"ALL SUNSHINE MAKES THE DESERT"
Whatever faults Whitehall may have had as a place of residence, dulness
was not among them. There were balls, games with high stakes, theatres,
gossip, scandals, and once in a long while an affair of state to interest
us. In order to interest the court thoroughly, an affair of state must
have involved the getting of money for the privy purse; that is, for the
king's personal use, for out of it the courtesans were fed and gambling
debts were paid.
The time of our Dover journey was one of extreme depletion in the privy
purse. The king had borrowed from every person and every city within the
realm who, by threats or cajolery, could be induced to part with money.
But now he had reached the end of his tether.
When matters were thus in extremis, some one, probably Castlemain,
suggested the sale of England's possessions on the continent, chief of
which was the rich city of Dunkirk, situate on the French side of the
Straits of Dover. This fortified city, within a few leagues of Calais,
had cost the English nation heavily in blood and gold to gain, and still
more heavily to hold, but its value to England commercially and
politically was beyond measure.
Since Queen Mary had lost Calais, Dunkirk was the only important foothold
England had on continental soil; therefore it was almost as dear to the
English people as the city of London itself. Because of its importance,
it was greatly coveted by the French king, who shortly before the time
of our journey to Dover had made overtures to buy it.
Charles turned a deaf ear to King Louis's first proposal to buy Dunkirk,
not because he loved the city, or cared a farthing for its value to his
people, but because he feared the storm of indignation its sale would
raise. The Lord Chancellor objected to the sale of Dunkirk, and tried
to show Charles the great folly of entertaining the offer. He was the
only wise, honest man in the king's council, and, by reason of his
wonderful knowledge of mankind, was called "the Chancellor of Human
Nature." But the king needed money, so after a time he listened to
Berkeley, Crofts, Castlemain, and others of like character, whose
strongest argument consisted in accusing the king, most offensively,
of being afraid of his people.
"Are you not king?" asked Castlemain. "Does not Dunkirk belong to you,
and may you not sell that which is your property? Are not these dogs,
the people, your slaves, your property? Yet you stand in cowardly fear
of a rabble which quakes if you but crook your finger. A like fear of his
subjects cost your father his head. The people will crawl before you if
you kick them, but let them see that you fear them, and you will learn
that there is no cruelty like that of the good people."
De Grammont, the French exile, called attention to the French king's
successful tyranny, declaring that his master would sell Paris if he
chose. De Grammont was acting secretly in the French king's interest.
A weak man easily finds logic to justify the course he desires to take,
so Charles turned a deaf ear to Clarendon, and, listening to Castlemain,
announced that Dunkirk was for sale. As expected, a strong protest came
from the people, but no one is so stubborn as a fool in the wrong, so
Charles remained firm in his determination.
Finding that protest would avail nothing, the people of London offered to
buy Dunkirk, and began to bid for it against the French king. Louis,
knowing that London was a rich city, and believing that its people would
run up the price of Dunkirk to an exorbitant figure, took counsel with
himself--his only adviser--and determined to employ other means than gold
alone to obtain the coveted city.
My first definite knowledge of the French king's new plan to buy Dunkirk
at his own price came in a letter from Hamilton, which reached me at
Lilly's house two or three weeks after my return from Dover. Like the
others, it was written in cipher, but, translated, was as follows:--
DEAR FRIEND:
"Your warning letter reached me nearly a week ago, and I thank you for
your watchfulness. I had full information of King Charles's design upon
my life from no less a person than Monsieur le Grand himself, who showed
me the letter asking that I be returned to England.
"I explained to Monsieur le Grand that the English king sought my life,
not because he is in fear of me, but because he thought I stood between
him and a lady who despises him. While Monsieur le Grand was much in
sympathy with the English king's grievance, his contempt for Charles,
his regard for me, which seems to be sincere, and his longing to possess
Dunkirk all induced him to laugh at the request, the nature of which he
had imparted to no one save me.
"My account of the lady who despised King Charles's love gave Monsieur le
Grand a new idea, and suggested a method of purchasing Dunkirk which he
hopes will save the heavy cost of bidding against the citizens of London.
