A MAIDEN ST. GEORGE
After breakfast the following morning, while Sir Richard and I were
sipping our morning draught in the dingy little library, he brought up
the subject of the night before.
"As you justly observed, Baron Ned," my uncle began, restraining his
emotion as best he could, "sooner or later my daughters will have to face
the world alone. I am of no help to them now, and perhaps shall be no
loss when I am gone, but it is like taking the heart out of me to send my
beautiful girl to this unholy king; the wickedest man in the vilest court
on earth. But it must be done. God help me and save her!"
"I will not go!" cried Frances, running into the room from the hallway,
and kneeling by her father's chair.
"I fear you must, Frances," answered Sir Richard. "There, there, we'll
say it is settled and let it rest a few days, so that we may grow used to
the thought before making our plans in detail."
* * * * *
After dinner I missed Frances, and when I asked Sarah where she had gone,
I received answer in one word: "Walking."
"Alone?" I asked. Sarah smiled.
In a moment I said, "I think I, too, shall go walking."
"The Bourne Path is pretty," suggested Sarah.
"Will you come with me?" I asked.
Again Sarah smiled, shaking her head for answer, and I set off, taking my
way down the path which wound beside a rocky bourne, a distance of
several miles in the direction of Hamilton House, one of the country
places of Count Hamilton.
When I reached a point perhaps half a league from Sundridge, I saw a lady
and gentleman walking leisurely ahead of me. Her hand was on his arm, and
his head was bent toward her, evidently in earnest conversation. Her head
drooped prettily, indicating a listening mood, and the two seemed very
much like lovers in the early wooing stage. At once I recognized the
beautiful figure of my cousin Frances. The gentleman I did not know,
seeing only his back, though there was something familiar to me in the
tall, straight form, the broad shoulders, and the graceful carriage of
the head. He was a cavalier, every inch of him, from his long, dark,
slightly curling hair to the golden buckles on his shoes. He carried his
beaver hat in his hand, dragging the rich plume on the ground.
I hastened forward, but they were so interested in each other that they
did not know of my presence till I asked:--
"Cousin, won't you introduce me?"
Frances turned with a little scream, and the gentleman spun around
quickly, putting on his hat and dropping my cousin's hand, which he had
been holding. At first my surprise deprived me of the power to think, but
soon I recovered self-control, and said:--
"Ah, there is no need to introduce me, cousin. I already know Master
Hamilton."
"Yes," stammered the gentleman, holding out his hand, "Baron Ned and I
know each other well."
I did not take his hand, and when I saw anger mounting to his eyes, I
explained with the best smile at my command:--
"I do not take your hand, sir, because I have that to say to my cousin
which will greatly displease you. I am glad to have the opportunity of
saying it in your presence, as I dislike speaking ill of a man behind his
back."
"You need speak no ill of Master Hamilton either in his presence or
behind his back, if you intend to do so on my account," interrupted
Frances, throwing back her head defiantly.
But I was not to be halted in my duty. Here was a future duchess in
danger of being lost to the world for the sake of a vicious, penniless
gambler, having neither title, estates, nor character.
"I do not ask your permission, cousin," I answered, bowing and smiling,
for it is well to keep one's temper in such a case. "What I shall say is
the truth, word for word, and Master Hamilton himself shall be the
arbiter."
"Speaking the truth may be a great impertinence," remarked Frances,
trying to hide her anger under an air of carelessness.
"True," I returned. "And what I have to say will confirm your position.
Shall I speak now before Master Hamilton, or shall I say what I have to
say in your father's presence and send to Master Hamilton later a full
account of my remarks?"
"For my part, sir, I shall be glad to hear whatever you have to say now,"
interrupted Hamilton, with an angry gleam in his eyes and a poor attempt
at a smile playing about his mouth.
I would say here that I was confronting one of the bravest men in England
and one of the best swordsmen in the world. While he was not prone to
seek a quarrel, he certainly had never avoided one because of fear of his
antagonist.
I took advantage of my cousin's silence and, turning to Hamilton, said:
"If I speak one work of untruth, you are at liberty to give me the lie."
Then turning to Frances, I continued: "What I have to say, cousin, is
this, Master Hamilton is one of the most disreputable men at court."
