Then he asked her about herself. It was the same story, simply and straightforwardly told. Mamma Mazet was becoming childish in mind; Papa Mazet was failing fast, but both the old people were happy and satisfied, and wanted for nothing.
“And God is good enough to let me repay them for all their kindness to me by being a little kind to them in their old age,” she said.
“I can never repay you for your kindness to me and to my dear Dicky, but I can at least show you that I remember it,” said Roger. “And if you will but come to Egremont—”
There was something in Roger Egremont’s face and manner different from anything Bess had ever seen in him, and she knew him well. There was a joyousness and still a quietness, a gentleness and yet an exaltation. Looking at him, Bess could scarcely recall those first days in which she had known him, when he had made the corridors of Newgate ring with his oaths, his ribald songs, his drunkenness— Alas, let us say no more about it; he had atoned for it.
Presently, as they sat talking, Roger took from his breast a small packet, and taking from it the little brooch of brilliants handed it to Bess.
“This, Bess,” he said, “belonged to my mother. I do not remember her, but I reverence everything that was hers. And so I brought you this from Egremont, asking you to wear it as a token of the gratitude of the Egremonts.”
Bess’s eyes filled with tears, although her wide, handsome mouth came open in a happy smile. This, indeed, was gratifying to her pride. Bess Lukens, the turnkey’s niece, reckoned worthy to wear an ornament which had belonged to one of the ladies of Egremont! She kissed the brooch, pinned it proudly on her breast, and then turned her eyes full on Roger. And she saw in his countenance a painful constraint, a hesitation in meeting her eye; verily, the bravest man who walks the earth is a coward and a poltroon where there are two women in the case.
“And how long do you remain in France, Roger?” she said.
There was a pause before Roger spoke. A little wind bent the young boughs above them, and even this slight sound was heard in the perfect stillness. It was so long before Roger answered that Bess turned her beautiful face fuller toward him. He had a strange sense of being about to deal cruelly with her, a sense so poignant and painful that he was moved to be over with it quickly, and he said,—
“I am to be married to the Princess Michelle at seven o’clock to-morrow morning.”