The House of Egremont

by Molly Elliot Seawell

Roger Egremont and all the rest of the corps almost loved Dutch William for giving them the opportunity, in reply to this proposal, to concoct a letter as impudent as they could make it. While not written to William of Orange, it was certain to be seen by his eye; and it was not meant to increase his self-esteem.

Roger Egremont, by reason of his fair handwriting and skill in composition, was selected to draft the letter,—the same Roger Egremont who had been as ignorant as a footman of reading and writing until Dutch William put him in the way of getting an education. Roger hated this usurping Prince as a man of free and haughty temper hates his despoiler, but he made not the mistake of undervaluing the usurper. He knew that, although William of Orange was not troubled with a conscience, or with nice points of honor, and needs must hate the English people who had cut his claws so effectively, he was yet susceptible of shame at his offers of amnesty being derided and his promises disbelieved. So it was with unction that Roger read over the draft of his letter, as he made his way one gloomy winter night to the Hall of Guards.

All of the corps were assembled, with General Buchan, their commander, together with Berwick, the Earl of Perth, and Lord Melfort and other gentlemen of the King’s suite; and in the grand saloon above, a company of the most distinguished of the exiles, chiefly ladies, had collected to applaud the unflinching loyalty of the corps.

Roger was a little late—what young man, singled out for such an honor as to compose the reply to such an offer, would not have been late and would not have relished the shout of welcome his fellows gave him, when he entered, his paper in his hand? Then, bowing modestly to the company, he waited to be invited to read what he had written; and General Buchan, sitting at the head of the great table brought in from the mess-room, around which the corps sat, motioned Roger to take place by him.

Ranged round the wall were the gentlemen of the suite and others; and Roger Egremont, standing up, straight and graceful, his gray body-coat showing off his well-made figure, read out, in a clear, ringing voice, the letter he thought fittest to meet the eye of his arch enemy, William of Orange.

“The King of France hath been kind to our master, King James, and we will fight for the King of France so long as we have a drop of blood to spend. And we may be pardoned for hesitating to accept the offers of the Prince of Orange, and preferring to take our chances in the campaign, remembering the fate of those who relied upon the promises of the Prince of Orange. Dundee and the clans fought bravely and died on the field of battle. Glencoe and his people took the oaths, became loyal and obedient servants, lived peaceably and quietly under the established government, yet they were inhumanly massacred. Now, which has the best on it? Was it not better for us to come to France and live sparingly on what our master, King James, could allow us, and when he can no longer support us, to go to the wars, and fight bravely for our master’s friend and ours, King Louis of France, than to accept the word of the Prince of Orange, and be—Glencoe’d?”

Roger made a little pause before the last word; it was a new one, coined by himself; and when he suddenly roared it out,—all the other insults to William of Orange he had spoken in a soft and dulcet voice,—there was a moment’s pause of surprised delight and rapture; and then broke forth a thundering shout that made the ladies in the saloon above them jump, and even startled King James reading his book of prayers in his closet with the Queen.

Roger stood, his eyes cast down, blushing like a girl, while the applause surged about him like a hurricane, men pounding the table and shouting, “Aye—be Glencoe’d—Glencoe’d; how the damned villain will hate that word!” and General Buchan shook Roger’s hand, and Berwick clasped him in his arms crying, “Glencoe’d! What a glorious word!”

Pity Roger Egremont. That one word, and the platter of beans dashed into the usurper’s face were his sole recompense for a great estate filched from him, three years in Newgate gaol, and poverty and exile.

The story of the bean-platter was known at St. Germains, and when the echoes of the first wild huzza were dying away, another one was started by General Buchan dryly remarking, “Would you not like to add, Mr. Egremont, that the memory of a certain platter of beans—”