Frances drew back, startled, and Hamilton grasped his sword hilt, drawing
the blade half from its scabbard.
I bowed, smiled, and said: "Tut, tut, Hamilton! A lady should never see a
naked sword blade. Later, later, of course, at your pleasure! I shall be
found at my uncle's house in Sundridge during the next three or four
days. After that you know my lodgings in the Wardrobe at Whitehall. I
shall be delighted to receive your messenger, if it is your pleasure,
after you have heard what I have to say."
His sword disappeared, and his smile broadened to a grim laugh: "You're
right, baron. Pardon my haste. There's ample time, ample time."
Turning to my cousin, I took up my thread: "Master Hamilton is penniless,
which is no small failing in itself. Therefore he lives by gambling,
which might be excusable if he did not cheat. In gambling, you know,
cousin, the mere law of chance will not put much money in a man's purse.
Good luck is but another name for skill in trickery. If one would thrive
by cards and dice, one must be a thief."
There was another angry movement by Hamilton, which I interrupted,
smiling, bowing, and saying, "Let us talk this matter over calmly,
smilingly, if possible."
"I'll smile when I can," returned Hamilton, made more angry, if that were
possible, by a paradoxical inclination to laugh. "Proceed, baron,
proceed! I am becoming interested in myself."
Frances gave a nervous little laugh, looked first to Hamilton, then to me
and back again, as though she would ask what it all meant, and I
continued:--
"As I have said, Frances, Master Hamilton and his friends live by
cheating at cards and other games in a manner to make all decent men
avoid play with them. They pluck strangers and feather their purses from
new geese who do not know their methods. They also derive considerable
revenue from passé women who have more wealth than beauty, are more
brazen than modest, and more generous than chaste."
"I'll not listen to another word!" exclaimed Frances, looking up to
Hamilton in evident wonder at his complacency.
"Just one moment longer, Frances," I insisted. "Master Hamilton's
intimate friends have been known on more than one occasion to stoop to
the crimes of theft, robbery, and even murder to obtain money, and have
escaped punishment only because of royal favor. I do not say that Master
Hamilton has ever participated in these crimes, but he knew of them, did
not condemn them, helped the criminals to escape justice, and retained
the guilty men as his associates and nearest friends. Add to this list
the fact that Hamilton is a roué and a libertine, to whom virtue is but a
jest, and with whom no pure woman, knowing him, would be seen alone, and
I believe I have drawn a picture of a man who is in no way fit to be
your companion in a lonely stroll. On the other hand, he is a brave man,
a generous enemy, a staunch friend, and a ready help at all times to the
needy. Now I have finished what has been a disagreeable though imperative
duty. Doubtless it has been disagreeable to you, also, Master Hamilton,
but--"
"On the contrary," he interrupted, in low tones, and with bowed head.
"But, of course, I am ready to stand by my words," I continued. "And now,
sir, you may, if you wish, say to Mistress Jennings that I have lied.
Doubtless she will believe you, in which case it shall be my pleasure to
send a messenger to you, thereby saving you the trouble of sending one to
me."
I put on my hat and awaited his reply. His hat was in his hand, and his
face was bent toward the ground, his air of ironical politeness having
left him. Frances turned to him and was about to speak, but, noticing the
peculiar expression in his face and attitude, remained silent. After a
long pause Hamilton spoke without lifting his eyes:--
"I suppose no other man ever received such an arraignment in cold blood
as I have just heard from Baron Clyde." Then turning hesitatingly to my
cousin, "But I am sorry to say it is true, Mistress Jennings, true in
every word."
He looked into my eyes, again bowed his head, and spoke after a long
silence: "Baron Ned, I can almost find it in my heart to thank you for
having done your duty so bravely. I have known for some time that I am
not fit to be this lady's companion and that I have no right to seek her
friendship."
I bowed low, without speaking, and after another long pause he looked up
to me again as he asked:--
"Now will you take my hand?"
"Gladly, George," I answered, giving him my hand, which he held for a
moment and dropped without a word, a strange smile playing about his
lips.
Naturally enough, Frances was at a loss how to act. Tears of vexation
came to her eyes, and she turned from us to dry them with her
handkerchief. She failed to find the handkerchief, so she turned to
George, who, seeing her need, drew it from his pocket where she had left
it for safe-keeping. The first favor a young girl shows to a man when
she finds herself in a "coming on disposition" is to hide some of her
intimate personal belongings in his pocket. The little incident of the
handkerchief caused us all to laugh and went a long way toward making us
easy.
