IT IS HARD TO BE GOOD
There is an infernal charm about sin which should have been given to
virtue, but unluckily got shifted in very early human days. And so it was
that George Hamilton had troubles of his own in this respect. When he
left Frances Jennings at Sundridge, he was aglow with good resolutions,
all of which were to be put into immediate practice, and many of which he
carried out in part by strong though spasmodic effort when he returned
to court.
His attempts to be decent at first filled his friends with surprise, then
disgust, then raillery. The untoward thing had never been tried at
Charles II's Whitehall, and it furnished a deal of talk between routine
scandals. In fact, it was looked upon as a scandal in itself.
This new phase in one of the king's own subdevils soon fell under the
notice of his Majesty, who asked George one day if he would like to have
an easy benefice in the church where he could meditate on his past and
build for the future.
"And pray for Lady Castlemain's unbaptized children, your Majesty?" asked
George, whereupon the king shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Lady
Castlemain and Charles were--well, there had been talk about them, to say
the least.
The court ladies laughed when George declined to drink himself drunk or
refused to help his former companions fleece a stranger. Nell Gwynn told
him that even his language had grown too polite for polite society, and,
lacking emphasis, was flat as stale wine. In truth, it may well be said
that George had set out to mend his ways under adverse conditions. But he
_had_ set out to do it, and that in itself was a great deal, for there is
a likable sort of virtue in every good intent. He had reached the first
of the three great R's in the act of repentance, Recognition; Regret and
Recession being the second and third--all necessary to regeneration. I
had faith in his good intentions, but doubted his ability.
Hamilton and I had become fast friends, and by his help my suit of his
sister Mary had prospered to the extent of a partial engagement of
marriage. That is to say, Mary's mother, an old worldling of the hardest
type, had thought it well to secure me and to keep me dangling, to be
landed in case no better fish took the hook. I was aware of the mother's
selfish purposes, but did not believe that Mary shared them, though I
knew her to be an obedient child. This peculiar condition of affairs
somewhat nettled me, though I do not remember that I was at all unhappy
because of it.
But to come back to George. One day, a fortnight before Frances's arrival
in London, while he and I were watching the royal brothers, King Charles
and the Duke of York, playing pall-mall, I expressed my doubts and fears
of his ultimate success in reformation so long as he remained in any way
associated with Crofts, Berkeley, Wentworth, and others of the vicious
clique.
"Yes, I know it is an uphill journey," returned George, laughing with a
touch of bitterness, "but think of my reward if I succeed!"
"Do you mean my cousin?" I asked.
"Yes, but I have little hope," he replied, though perhaps he had more
hope than he expressed.
I had told him of her intention to come to London, hoping that he would
leave before her arrival, as he did, though neither he nor I knew when
she was coming. So I asked:--
"Don't you know that she will be carried off by some rich lord before you
are half good enough for her?"
"I suppose so," he answered, with a sigh.
"You must know that she is coming for that purpose," I returned, wishing
to take all hope out of him.
He winced perceptibly and answered after a long pause, nodding his head
in the direction of the king: "There is the only man I fear--the king.
But rather than see her the victim of any man, by God, I'll kill him,
though it cost me my life the next moment!"
I was touched by the new light in which I saw him and took his arm in
friendliness as I said, "I judged you wrongfully at Sundridge."
"You were right," he answered impatiently. "You awakened in me not only a
sense of my duty to Frances, but a knowledge of my obligation to myself."
"But are you so sure of my cousin, even barring other men?" I asked,
hoping to sow the seeds of doubt.
"Yes," he answered, with emphasis. "As sure as a man may be in such a
case."
"Well, George," said I, "it warms my heart to say that I hope you will
gain wealth, station, and mode of life worthy of her, and that in the end
you may win her. My candid opinion is, however, that you will have to do
it quickly. She will accept none of these creatures at court, of that you
may be sure, but there are many worthy gentlemen in England who are rich
and of great name, who have business at court and will see her and want
her. There is Dick Talbot, Duke of Tyrconnel. He is a fine fellow,
enormously rich, and--"
"A mere lump of meat," interrupted Hamilton, angrily. "She could not love
him."
"No," I answered. "Nor do I think she will try. But it is better in
the long run that a woman respect a man, not loving him, than to love,
despising him. Respect is likely to last; all sorts of love may die. But
in any case it is Frances's intention to marry a fortune for her father's
sake, even though she has to close her eyes in doing it."
