A SMILE AT THE DEVIL
In the evening the duchess gave a little ball in her parlor to present
Frances to the king and to the queen, if her Majesty should attend, to
the Duke of York, and to others living in Whitehall immediately connected
with the palace household.
I went to the ball early, wishing to be there before Frances arrived,
to help her if need be over the untrodden paths of court forms and
etiquette. Soon after I entered her Grace's parlor, Mary Hamilton came
in with her mother, and I joined them. I should have been glad to see a
gleam of joy in Mary's eyes when I approached, but I had to be content
with a calm, gracious "I'm glad to see you, baron."
Presently the Duke of York arrived with the duchess on his arm, and they
took their places at the end of the room opposite the musicians' gallery.
Mary and I hastened to kiss their hands, and, withdrawing to a little
distance, awaited Frances's arrival. After the others in the room had
paid their respects to her Grace, she beckoned me to her chair and
said:--
"Your cousin will arrive presently. I have just seen her. Look for a
sensation when she comes. She is radiant, though her gown is as simple as
a country girl's."
"I hear you have brought us a great beauty, baron," remarked the duke.
"Yes, your Highness. We who love her think so," I answered.
"You'll be wanting to be made an earl for your service in bringing her,
eh, baron?" said the duke, laughing. Then bending toward me and
whispering: "A word in your ear, Clyde. You may have it if you play your
cards right and are persistent in importunity."
"No, your Highness. I ask for nothing save favor to my cousin," I
replied.
"She is like to have enough of that and to spare, without asking, if she
is half as beautiful as she is said to be," returned his Grace.
"Of that your Highness may now be your own judge," I returned. "Here she
comes."
At that moment Frances entered on the arm of the Mother of the Maids, and
the duke, catching sight of her, exclaimed:--
"God have pity on the other women! Half has not been told, baron. There
is no beauty at court compared to hers. Earl? You may be a duke!"
While Frances and the Mother were making their way across the room to pay
their respects to the duke and the duchess, a buzz of admiration could be
heard on every hand, and Mary whispered to me behind her fan:--
"If the king were unmarried, I would wager all I have that your cousin
would be our queen within a month."
Count Grammont, who was standing behind me, leaned forward and whispered,
"Your cousin, baron?"
"Yes, count," I answered.
"Mon Dieu!" he returned, shrugging his shoulders. "You will soon be a
duke. We may not call her the queen of hearts, for already we have one,
but surely she is the duchess of hearts. I wish I might present her in
Paris. Ah Dieu! She would make quickly my peace with my king!"
Poor Grammont's one object in life was that his peace might be made with
his king. He lived only in the hope of a recall to Versailles.
Frances made a graceful courtesy, as she kissed their Highness's hands,
and, when the brief ceremony of presentation to the duke was over, turned
to Mary and me, glad to have a moment's respite beside us. She said
nothing, but I could see that for the moment the gorgeous scene about
us had bewildered her. The vast mouldings of gold, the frescoed cupids,
nymphs and goddesses, the wonderful paintings, the brilliant tapestries,
all fairly shone in the light of a thousand wax candles, while the
polished floor of many-colored woods was a mirror under her feet,
reflecting all this beauty.
The powdered and rouged courtiers, arrayed in silks, gold lace and
jewels, seemed more like creatures from a land of phantasy than beings of
flesh and blood. The men with their great curled wigs, their plumed,
bejewelled hats and glittering gold swords, seemed to have stepped from
the pages of a wonderful picture-book, and the women, whose gorgeous
gowns exposed their bepowdered skin halfway to their waists, measuring
from the chin, and whose lifted petticoats made a proportionate display,
measuring from the feet, surely were brought from some fair land of folly
and shame.
I touched Frances's hand to awaken her, and whispered: "Show neither
wonder nor interest. See nothing, or these fools about us will laugh."
She laughed nervously, nodding her head to tell me that she understood.
"But I must look. I can't help it," she said.