Hamilton's frankness had taken part of the wind out of my sails, and his
open confession had at least paved the way for absolution, which I feared
might be followed by disastrous results, since to forgive always makes
the heart grow fonder.
Presently Hamilton turned to Frances, saying: "You may better appreciate
your cousin's fidelity to your interest when I tell you that in speaking
thus frankly to you, he placed himself in danger of two misfortunes, both
of which, probably, he felt sure would befall him. Please do not think
that I boast, but it is true, nevertheless, that my sword point is
considered one of the most dangerous in England. Doubtless Baron Ned
expected to be called upon to stand by his words. Furthermore, he is a
suitor for my sister's hand, as you may know, and of late has sought my
friendship, in part, no doubt, for the purpose of forwarding his cause."
At this point he turned toward me and smiled. I, too, smiled, though not
joyously, for I thought surely this affair would ruin all my chances with
Mary.
"Therefore," continued Hamilton, "he had much to lose in arraigning me,
and nothing to gain but your welfare. You must see that it was
unselfishly done. If there is gratitude in your heart, give it here." He
placed his hand on my shoulder and, after a long pause and an apparent
effort, finished what he had to say: "Forget me. I am unworthy to speak
your name or to have the great joy of hearing you speak mine."
This was taking the wind out of my sails at a great rate. In truth, it
was taking the sails themselves, though I believed he was not speaking
for sake of the advantage. In a moment he bowed low, sweeping the plume
of his hat in the dust, saying as he left us:--
"Farewell, Mistress Jennings, and thank you, Baron Ned. You say I am a
staunch friend. You have still to learn the whole truth of your praise."
Turning instantly, he hastened away from us down the Bourne Path, and
though we waited for him to look back, he disappointed us, and soon was
lost as he passed beyond a bend. Frances was weeping gently, and I, too,
felt a lump in my throat, not because of what I had said or done, but
because of the unexpected good I had found in Hamilton, whom I had always
liked; good, which up to that time I had never suspected, having always
seen him in the shadow of a throne.
When Hamilton had disappeared, I asked Frances if we should return
to Sundridge, and she answering by a nod, we started home, each of us
heavy-hearted, one of us weeping pathetically. Her heart had just
received its first sharp blow, and I pitied her, for the first one hurts.
After walking a little way in silence, I remarked, "There is no reason
why we should add to your father's troubles by telling him of this
affair."
"Nor Sarah," sobbed Frances. "She is like a wasp--all sting." After a
long pause devoted to drying her eyes, she continued, "But it has not
been much of an affair."
"I am not asking what it has been, Frances," I returned, speaking
tenderly, for I knew her heart was sore. "I have no right to ask."
"Yes, you have the right to ask," she replied, earnestly. "You have
earned it to-day, if never before. I'll tell you all about it. You see I
did not know--I did not think it possible--that he was the evil person
you described. To me he seemed as high-minded as he was gallant and
handsome."
"He is high-minded in many respects," I said, "and might have been a
decent man in all respects had he lived under other conditions. He is far
the best of what is known at court as 'the Royal Clique,' and is an angel
of goodness compared with the king and his despicable son, James Crofts,
Duke of Monmouth. Do you want to tell me where and how you met Hamilton?"
After a moment's silence she began her pathetic little narrative,
hesitating at first, but gathering courage as she spoke:--
"I first saw him on the street in St. Albans, more than a month ago. Of
course I did not look directly at him, but I saw him and knew that he was
looking at me. I have been used to being stared at by men since I was a
child of twelve--I am past eighteen now, you know--and learned long
ago not to resent an impertinence which is alike unavoidable and, in a
poor way, flattering. But there was this difference: when he stared at me
I blush to say I liked it, nor should I have repulsed him had he spoken
to me. He was the first man I had ever seen that had really attracted me.
You are not a woman, therefore you cannot understand me fully. You see, a
man goes to a woman; a woman is drawn to a man, usually, I suppose,
against her will. I know little about the subject, this being my first,
and, I hope, my last experience, but--"
"And I, too, hope," I interrupted.
