SWEET BETTY PICKERING
When we knocked at Hamilton's door, he answered, "Come," and I entered,
Betty closing the door behind me, leaving George and me together. He
was lying on the bed, his head and arms bandaged, and a feverish gleam
shining in his eyes. I went toward him, offering my hand. He rose and sat
on the edge of the bed, but did not accept my greeting. I was about to
speak when he lifted his hand to interrupt me, saying coldly:--
"Well, Clyde, what do you want?"
"I want to see you and help you, if I can," I answered, in surprise.
"Now that you have seen me, you may go," he returned.
I did not know the cause of his ill feeling, though I knew that something
had happened to turn him against me, so I stood my ground and answered:--
"I shall go if you insist, but before I go, please tell me in what manner
I have offended you. Neither you nor I have so many friends that we can
afford to lose one without an effort to save him. The world is full of
men and women, but a friend is a gift of God. I thought you had forgiven
me what I said at Sundridge. Your time to take offence was then, not
now."
"I hold no ill will for what you said then in my hearing. It is what you
have done in so cowardly a manner since I last saw you, and at a time
when I was not present to hear or to resent it."
"But what have I done?" I asked.
"You should know. I don't," he answered, sullenly.
"If neither you nor I know what I have done to offend, how are we to
settle this matter? How may I apologize or make amends?" I asked.
"You can't," he returned.
"Ah, but I can and I will, George Hamilton," I answered, determined not
to let him put me off without knowing wherein I had offended. "Save what
you heard at Sundridge, I have neither done nor said anything unfit to
come from a friend. If any man has reported me otherwise, he has lied.
If any woman--well, she is mistaken."
"No one has reported you otherwise or any wise," he answered.
"Then tell me the cause of your grievance, and I may be able to explain
or deny. You perhaps know by this time that I always speak the truth
to you, so out with it, George. Let us settle this matter, whatever it
be--one way or the other. Friendship should not be left to dangle between
love and hatred. It sits squarely on the heart of an honest man, or is
cast out candidly and above board. Shall I sit down?"
"Yes," he answered, rising from the bed, drawing the rug up over his
shoulders, and taking a chair not far from where I was sitting. "I saw
your cousin--"
"When and where?" I interrupted.
"Yesterday, in this house," he replied.
"Did she come to see you? And did you permit her to come?" I asked,
finding it my turn to be angry.
"No, she did not come to see me, nor had I anything to do with her visit
to the Old Swan. She was eating dinner with Nell Gwynn, and--"
"Was she the duchess, of whom Betty told me?" I asked, interrupting him.
"Yes, the Duchess of Hearts, as I hear she has been dubbed at court," he
answered, with an angry gleam in his eyes and a sharp note of contempt in
his voice.
"And was it for her you fought?" I asked, feeling as though I was reading
a page from a story-book. "Betty told me about it, but you tell me,
please?"
"Betty usually exhausts a subject, so there is no need to tell you about
the fight," he said. "It was really a small affair, and my wounds are
nothing to speak of. I suffered more from other causes."
"Yes, yes, George. Tell me all about it," I returned, drawing my chair
nearer to him. "I fear a mistake has been made, a misunderstanding of
some sort, though I cannot imagine even the sort. Now, tell me."
"I came up from Sheerness on a Dutch boat and landed at Deptford
yesterday morning," he began hesitatingly. "After sending a messenger on
business in which I was deeply interested, I came to the Old Swan to get
a bite to eat and to find a bed. While waiting in the tap-room for my
dinner, I recognized Nelly's laugh and went into the private dining room
to see her, hoping that she might drop a word concerning another person.
I should not have gone to see her, for while in France I had heard from
De Grammont, with whom I have had some correspondence, that I was out of
favor with the king and that Crofts had been trying to fix on me the
guilt of a crime which he himself committed.
"Grammont wrote me, also, of the triumphs of Mistress Jennings, the new
beauty of the court, but I paid little heed to the gossip, though I
confess I was thrown into great fear by what he wrote about her. I knew
also that the king would help Crofts make trouble for me, so I felt it
was just as well that my presence in London should remain unknown. But I
did go in to see Nelly, and, much to my surprise, found the other
person."
