“But, sir,” asked Roger, recovering himself a little, “can I do that, and still hold my allegiance to your Majesty and my Prince? For, be your Majesty assured that, though I love my estates as much as it lies in a man, I love my honor more, and will not take my own unless I can take it with a clean mind and an upright soul.”
A wan smile came over James Stuart’s wrinkled face. A poor broken king loves loyalty.
“Truly, Mr. Egremont, you speak as becomes a man. But know you, the greatest favor you can do me is to go over to England and maintain your estate and dignity. There is no more to be done for me. To that have I been forced to agree. But when the time comes that a blow must be struck for my son, every gentleman of condition who is on the spot to help him, is worth ten men elsewhere. So shall I give you a writing, saying you go to England at my command. Nobody will ever take you for a Whig.”
“I trust not, sir,” was Roger Egremont’s answer; and being then excused, he backed out of the King’s presence; but once outside, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him to catch Berwick, whom he saw through a window walking toward the terrace, in the misty light of a spring evening.
Berwick paused when he saw Roger coming. The terrace was quite deserted then, and the night was falling softly. There was still an opal sky in the west, and below them, in the meadows, the kine were going home with tinkling bells echoing sweetly over the quiet fields and vineyards.
“So you know the news about Egremont?” said Berwick, smiling.
“Yes,” replied Roger, and spoke no more, as he walked along by Berwick’s side. They were on the terrace then. A few persons were strolling about or sitting upon the benches at the parapet, but it was very quiet, with the strange stillness of twilight.
Roger heard Berwick’s grave, musical voice, but he heeded it not. His body was at St. Germains, but his heart was at Egremont. Echoing in his ears was the sound of the little river at the Dark Pool, the larks as they sang in the park in the morning and the nightingales at evening, and the calling of the dun deer, one to another, in the green heart of the woods.
“You are dreaming, man!” cried Berwick; and Roger, coming out of a veritable dream, looked about him like a man newly awakened.
“And how did my half-brother die?—God forgive him,” asked Roger; and suddenly a passionate sense of the wrongs the dead man had done him rushed over him.