent her head over, her rich dark hair escaped from the golden net which had confined it, and fell over her like a veil. A faint, wandering, vagrant breeze swept it also over Roger Egremont’s shoulder. He caught it in his free hand and kissed passionately the silky tresses, and Michelle suddenly found the two hands, which were trying to get the thorn out, imprisoned in a grasp like fate. She felt the thorn then; it cut into her hand as into Roger’s; but neither drew apart, or flinched from the pain. They looked into each other’s eyes and actually smiled; the pangs of the thorn they bore with joy, as a type of the joy with which they would bear the pangs of love such as theirs must bring. But in the midst of their exaltation came, from afar, through the open window, over the woods and fields and rocks, the chiming of the church bell. It smote the air with music, the sweet sound of it delicately overbore the murmur of the river, and faint and soft as it was, it seemed to fill the heavens and the earth as did the grand diapason of the great cathedral bells at Meaux.

Instinctively, and at the same moment, they remembered Meaux. They had listened with joy to the mighty clanging of those noble bells on that spring morning, more than five years before, because then both were innocent, high-minded, serene in the consciousness of right living. But now—but now— Michelle rose, as pale as a ghost. Roger did not detain her a moment. She went slowly from the room, and when she reached the door, turned, and looked back a full minute at Roger. Her glance was not one of reproach; her eyes said as plainly as her lips could have said,—

“I love you—I love you—I love you.”

He did not see her again that night. She sent word to him at supper time that she felt ill and would remain in her room. He asked no questions, but ate his solitary supper in sullen silence. He felt ill too—very ill in mind—so ill, in fact, that he was driven forth, as in most of the crises of his life, to spend the whole night out-of-doors, under the solemn stars.

He walked about in the park, through the whole night, an angel and a devil wrestling within him. Should he let Michelle go away,—for after that last meeting, he felt sure she would make some sort of a struggle to leave him,—or should he make her stay? He was torn with agony between these two thoughts. He had always found some comfort before in the silent companionship of his mother, Nature, but she had no consolation for him in this. He saw the moon rise and sink, and the faint glory of the dawn, and he was farther away from a resolve than he had been when he had first wrestled with himself. Suddenly, it was just at five o’clock on a June morning, he heard the church bell again. It was like a voice from Heaven. It cast him upon his knees on the green earth, in the forest, to ask for light and help, and instantly light and help came to him. He would spare the woman he loved. He had loved her with a true and honorable love, and true and honorable should his love remain. He adored God and thanked Him for His mercy in bringing His unworthy servant to a knowledge of sin. For the first time since his boyhood he wept, wept tears of penitence and of thankfulness, and those burning drops washed his soul and made it clean again. The bell continued its sweet chiming; it sounded to Roger Egremont like the pæans of angels rejoicing over one sinner doing penance.

He rose presently to his feet, and walked rapidly back to the château. He was once more Roger Egremont, a gentleman. He was humbled when he reflected that twice in his life he had come within a frightful chance of utterly losing himself,—the miserable time when he was first cast into Newgate, and the delicious hours he had spent at la Rivière. He promised that, having been so great a sinner himself, he would never look with anything but pity on the greatest sinner that walked the earth.

As he made his way toward the château, his acute and practical mind began to work out the actual solution of the entanglements he had brought on Michelle and himself. He would see her as soon as she arose. He would take, as he deserved, all the blame upon himself for the cruel position in which he had placed her, and humbly beg her pardon as he had begged that of his Maker. He felt sure of her forgiveness and of her love. They might never be united, but neither could ever doubt the other. They would, of course, devise an immediate plan for leaving la Rivière. He would probably go straight to Pont-à-Mousson, to the religious house of which she had spoken before they had reached la Rivière; she had never so much as mentioned it to him since. He would make a frank confession to the Mother Superior, who was sure to be a discreet woman and kindly. So much was due her, and with her help it would be easy enough to keep quiet the time—thirty-seven days; he knew the exact number—which Michelle had spent at la Rivière. After taking Michelle to Pont-à-Mousson, he would join Berwick. He divined that Michelle would exact that he should confess all to Berwick, and that, as a man of honor, he was prepared to do.