It was to my surprise, also, but I said only: "Yes, yes, George. Your
story is growing interesting. Proceed!"
After a moment, he continued: "Nelly offered to present me to the other
person, whom she designated as 'the king's new favorite.' Naturally I
said that I already had the honor of knowing Mistress Jennings. Then your
cousin looked up to me and remarked calmly that I was mistaken; that I
did not have the honor of knowing her, nor she the humiliation of knowing
me. So I made my bow, went back to the taproom, and in a moment the fight
occurred, of which you already know."
"But what has all this to do with your grievance against me?" I asked.
He turned his face away from me, looked out the window for a minute or
two, and answered: "These are my causes of offence, Baron Clyde. You have
brought your cousin, your own flesh and blood, to Whitehall to sell her
to the king, and--"
"That is a lie, Hamilton!" I cried, springing to my feet, "and, by God,
you shall answer for it as soon as you are able to hold a sword!"
"I shall be very willing," he returned, though it was evident he was
somewhat cooled by my anger. "But since you would know the cause of my
ill-feeling, sit down and hear what I have to say."
I resumed my chair, and he continued: "I can see no reason for your
cousin's strange aversion to me save that you have used well the time of
my absence in traducing me, hoping doubtless to smooth the king's path by
removing me from her thoughts."
What he said did little to allay my anger until I looked into his face
and saw that by reason of his fever and his great trouble, he was not
responsible for his words. I had been on the point of giving him the lie
the second time, but after a moment's consideration, my anger changed to
pity, and I said:--
"Forgive me, Hamilton. I am sorry I spoke in anger. You did not lie. You
have been simply jumping at conclusions."
"Perhaps," he answered wanderingly.
"But if I tell you, upon my honor, that you are mistaken, will you
believe me?" I asked, still feeling a touch of irritation.
He did not answer, so, thinking to give him one more chance, I continued
gently: "I have neither harbored an unkind thought of you nor spoken an
unkind word of you since the day we parted at Sundridge. On the contrary,
I believed that the hot moment there had welded a friendship between us
which would last all our lives through."
He walked over to the window, stood looking out a moment, then came back
and resumed his chair before me.
"I do not favor your suit with my cousin to any greater extent than I did
when we were at Sundridge," I continued, determined that there should be
no misunderstanding of my position in that respect, "though since that
time I have learned that you are a far better man than I had ever
supposed. I have not recommended my cousin to the king, nor is she his
favorite in the sense you seem to believe. I do not know the cause of her
aversion to you, and, sir, I have nothing else to say except that I take
it for granted that you know I speak the truth. This is my explanation.
It is for you to say whether you accept or reject it."
I rose, giving him to understand that I was ready to take my leave, but
he motioned me to resume my chair. After gazing vacantly out the window
for a moment, he covered his face with his hands and answered:--
"I accept your explanation gladly, Baron Ned. I have wronged you. I have
been in such turmoil of mind and conscience for so long a time that I am
hardly responsible, and now I suppose I am in a fever because of the loss
of blood."
I resumed my chair, the difference being settled between us, and in a
moment we began to discuss the cause of Frances's sudden change.
It must be remembered that I knew nothing all this time of Hamilton's
remote connection with Roger Wentworth's murder. The dimly hinted rumors
that had reached my ears I had put down to Crofts's desire for a
scapegoat, and the conversation between Frances and Nelly, and Nelly's
conclusions, all came to me after this interview with Hamilton.
Failing to reach any conclusion after a long discussion of the subject,
Hamilton and I began to speak on other topics, and I asked him where he
had been and what he had been doing.
"I have been at the French court, gambling furiously, and hoarding my
money," he answered. "I have not even bought a suit of clothes, and have
turned every piece of lace and every jewel I possessed into cash."
"I supposed you were leaving off some of your old ways, gambling among
them," I remarked, sorry to hear of his fall from grace.