"I'll try to prevent that misfortune," he answered gloomily. "But if
she learns to love a man worthy of her, I shall take myself out of her
way forever. Let us stand together, Baron Ned, and help this girl to
happiness for life, without respect to myself. You see I'm not all bad.
In truth, I am becoming self-righteous. I have left the ranks of the
publicans and sinners and have become a Pharisee. I tell you, Baron Ned,
nothing so swells a man in the chest as the belief that he is not as
other men are."
His righteousness, at least, was not devoid of bitterness, and it is
possible that a part of his aversion to his former friends and to the
king grew out of his jealousy of them for Frances's sake.
"There is no good reason why you should allow your righteousness to
become offensive, as that of the ranter, who hates rather than pities
iniquity because, in his opinion, God is a God of vengeance," I suggested
ironically. "But rather let your virtues grow as the rose unfolds and--"
"Oh, be damned to your raillery! I'm not going to be too decent!" he
retorted, finding nothing to amuse him in my remark. Nor did he become
too decent, as will appear all too soon.
If, for a time, Hamilton's life did not conform to our desires, we must
not condemn him too harshly, for the evil which we try to throw off
clings like a bur, while the good we would keep must be tied on. Thus
much I say in anticipation. In the end he gained the battle with himself,
though his victory won him the king's hatred, put his life in jeopardy,
and brought him misfortune such as he had never before known.
Soon after the foregoing conversation, George went to Paris and remained
a few days with King Louis, whom he had known since early youth. His evil
star brought him back to London the day before Frances left Sundridge,
though, he knew nothing of her departure. I did not know of his return,
nor did I know of his remote connection with the terrible events
attending her arrival till long after they happened.
* * * * *
While Frances, Roger, and the fat horses were struggling through the mud,
the darkness, and the rain, a band of congenial spirits were gathered
about the huge fireplace in the taproom of the Leg Tavern in King Street,
Westminster, a stone's throw from Whitehall Palace. There was my Lord
Berkeley, the king's especial crony, who possessed all his royal master's
vices without any of his Majesty's meagre virtues. He imitated the king
in dress, manner, cut of beard, and even in the use of Charles's favorite
oath, "Odds fish!" an expletive too inane even to be wicked, being a
distortion of the words "God's flesh." There was young Crofts, the
king's acknowledged son, Duke of Monmouth by grace of his mother's
frailties. He was a living example of the doctrine of total depravity
in what purported to be a man. There was John Churchill, a very decent
fellow in a politic way, though in bad company. He afterward married
my laconic cousin Sarah, whose shrewdness made him the first Duke of
Marlborough, and last, I regret to chronicle, was George Hamilton,
resting from his labors at self-reform. Soon after dark another congenial
spirit, the most pusillanimous of them all, young William Wentworth, Sir
William's son and Roger's nephew, entered the taproom dripping with rain.
Before going to the fire, he called Crofts and Berkeley to one side.
Placing his arms about their necks, he drew their faces close to his and
made the following remarkable communication in a low whisper:--
"At the supper table, to-night, my worthy sire let slip the information
that my good uncle of Sundridge had been expected this afternoon. He had
not arrived when I left home fifteen minutes ago, but probably is stuck
in the mud a mile or two outside of London on the St. Albans road."
"Let him stick! What is it to us?" asked Crofts.
"Thus much it is to me," answered Wentworth. "He has with him a thousand
pounds in gold, while I, his gentleman nephew, have not a jacobus to my
name. Now the question becomes one of mere humanity. Shall we allow my
good uncle to stick in the mud, or shall we sally forth like good
Samaritans, relieve him of a part of his load, and make travelling easier
for the dear old man?"
"As men and Christians, we must hasten to his help," declared Crofts.
"But how about Hamilton and Churchill?" asked Berkeley, whose courage was
not of the quality to make a good highwayman. "Crofts has invited them
here for a feast with us. How shall we get rid of them? Hamilton has
become a mere milksop, and Churchill always was too cautious and politic
for this sort of a game. Not only will they refuse to go with us if we
tell them of our purpose, but they will try to keep us from going."
"Let us take them with us," suggested Crofts. "They won't go if we tell
them our purpose, but they will not peach if we take them with us upon
some other excuse. We'll walk ahead of them, and--but come with me to the
fire. I have a plan. All I ask you to do, Wentworth, is to shake out your
cloak, hang it before the fire, and speak of the rain and the bad night
outside. I'll do the rest! I'll fetch them! Come!"