"You must see it all without looking," I suggested, and Mary helped me
out by saying:--
"It is all tinsel, not worth looking at. That is the quality of all you
will see at court; gold foil, king and all."
Presently I saw the gentlemen removing their hats and tucking them under
their arms, so I knew the king had entered, and felt sure he would soon
come up to salute his hostess, the duchess, near whom we were standing.
I told Frances that she was about to meet the king, and admonished her to
keep a strong heart. She smiled as she answered:--
"I think I have met him already." Then she told us briefly of her
encounter with the tipsy gentleman in the Stone Gallery.
She had entirely recovered her self-possession and was prepared to meet
calmly the man who was a demigod to millions of English subjects.
The queen did not come with the king, so he loitered a moment among the
courtiers before making his way to the duchess, but the delay was short,
and soon he presented himself. The duchess rose when he approached, but
hardly allowed him time to finish his bow till she took his arm, turned
toward us, and smiled to Frances to approach. I touched my cousin's arm,
gently thrusting her forward, and the next moment she was courtesying to
the floor before the man who believed, in common with most of his
subjects, that he owned by divine right the body and soul of every
man in England, together with every man's ox and his ass, his wife and
his daughter, and all that to him belonged.
The king raised Frances, still retaining her hand, and bent most
gallantly before her.
"I have met Mistress Jennings," said he, smiling, "and she told me to pay
my compliments to the devil."
The king laughed, so of course the courtiers who heard him also laughed.
Instantly the news spread, and one might have heard on every hand, "The
new maid told the king to go to the devil." But as the king seemed to be
pleased, the courtiers were, too, and the new maid of honor became a
person of distinction at once.
The king's unexpected remark disconcerted Frances for a moment, and her
confusion added to her charm. In a moment she recovered herself,
courtesied, and said:--
"I beg your Majesty not to remind me of my terrible mistake. I thought
you were a bold cavalier, and of course did not know that I was speaking
to my king. I offer my humble apology. Pray do not pay your compliments
to the devil, but keep them for me, your Majesty's most devoted subject."
"Odds fish!" exclaimed his Majesty. "I'm glad of the reprieve. I did not
want to go to the devil, but Odds fish! I'd be willing to do so for a
smile from my most devoted subject."
"Merci, sire!" answered Frances, with a courtesy and smiling as
graciously as even a king could ask.
"If my most devoted subject will honor her king by asking him to dance
the next coranto with her, he will do his best to make amends for his
boldness earlier in the day, for he is naturally a modest king."
"A modest manner and a bold heart, I fear, your Majesty," returned
Frances, making the most pleasing compliment she could have paid her
sovereign. "May I be honored with your Majesty's hand for the next
coranto?"
"It is my will," graciously answered the king.
The ball opened with a brantle which his Majesty danced with the duchess,
Frances remaining, meantime, with Mary and me, awaiting the coranto with
the king, a royal favor which would win for her the envy of many a lady,
as the king seldom danced.
When the brantle was finished, the king worked his way over to Frances,
and when the bugle announced the coranto, she was saved the embarrassment
of seeking him, as she must have done had he not been by her side.
An altogether unexpected ordeal awaited Frances, for when the French
musicians began to play and his Majesty led her out, she found herself
and the king the only dancers on the floor except the Duke of York with
Mistress Stuart, and the Duke of Monmouth with his father's friend, Lady
Castlemain. Every one else stood by the wall, many of the ladies hoping
to see the new maid fail, and all of the gentlemen eager to behold her
and to comment.
The coranto is a difficult movement to perform gracefully. It consists of
a step forward, a pause during which the dancer balances on one foot,
holding the other suspended forward for a moment, then another step,
followed by a bow on the gentleman's part and a deep courtesy by the
lady.
I confess that I was uneasy, for Frances was a country girl, and the
coranto was the most trying, though, if well done, the most beautiful of
all dances.
Mary clasped my hand in alarm for Frances and whispered: "I do hope she
dances well. The lack of grace in a woman is inexcusable. She had better
not dance at all than poorly."