"And so I have," he answered. "But I wanted a thousand pounds to use in a
good cause, and felt that I was doing no wrong to rob a very bad Peter in
France to pay a very good Paul at home. I have paid the good Paul, and am
now done with cards and dice forever."
"I'm glad to hear you say so, George," I returned.
"Yes, I'll tell you how it was," he continued. Then he gave me an account
of the killing of Roger Wentworth, the particulars of which I then
learned for the first time. I allowed him to proceed in his narrative
without interruption, and he finished by saying: "I learned that same
evening that a thousand pounds had been stolen from a traveller. I
suspected Crofts, Wentworth, and Berkeley of the robbery, but I did not
know certainly that they had committed the crime, since I did not see
them do it. The next morning I learned that a man had been killed by
highwaymen, and as I felt sure that the murder had been committed
in the affair I had witnessed, I went to France because I did not want
to be called to testify in case criminal proceedings were instituted.
In France I learned that the murdered man was young Wentworth's uncle.
"Of course, I did not receive a farthing of the money, but I almost felt
that I was accessory before the fact because I had not hastened to
prevent the crime, and after the fact because I had made no effort to
bring the criminals to justice. Churchill told me flatly that I should be
alone if I tried the latter, and said that he was not so great a fool as
to win the enmity of the king by attempting to bring the law upon Crofts.
You know Churchill's maxim, 'A fool conscience and a fool damned.'"
"There is wisdom in it," I answered.
"I suppose there is," returned Hamilton. "I wanted the thousand pounds to
pay Roger Wentworth's widow, so I won it in France, brought it to
England, and yesterday sent it by a trusted messenger to Sundridge. Of
course the widow does not know where it came from."
"It was like you, George," said I. "One does not do a thing of that sort
for sake of a reward, but, believe me, the reward always comes."
"It was the right thing to do," he answered. "But instead of the reward
comes now the keenest grief I have ever known, the loss of the small
regard in which I was one time held by the only woman I ever loved or
ever shall love."
He stopped speaking, but I fancied he had not finished, so I did not
interrupt him. I had so much to say in return that I did not care to
begin until I had a clear field. He was becoming restless, and I could
see that the fever was mounting rapidly. After a long pause he
continued:--
"But, in a way, the loss of her regard is the least of my troubles, and
I should bear it with equanimity, for if I am honest with her, I would
not desire to keep it, as I can bring her no happiness. It is the loss of
my respect for her, the knowledge that I was wrong in deeming her better
than other women, the humiliation of learning that I was a pitiable dupe
in giving my love to one who could give herself to Charles Stuart, that
hurts."
I saw that he was trying to suppress his excitement, but it soon got the
better of him. He rose from his chair, drew the rug closer about him, and
walked rapidly to and fro across the room a minute or two. Being near my
chair, he bent down to me, looked wildly about him to see that no one was
eavesdropping, and whispered:--
"I intend to kill the king just as soon as I'm out of this. Then God or
the devil, I care not which, may finish me."
At that moment Betty came in, followed by one of the maids carrying our
dinner. I asked George to eat with me, but he refused and lay down on the
bed, drawing the rugs up to his chin and shaking in an ague. The maid
left us, but Betty remained, evidently expecting to wait on us and
incidentally to talk, for she dearly loved to relieve her mind.
As much as I liked Betty, I asked her to leave us, and when she was gone,
I drew my chair to George's bedside, leaving the dinner to cool.
"First, I want to tell you again," said I, "that Frances is not the
king's mistress, nor ever will be."
"Do you know, or do you believe?" he asked.
"I know," I answered, and followed up my assertion with a full account of
her life at court, the king's infatuation, at which she laughed, his
offer of a pension, which at first she refused, the respect in which
every one held her, and the wisdom with which she carried herself through
it all.
"Ned, you're as great a fool about her as I was," he returned, shaking
his head. "Do you suppose Charles Stuart would give her a pension with no
other purpose than kindness or justice? Be sane! Don't be a fool!"