Laughing boisterously, the three swaggered over to Hamilton and
Churchill, who were sitting by the fireside. Wentworth took off his
coat, held it before the blaze to dry, and said, with a terrible oath:--
"Bad night without! Never saw it rain so hard! Raw and cold for this time
of the year!"
Crofts ordered a fresh bowl of Rack punch; then, turning to Wentworth,
asked:--
"Raining? Who cares for a little rain? I like to be out in it. By the
way, I have a wager to offer! Ten pounds to the man to the table; winner
to take the lump!"
"Hear! Hear!" cried everybody.
"Let us all walk out on the St. Albans road without our cloaks, the last
man to turn homeward wins the entire stake."
"Good!" shouted Wentworth. "I must owe my ten pounds to the pot until
to-morrow."
"And I'll take the wager! Here's my money!" said Berkeley, throwing ten
pounds to the table.
"Will you go?" asked Crofts, addressing Hamilton.
That evening George was in a mood for any adventure having action in it,
for he was nearly out of money. He did not suspect the real purpose of
the absurd wager, and after a moment's consideration of the forty pounds
to be won, declared:--
"I'll win the pot if I have to go to Edinburgh!"
"And you, Churchill?" asked Crofts.
"You're a pack of fools, but I'll go," replied Churchill, knocking the
ashes from his pipe.
They drank their bowl of punch and immediately set off for the St. Albans
road.
"The Oxford road is nearer than the St. Albans. Why not take it?" asked
George.
"You said you were going to Edinburgh," returned Wentworth, "and,
besides, the St. Albans road is our wager, and that is the one we'll
take, unless you want to turn back and forfeit your stake."
To the St. Albans road they started, Crofts, Berkeley, and Wentworth
walking perhaps two hundred yards in advance of Churchill and Hamilton.
The rain was pouring down in torrents, and the night was so dark that
Hamilton and Churchill could not see the advance guard, though they heard
a deal of talking, laughing, and cursing ahead of them. This order of
march was what Crofts and his friends desired, for of course the wager
was not on their minds. They were hoping for something greater, and
would have been glad to release Churchill and Hamilton had they offered
to turn back. But lacking that good fortune, the valiant three evidently
hoped to meet the coach and rob it before the others came up, in which
case Crofts and his friends would deny the robbery, if accused, and would
divide the gold into three parts instead of five.
When nearly two miles from the city, Crofts, Berkeley, and Wentworth met
Roger's coach and delivered the attack as silently as possible. Just the
manner in which it was done I have never learned, since Hamilton himself
did not know the particulars of it, and Frances told me it happened so
quickly that it was over almost before she knew it had begun. She said
the horses had stopped, which was not a matter of surprise to her, as
they had been resting every few minutes, and that a man wearing a mask
entered the coach, rummaged the cushions, and was backing out with the
bag of gold in his hand when Roger seized him.
The robber was almost out of the coach, but Roger clung to him with one
hand while he drew his pistol with the other and fired. Then the man
tossed the bag of gold to one of his friends on the road, drew his sword,
thrust it in Roger's breast, and the poor old man fell back on the coach
floor at my cousin's feet. She heard some one call to Noah: "Drive on if
you value a whole skin!" and Noah, awaiting no second command, lashed the
horses with his whip until they plunged forward at a clumsy gallop.
Hamilton and Churchill, being perhaps two hundred yards down the road,
knew nothing of the trouble ahead till they heard the pistol shot, when
they ran forward, supposing their drunken friends were fighting among
themselves. They had not taken many steps when a coach passed them,
moving rapidly. As it passed, George heard a woman scream faintly, but
immediately the coach dashed out of sight. The light from Noah's lanthorn
had fallen on Hamilton's face, and Frances had recognized the man of whom
she had been thinking and dreaming all day.
I did not know, however, till long afterwards that she had seen him, nor
did he suspect that she was in the coach.
When Hamilton and Churchill came up to the robbers, Hamilton asked:--
"What was the trouble?"
"The damned old fool in the coach shot at me," answered Crofts.
"How came he to do it?" asked Churchill, suspecting the truth.