"Yes," she continued quickly. "But do you know I can almost understand
the feeble, hopeless resistance which the iron tries to exert against the
magnet. But, cousin Ned, it is powerless."
Here she brought her handkerchief to her eyes, and I exclaimed
regretfully, "Oh, Frances, I am surprised and sorry!"
"Yes, yes! I, too, was surprised, and was so sorry that I wept through
the whole night following my first sight of him, and between shame for
what I felt and longing to see him again, I suffered terribly. I prayed
for strength against this, my first temptation, and then my heart shrunk
in fear lest I should never again be tempted. The next day I walked out
on the Bourne Path toward Hamilton House and met him. To my shame I
confess that I looked at him. He stopped, bowed low before me, and asked
if he might introduce himself, since there was no one else to do that
office for him. He said that soon Lord St. Albans would be up from
London and would introduce him to my father. But having seen me the day
before at St. Albans, he was unable to wait; therefore, he was at that
moment on his way to Sundridge, hoping to see me. He seemed confused and
shy, but from what you say, I fear he was not."
"Oh, yes, he was," I interrupted, in fine irony. "George Hamilton is as
shy and as modest as the devil himself."
"I fear it is true," she answered smiling faintly and sighing.
I could see plainly that she did not look upon satanic modesty as a
serious fault in itself, and I fear it is not objectionable to her sex.
It is the manner of brazenness more than the fact which is offensive.
George's modest-faced boldness was both alluring and dangerous.
As she progressed she grew eager in her narrative, and after two or three
false starts, continued: "Then he said that Count Hamilton, our neighbor,
was his brother. I was silent for a moment, but presently was so foolish
as to say that I had seen him at St. Albans and had asked a shopkeeper
who he was. You see I was confused. I had not at all intended to say that
I had seen him, and certainly would have concealed the fact that I had
asked about him. But I said what I said because I could not help it."
"On that ground it may be excusable," I suggested.
"No, no," she protested. "It can be excused on no grounds. But I did it,
and it can't be helped now. Without waiting for permission, he turned,
and we walked together almost to Hamilton House. I suppose, under the
circumstances, he considered it best not to ask for a permission which
might have been refused, and from his standpoint doubtless he was right.
Take without asking seems to be man's best method with woman. When I saw
we were approaching Hamilton House, I turned about for home, hoping, yet
fearing, that he would not go back with me. But he did."
"Yes, you were sure to be disappointed in that respect," I answered. And
she continued hastily:--
"Yes, he walked all the way with me. Before reaching Sundridge stile, I
asked him to leave me. That was another mistake, for it gave to our
meeting a clandestine appearance. He said my word was law to him, and
that he would obey, though to do so, that is, to leave me, was pain, you
understand."
"Yes, I can understand that he did not want to leave you," I answered.
But I saw that she had not finished, so I remained silent, and in a
moment she continued:--
"He had been so respectful to me throughout that I thought him a modest,
well-behaved gentleman, and--"
I laughed, interrupting her to explain: "All art, Frances, all art.
You'll find much of that manufactured modesty at court. It is the trump
card in the game of love and is but a cloak for brazenness."
"Yes, I so found it," she answered, drooping her head, "for when he was
about to leave me at a secluded spot, he took my hand and would have
kissed me without so much as 'By your leave,' had I not caught his intent
before it was too late. I drew away, inclined to be angry, and said,
'Sir, one may overrun one's course by going too fast.'"
"That truism, under like circumstances at court, would have made you
famous," I said, pleased alike with her naïvetè and her wisdom.
"I tried, with fair success, to appear offended," she continued, blushing
deeply, "but the awful truth certainly is that I was not. I suppose it is
true that women like boldness and do not find wickedness in men as
distasteful as mothers say it is."
"On the contrary," I remarked, growing more and more delighted with her
wisdom, innocence, and candor.
"Yes," she continued, blushing exquisitely, "even since you have told me
how wicked he is, I am not sure that I like him less, though I fear him
and shall avoid him as I should a pestilence."
"Ah, but will you, can you, Frances?" I asked.
"Indeed, yes, brother Ned, and if you doubt me, you don't know me," she
returned.
"But do you know yourself?" I asked.
"Yes, now I do, thanks to your bravery," she answered.