"I say nothing of his purposes; I speak only of her conduct. But I shall
not argue with you. If you find any pleasure in your opinion, keep it," I
answered, knowing that I could not reason with a man who was half crazy.
"I shall," he replied sullenly.
"But there is another matter in which I believe you will agree with me,"
I continued. "I have discovered the cause of my cousin's ill feeling--of
her change respecting yourself."
He rose from his bed, demanding excitedly: "What is it? Tell me, tell
me!"
"You have just told me that you and Churchill were walking at a
considerable distance behind Crofts and the others when Roger Wentworth
was killed."
"Yes, yes," he returned. "Perhaps as much as two hundred yards."
I watched his face closely to study the effect of my next bit of
information, and after a long pause, asked, "Do you know that Frances was
in the coach?"
"No, no! Hell and furies! In the coach when Wentworth was killed? My God,
tell me all about it, man!" he cried, clutching my arm, and glaring at me
with the eyes of a crazy man.
"Yes," I answered. "And she tells me she recognized one of the robbers by
the light of the coach lanthorn, though she refused to describe the man
she saw and will not be induced to talk about him. Possibly you were the
unlucky man. If true, can you wonder that she hates you?"
He sat down on the edge of the bed, musing, then fell back on the pillow
with a great sigh, and muttered as though speaking to himself:--
"I can wonder at nothing save my marvellous ill luck. This tale points a
moral, Baron Ned. If one belongs to the devil, one should stand by one's
master. Hell is swifter in revenge than heaven in reward."
"It is only the long run that tells the tale," I answered, taking his hot
hand to soothe him. "Heaven always wins, and your reward will come."
"Ah, yes, the long run is all right if one can only hold out," he
answered, gripping my hand and breathing rapidly. He was almost in
delirium. "But I'll take the short run, Baron Ned." Here his voice rose
almost to a scream: "I'll take the short run, Ned, and will kill the
king! Then to hell after him by way of Tyburn Hill!"
He sprang to me, grasped my shoulders fiercely, and spoke as one in a
frenzy: "I was right, Ned. She is all I thought she was at Sundridge.
When I first knew her I doubted my senses. I did not know there was a
pure woman outside of a convent, but when I learned to know her I changed
my mind. Now comes this accursed Charles Stuart! His house has been a
bane to England ever since the spawn of the Scotch courtesan first came
to London. But his reign will be short!"
He was becoming delirious, so I induced him to lie on the bed while I
went downstairs to find Betty. When I found her, I told her that the
fever was mounting to Hamilton's brain, and that I feared he would soon
become violent.
She sent a boy to fetch a physician, then turned to me, saying:--
"I'll go up to him. I believe I can quiet him."
So we went back to George's room and found him out of bed, prowling about
like a caged wild thing, tossing his arms, and shouting his intention to
kill the king.
"You must go back to bed, Master Hamilton," commanded Betty in her soft,
low voice.
He caught her around the waist and said, laughing, "You're a good girl,
Betty."
"I hope I am, sir. But you must go back to bed," she answered.
"And you're pretty, too. Pretty and good don't usually go together," said
George, drawing her close to him.
"No, but you must go back to bed, Master Hamilton, or you will be very
ill," she pleaded.
"I'll go for a kiss, Betty," he answered, bending over to take it. But
she put up her hands to ward him off.
"I'll give you the kiss, Master Hamilton, if you insist. But it will be
only a bribe to induce you to do what is for your own good, and if you
take it, I shall never come back to your room again."
"Ah, Ned, here's another good girl!" exclaimed George, releasing Betty.
"There are two of them in the world! Who would have suspected it? Keep
your kisses for your husband, Betty."
"Yes, Master Hamilton," she answered demurely, giving me a luminous
glance, all unconscious of its meaning. The glance was my first hint that
perhaps Betty had at times been thinking of me.
"All right! Here's to bed, my girl," said Hamilton.
She smoothed the bed covering and turning to leave the room, said, "I'll
come back when the physician arrives."
