“My uncle’s calling was the sorest thing to me in the world, Mr. Egremont. It sickens me to think how much I learned of wickedness in that dreadful prison the seven years I lived there. But knowing wickedness only made me hate it the more. I swore I would never be as most of the creatures were there, and the hatred of evil, more than the love of good, has kept me in the straight path. Madame Michot, and that good, industrious, lame Jacques do not know about the gaol, and I think not the grand gentleman, the Duke of Berwick, who helped Mr. Roger to get me in this place; but I am not sure,—I dared not ask Mr. Roger if he had told him. You knew it, though, and it takes a great load off my heart to know you’ll not tell it abroad.”
“Indeed I will not. And—and—Mistress Bess, I have my fiddle within. Could we not have some sweet music together?”
“Yes,” cried Bess, delighted, and Dicky, running toward the house, presently returned with his fiddle. He tuned up, and Bess asking if he could play “Green Sleeves,” her sweet, strong voice, and the soft and thrilling strains of the violin rose in harmony. The summer sun was near setting, and the shadows were long in the orchard. The birds ceased their twittering to listen to the music, that rose, full and strong and rich, and melted away in the darkening blue of the sky. They both stood, Dicky drawing his bow, slowly and softly, and bringing the tenderest melody forth, and then quickly changing to the merriest laughing, dancing measure, and Bess, with her heart in her eyes, her glorious voice following and intertwining and melting into the sweet strains of the violin. It was as if their two souls met and sang together. One song succeeded another, and so absorbed were they that Bess, for once, actually forgot she had work to do. Nor was it possible for the music to remain unheard at the inn. Presently Bess realized that figures were stealing into the orchard, from which the afternoon light was fading.
A loud clapping of hands after Bess had sung “Drink to me only with thine eyes” broke the spell. All the idlers from the inn had strolled out to listen. A handsome Scotch gentleman was for singing with Bess, but she, curtly declining, curtseyed and walked toward the inn.
“An ungracious jade,” said the Scotch gentleman, turning on his heel.
“The girl has sense,” muttered Monsieur Mazet, who was listening and watching from his window, overlooking the orchard.
And in that orchard, singing those simple English songs, was made the beginning of a friendship between an Egremont and the turnkey’s niece that was to last until life ended.
CHAPTER VII
IN WHICH ROGER EGREMONT MEETS WITH BOTH GOOD AND ILL FORTUNE
WHAT is reckoned ill luck at one time is counted the best of good luck at another. Roger Egremont, who had fretted continually in his heart about being tied to the King’s writing-table, now was secretly rejoiced that he had ample duty to do, because of one of his fellow-secretaries falling ill just about the time of Bess Lukens’s arrival at St. Germains. Therefore he could see but little of that brave and honest creature. The reflection gave him a strange sense of relief, and also of remorse. In his prison days he scarcely knew how he should have existed without her. And now—oh, inconstant heart of man!—he could do very well without poor Bess. Never did he falter in his friendship to her, and often congratulated himself that Bess saw no change or shadow of turning in him. But Bess had more penetration than even Roger gave her credit for.
“’Tis what I expected,” she thought, sadly. “He is good and kind and thoughtful, and I believe would give me his last shilling, or die in my defence; but I am no more necessary to him. The prison life is an unnatural life; now he has got back to the open, free life, and instead of one companion, he has many. Well, I ever wished him free, and I will not be so base as to grudge him his freedom.”