"But you saw him many times after his first bold attempt," I suggested.
"Oh, it was easily forgiven," she returned, naïvely. "Yes, I have met him
almost every day since then. The days I did not see him seemed to be
blanks in my life. After his first boldness, he was always courteous. He
never again became familiar, but seemed to try only to convince me of his
regard in most respectful terms, and--and I listened all too willingly,
but made no answer save what I could not conceal in my manner. That, I
fear, was answer all too plain. But now you have opened my eyes, and I
see clearly. I owe you a debt of gratitude I can never repay."
"If you go to court, this affair will have been a good lesson," I
returned encouragingly. "For there you must learn to despise the
proffered love of men, whether it be pretended or real, until one comes
who is worthy of you in person, wealth, and station."
"Yes, I shall," she answered earnestly. "But here we are at home. As you
suggest, let us not speak of this poor little affair."
"By no means," I answered, as I opened the gate.
"And Baron Ned," she said, holding me back for a moment, "have no fear
that I shall lose my heart at court to the detriment of my fortune. I may
not consider myself--only my father and my house. It is my duty to make
him happy, and I am going to do it without regard to any other purpose in
life. My having known Master Hamilton will not only keep other men out of
my heart, but will help me to know them and will lead me to fear them
when I go to court."
Later in the evening my cousin and I walked out in town, and I had a long
talk with her, partly concerning Hamilton, a theme to which she always
returned, and partly concerning conditions she would meet if she became a
maid of honor. And my faith in her grew as we talked.
That night I went to sleep convinced that my beautiful cousin was strong
enough and shrewd enough to evade all the pitfalls of Whitehall, and that
her experience with Hamilton had been the one thing needful to make her
keenly alive to her danger. I felt that she was safe, but--
Near the hour of two o'clock the next afternoon, Sir Richard and I,
returning from a short walk, did not find Frances at home, so I made my
way to the Bourne Path, thinking it hardly possible that in the face of
yesterday's events Frances could have gone to meet Hamilton. Still one
can never tell; therefore I took the benefit of the doubt and set forth
to make sure.
When perhaps two miles from Sundridge, the day being warm, I climbed to a
ledge of rock on the shelving bank of the bourne, twelve or fifteen feet
above the path, and sat down to rest in the cool shade of a clump of
bushes. Below me, perhaps five or six feet above the path and far enough
back among the bushes to be hidden from passers-by, was another rocky
shelf or bench, admirably fitted to accommodate two persons.
Sarah had told me, after much questioning, that Frances had left home
only a few minutes before Sir Richard and I had returned. I had walked
rapidly, and as I had not overtaken her, I concluded I was on the wrong
scent.
Within ten minutes I discovered that I was not on the wrong scent, for,
much to my surprise, sorrow, and disgust, I saw Frances and Hamilton come
around a turn in the path, push aside the bushes as though they knew the
place, enter the dense thicket bordering the path, and sit down on the
rocky bench beneath me. My first impulse was to speak, but for many
reasons I determined to listen. Silence reigned below me during the next
minute or two, and then Hamilton spoke:--
"You must deem me a coward, Mistress Jennings, since I did not call your
cousin to account for what he said yesterday?"
"No," she answered. "It was brave of you to refrain. It must be a great
deal easier for a gentleman to resent an insult than to endure it. My
cousin said as much to me yesterday evening. He said he had always known
that you were brave, but that he had not expected to find in you the
moral courage to bear his words with equanimity. He also said he was glad
he did not have to meet you in a duel, because you were so greatly his
superior with the sword. It was brave of you not to challenge him.
Perhaps it was on my account you desisted."
"No, it was because I respected him far more than any man I have ever
known, and because he told the truth. Do not speak of my bravery in the
same breath with his. He was as cool as though he were telling an amusing
story."
"He certainly was," returned Frances, laughing softly and closing with a
sigh.
"But he had truth on his side, and truth is a great stimulant to
courage," remarked Hamilton.
Frances sighed again, diligently studying her hands resting listlessly on
her lap.