I could easily see that Hamilton was going to have what the old women
call a "bad night," so I asked Betty to sit with him, and she consenting,
I went by river to my lodging in Whitehall, where I collected a few
necessary articles in a bag and returned quickly as possible to the Old
Swan. When I reached George's room, I found Betty at her post. The
physician had given Hamilton a quieting potion, and he was resting,
though at intervals he broke out, shouting his intention to kill the
king.
During nearly two weeks Hamilton lay moaning and raving, sweet, dear
Betty rarely leaving his side for more than a few minutes at a time. I,
too, clung to my post faithfully, but at least a part of my motive in
doing so was selfish, being the joy I found in Betty's company. At the
end of two weeks George began to recover rapidly, and I was dismissed
along with the physician.
When I returned to Whitehall, I found that my Lord Sandwich, under whom
I held my place as Second Gentleman of the Wardrobe, had been seeking me.
The king had gone to Sheerness on business of the navy two weeks before,
and the Earl of Sandwich, being at that time Lord Admiral, was to go down
the river on a summons from his Majesty. Much against my will, I was
compelled to go with him, and, by reason of this enforced absence, was
away from London during the next month or two, when I very much wished to
be there.
I saw Frances only twice during George's illness, and as she made no
inquiries about him, I concluded that sober thought had brought back her
old aversion. Therefore I did not mention his name nor try to correct her
error, feeling that it was better for her to remain in her present state
of mind.
I was convinced that Hamilton's threats against the life of the king were
but the ravings of a frenzied brain, and that he had no intention of
killing Charles, but I also felt sure that trouble would come of it,
since he had been overheard by several persons. The treason was certain
to reach the king's ear, and if it did, Hamilton's life would be in
jeopardy. But of that in its turn.
* * * * *
Immediately on my return to London I went down to the Old Swan to see
George, of course having Betty in mind. In truth, Betty had been in mind
most of the time and much to my regret ever since the day I left her.
Even if I had not been plighted to Mary Hamilton, I could not have asked
Betty to be my wife. She would not be happy in my sphere of life, and I
could not live in hers. The painful knowledge of this truth did not in
any way help me to put her out of my thoughts, but rather made my longing
for her all the greater. Since I had learned to know her well, I thought
I meant honestly by her. Still she was a barmaid, and I could not always
bring myself to respect her as she deserved. Time and again I resolved
in all sincerity never to see her again. Since I could not marry her, I
would gain nothing but unhappiness myself and perhaps misery for her by
continuing my suit.
But when back in London, I persuaded myself that it was my duty to see
George, and tried to shut my eyes to the fact that Betty was the real
cause of my anxiety.
When I reached the Old Swan, I soon found Betty, and there could be no
mistake in my reading of the light I saw in her eyes.
After talking with her a minute or two in the tap-room, I asked her to
tell me of Hamilton, and she said hesitatingly that he had left the inn
nearly two months ago.
"Do you know where he is?" I asked.
She answered hesitatingly, "N-o-o-o."
I saw that she did not want to be questioned, so I remained chatting with
her for an hour, and returned to Whitehall, very proud that I had
restrained my tongue during the interview.
* * * * *
On the afternoon following my interview with Betty, I was sitting in
my room adjoining my Lord's private closet in the Wardrobe, trying in
vain to think of something besides Betty, when I heard a peal of merry
laughter, which I recognized as Nelly Gwynn's. Immediately following, I
heard the deep, unmistakable voice of the king. They had just entered my
Lord's private closet, between which and my room there was a loosely hung
door, permitting me to hear all that was said.
"Ah, Rowley," said Nell. "You have been away from me a long weary time,
and I know you have forgotten me."
The king denied the charge, and doubtless took his own way to convince
her.
"While you have been away, I have found a new friend to console me," said
Nelly.
"Ah!" exclaimed the king, with suddenly awakened interest.
"Yes," returned Nelly.
"Is your new friend a man or a woman?" asked Charles.
"A woman, of course, oh, jealous heart! You know there is but one man in
the world for me--your ugly self."
"Who is your friend?" asked the king.
"I'll give you three guesses. You admire her greatly," said Nelly.
