The House of Egremont

by Molly Elliot Seawell

Michelle led the way to a little garden door which let Roger out into the street without passing through the convent. Merrylegs was stamping outside. Something passed,—one hurried kiss,—which no eyes but those of Merrylegs saw, and Roger, flinging himself into the saddle, went clattering down the stony street. Michelle listened as long as she could distinguish the hoof-beats,—and then, going back to the little sunny place with the stone bench, sat and dreamed for long over every word he had spoken, every look of his bold eyes, every tone of his voice,—and afterwards going into the chapel prayed fervently a long time.

Meanwhile Roger went straight to Papa Mazet’s house; clearly his first duty, after seeing Michelle, was to go to see Bess Lukens. But all the way he was thinking to himself that it was a Saturday afternoon, and perhaps Bess had gone to St. Germains, as she often did, to spend the Sunday with Madame Michot; and if he did not go to Madame Michot’s until the next afternoon, she might have left for Paris; and meanly and cravenly he hoped it would so fall out,—so mean and craven sometimes is even a brave and honorable man where women are concerned.

Bess Lukens had indeed gone to St. Germains. Roger went in, talked awhile kindly with the two old Mazets, and then struck out for St. Germains. He reached there at sunset, and, as in duty bound, reported straightway at the palace,—his duty jumped with his humor in this.

He was very warmly received, his letters read with avidity, and Berwick, who was at Marly, two miles off, was sent for. He was charmed to see Roger. The two men embraced, and Roger told the gladsome news of all the aches and pains which racked poor King William’s body. And then, the King urging upon Roger the necessity of immediate return to England, Roger smiled and craved permission to remain, and be married early on the Monday morning to the Princess Michelle. To this, the King gave his joyful consent, and sending for the Queen told her the pleasant story,—and there were more congratulations. Berwick got orders to go to Marly by sunrise, with a letter from King James, asking the approval of his brother of France to the marriage, and Berwick was charged with making all things ready, and going with François Delaunay after Michelle, on the Sunday afternoon,—all of which Berwick swore on his honor should be done.

A man cannot without much hard work prepare in a single day to be married and go a journey. Therefore it is not strange that it was near five o’clock on the Sunday afternoon before Roger Egremont had a moment in which to go to the inn of Michot. He still harbored the craven wish that Bess might be gone to Paris by that time; and, thinking this, he turned into the forest from the town, meaning to go that way to the inn, instead of by the terrace, crowded with people on Sunday.

He was walking through the forest, toward the sloping hillside at the end of the terrace, when suddenly, under the dappled shadows of the trees in which the buds were springing, he came face to face with Bess Lukens. She was, as usually, very richly dressed, and her velvet hat and feathers shading her glowing complexion and liquid, red-brown eyes, brought out the deep tints of both, as well as the warm color of the little auburn curls that clustered about the nape of her white neck. A white satin mantle hung, with graceful abandon over one beautifully formed shoulder, while, with her other hand, she held up her train of purple silk. Never had Bess Lukens looked handsomer, and never had her brilliant coloring and splendid attire contrasted more strongly, in Roger’s mind, with Michelle’s chastened loveliness and nun-like black garb.

Bess’s bright face lighted up radiantly at the sight of Roger Egremont, and then as suddenly paled. She remembered that he had said he would return in a year precisely, and it was just a year, and Michelle’s year of widowhood had expired; all these thoughts rushed into Bess’s mind while Roger was warmly greeting her, and wondering just how short a time he could decently spend with her.

“I have much to say to you, Bess,” he said. “Let us turn off into this quiet path, where there is a bench.”

“Yes,” replied Bess, leading the way and seating herself. “I was sitting in this very place that night you passed me by near eight years ago, when I so frightened you by drawing my sword on you.”

“How different all is now with both of us,—as different as the seasons. Then it was summer time and so shaded one could scarcely see the sun at noonday. Now, there is scarce a leaf in sight, but spring is coming; it is coming fast; I feel it in my blood.”