"Yes, he told the truth," continued Hamilton. "That is why I sent the
letter to you early this morning, asking you to meet me for the last
time--the last time, Frances. This is not a mere promise to lure you on,
but the truth, for I have learned my lesson from Baron Ned, and with
God's help, I, too, shall hereafter protect you from all evil, including
myself. It is not the Hamilton of yesterday who is speaking to you, but a
new man, born again in the fierce light your cousin threw upon me. I
feared you might resent his effort to protect you, and I wanted to tell
you again that he spoke nothing but the truth, and that he did his duty
where another man less brave would have failed."
Frances sighed audibly, and I was sure her eyes were filled with tears.
"Hereafter I shall be as honest with you and as brave for your welfare as
Baron Ned was yesterday," said Hamilton, his voice choking with emotion.
"I see you now for the last time, unless--" He stopped speaking for a
moment and, taking her hand, continued hesitatingly, "Does the thought
pain you?"
"I suppose I should say no," answered the girl, withdrawing her hand.
"But you see, I, too, have a little moral courage, and, in the face of an
inevitable future, do not fear to say, yes, the greatest pain I have ever
known."
He moved toward her with evident intent to embrace her, but she rose,
saying calmly, almost coldly:--
"Master Hamilton, do you wish me to leave you?"
In Hamilton's place, I should have preferred trying to embrace St.
George's dragon rather than the girl standing before him.
Hamilton bowed with humility and said: "Please do not fear. Sit down and
hear me out. I shall not detain you long."
She sat down, seeming to feel that notwithstanding her recent admission,
there was no danger of further unseemly demonstration on Hamilton's part.
"I want to say," continued Hamilton, "that while Baron Ned spoke the
truth, I have never been guilty of the crimes which it is said some of my
friends have committed. I am unworthy enough in every respect, but I am
innocent of murder and robbery. I shall mend my ways from now on. I don't
ask you to believe in me, but when I am at all worthy of your kind
regard, I shall tell you, and you _may_ believe me, for from this day
forth I shall try to be as truthful as Baron Ned. No man can be more so."
Frances sighed and answered, "I hope so."
Hamilton again took her hand, which she now permitted him to retain, and
continued: "If I am ever so fortunate as to gain wealth and position
worthy of you, I shall kneel at your feet, if you are free to hear me. If
the good fortune never comes, this will be our farewell."
"I hope the good fortune will come soon, for your sake, and--" But she
did not finish.
"Yes, yes, and--and--?" asked George, pleadingly.
"Yes, and for my own sake," she answered, turning her face from him,
probably to hide the tears that were in her eyes.
"I shall see that good fortune does come," said he, "but I do not ask you
to wait an hour for it. If happiness comes to you in the right man--I
cannot finish. Good-by!"
He rose, bent over her, kissed her hand, and was about to leave her
hastily, evidently in fear of himself. But she clung to his hand and,
drawing him down to her, offered him her lips. At first he seemed to draw
away, but unable to resist, caught her in his arms, kissed her, and fled.
Frances thrust aside the bushes and watched him as he walked rapidly down
the path. When he turned, just before reaching the bend, she kissed her
hand to him, murmuring as though speaking to herself, "Good-by, good-by!"
Then she sat down and covered her face with her hands.
After a short time she rose, dried her eyes, and started home, and in a
few minutes I climbed the hill and took a short cut to Sundridge. I
reached home before Frances, and, notwithstanding all I had seen, was
fully convinced that she would be as safe in Whitehall Court as in her
father's house.
* * * * *
That evening Frances and I walked out together, and I, feeling stricken
in conscience, confessed that I had witnessed the interview between her
and Hamilton. She was surprised, and at first was inclined to be angry,
but she had so little vindictiveness in her nature and was so gentle of
disposition that her ill-temper was but the shadow of anger, and soon
passed away. Then, too, her good common sense, of which she had an ample
fund, came to her help and told her that whatever I had done was for her
own good. So the rare smile, which was one of her greatest charms, came
to her face, like the diaphanous glow of a good spirit, rested for a
moment on her lips, mounted to her eyes and faded slowly away, as though
it would linger a moment to ask my forgiveness.
"I am glad I witnessed the interview," said I, drawing her hand through
my arm to reassure her, "for notwithstanding all that happened, I now
feel sure you are to be trusted."
"But am I?" she asked, showing a self-doubt which I wished to remove.
"Yes, you will have no greater trial at court than the one through which
you have just passed. You have combated successfully not only your own
love, but the love of the man you love."