"Indeed, it must be the Bishop of Canterbury's lady," suggested his
Majesty.
"Surely!" exclaimed Nell, with a merry laugh. "But guess again."
When the king had exhausted his three guesses, she said triumphantly, "My
new friend's name is Frances Jennings."
"Ah, indeed!" exclaimed the king. "She will have nothing to say to my
friends, Lady Castlemain and others, and I supposed she would be too nice
and proper to choose you for her friend."
"No, no," returned Nelly. "She is my first friend among the court ladies.
We have had several rare adventures together, and don't you know, I have
discovered that she is in love."
"With whom?" demanded the king.
"With your friend and mine, George Hamilton," returned Nelly.
"Ah, well, he is in France, and we shall see that he remains there," said
the king.
"No, he is not in France. He is in London," said Nelly. "I saw him at the
Old Swan just before you left for Sheerness, nearly two months ago."
"Odds fish!" swore his Majesty. "We'll find a mission for him abroad."
"You'll have to find him first," said Nelly. "I've been down to the Old
Swan to see him, but the girl there tells me he left the tavern long ago,
and I suspect he is at his brother's house near St. Albans. But I'll tell
you further."
Then she told the king what Frances had said about a mysterious man
whom Nelly asserted Frances both hated and loved. She told him also
that Frances had recognized one of the highwaymen who had robbed Roger
Wentworth, and closed her narrative with an account of my cousin's
refusal to recognize Hamilton and her eagerness to explain to him after
the fight.
"So you see, Rowley dear, I put this and that together and concluded that
Frances Jennings loves George Hamilton because she can't help it, and
hates him because she recognized him as one of the murderers of Roger
Wentworth. She did not say that this is all true, nor will she talk on
the subject, but one may see through a millstone with a hole in it."
"Perhaps Hamilton's complicity in the crime may save us the trouble of
sending him abroad," said the king. "We may be able to hang him instead."
"Surely you would not hang him for so small an offence? The murdered man
was only a tanner!" cried Nelly, fearing she had brought trouble on
Hamilton by her gossip.
"Of course, if there were no reason save the demands of grasping justice,
we should not trouble ourselves to look into the matter," said Charles,
"but stern justice, if used and not abused, is often a ready help to
kings."
Charles laughed, doubtless showing his yellow fangs, as was his habit
when uttering a cruel jest, and Nelly began to coax him, hoping to avert
the unforeseen trouble she had set afoot. At last the king promised that
he would take no steps against Hamilton, but I knew that royal promises
were never worth the breath they cost in making.
* * * * *
As soon as Nelly and the king left my lord's closet, I hastened to the
river and took a boat for the Old Swan, intending to find Hamilton and to
warn him.
When I told Betty that I wanted to see Hamilton on an affair of great
urgency, she admitted that she knew where he was, and that she had
refused to tell me when I asked her the last time because he had exacted
a promise from her to tell no one.
"But I shall see him," said Betty, "and if you will come back to-morrow,
I'll tell you where he can be found if he consents."
During the last month or two a _News Letter_ had been circulated by
thousands throughout London and Westminster, in which the character of
the king had been assailed with great bitterness. At first Charles paid
no attention to the new journal, but soon its attacks got under his skin.
I was told that efforts had been made to discover the publisher and his
printing shop, but that nothing could be learned save that the sheets
were left at taverns and bookstalls by boys who declared they found them
in bundles in the churchyards.
It was impossible to find even the boys. The bookstalls and taverns were
ordered not to sell the _News Letter_, but the people hated the king so
bitterly that the circulation increased rather than diminished after the
royal interdict, and as the sheets sold for the extravagant price of one
shilling, it was impossible to stop the sale, since every one who handled
them was making a rich profit.
Judging from many articles appearing in the _News Letter_, I suspected
that Hamilton was a contributor, if not the editor. If either, he was
piling up trouble, should he be discovered.
On leaving the Old Swan, I went back to the palace and met Frances at the
Holbein Gate, cloaked and bonneted, ready to go to see her father.
