The House of Egremont

by Molly Elliot Seawell

“What a wonderful woman is Madame Michot!” exclaimed Roger. “But for that one little word ‘send’ I should have brought Bess Lukens myself, and thereby set every wicked tongue in St. Germains wagging. But I cannot be too careful not to do that poor girl the slightest harm, because she stood my friend when most I needed friends.”

Next morning, about nine o’clock, Bess, having heard from Roger, presented herself at the inn of Michot. Madame Michot was in the orchard near which the sparkling river made a bend, and where the weekly washing was taking place, when the vision of a tall and beautiful young woman, stepping with careless grace over the grass, presented itself before her. It had not occurred to Roger to mention Bess’s sumptuous beauty, and when Madame Michot saw it, a thrill of fear ran up and down the good woman’s backbone. She had not meant to take the responsibility of a girl as heavily handicapped with beauty as Bess was. Why, Jacques might— However, Madame Michot, by an inspiration, glanced at Bess’s hands. They were well shaped, and not large for her size, but they bore the unmistakable marks of toil. A load was lifted from Madame Michot’s shoulders—Bess had lived by honest toil.

Bess proceeded to introduce herself, and Madame Michot met her advances kindly, replying in broken but intelligible English to her, but understanding fully all Bess had to say. And Bess, then and there rolling up the sleeves of her linen gown, fell to work with such ferocious energy and despatch that Madame Michot was astounded and delighted. Twenty-four hours made both her and Jacques enthusiastic supporters of Bess Lukens. For whatever Bess turned her hand to, she did so capably and so rapidly that it was a marvel; and Madame Michot, with her shrewd French common-sense, was the very woman to be impressed by Bess’s undeniable talent for work.

That night Roger was detained at the palace. Many despatches had come in from England, and replies had to be sent at once; so he worked in the King’s closet all day, and then, after a hurried supper in the mess-room, returned and worked until late in the evening. It was near midnight before he left the palace and crept up the stairs to his room at the inn, fearful of being caught by the roysterers in the common room; and he was in no mood for roystering. That sweet, delicate spell that had been cast over him by the twilight walk with Michelle the night before had been rudely broken. Since then he had scarcely a moment in which to recall the sound of her charming voice as she spoke, the velvety blackness of her eyes, the sweet, sweet thought that she too had lapsed into the dream which had enthralled him. He had leisure now, and when the merry crowd below had gone off singing roundels in French and English, Roger, like a true lover, hung out of his one great window, watching the stars, and trying to believe that he could catch a glimpse of the roof under which Michelle slept, far across the meadows and the woods. And when he laid himself upon his bed, it was to live over in his dreams that enchanted walk.

The sun was high in the heavens next morning when Roger was awakened by a far-off sound of singing. Down in the orchard, Bess Lukens had begun her day’s work; and as she beat the linen, her rich, untrained voice soared in a simple English ballad. Roger lay and listened, half in pleasure, half in rage, and calling himself a base, ungrateful villain to this girl, who had befriended him in his darkest hour.

He rose and dressed quickly, and went down to the orchard. There, under the dappled shade of the cherry trees in the bright morning, was Bess at work alone. She had curtly dismissed all her assistants, and by that time was hanging out the linen upon the lines strung between the trees. Madame Michot, who had come to give her some directions, was watching her with admiration. Bess wore the usual dress of girls of her class,—a short brown skirt, a white linen bodice, with the sleeves rolled up, showing her shapely arms, and a spotless white cap. Her reddish hair was plaited and tied with a black ribbon, and little curls rested upon her forehead and the white nape of her neck.

The most interested listener to her untutored singing was, however, a little old man quite unseen by any one, at the window of a house whose garden was separated from the orchard only by a wall with a door in it. This little old man, with his nightcap awry, and a dressing-gown around his shoulders, listened intently, drumming on the stone window-sill with his fingers to mark time.

“Good-morning, madam,” cried Roger, advancing, hat in hand, the August sun shining on his fair, curling hair, “and good-morning, Bess; what an excellent singer you are, and ever were!”

“’Tis not much, Master Roger,” replied Bess, who had sense enough not to call Roger familiarly by his name in the presence of others. She smiled and colored with pleasure, however, at his praise.

Madame Michot in her awkward English began to praise the singing too, but finding it insufficient, burst into a torrent of French, describing the wonderful capacity for work there was in Bess.