The House of Egremont

by Molly Elliot Seawell

“I thought, Mr. Egremont, you would let none abuse your relations,” said Michelle, smiling.

“None but myself, mademoiselle, at all events. I will say this for myself—that as long as I was free and could live like a gentleman, I behaved myself as such. ’Twas nothing but the agony of my untrained mind—the fears and miseries of an ignorant, unlettered man—which drove me to evil ways in Newgate prison. From them, books, under God’s grace, rescued me. Why should I not love books and be forever grateful to them?”

When next they met, it was at an evening levee in the grand saloon at the château at Christmas time. The poor exiles tried to make an English Christmas, as far as they could. Not even evergreens were cheap in France,—where all growing wood is dear,—but they managed to have some holly and cedar to trim the saloon with, and a great Yule log in the fireplace, and a bowl of good liquor flowing. There were healths proposed by the King and Queen, and Berwick gave the health of the Prince of Wales, the little lad standing upon the table and clapping his tiny hands with pleasure; and afterwards there was dancing to a couple of fiddles, and Roger had the heavenly bliss of leading Michelle out and dancing with her. Then, after the dance was over, and Roger had paid her the compliment always observed at St. Germains,—“I hope, madam, I shall have the pleasure of dancing with you one day before his Majesty at the palace of Whitehall,”—they stood together in one of the deep windows, and looked out upon the gardens and terrace and meadows bathed in the white radiance of the December moon. And Michelle, who seemed determined to know all about Roger’s past, said,—

“Is this anything like your English home?”

That was enough; Roger poured out his story of Egremont, the place he loved so well, and then inevitably, he told of Hugo. Roger Egremont, although gifted with that natural eloquence which made men and women listen to him closely when he talked, was yet not one of those talkers whose tongue is tied to no ear but his own. He was keen enough to see that the Princess was deeply interested in what he had to say. In truth, she was more; she observed that he had a good and graceful air in speaking, that he used gestures sparingly, but at the right time, that his voice, although soft, as became a gentleman, was rich and had a ring in it, and that his eyes were full of fire,—in short, all those little points which a woman notes in a man who pleases her; and then, when Roger stopped, with a delicious feeling of having made headway in her regard, she suddenly asked him the most disconcerting, appalling, uncomfortable, awkward, and embarrassing question of his whole life. Also, it was a question upon which Michelle had very accurate, although not very complete knowledge, and her question was directly inspired by the devil.

“And when and where, Mr. Egremont, did you make the acquaintance of that beautiful young woman, Miss Lukens, whom, I understand, you have befriended, and who is studying to sing in the King’s Opera?”

No dog marked for hanging ever had a more shame-faced look than Roger Egremont at these words. Had he been the damnablest of villains, he could not have appeared more of a poltroon. In truth had he been a villain, he would have shown a brazen assurance. Instead of which, he turned very red, shuffled his feet on the floor, looked wildly and foolishly about him, and in short, made the poorest possible figure that a man of sense could. Only one thing was clear to him—that Michelle must be well assured that his relations with Bess Lukens were altogether innocent, else she would never have mentioned her name to him; but that only opened the way to the dreadful thought that Michelle might think him capable of marrying Bess. And he could by no means reveal poor Bess’s secret, that she was the gaoler’s girl—and in short, was ever a gentleman more miserably placed by a single indiscreet question of the lady of his heart? He could only manage to stammer, “I—I—knew Miss Lukens first in Newgate prison;” and then, seeing a look of astonishment in Michelle’s black eyes, a lie which was half a truth, and served the purpose of a truth came to him, like an inspiration from heaven.

“Her uncle was in the prison,” he said boldly. “’Twas through him I first met her. She is the honestest girl alive, and the least likely to grow above her station.” At which the Princess very calmly, and with intent to torture him, told the story of Bess and the coach and Madame de Beaumanoir,—told it so archly that the wretched Roger was forced to laugh.

“And I think,” added the Princess, with sudden haughtiness, “she showed a very great disposition to forget her station on that occasion—not but that she had much provocation,” she added, remembering the Duchess’s behavior on that day.

When Roger laid himself down at cockcrow on his bed in the garret at Madame Michot’s, he could not but admit that the evening had not been on the whole bad for him; and then the thought came to him, as it often did, that were he again master of Egremont, with King James come back to his own, the family of this young lady—this penniless, landless Princess—would not reckon him a match for her; and turning and swearing in his bed, and biting the bedclothes in his helpless rage, he at last fell into sleep, to dream of Michelle.