"I do not know," returned Wentworth. "He must have taken us for
highwaymen, for he thrust his head out of the door and fired a pistol at
Crofts, who was nearest the coach."
"Yes," said Crofts. "And he was about to fire again, point blank at my
head, when I drew my sword and quieted him. Matters have come to a pretty
pass when gentlemen can't walk out on the public road without becoming a
target for every frightened fool that travels in a coach. I'll learn who
this fellow is, and will see that he becomes acquainted with the interior
of Newgate or dangles to a rope on Tyburn."
"Shall we declare the wager off?" asked Wentworth, turning to Churchill
and Hamilton.
"By all means," answered Churchill.
All being willing to return, they started back to London, Wentworth,
Berkeley, and Crofts falling behind. The story they had told was not
convincing, but when Hamilton expressed his doubts to Churchill and
intimated his belief that a robbery, if not a murder, had been committed,
Churchill answered cautiously:--
"Perhaps you are right, but the less we know or think or say about this
affair, the better it will be for you and me. As for myself, I shall
leave London for a while to avoid being called as a witness in case the
matter is investigated. If we try to bring these fellows to justice, they
may turn upon us and swear that we did the deed, in which case we might
hang, for they are three to two; a good preponderance of testimony. But
in any case the king would see that no evil befell his son and his
friends. Therefore if we are wise, we shall remain silent and take
ourselves out of the way for the time being."
The next day, as I afterwards learned, George made the mistake of
returning to France, not that he feared punishment for himself, but
because he did not want to speak the unavailing truth and thereby bring
upon himself the king's wrath, nor did he want to bear false witness to
protect the criminals.
Near the hour of ten o'clock that night, Noah drew up the fat panting
horses before Sir William's house. The porter, who had been watching all
day, opened the gate, the coach entered the courtyard, Noah uttered a
hoarse "Whoa!" and almost fell off the box to the ground. As soon as he
could get on his feet again, he went to the coach door, spoke to Frances,
ran to Sir William, who was waiting at the top of the house steps, candle
in hand, to welcome Roger, and spoke but one word: "Dead!"
Frances hurriedly came from the coach, and Sir William went to meet her.
Holding out her hands to him, she cried:--
"Oh, Sir William, they have killed your brother! Robbed him and killed
him!"
Frances was incoherently explaining to Sir William when Lady Wentworth
came down the steps and led her into the house. Then the doors were
opened wide, and poor old Roger's body was carried reverently to the best
parlor.
The following morning, when I was notified that Frances was at Sir
William's house, I went to see her and learned the particulars of the
tragedy, though she said nothing at that time about having recognized any
of the highwaymen, and seemed strangely reluctant to talk about the
affair.
On the fourth day after Roger's death he was buried in
Saint-Martin's-in-the-Fields churchyard, good Sir William taking the only
means in his power to express his love for his brother by an elaborate
funeral. Never were there more beautiful hatchments seen in London. They
bore Roger's humble coat-of-arms, half in white and half in black, to
denote that the deceased had left a widow. Never were there more nor
finer white mourning scarfs distributed among the mourners, and never in
the memory of man had so much burnt sherry been served at a funeral.
These extraordinary arrangements attracted a great deal of attention
throughout London and caused Roger's murder to be talked about far and
near. The result of this publicity was that the city authorities set on
foot an investigation which soon brought Wentworth, Crofts, and Berkeley
under suspicion. The sheriffs, however, kept their suspicions to
themselves, and I heard only faint whispers of what was going on.
After the funeral Lady Wentworth invited Frances to be her guest for a
week or two, and upon my advice the invitation was accepted.
Two or three days after the funeral, while Frances and I were walking out
together, she complained of young Wentworth's attentions.
"To-day he put his arm about me," she said, laughing, though indignant.
"And what did you say and do?" I asked.
"I simply remarked that I disliked the touch of half-witted persons,
whereupon he declared that he had wit enough to be offended. Then I told
him he should thank heaven for the small favor and pray God to help him
use it."
After cautioning her to secrecy, I told her of the ugly whispers that
were abroad connecting young Wentworth, Crofts, and Berkeley with the
murder of old Roger.
"No, no!" she cried, greatly agitated. "I saw the two men who did it. I
saw them in the light of Noah's lanthorn. Neither of them was young
Wentworth."
I at once grew interested and asked her to describe the men she saw.