Mary's hopes were realized at once, for the king and Frances had not been
on the floor three minutes till the gentlemen began to clap their hands
softly, and in a moment a round of applause came from the entire
audience, as often happened in those informal balls.
The king turned to Frances, saying: "They are applauding your dancing.
Take your bow."
"No, it's all for your Majesty," she returned.
"No, no, my dancing is an old story to them. It is your grace they are
applauding."
"Spare me, your Majesty," she pleaded, laughing.
As the applause continued, they stopped dancing for a moment, and Frances
made her courtesy to the audience. Thereupon the applause increased, and
she courtesied again, kissing her hand as she rose from the floor.
The girl was in high spirits, and laughed as she talked to the king, who
smiled on her in a manner that caused my Lady Castlemain to remark:--
"The young milkmaid's affectations are disgusting." Other equally
flattering remarks were to be heard from women of the Castlemain stamp,
but the men were a unit in praising the new beauty.
Of course the king soon declared his undying love for her, and she
answered, laughing:--
"If your Majesty will swear by your grandmother's great toe that you have
never before spoken to a woman in this fashion, I'll listen and believe,
but failing the oath, you must pardon me if I laugh."
"I hope you would not laugh at your king?" he asked.
"Ay, at the Pope," she retorted, "if I found him amusing."
"But if I swear by the sacred relic you name, never again so long as I
live to speak in this fashion to any other woman, may I proceed?"
returned the king.
"I would not be a party to an oath whereby my king would be forsworn,"
she answered.
To which the king replied: "I shall say what I please to my most devoted
subject. Am I not the king?"
"I am content that you say what you please if you grant me the same
privilege," answered Frances.
The king laughed and said he would gladly grant the privilege in private,
but that in public he had a "damnable dignity" to uphold.
* * * * *
After the dancing was over for the evening, the king offered Frances a
purse of gold to be used at the card-table, but she declined, and as
nearly every one else went to the tables, the duchess granted leave to
Frances, Mary, and myself to depart.
Mary and I went with Frances to her parlor adjoining her bedroom, where
we remained for an hour or more talking over the events of the night.
Mary had heard one in the ballroom say this and another say that. Frances
had heard all sorts of remarks, some of them kind, others spiteful.
I had heard nothing but praise of my cousin, and all that we had heard
was discussed excitedly and commented on earnestly or laughingly, as the
case might be.
Frances was in high spirits till by an unlucky chance Mary spoke of her
brother George, of whose acquaintance with Frances she knew nothing, and
instantly my cousin's eyes began to fill. I saw that the tears would
come, despite all her efforts, if something were not done to stay them.
Therefore I spoke of her father's joy when he should hear of her triumph,
and my remark furnished an excuse for her weeping. In the course of an
hour Mary and I left Frances and went to the card-tables, where we found
Mary's mother, who at that time, happening to be winner in a large sum,
was ready to quit the game, so we all walked home across the park with
linkboys.
* * * * *
During the following month or two Hamilton was abroad, neither I nor any
one else at court so far as I knew having heard from him. After a time
the rumors connecting his name with Roger's death reached my ears, but
I paid no heed to them, believing them to have been made of whole cloth,
for I did not know that he had been present when the crime was committed.
But one day my cousin's actions and words set me thinking.
Roger was only a tanner; therefore after a deal of stir in the matter of
his death with no result more tangible than vague insinuations from
Crofts and his friends, the investigation by the London authorities was
dropped, at least for a time. Roger's tragedy was forgotten or was put
aside, save in so far as it was kept alive by Crofts, who felt that it
was well to keep the person of George Hamilton as a fender between
himself and the crime.
So, as frequently happens when a bad man turns good, Hamilton's troubles
began to gather and were awaiting his return. I did not know where he was
(though I afterwards learned he was in Paris), and therefore was unable
to warn him. In fact, I knew little that was worth telling him at the
time of which I am writing, since I did not believe he was really in
danger. I did not even know that he was aware of the Roger Wentworth
tragedy.
