At Christmas there was much merry-making for the tenantry and poor people at Egremont, and Roger Egremont threw open his house for the first time since his return from France. Many very ardent Whig maidens were inclined to forgive Mr. Egremont his outrageous conduct to the present government, and all of the Tory young ladies thought him the charmingest fellow alive. To this flattering treatment Roger responded with the most delightful gallantry and impudence, but gave no sign of abandoning his bachelorhood. And the last of February he departed on a mysterious errand to France. King William was very ailing then, and the Tory gentlemen wished Mr. Egremont to delay his journey for a few days, in view of the supposed imminence of the King’s death. This, however, Mr. Egremont declared he could not do, but he would return almost immediately, feeling it his duty to be in England, if possible, when William exchanged Whitehall for Abraham’s bosom.
At noon, on the sixth day after leaving Egremont, he knocked at the door of the Scotch Benedictines in Paris. He had taken off his mourning, and wore a plain but handsome riding-dress of brown and silver.
In a moment or two he was walking, hat in hand, through the long corridors, his masculine footsteps resounding strangely in that quiet place. And then he was shown into the garden. It was at the back of the great building, and fronted south, so that, although it was but March, there was something soft and balmy and even April-like about it.
In this sheltered garden spot the hyacinths and narcissus were freshly blooming, while a great bed of violets was darkly green, with the violet buds showing faintly against the polished leaves. The crocuses were peeping up shyly, those tender flowers, the harbingers of sunshine. All these things Roger Egremont felt rather than saw, for he had ever been open-eyed to the pictures which Nature unfolds, and attentive to her lightest whisper.
There was a long box-bordered walk through the garden, and at the end a little circular place enclosed with ancient box trees. In it was a stone bench set upon the mossy ground, green, like a carpet. This sweet spot was as secluded as if it were in the green heart of the woods at la Rivière. The sun shone radiantly, and standing full in the golden light of noon was Michelle. She still wore a black gown and a black hood, which showed off the milky whiteness of her skin and the dark beauty of her eyes. She was standing with one hand on the back of the stone bench as if to support herself; and when her eyes fell on Roger, she advanced a step and raised her arms, in a motion like a bird about to begin its flight.
How Roger got over that space between the flagged walk and the stone bench he never knew,—only, that he was holding her slender hands in his, that her eyes were downcast, and tears were falling upon her pale cheeks and making crystal drops upon her black gown. The first thought that came into Roger’s mind was, that Michelle was, in truth, beautiful,—far more so than he had ever dreamed, even in those times of strange flowering out of her beauty, such as on that ill-starred wedding morning. She was no longer in the first flush of her youth; she was not radiant in satin and blazing with jewels, but dressed, with a nun-like simplicity, in black; agitation had driven the color from her cheeks; but yet, but yet, for the first time since he had first seen her, in the meadows of St. Germains, Roger Egremont thought her absolutely beautiful.
Roger spoke a few incoherent words, and Michelle replied, she knew not what. Such a meeting as theirs, with the recollections of seven years behind them, with those weeks of rapture, mixed with anguish, at la Rivière, standing out, glowing with delight, and, alas! red with shame,—does not bring the soft, unthinking joy which comes to those who have not suffered greatly. Each read the heart of the other, and read there shame and sorrow for that one lapse from integrity; but with that remorse was a deep, deep thankfulness. They had escaped the actual wrong-doing, but each had the feeling of a person who has walked blindfold on the edge of a precipice; and one single step—it made Roger Egremont, strong man as he was, tremble at the thought of that one step which would have cast them both into the abyss. And as for Michelle, innocent woman that she was, she knew in her heart what Magdalen felt when she washed the feet of the Saviour with tears.
In a little while the habit of self-command asserted itself. They became outwardly calm, and sat down on the bench together, and began to examine each other with the tender furtiveness of lovers. Roger was transformed by happiness. He never had, and never could have, regular beauty; but he had, in great perfection, that masculine comeliness which counts with women far more than beauty. He had lost that look of sadness which, in evil moments, changed to surliness. His eyes were bright and glancing, and he showed his white teeth often in a smile. He was not so sunburned as he had been in his campaigning days, and looked like a man with whom the world went well.
There was little to say of themselves after Roger had said,—
“This day a year ago I sent you word I would return on this day, and here I am.”