"Ah, Baron Ned, don't!" she exclaimed, in mild reproach, shrinking from
the thought I had just uttered so plainly.
"It is always well to look misfortunes squarely in the face," I answered.
"It helps one to despise them. The thing we call bad luck can't endure a
steady gaze."
"It will help me in one respect,--this--this--what has happened," she
returned, hanging her head.
"In what way?" I asked, catching a foreboding hint of her meaning.
She hesitated, but, after an effort, brought herself to say, "I shall
never again have to combat my own heart, and surely that is the hardest
battle a woman ever has to fight."
"Because your heart is already full?" I asked.
She nodded "Yes," her eyes brimming with tears.
Her heart was not only full of her first love, which of itself is a
burden of pain to a young girl, but also it was sore from the grief of
her first loss, the humiliation of her first mistake, and the pang of her
first regret for what might have been.
"It will all pass away, Frances," I returned assuringly.
"Ah, will it, Baron Ned? You know so much more about such matters than I,
who know nothing save what I have learned within the last few weeks."
"I feel sure it will," I answered.
"I wish I felt sure," she returned, trying to smile, but instead
liberating two great tears that had been hanging on her lashes.
After pausing in thought a moment, she said: "But I believe I should
despise myself were I to learn that what I have just done had been
prompted by a mere passing motive. I shall never again see him as I have
seen him. Of that I have neither fear nor doubt, but this I cannot help
but know: he is the first man who has ever come into my heart, and I fear
that in all my life I shall never be able to put him out entirely."
"But you may see him at Whitehall," I suggested. "What then?"
"If he remains there, I shall not. But when he learns that his presence
will drive me away, I know he will leave," she answered.
"I believe you estimate him justly. Did you tell him you were going to
court?" I asked.
"No," she answered, "because I am not sure that I shall go."
"Then we'll not tell him," I suggested.
"Nor any one else?" she asked.
"By all means, no one else," I replied. "I am sure you will win in this
beauty contest, but you might fail, in which case we should be sorry if
any one knew of the attempt."
"I shall not fail," she answered confidently, though not in vanity.
"But Hamilton said he would return to the siege when he had made his
fortune," I suggested.
"Of that I have no hope," she returned dolefully, "and I shall put him
out of my thoughts if I can, as soon as I can."
"It must be done now," I returned emphatically.
"Ay, it is easy to say 'now,' but 'now' is a hard, hard time. It is much
easier to do a difficult thing to-morrow. But do not fear, Baron Ned. It
shall be done, and I shall marry a duke or an earl, loathing him."
She was almost ready to weep, so, believing that she would like to be
alone, I left her.
Within half an hour she was at home, sitting in a low chair by her
father's side, laughing, happy, and beautiful, with that rare,
indefinable home charm a woman may have which is as far beyond the mere
beauty of hair and skin and eyes as the sparkle of a bright mysterious
star is beyond the beauty of the moon's pale sheen.
With all my cousin's marvellous beauty, her rarest charm lay in her
gracious manner, her unobtrusive vivacity, and her quaint combination of
Sarah's Machiavellian wisdom with the intense femininity of Eve. Add to
these qualities the unmistakable mark which a pure heart leaves on the
face, and we complete the picture of one who in a short time was
acknowledged to be without a peer in Whitehall, the most famous beauty
court the world has ever known.
Before I left Sundridge it had been agreed among us all that Frances
should go to London, though the plans had not been arranged nor the time
fixed. There was no need of haste, as the choosing of the maids would not
be closed for two months or more. I left with my uncle funds necessary
for the purchase of gowns, and the payment of other expenses, and, with
his consent, undertook to notify the Duchess of York that Frances would
seek to enter her Grace's service in the near future. Then I went back to
London, and when next I saw my cousin it was in the shadow of a tragedy.
My uncle's humble friend, Roger Wentworth, the leather merchant of
Sundridge, had a brother living in London, who was also a leather
merchant, Sir William Wentworth. He had been Lord Mayor at one time, and
had been knighted by the king because of a loan made by the city to his
Majesty. Sir William was an honest, simple man, who cared little to rise
above his class, but he had a wife who thrilled to the heart whenever she
heard the words "Lady Wentworth," and experienced a spasm of delight
whenever she saw her name in the news letters or journals.