"No, no, no!" she cried vehemently, almost hysterically. I thought she
was going to weep, so I said in haste:--
"Don't weep, Frances! You must forget."
She looked quickly up to me and answered: "I am not weeping. There is not
a tear in me. I have wept until I am dry."
"But your grief is unreasonable," I returned. "Roger was your friend, I
know, but his death does not call for so great sorrowing."
"No, no, it is not that, Baron Ned. You don't know. I can't tell you.
Please do not speak of this terrible affair again."
I supposed it was her horror of the tragedy that had wrought upon her
nerves, usually so strong, so I dropped the subject, and it was not
brought up again until after many weeks, when circumstances made it
necessary for me to break silence.
* * * * *
While Hamilton was away, the murder of Roger Wentworth was freely
discussed in London and was brought to the king's notice by a deputation
of citizens who told his Majesty very plainly that certain of his friends
were under suspicion.
The king pretended that he had not heard of the crime, expressed his
grief, was moved to tears by the recital, promised to do all in his
power to bring the offenders to justice, and dismissed the Londoners
with many brave, virtuous words. As soon as they were gone, he joined
a cluster of friends, among whom were Crofts, Wentworth, and Berkeley,
to whom he repeated, with many witticisms, the complaints of the city
delegation. With what he thought was fine comedy, he reiterated his firm
determination to bring the criminals to justice with despatch that should
have nothing of the law's delay. Closing his remarks on the subject,
he said with a wink and an affected air of severity:--
"Gentlemen, I insist that you make an effort to be more careful of my
tanners in your frolics. Even tanners' hides have their uses. Waste them
not! Again I say, waste them not!"
"Not even for a thousand pounds, Rowley?" asked Crofts.
"Ah, well, of course, a thousand pounds is--well, it is a thousand
pounds," answered the king, laughing.
It may be surmised from the king's words and manner that he intended
taking no steps to bring the offenders to justice, and that he knew who
they were. The London people soon discovered his real intent and began in
earnest on their own account.
When the net began to draw too closely about the culprits, the king
interfered and gave the London courts of justice to understand that
further proceedings against Wentworth, Crofts, and Berkeley would cause a
royal frown. The Londoners were not willing to drop the matter, even at
the risk of royal displeasure, so the king caused it to be hinted to the
London officials that Crofts, Berkeley, and Wentworth were innocent, but
that possibly Hamilton was the guilty man. No mention was made of
Churchill, he being at the time the Duke of York's most intimate friend.
Hamilton was away from home and was friendless, all of which gave his
accusers the courage to fix suspicion on him, though they did so without
taking the responsibility of making the charge themselves.
So it was that when George returned to England, several weeks later, he
found trouble awaiting him in many forms.
* * * * *
My cousin's presentation to the duchess was made in private and was a
success in every respect. I asked Mary Hamilton to accompany Lady
Wentworth, Frances, and myself on this occasion, and she graciously
consented. Lady Wentworth insisted on making the presentation, so one
morning I called for my cousin and her chaperone, took the Wentworth
barge at Blackfriars water stairs, and proceeded by river up to
Westminster stairs, where we disembarked. I left my companions in a
bookstall in the Abbey and went to fetch Mary, who lived near by in a
house called Little Hamilton House, under the shadow of Great Hamilton
House, which was the home of Count Anthony.
Mary was waiting for me, so she and I hastened to the bookstall, took up
Frances and Lady Wentworth, went back to the barge, and then by water to
Whitehall Garden stairs. There we left the river, walked to the Palace,
and proceeded immediately to the parlor of her Grace, the Duchess of
York, whom we met by appointment.
When we entered her Grace's parlor, she rose, came to meet us, paused
for a moment, gave one glance to Frances, and, without a word of
presentation, offered her hand to my cousin, saying:--
"I need no introduction to Mistress Jennings. Her beauty has been
heralded, and I know her. I understand she wishes to do me the grace of
becoming one of my maids of honor?"
"Yes, madam," returned Frances, kneeling and kissing her Grace's hand. "I
hope you may do me the grace of accepting my poor services."
"Oh, do not kneel to me here among ourselves," said the duchess, smiling
graciously. "It is you who grant the favor, and, without more ado, I
heartily welcome you to our family."
Thus, almost before she knew it, Frances's beauty had won, as we had been
sure it would, and she was a maid of honor in Whitehall Palace to her
Grace, the Duchess of York, sister-in-law to the king.