Meantime Frances was making progress at court, of which even I, with all
my hopefulness, had little dreamed. What she desired above all else was
money for her father. Sir Richard and Sarah had moved up to London to be
near Frances and were living in a modest little house at the end of a
cul-de-sac called Temple Street, just off the Strand near Temple Bar.
The opportunity to get money soon came to Frances in the form of an offer
by the king of a small pension which would have placed her and her father
beyond the pale of want. But the king's manner in offering it had caused
her to refuse.
She had fallen into the wholesome way of telling me all that occurred
touching herself, which during this time consisted chiefly of the efforts
of nearly every man of prominence in Whitehall, from the king and the
duke to bandylegged Little Jermyn, the lady-killer, to convince her of
his desperate passion. She laughed at them all, and her indifference
seemed to increase their ardor.
One day Frances met me in the Stone Gallery as I was coming from my
lodging in the Wardrobe over the Gate, and asked me to walk out with her.
I saw that something untoward had happened, so I joined her and we went
to the park. When we were a short way from the palace, she told me of the
king's offer and tried to tell me of his manner, the latter evidently
having been meant to be understood by Frances in case she wished to see
it as he doubtless intended she should. She saw it as the king intended,
but the result was far from what he expected.
"I turned my back on him," she said angrily, "and left him without so
much as a word or a courtesy, and I intend to leave Whitehall."
"By no means!" I exclaimed. "Accept or refuse the king's pension as you
choose, and pass serenely on your way, unconscious of what he may have
implied. If you remain at court, you must learn not to see a mere implied
affront, and perhaps to smile at many an overt one. Before you came you
had full warning of what would happen. Don't see! Don't feel! Don't care!
Be true to yourself and smile at the devil if you happen to meet him. He
has no weapon against a smile. One escapes many a disagreeable situation
by not seeing it, and one always finds trouble by looking for it."
"Your philosophy wearies me," she answered petulantly.
"In that case, I'll confine my remarks to facts and to a mere statement
of your duty. You must have money. Accept the king's pension and laugh at
him."
"I'll not take your advice," she retorted angrily. "I'll return to my
father's house at once. He was right. A decent woman has no business at
court."
"Since you speak so plainly, I'll do likewise," I rejoined, growing
angry. "You came to court to make your fortune by marriage. That is a
bald, ugly way to state the case, but it is the truth. Admit it."
"I fear I must," she answered, hanging her head.
"You surely could not ask greater progress toward your desire than you
are making," I continued. "You came into favor at a bound, and have been
growing each day, not only with the king, but with all the court,
including the queen, the duchess, and the duke. Every one loves you and,
better still, respects you, which is a distinction few beautiful women
enjoy nowadays. Dick Talbot, the Duke of Tyrconnel, the richest unmarried
nobleman in England, is eager to marry you, and would ask you to be his
wife if you would but throw him a smile."
"I hate him!" she retorted impatiently. "An overgrown Irish fool. One
would as well marry a bull calf!"
"But he is as decent as any man I know, and will meet all your purposes
in coming to court in the matter of wealth and station. I don't know that
it is a misfortune for a woman to marry a man she can rule."
"Yes, it is," she answered. "She always despises him. I should prefer one
who would beat me to such a man."
"But if you intend to carry out the purpose you had in coming to court,
you--"
But she interrupted me, speaking slowly, almost musingly: "The purpose I
had, perhaps, but not the one I have. I did not know myself. I did not
know. I doubt if any girl does. I don't want to marry any man."
"Is it because another man fills your heart?" I asked, speaking gently.
"Tell me, my beautiful sister, tell me. I'll find no fault with you. I'll
help you if I can."
I received a sigh for my answer, and another and another, as she walked
by my side, hanging her head. But when I urged her to speak, she raised
her eyes to mine, and there was a cold, angry glint in them as she
asked:--
"Do you mean--?"
