She had been busily sewing, but the waning light had forced her to stop. For once she was idle, sitting with her hands in her lap, and watching the coming of the dusky shadows in the great room, as the mellow glow faded away. Her mind flew to Roger Egremont. Where was he now? When would he get her letter? And how great would be his grief!
So softly the door opened, and so quietly a woman entered, that she too seemed one of the shadows. In an instant Bess recognized her—it was the Princess Michelle. Bess had supposed her to be at Orlamunde, on the banks of the Rhine; but so quickly did the sight of Michelle bring to Bess all her understanding, all her composure, that she showed not the least surprise. Michelle was dressed with a nun-like simplicity in black, and as she advanced, throwing back the hood of her mantle, she said calmly,—
“Mistress Lukens, do you not know me?”
“Certainly, madam, I do,” replied Bess, promptly, rising. “It is the Princess of Orlamunde. Will you be seated?”
In the trifling action of Michelle’s taking the chair offered her by Bess, the difference in the caste of the two women was plain. Bess Lukens had vastly less respect for rank than was usual in her class and in her age, and this unfortunate Michelle, who bore the title of princess, had certainly as little the surroundings and the state of a princess as one could imagine. Yet she accepted the chair with a haughty grace impossible for Bess Lukens to achieve. Bess could be haughty and she could be graceful, but not be both at the same time.
As Bess said “Princess of Orlamunde” Michelle colored slightly, but she responded in her usual sweet and composed voice,—
“I do not desire—and I think I have no more right—to be called by that title. I have left Orlamunde forever. I now wish to be called simply the Princess Michelle.” She paused a little, and then continued: “I am living for the present at the house of the Scotch Benedictines. It is not far from here.”
Bess listened in surprise. “Is your husband, then, dead?” she asked.
“Dead to me,” replied Michelle; “dead and buried. But I did not come to trouble you with my affairs. I came to ask you some of the particulars of Father Egremont’s execution. I understand you were with him the night before he suffered. I did not know Father Egremont very well, but—but—I took great interest in him—so young—so brave—”
Bess looked at Michelle, gravely considering her. She had left her husband—that was plain. And whence came this profound interest in a man she only slightly knew, as she admitted of Dicky Egremont? Why, Roger Egremont, of course.