I had no hint of what he intended till one day he took me to his closet
and began to question me.
"'Do you possess the love of the lady who despises King Charles?' he
asked.
"'I do, your Majesty,' I answered.
"'Do you know you possess it?' he asked.
"'As well as a man who is not a king may know,' I returned.
"'Tush, tush! Kings are no more certain than other men.'
"'I know I possess this woman's love,' I said.
"'Would she be willing to make a great sacrifice to help you?'
"'Anything that I should ask,' I replied.
"'Ah, I see, I see! Should ask? I take it there are certain sacrifices
you would not ask,' returned the king. 'We here in France would say that
your position was Quixotic. However, your King Charles is a weak fool,
easily imposed upon. Is the lady quick and resourceful in expedients,
calm and thoughtful in emergencies, and silent on great occasions?'
"To all of which I answered, 'Yes.'
"'Surely the lady is not La Belle Jennings?' asked the king.
"'Yes,' I replied.
"'In that case you are the very man I want, and your lady-love can help
me buy Dunkirk. It is easy to lead a fool to do the wrong thing, and I'm
sure La Belle Jennings will find a way to gain her end and ours. If,
through her, you induce King Charles to sell Dunkirk to me on my own
terms, I'll make you its governor and a rich man. I'll put you in a
position to marry this paragon, Mam'selle Jennings, if, as I take it,
lack of fortune is all that stands between you. I do not mind telling you
now that De Grammont had given me full information concerning the king's
view of La Belle Jennings and your relations to her before I wrote my
first letter, inviting you to visit me.'
"I am loath to undertake so mean an office as that of inducing King
Charles to sell an English city, but I cannot save Dunkirk, and I may
profit by helping what I cannot prevent. So I beg you broach the subject
to Frances, cautioning her for me to take no risk, and if she is willing
to use and to hoodwink the man who would not hesitate to take her life,
let me know, and I shall write to you again with further instructions.
"With gratitude,
"Your friend,
"LE BLANC."
I sought Frances, and when I told her the substance of George's letter,
she was almost wild with joy.
"Am I willing to try?" she exclaimed, laughing while tears were hanging
in her eyes. "I am not only willing to try, but am determined to succeed.
Ay, I'd sell England itself in the same cause. Of all the men I have ever
known, this king of ours is the greatest dupe. Since the return of the
court to Whitehall, he has been growing more importunate every day. He
seems to have lost what little wits he had, and does and says the
silliest things one can imagine."
"And you do not fear attempting to lead him on to sell Dunkirk? You do
not fear going too near the precipice?" I asked, wishing to weigh her
self-confidence more by the manner of her reply than by her words.
She laughed and answered: "There is no precipice, cousin Ned; nothing to
fear save kidnapping, and I am always guarded against that danger;
nothing to do of which I need feel ashamed, save the acting of a lie, and
surely one may lie to the father of lies without sin."
"But the lie may be recognized," I suggested, "if one be too bold about
it."
"My lie will go little beyond a smile or two. The king's vanity will do
the rest. He will make himself believe that I mean more than I say."
Frances and I felt that we were traitors to our country in helping the
French king, but we knew that in the end he would buy Dunkirk from our
spendthrift monarch, and that out country's loss would be no greater by
reason of our gain. Therefore I wrote George as follows:--
"DEAR FRIEND:
"The Duchess of Hearts is eager and confident. Write at once, giving full
directions.
"YOUR FRIEND."
Frances added a postscript in cipher, but I shall not translate it.
One morning, some three weeks after sending my letter, Frances came to me
in my closet in the Wardrobe, and I saw at once she was in great trouble.
Her eyes were red with weeping, and the woebegone expression of her face
would have been amusing had I not known that some good cause was back of
it. As soon as she entered I saw that she was going to speak, but closets
in Whitehall have ears, so I placed my finger on my lips to enjoin
silence, and spoke loud enough to be heard if any one was listening:--
"Ah, Frances, I forgot that I had promised to go with you to your
father's this morning. Wait for me at Holbein's Gate. I'll be there in
ten minutes."
