The House of Egremont

by Molly Elliot Seawell

He soon found himself more than a mile from the château, and at a stile that led into a sweet meadow that bordered the brink of the quiet river. For the last quarter of an hour he had not seen a human being, or heard the sound of a human voice. It was about five o’clock, and the afternoon sun still shone golden fair. Between the meadows and the glittering river was an irregular hedge of ancient and thorny rose-bushes, turning faintly green in their brown. The shadows were growing long by that time, and dappled the fresh young grass. Nothing broke the silence but the occasional echo of a bird-song in the woods close by. It was so sweet and peaceful—it was so like Egremont, Roger thought, for that was his standard of comparison—that he was melted by the pleasure and the pain of it. He sat down on the ground, under the rose trees, and before he knew it he had fallen into a soft and shallow sleep, full of airy dreams. He knew not how long he slept, but he was awakened by the consciousness of some one near him. Whether it was in his dream, or whether he saw it, he could not tell,—but a girl’s light step was close to him, and soft eyes looked down on him for one moment. So strong was this feeling that as soon as he opened his eyes he looked about him for the lady of his dream; and there she was, on the other side of the rose tree, her graceful head half turned away from him, tiptoeing on one dainty, satin-shod foot, and reaching upward after something just above her hand. Her gown was of a pale, jocund yellow, and in the hand that hung by her side she held a large hat. The sun shone on her black hair, unprofaned by powder, and tied with only a black ribbon; her eyes were very dark, with long black lashes, and her complexion of a kind of rosy pallor, like the first sky of morning. There was something of the dawn and the dew in her speaking face. And at the first glance that Roger Egremont had of her a flash of light and life passed into his soul and took possession of it. The Great Usurper had come into his kingdom, had overset in one moment of time all that had been there before, and without so much as saying, “By your leave,” or “Is it a convenient season?” had set up his rule and sceptre.

Roger, as wide-awake as the sun at noonday, rose quickly to his feet. The lady of his dream was on the other side of the rose tree then, but he could see her plainly, and above the faint twittering of a bird in the bough above him, he heard the silken rustle of her skirt as she moved, still trying to touch something beyond her reach; and the something was a long piece of filmy lace that the heedless wind had carried high up on the rose tree. Roger walked around the other side of the bush, and bowing low, hat in hand, as when he bowed to the Queen, said,—

“Madam, permit me,” and carefully disentangling the lace, handed it to her with another bow.

“I thank you very much,” she said, curtseying deeply. “I should have lost my lace but for you. ’Tis my custom, like many ladies who reside near here, to wash and bleach my laces in this sunny meadow in the springtime. And this day, being sure that few, if any, persons would be here, I brought my treasures. I feared I should lose this piece, which you have so kindly rescued for me.”

Her voice had a reed-like sweetness, and there was in her manner a kind of haughty ease and graceful arrogance. She was, indeed, so perfectly composed that a horrid thought entered Roger’s mind: she might be married! She looked to be about twenty years of age. Both had spoken in English, but Roger at once detected a slight foreign accent in her speech.

“The quiet here is very sweet, after the noise and brawling of the town and the terrace,” he said boldly, determined not to let her depart without a word. “I too knew this meadow would not be much frequented to-day, and so I came; and the quietness and the sweetness put me to sleep.”

She smiled quite broadly at this, and without the least embarrassment replied,—

“I saw you sleeping, and stepped as carefully as I could; the rustle of my gown was very near you.”

“I knew it,” coolly replied Roger; “I felt it in my sleep.”

My lady was by no means disconcerted at this daring speech, but was rather amused at it. Something in her manner, without the least rudeness, indicated superiority, and this secretly nettled Roger, who thereupon put something in the tone of his voice and the glance of his eye that indicated perfect equality.