Sir William had a son, also, who imagined himself to be ornamental, but
laid no claim to usefulness of any sort. Lady Wentworth concurred
heartily and proudly in her son's opinion of himself and encouraged his
uselessness to a point where it became worthlessness. But Sir William
took no pains to conceal his disappointment and disgust. Young William
held a small post at court, and, being supplied with money by his mother,
was one of the evil spirits of the set composed of Crofts, Berkeley,
Little Jermyn, the court lady-killer, and others too numerous and too
vicious to mention. Wentworth was goose to these pluckers and was willing
to give his feathers in exchange for their toleration.
* * * * *
Shortly after I left Sundridge, Sir Richard learned that Roger
intended journeying to London in the course of a month to buy leather,
so he asked him to take Frances with him. To this request Roger gladly
and proudly assented. He usually travelled a-horseback to London, but
this being a state occasion, he brought out his old coach, a huge
lumbering concern, and had it painted a brilliant green in honor of his
fair passenger-to-be. Roger also promised Frances the services of his
sister-in-law with the Duchess of York, a help so great, in Roger's
opinion, that it could not be overestimated.
I had been at home more than a month before Frances started on her
journey. I did not know when she expected to leave Sundridge, as we had
agreed that she should notify me as soon as she reached London.
I had seen George on several occasions after my return from Sundridge,
and although he said little about himself, I knew from others that he
was at least trying to quit his old way of life and to avoid his evil
friends. Soon after my return to court he went to France, and I did
not see him again for several months, although he came home, most
unfortunately, and spent a day or two in London at the time of Frances's
arrival, of which he knew nothing until after his return to France.
All that took place at Sundridge after I left there and the occurrences
on my cousin's journey to London, I learned from her and from Hamilton
afterwards, though I shall write them down now in the order of their
happening.
Early one morning Roger presented himself at my uncle's house with the
huge green coach drawn by two horses so fat that they could hardly
breathe, driven by an old servant, Noah Sullivan, who was so fat that at
times he could not breathe at all.
The season was fair for travelling, and barring a heavy rain, the road to
London would be good. But it had a bad reputation for highwaymen, and no
cautious man with anything to lose cared to risk a journey after dark,
especially near London, save with a guard. Roger was taking with him a
thousand pounds in gold; therefore it was desirable that he and his fair
passenger should reach the city before nightfall. To do this with the fat
horses, he must start early,--a fact of which Frances had received due
notice.
On the appointed morning she was ready when the coach drove up. Her box
was placed in the boot, and she took a seat beside her old friend Roger,
giving vent to the tears she had held back so bravely while saying
good-by to her father and Sarah, who were to move up to London in case
she remained at court.
Wheezy old Noah on the box cracked his whip, the fat horses in the traces
pulled and grunted, the coach creaked and groaned, the wheels turned and
Frances had set forth, a maiden St. George, to fight the dragon of
Whitehall, compared to which the old-time monster was but a bleating
lamb. Roger had hoped to be in his brother's house long before sundown,
but when he reached that justly famous halfway house, the Cock and Spur,
Noah insisted that the fat horses were so badly winded that a rest of
several hours was necessary before they could proceed a step farther.
Roger argued with his Master of Horse, but to no purpose. The fat horses
rested till near the hour of five, when Noah yielded to his master's
importunities and the journey was resumed. Meantime an unexpected rain
had begun to fall, which increased in violence as night approached. The
road grew heavier as the journey progressed, and the wheezy horses
required rest so frequently that Roger began to fear for the safety of
his gold and his fair passenger.
Supper time approached, but Roger was so anxious to reach London before
dark that he asserted his right as master and refused to stop at an inn
where Noah had drawn up the horses, insisting that they be fed.
Considerable time was lost in argument with Noah, but at last they took
the road once more, which by that time had become very heavy. Night fell
without twilight, because of the storm, and the travellers were overtaken
by darkness just as they reached the most dangerous part of the road
within less than a league of London.
The road grew heavier with every turn of the wheels, the horses wheezed
dismally, and Roger groaned inwardly. He kept his head out of the coach
door most of the time, looking for trouble, and found it before his
journey's end. Noah lighted the great lanthorn and hung it in front of
the dashboard, his only cause of anxiety being the horses, until a
greater arose.