Within the promised time I found Frances at Holbein's Gate, and we walked
up to Charing Cross, thence down the Strand toward Temple Bar.
"What is the trouble, Frances?" I asked, anxious to hear her news, which
I feared was bad. She was in great distress, and I saw that a flood of
tears was ready to accompany her tale of woe, so I said hurriedly: "Don't
cry. Laugh while you speak. You will attract less attention."
She tried to laugh, but the effort was piteous and became a failure, as
she said:--
"George Hamilton has sailed for Canada, and my heart is broken."
Again she tried to smile, but the smile never reached her eyes, for they
were full of tears.
"How do you know?" I asked, almost stunned by the news.
She tried to stay her tears, but failed, and answered between sobs: "Last
night at the queen's ball, the king showed me a letter sent by order of
the French king, saying that George had sailed from Bordeaux for Canada
nearly a fortnight ago. I could not help showing my grief, and the king,
who was boisterously happy, said: 'Now you will forget him and listen to
me.' I smiled, but it was a poor effort, and he smiled, showing his
yellow fangs as he left me. I pray God that I may never be called upon to
hate another man as I hate him."
"I can hardly believe that George has gone to Canada without notifying
us," I said.
"Yes, I fear it is true," she returned. "But if I am ever so fortunate
as to find him again, I intend to go with him whether he consents or no,
regardless of father and all the world. Just as soon as I learn where he
is in Canada, I will go to him. You will take me, won't you, Baron Ned?"
"I'll not give that promise," I answered. "But I am sure there is
something back of King Louis's letter of which we do not know. Surely
George would not have sailed without notifying us."
"He may have feared to betray himself by writing," she suggested, "since
King Charles had asked King Louis to detain him."
"That is true," I returned. "But the occasion must have been urgent
indeed if he could not have sent us word in some manner."
But I could find no comfort for her, for I really believed that George
had gone to Canada, and there was a certain relief to me in knowing that
he had passed out of Frances's life.
After along silence this feeling of relief found unintentional expression
when I said:--
"Time heals all wounds, Frances. One of these days you will find a man
who will make amends for your present loss, and then--"
"No, no, Baron Ned. Your words are spoken in kindness, but what you
suggest is impossible. Perhaps if there had been fewer obstacles between
us, or if I had not misjudged him so cruelly, I might have found my heart
more obedient to my will."
The only comfort I could give my beautiful cousin was that a letter would
soon come explaining everything. In default of a letter, I promised to go
to Paris and learn the truth from George's friends, if possible.
Frances did not go back to Whitehall that day, but remained at home,
pretending to be ill of an ague.
At the end of a week, Frances not having returned to Whitehall, Sir
Richard was honored by a visit from no less a person than the king,
accompanied by the duchess and a gentleman in waiting. The visit was made
incognito.
As a result of this royal visit, which was made for the purpose of seeing
Frances, a part of Sir Richard's estates near St. Albans were restored to
him, and from poverty he rose at once to a comfortable income of, say, a
thousand or twelve hundred pounds a year.
Immediately all of Sir Richard's hatred of Charles II fell away, and once
more the king shone in the resplendent light of his divine appointment.
While Frances estimated the king's generosity at its true value, she was
glad her father had received even a small part of what was his just due,
and although she knew the restoration had been made to please, and, if
possible, to win her, she was glad to have spoiled the royal Philistine,
and despised him more than ever before, if that were possible.
Sir Richard's good fortune brought a gleam of joy to Frances, but it also
brought a pang of regret, because it had come too late. Her only purpose
in going to Whitehall had been to marry a rich nobleman and thereby raise
the fallen fortunes of her house. Now that reason existed no longer, and
if George were here, she could throw herself away upon him with injury to
no one but herself. But George was not here, and liberty to throw herself
away had come too late to be of any value.
Every day during the fortnight that Frances remained at home, she asked
if I had any news from court, meaning the French court, but using the
form of inquiry to avoid acquainting her father and Sarah with the real
cause of her solicitude.
