Five weeks afterward, as Berwick was sitting in the garden of the Swan Inn at Strasburg one evening, he saw Roger Egremont approaching on Merrylegs. Roger dismounted, and Berwick went forward to greet him. He looked worn and tired,—so much so that Berwick asked him if he had been ill. No, he had not been ill; he would tell all as soon as he had had some supper,—he had ridden hard that day.
After supper he proposed to Berwick to walk into the country. Berwick knew then that the story of his mysterious absence and silence would be told.
He told it all, without reservation; only, he tried to give out the idea that he had detained Michelle against her will at la Rivière. But he was truly penitent and had obtained her forgiveness. Through the Mother Superior at Pont-à-Mousson, everything would appear quite right for Michelle, and Roger merely told Berwick because he felt he had behaved extremely ill, and had miserably betrayed the trust reposed in him.
Berwick was a shrewd man. He did not believe any man could have detained Michelle at la Rivière. She had gone away in the post-chaise as soon as she was ready. He suspected the exact state of the case, and while he blamed them justly, he pitied the two poor unhappy souls. He said nothing, but after a while held out his hand in a friendly grasp to Roger,—they were standing still by the roadside then. Roger had never expected Berwick to take his hand again. That hand-clasp was the gratefullest one he had ever known in his life.
On returning to the inn Berwick produced two letters which he had been holding for Roger. One was from Dicky,—a mere line saying he was well, and hoped to be soon ordered to England. It was two months old. The second was only three weeks old, and was from Bess Lukens. Something in the letter itself,—hurried and giving no signs of that elaborate care which half-educated persons like poor Bess bestow upon their rare letters—alarmed Roger. It was written from Paris the first of July, and said briefly,—
I have just had news that Mr. Richard is taken in England, and is in Newgate prison under sentence of death. I don’t know what his superiors, as he calls them, were thinking about to let the poor lad go. I got the news at St. Germains last night, through Mr. François Delaunay. He came with me to Paris at daylight and we are now taking coach for Calais; for I am going to England to try and save the lad. I have a plenty of money with me, and I know Newgate prison better than the man that built it; and I have an old friend there besides,—Diggory Hutchinson, as you may remember. I will write you as soon as I get to London. There mightn’t be any trouble in getting Mr. Richard’s sentence commuted, if he was not a Jesuit; but they hanged the others, Sir John Fenwick and the rest of them, and ’tis not likely they will spare a Jesuit. But there are ways of cheating the gallows, that I know, and you may yet see Mr. Richard’s merry face and hear him play his fiddle. So good-bye and no more at present.
From your faithful friend,
Bess Lukens.
CHAPTER XIX
IF A MAN GIVETH HIS LIFE FOR HIS FRIENDS, HE CAN DO NO MORE
IT was at the inn of Michot that Bess Lukens had heard the dreadful news about Dicky Egremont. She had gone to St. Germains to spend the Sunday with her friend, Madame Michot. Saturday evening was now the one gay evening in the week at the inn, when it recovered some of its pristine splendor. The common room was quite full, punch was brewing, and there was an occasional burst of song.
“But it is not what it was five years ago,” sighed Madame Michot to Bess, who sat by her on the little platform by the large door, with the writing-table and the grille, looking into the great room.