And then, like a douche of ice-cold water came the thought to Roger Egremont,—he must see Bess Lukens. Never had the thought of seeing her been so painful to him, for some inexplicable reason. But it was his duty,—tenfold his duty after her noble service to Dicky.
Roger was rather pleased to acquiesce in the King’s wish that he should leave at once for England. He would make no stop but for a brief visit in Paris to his friend Bess Lukens,—so he told the King,—and secretly and basely hoped Bess would not be at home.
He rode to the tall old house, and found not only that Bess was absent for the day, but even the two old Mazets. Roger felt a great load lifted from him. He scratched a few lines on a leaf torn from his note-book. In them he told Bess that in a year he should return, and meanwhile that she must write to him and tell him all that concerned her; and he was then and always her loving friend. He made time to ride by the house of the Scotch Benedictines, and even tried to persuade himself that he caught a glimpse, over the wall, of a graceful figure that he knew so well; and then, lifting his hat from his head as he passed the house, spurred on to take the road to Calais—to England—to Egremont.
On a Sunday morning in March, Roger Egremont found himself once more at the edge of the village of Egremont. The village people had known for some months of Hugo Stein’s death, and with that sturdy belief in Roger’s ultimate return which they had ever cherished, they were looking daily for him. And on that Sunday morning Hodge, the shoemaker, leaning over his gate, observed a traveller approaching; and seeing that it was Roger, the shoemaker set up a great shout, that brought the whole village into the street.
Yes, it was Roger! Changed, it is true,—a bronzed soldier, his complexion darkened, his face softened, for he was a softer-hearted and a softer-spoken man than he had been in the old days when he lived more with trees and grass and fish and birds and beasts than with men,—but still Roger, a true Egremont and no bastard. And he was on the ground then, shaking hands with the men, bowing, hat in hand, to the women, and pointing to his horse, crying,—
“Where is Diccon, who gave me Merrylegs? I owe him fifty pounds for that horse; and though the poor beast is long since dead, I have ever since owned a horse named Merrylegs, in his honor.”
Diccon came forward, grinning with delight, to shake hands with “the master.”
“And I have heard of all you did for my cousin, Richard Egremont,—the noblest, sweetest soul,—and I thank every one of you who did him a service. For those who helped to lay him in the soil of Egremont, and especially for those who helped Bess Lukens to punish Hugo Stein for his share in that murder, you shall have my thanks and ten golden sovereigns. And to-night, for the first time since I saw you last, will I sleep without a bag of earth from Egremont under my head, for now I shall sleep at Egremont itself.”
The Egremonts had always been famed for their power to charm the humble people, and no Egremont who ever lived had more this charm than Roger. He was not grossly familiar with them, but kindly with the men and gracefully respectful to the women. In the midst of the handshaking and bowing, Dame Hodge elbowed her way through the crowd.