She did not mention Hamilton's name, but I knew whom she meant and
answered:--
"Yes."
A long pause followed, during which I was unable to read the expression
on her face, but presently she spoke, her voice trembling with anger or
emotion, I knew not which:--
"I hate him! If he were to touch my hand, I believe I should want to cut
it off! I hate him--that is, I try to hate him."
Her words and manner caused me uneasiness in two respects: first, it led
me to fear that she loved Hamilton; and second, in view of the rumors I
had heard connecting his name with Roger Wentworth's death, it flashed
upon me that possibly he was the man she had recognized by the light of
Noah's lanthorn. Either of these surmises, if true, was enough to mar my
peace of mind, but together they brought me trouble indeed.
I had come to look for a speedy accomplishment of my cousin's good
fortune, and also to regard Hamilton as my dearest friend among men.
Still I was helpless to remedy these evils if they really existed. What I
did at the time was to insist, first, that Frances regain her senses as
soon as possible, and second, that she say nothing of her intention to
leave Whitehall for at least ten days. To my first request she replied
that she had never been so completely in possession of her senses as at
that present moment, and my second, she positively refused to consider.
The best of women want their way, at least in part, so I said, "I abandon
my first request as unreasonable."
She looked up to me, hardly knowing whether to laugh or to frown, but she
chose the former, and I continued, "And as to my second suggestion, I
amend it to, say, five or six days."
"Three!" she insisted. So we let it stand at that, each with a sense of
triumph.
We returned to the palace, and soon I had an opportunity to ask the king
for a word privately. He graciously consented, and led me to his closet,
overlooking the River Thames. From this closet, on the second floor, a
privy stairs led down to a door which opened on a small covered porch at
the head of a flight of stone steps falling to the king's private barge
landing at the water's edge. When I noticed the narrow stairway, I had no
thought of the part it would one day play in the fortunes and misfortunes
of Frances, Hamilton, and myself.
On the king's command, I sat down near him, and he asked:--
"What can I do for you, baron? I do not remember your having ever
solicited a favor of me, and I shall be delighted to grant what you ask,
if I can."
"I seek no favor, your Majesty," I returned. "I simply want to tell you
that my cousin, Mistress Jennings, has just informed me of her intention
to leave Whitehall, and I wonder--"
"No, no," cried the king, interrupting me. "She shall not go! Why is she
discontented here?"
"I am not sure that I can tell your Majesty," I answered evasively. "I am
loath to see her go, and, knowing well your kindliness, hoped you would
be willing to urge her to remain."
"Gladly," replied the king. "She is the most beautiful ornament of our
court, and we must not lose her. I don't mind telling you for your own
ear that I suspect the cause of her sudden resolution and respect it."
He laughed, and after a long pause, continued:--
"I forgot that she was fresh from the country, and that she still
retained part of her prudish ideas, so while walking with her yesterday
on the Serpentine, I offered her a pension, to which she is justly
entitled, adorning our court as she does. But I fear she took my honest
efforts at gallantry too seriously. My dear baron, the girl shall
have her pension without the slightest return on her part save one of her
rare smiles now and then. Say to her, please, that the king sends his
apology and eagerly awaits an opportunity to offer it in person."
"I thank your Majesty," I answered, rising and bowing, "and feel sure
you have done all that is needful to keep my cousin at court. She has
certain prudish standards which I fear are too easily shocked, and is
as self-willed as--well, as a beautiful woman--"
"Ought to be," interrupted the king, laughing and finishing my sentence.
I wanted him to suspect that his gallant speeches would be repeated to
me, hoping that the knowledge might temper them.
After talking a moment longer with him, I asked permission to withdraw,
and at once sought Frances. When I found her in the parlor of the
duchess, I drew her to one side and told her of my interview with the
king.
"You have tamed the lion," I said, "and you may accept the pension
without harm to your sensitive dignity. But please don't make a fool of
yourself again by taking such a matter seriously. Keep your head, keep
your heart, keep your temper, and thrive. Lose either, and have the whole
court laughing at you. I'm sorry Hamilton is so fixed in your heart that
you cannot dislodge him, but this good may grow out of the evil: you may
judge other men dispassionately."