"The Mother of the Maids will instruct you in your duties, chief of which
you will find easy enough, that is, to be beautiful," said the duchess,
taking a chair and indicating that we were to be seated.
Frances, Mary, and Lady Wentworth took chairs, but nothing short of a
broken leg or tottering age would have justified me in accepting the
invitation to sit.
"Before I send for the Mother of the Maids," said the duchess,
graciously, "let us talk a few minutes about ourselves and other people."
Her suggestion being taken by silent consent, she asked Lady Wentworth
about Sir William's health and was graciously inquisitive concerning many
of her Ladyship's personal affairs, to her Ladyship's infinite delight.
She talked to Mary and to me for a moment, and then turned to Frances, of
whom she asked no personal questions, but spoke rather of her Grace's own
affairs and of life at court, dropping now and then many valuable hints
that had no appearance of being instructions.
Presently her Grace said, "Now we have talked about ourselves, let us
talk about other people."
We all laughed, and Frances inquired, "Will your Grace kindly tell us
whom we may abuse and whom praise?"
"Oh, abuse anybody--everybody. Praise only the very young, the very old
and the halt; abuse all able-bodied adults, and laugh at any one in whom
you see anything amusing," answered the duchess.
"Not the king and--" laughed Frances.
"The king!" interrupted her Grace, with a tone of contempt in her voice.
"Every one laughs at him. He's the butt of the court. Do you know his
nickname?"
"No," returned Frances.
"Yes, yes," interrupted Lady Wentworth, laughing nervously. She did not
want to be left out of the conversation entirely, so she chimed in
irrelevantly.
"We call him Old Rowley in honor of the oldest, wickedest horse in the
royal mews," said the duchess, laughing. "You need not restrain yourself.
Soon every one at court will be talking about you, the men praising your
beauty, and insinuating ugly stories about your character, and the women
wondering how any one can admire your doll's face or find any wit in what
you say. Remember that the ordinary rule of law that one is deemed
innocent until proved guilty is reversed in Whitehall. Here one is deemed
guilty till one proves one's self innocent, and that is a difficult task.
Ah, my! It has been many a day since we have had any convincing proof!
Eh, Lady Wentworth?"
"Yes, yes, your Grace! Many a day, many a day! Ah, we are a sad, naughty
court, I fear," answered my Lady, with a penitent sigh. Her chief desire
was to be a modish person; therefore she would not be left out of the
iniquitous monde, though her face, if nothing else, placed her safely
beyond the pale of Whitehall sin. One of the saddest things in life is to
be balked in an honest desire to be wicked!
"Yes, you won't know yourself when your character comes back to you,
filtered through many mouths," said the duchess, laughing. "But don't
take offence; retaliate!"
"My cousin will have to learn the art, your Grace," I suggested.
"Ah, I have a thought!" cried the duchess, turning to Frances. "Nothing
succeeds like novelty here at court. Be novel. Don't abuse people save to
their faces, but don't spare any one then. Remember that a biting epigram
is the best loved form of wit among us Sodomites. We love it for its own
sake, but more for the pain it gives the other fellow. We like to see him
squirm, and we have many a joyous hour over our friends' misfortunes.
Turn yourself into a mental bodkin, and you will find favor among us, for
it is better to be feared than loved in our happy family."
"Ah, how beautiful!" cried Lady Wentworth, determined to be heard, even
though never addressed.
"But as I have said," continued the duchess, "try, if you can, to be
novel, and be a bodkin only to the victim's face, save, of course, in the
case of a new bit of racy scandal. That must be used to the greatest
advantage as soon as possible, for scandal, like unsalted butter, will
not keep."
The duchess laughed, as though speaking in jest, but she was in earnest
and spoke the truth.
"But I must learn the current faults of my friends-to-be," suggested
Frances, laughing, "so that I may not fall into the unpardonable error of
repeating an old story. Stale scandal is doubtless an offence in the ear
of the Anointed."
The Anointed was the king.