I offered to accompany her, and we took a coach at Charing Cross for Sir
Richard's house.
My conscience had troubled me because I had done nothing to clear
Hamilton of her unjust suspicions. Up to that time I had found no
opportunity to speak to her privately after my return from Sheerness,
nor had I fully made up my mind to try to convince her that George was
not guilty of Roger's death. But when she and I entered the coach to go
to her father's house, I broached the subject:--
"You remember, cousin," I began, "what I said to you in Hamilton's
presence on the Bourne Path?"
"Every word," she replied. "It was all true, and I shall be grateful so
long as I live."
"But what I said at that time did not seem to cause you to hate him?" I
continued, wondering what her reply would be.
"No," she answered, with slight hesitancy. "It did not."
"Is the aversion you now feel toward him the result of what I said at
that time?" I asked.
"No, no," she returned quickly. Then suddenly checking herself, she
demanded, "Why do you speak of my aversion to him, and what do you know
about it?"
I told her that I knew all the particulars of her meeting with Hamilton
at the Old Swan, of her refusal to recognize him and of the fight that
ensued. I told her of my talk with him, at the beginning of his sickness,
two weeks before I left for Sheerness, and then without giving her time
to guard against surprise, I asked:--
"Do you believe he was implicated in the Roger Wentworth tragedy?"
She looked at me a moment, and answered defiantly: "I do not believe it.
I know it. I have not spoken to any one else about it, nor shall I speak
of it again, but I saw him, and of course I hate him." She turned her
face from me, and I fancied there were tears in her eyes.
"You know that I do not favor Hamilton as your suitor?" I asked.
"Yes," she answered, still with averted face.
"And if I were to tell you that you were wrong, that Hamilton had no part
in the robbing and killing of Roger Wentworth, would you believe me?"
"No, no!" she exclaimed, turning to me quickly, with an angry gleam in
her eyes. "I tell you I saw him, and I thank God that at last I know him
as he is! After he had fought so bravely to defend me at the Old Swan, my
heart softened for a moment, and I forgot that he was a murderer. He is
brave and strong, but--why should you try to excuse him now, when you
spoke so plainly at Sundridge? I thought you were too severe then; now
I know that you told me only a part of the terrible truth. My softened
mood lasted only a short time after I left the Old Swan, and I cared not
whether he lived or died."
Hoping to put her right, I told her of the wager at the Leg Tavern, which
in my opinion fully explained George's presence on the St. Albans road,
but she declared that it was a flimsy excuse, and said she did not want
to talk further on the subject.
Knowing that I could not convince her at that time, I bore away from the
topic and called her attention to the impropriety of taking dinner
unescorted at a public house.
"I know all about it, cousin," she returned, "but a good character is
of no value in Whitehall. It is an incumbrance. As to my conscience,
you need have no fear. When I first came to court, I supposed I should
encounter dangers. I was mistaken. I am as safe here as I should be in my
father's house. All the pitfalls and snares are to be seen by any one who
wishes to see them. It is the sleeping spider that catches the fly, not
your bold, brazen hunter, clumsily alert."
I did not want to be preaching constantly to Frances, so we talked on
other subjects till we reached my uncle's house, where I remained,
singing, dancing, and very merry with Frances, Sarah, and Churchill, till
we heard the night watch call, "One o'clock and raining!"
Churchill and I slept at Sir Richard's and returned to Whitehall the next
morning.
During the following week I went to see Betty frequently under the
pretence of wishing to see Hamilton, but she told me (honestly, I
believed) that he had left the Old Swan and that she did not know where
he was. So I repeated my visits every day, each visit growing longer and
I growing fonder. Betty, too, seemed to be looking for my visits with a
degree of pleasure that both pleased and grieved me, for with all my
longing for the girl, I never lost sight of the fact that if I were the
right sort of man, I should not wish to gain her love to an extent that
would mean sorrow to her.
If I were the right sort of man? The question has always set me
wondering. The man who never doubts that he is the right sort of man may
be put down as all bad, though the right sort of man is not necessarily
all good.