A great sigh was her only answer.
* * * * *
Frances took my advice, along with the king's pension, and soon learned
that as good wine needs no bush, so true virtue needs no defence.
A brief account of Frances's triumphs and adventures at court is
necessary before this history can be brought to the point of Hamilton's
return; that is, to the time when I knew he was in London.
Her first great triumph was over the heart of the king, to whose
lovemaking she learned to listen and to smile; not the smile of assent,
but of amusement.
Soon our august monarch became silly with love of the new beauty, and
with her help often made himself ridiculous. On one occasion, a few
months after Frances's installation as maid of honor, he left a love note
in her muff which she pushed out at one end as she thrust her hand in at
the other. She was careful to do this little trick in such a manner that
those who saw the king place the note in her muff should see it fall out.
It was picked up by an inquisitive soul, reached the hands of the
"lampooners," and appeared in biting verse in the next issue of the _News
Letter_.
When the king complained to Frances of her ill-treatment of his note, she
declared, with a great show of astonishment, that she had not seen it,
which was literally true, since she had only felt it. She said that it
must have fallen to the ground as she took up her muff, and tried to make
it appear that she was greatly disappointed.
"I would not slight so great an honor as a letter from my king," she said
demurely.
"No, no," returned his Majesty, laughing. "Our most devoted subject would
not slight her king's message. I believe you did it intentionally."
"In which case your Majesty will leave no more notes for me in public,"
answered Frances. And the king's choice lay between taking offence and
looking upon the affair as a jest. He was too far gone in love to take
offence, so he chose to laugh.
On another occasion, at the queen's ball, the king asked Frances to walk
out to the garden with him.
"It is dark, your Majesty, and I fear the dark," she replied. "Let us
walk there in the daytime, so that every one may see how graciously my
king honors me."
He could not coax her out, so he said: "Very well, my prudish Miss
Solomon. Have your way and break my heart."
"To do either would please me," she retorted. "I like to have my own way,
and there are few women who would not be delighted to break a handsome
king's heart."
Frances having captured the king, every other man at court was her
admirer. She could have had her choice of a husband from among the
noblest and richest men of the land, but she showed no one especial
favor. If one imagined that she smiled with marked graciousness on him,
he soon learned that others were equally fortunate, and after a time
each accepted his smile from her and took it for granted that his failure
to receive greater favor was because of the king's success. All praised
her discretion, though many believed that she was concealing adroitly
what she would not have the world suspect. With all her circumspection,
it soon became the common talk at court that she was the king's new
favorite, though there was no reason given for the rumor save the belief
that the king was not to be resisted.
* * * * *
The Duchess of York and I knew the truth concerning Frances, but all
Westminster and London talked of the new star at Whitehall who was
outshining Castlemain, Nell Gwynn, Stuart, and the host of other
luminaries who had scintillated with scandal ever since the king's return
to Britain's throne.
One morning, shortly after the king's last-mentioned conversation with
Frances, she met Nell Gwynn in the palace garden, and was surprised when
Nelly addressed her as "Little Solomon."
"Where did you learn the name?" asked Frances.
"From its author, the king," answered Nell. "Come home with me and I'll
tell you all about it."
They took Nell's barge and went to Westminster water stairs, where they
walked across the park to her house in Pell Mell.
Frances cordially hated Lady Castlemain and the king's other brazen
friends, but, after having met Nelly several times, she had learned to
love the sweet, profane, ignorant girl because, despite her apparently
evil life, there was honesty, kindliness, and truth in Nelly's heart.
When the two young women were seated in Nelly's cozy parlor, she began to
open her heart to Frances.
"Yes, the king told me how he invited you to go to the garden with him
one evening, and how he dubbed you 'Little Solomon' when you refused."