"That is true," returned the duchess, seriously. "Old scandals bore him,
but if, by good fortune, a rich new bit comes your way, save it for our
Rowley, whisper it in his ear and forget it. Leave to him the pleasure of
disseminating it. He dearly loves the 'ohs' and 'ahs' of delight incident
to the telling of a racy tale. But I'll take you in hand one of these
days and tell you how best to please the king, though your beauty will
make all other means mere surplusage. To please the king, you need but be
yourself; to please my husband, the duke, is even an easier task. He is
everybody's friend. They will be wanting to divorce the queen and me for
your sake. Two such fools about pretty women the world has never known
before and I hope never will again. To see the two royal brothers ogling
and smiling and smirking is better than a play. I used to be disgusted,
but now it amuses me. So if my husband makes love to you, don't fear that
I shall be offended, and if the king makes love to you, as he surely
will, have no fear of the queen. She is used to it."
"I shall try to please every one," said Frances.
"No, no, no!" cried the duchess. "That would be your ruin! A dog licks
the hand that smites it. We're all dogs. Every failure I have known at
court has come from too great a desire to please."
Frances laughed uneasily, for she knew she was hearing the truth,
disguised as a jest. After a moment's silence, she asked:--
"May I not at least try to please your Grace? And may I not seek your
advice and thank you now and then for a reprimand?"
"Yours is the first request of the sort I have ever heard from a maid of
honor, and I shall take you at your word," said the duchess. "I'm not
posing as the head of a morality school, but if I may, I shall try to be
your guide."
Lady Wentworth was almost comatose with pride--"pride on the brain"
Frances afterwards called it.
Presently her Grace continued seriously. "The king will make love to you
on sight. If he fails in obtaining a satisfactory response, he may affect
to be offended for a few days, during which time my husband may try his
hand. Failing, he will smile and will withdraw to make room for Rowley's
return attack. Rowley's return will be in earnest, and then will come
your trial, for the whole court will fawn upon you, will lie about you,
and beg your favor for them with the king."
"Surely it is a delightful prospect," returned my cousin, smiling.
"Oh, delightful, delightful!" ejaculated Lady Wentworth in a semilucid
interval.
"Now I'll send for the Mother of the Maids," said her Grace, "who will
show you to your rooms and instruct you in the duties, forms, and
ceremonies of court. I suppose you dance the country dances. They are the
king's favorites. He calls the changes."
"Yes, your Grace," answered Frances.
"And the brantle and the coranto?" asked the duchess.
"Yes, your Grace."
"And do you play cards?"
"Yes, your Grace, but I loathe games."
"Ah, I see you're equipped," said the duchess. "But here comes the Mother
of the Maids."
The duchess presented Frances to the Mother, who presently led her forth
across the threshold of a new life, destined to be filled with many
strange happenings.
After leaving the Duchess of York, Frances and the Mother of the Maids
entered the Stone Gallery, half the length of which they would have to
traverse before reaching the door that entered the narrow corridor
leading to the apartments of the maids of honor. Midway in the gallery,
a man, evidently in wine, accosted Frances without so much as removing
his hat.
"Ah, ah! Whom have we here?" he asked, winking to the Mother of the
Maids.
Frances was astonished and a little frightened, but she soon brought
herself together and retorted:--
"What is it to you, sir, whom we have here?"
At once it occurred to Frances that the impertinent man was either the
king or the duke, but she hid her suspicion.
"Much it is to me, fair mistress," returned the gentleman, taking off his
hat and bowing. "The sun shines for all, and when one dare be as
beautiful as yourself, all men may bask in the radiance and may ask,
'What new luminary is this?'"
"You may bask to your heart's content," retorted Frances, laughing, "but
you must know that it does not please the sun to be stopped by an
unprepossessing stranger."
The Mother's face bore a look of consternation, and the gentleman threw
back his head, laughing uproariously.
"Ah, my beauty, but I would not remain a stranger. If I am
unprepossessing, it is because I am as God made me and I cannot help it.
But I can help being a stranger to you and would make myself known, and
would present my compliments to--"
"To the devil, who perhaps may like your impertinence better than I like
it," retorted Frances, turning from him angrily and hastening toward the
opposite end of the gallery.
When Frances reached the door of the corridor, she looked back and saw
the Mother of the Maids listening attentively to the gentleman. He was
laughing heartily, and when the Mother left him, Frances noticed that she
courtesied almost to the floor, a ceremony little used save with the
king, the queen, the duke, and the duchess.
When the door of the gallery was closed behind Frances, she asked the
Mother:--
"Who is the impudent fellow?"
"He? Why, he--is--why, he is Sir Rowley," answered the Mother,
hesitatingly, and Frances knew that she had won her first round with the
king, though she kept her knowledge to herself.