"Ah, did he?" asked Frances, surprised at the king's willingness to speak
of his rebuff.
"Yes," returned Nelly, surprising Frances still further by a soberness of
manner rarely seen in the laughing girl.
After a long pause, Nelly continued: "Do you know, I hate the fat
Castlemain woman. And the bow-legged Stuart hussy! She seems to be proud
of her crooked shanks and exhibits them on every possible occasion. There
is something about extreme ugliness that drives it to exposure, on the
principle, I suppose, that murder will out. And there's ugly Wells! I
hate her, too! Her charm, like that of the Puritan's face, lies wholly in
her damned ugliness. I hate them all, though I do not fear them, but oh,
Mistress Jennings--" Here she leaned forward and grasped Frances's wrist
almost fiercely, "The human heart is a strange thing, at least mine is,
for I love you, but oh, I fear you!"
"No, no," cried Frances, at a loss just what to say.
"Yes," continued Nell, insistently. "Let me tell you! Of late I can
neither eat nor sleep because of the dread that you will rob me of the
king's love. I can do nothing but pray and swear. He does love me more
than he loves all the world, because he knows I am true to him! And his
love is meat and drink and life itself to me! If you could see but one
little part of my love for him, if you could know that I worship him,
God help me! as I should worship only my Maker, if you could understand
that if you were to steal him from me, you would take my life, my very
soul,--if so poor a thing as I can have a soul,--you, who may choose and
pick men at will, would leave his love to me!"
"You need not fear, you need not fear," said Frances, soothingly.
"He is not true to me," continued Nelly, impetuously, "and I know it. But
I do not care. I have his love, and with that I am content. I would not
ask fidelity. I care nothing for the wealth he gives. I accept only a
meagre portion of what he offers, and have refused honors and titles
which would be a burden to me. I want only the man, Charles Stuart."
She began to weep softly, drying her eyes and trying to laugh. "He's not
much of a man, and I know his weaknesses better than any one in all the
world knows them. But he is all to me, and I beg you to leave me this
part of a man, for you only, of all women I know, can take him from me."
"I would not take the king from you, even to be his queen, if that were
possible. I promise that I shall not rob you of his love. It is the last
thing in the world I want. You say you love me. I believe you and give
you like return. Every one loves you, Nelly."
"Ah, I thank you--Frances," answered Nelly, hesitating at the name.
"Let us seal a pact of friendship," said Frances. "We shall need each
other's help in this vile court that takes its quality from its king."
"Yes, truly he is vile," returned Nelly. "But women of my class, born and
bred in the slums of life, do not measure a man by his virtues, but by
their love of him. I know not how it is, nor why, but this I know, we
love because of what we give, and the more we give, the more we love."
"I fear the same is true of all women," answered Frances, with a sigh.
"If a woman could but say to her heart, 'Thou shalt' and 'Thou shalt
not,' there would be fewer unhappy women in this world."
"Oh, do you, too, know that awful truth?" exclaimed Nelly, eagerly
bringing her hands to Frances's shoulders. "Tell me all about it. There
is nothing sweeter than to hear the troubles of a friend. They help to
make our own seem smaller. Tell me."
"I cannot," answered Frances, now as woebegone as Nelly herself. "It is
too terrible even to think upon, yet I think of nothing else. A woman may
love a man to the point of madness and still hate him."
"But it is not the king you love?" cried Nelly, in alarm.
"No, no, Nelly. You have my word. But let us talk of something else,"
answered Frances.
"No, no, let us talk about you," insisted Nelly, whose curiosity was
equalled only by her good nature.
"Not another word," returned Frances. "Don't you want to go to the barge
for a ride on the river?" And Nelly eagerly assented.
When they were seated in the barge, Nelly's waterman asked her where he
should take them, and she proposed going to the Bridge, leaving the barge
at the Bridge stairs, and walking up Gracious Street to the Old Swan
Tavern for dinner. Frances liked the plan and accepted Nelly's invitation
to dinner--and to trouble.