But my answers were always, "Oh, nothing but Castlemain's new tantrum,"
or "The duke's defeat at pall-mall."
Frances was the last girl in the world, save, perhaps Sarah, who I should
have supposed capable of languishing and dying of love, but the former
she did before my eyes, and the latter I almost began to fear if news did
not reach us soon from George.
Betty came up to see Frances nearly every day, and the kissing and
embracing that ensued disgusted Sarah.
"Now, if Frances were a man, I could understand it," said Sarah. "The
little barmaid must be tempting to a man, being pretty and--"
"Beautiful, Sarah!" I interrupted.
"Yes, beautiful, if you will."
"Her eyes--" I began, again interrupting Sarah.
"Oh, yes!" cried Sarah, impatiently. "Her eyes are fine enough, but their
expression comes from their color, their size, and their preposterously
long eyelashes. Black long lashes often give a radiance to the eyes which
passes for expressiveness, and I doubt not--"
"Nonsense, Sarah!" I cried, half angrily. "Bettina's eyes are expressive
in themselves. As you say, their soft dark brown is the perfection of
color, and they certainly are large. But aside from all that, their
expression is--"
"There is no intellect in them!" cried Sarah.
"There is tenderness, gentleness, love, and truth in them," I answered,
with as careless an air as I could assume.
"Yes, there may be for a man, but I insist there is no real intellect."
"Well, Sarah," I answered, showing irritation despite an effort to appear
indifferent, "it is my opinion that the possession of great intellectual
power by a woman is the one virtue with which men, as a rule, find
themselves most willing to dispense. It gives her too great an
advantage."
"Yes, a soft, plump figure like Betty's, long lashes and red lips,
surrounded by dimples, are apt to please a fool."
"But they're good in their way, Sarah, you'll admit--excellent!"
I retorted sharply, caring little if she saw that I was angry.
"And men are fools, so there! Not another word about the barmaid!" cried
Sarah, dismissing the subject with a wave of her hand.
But men, too, sometimes like to have the last word, so I remarked: "The
mother of the Duchess of York was a barmaid, at least, a barmistress."
"Yes, but is that any reason why Frances should be kissing this one?
Doubtless your friend Betty finds men enough to do the office."
"Sarah!" I cried, springing to my feet, now thoroughly angry. "If you
were a man, I'd give you the lie direct!"
Sarah began to laugh and clapped her hands, saying: "I was leading you
on. I suspected you were fond of her. Now I know it."
But Sarah's remark, being so near the truth, did nothing to allay my
anger, so I told her she was a fool, and went into an adjoining room,
where I found Frances and Bettina luxuriating in tearful sympathy.
I walked home with Bettina, and she invited me to go to her parlor to
have a cup of tea. To see Bettina boil the tea (steep it or draw it, she
said was the proper phrase) was as pretty a sight as one could wish to
behold, and when she poured it out in thin china cups, handing one to
me and taking one herself, her pride in following the fashion of modish
ladies was as touching as it was simple and beautiful. It was almost more
than my feeble resolutions could withstand, so when I was about to leave
I had a great battle with myself and was defeated, for I seized her
hands, and although I said nothing, she knew what was in my mind, so she
hung her head, murmuring:--
"If you are willing to make me more unhappy than I am."
"Not for the world, Bettina," I answered, rallying against myself.
"Goodnight."
"Good night. Now I know you are my friend," she answered softly, holding
my hands for a moment, then dropping them suddenly and turning from me.
I have refrained from speaking of Mary Hamilton of late, partly because
I did not see her frequently at this time, and partly because the shame I
felt at the time of which I am now writing comes surging over me whenever
I touch upon the subject. Not that I did anything of which I need be
ashamed, but because I remember so vividly my motives and desires that
the old sensations return, even at this distant day, as a perfume, a
strain of music, the soft balminess of spring, or the sharp bite of
winter's frost may recall a moment of the past, and set the heart
throbbing or still it as of yore.
After leaving Bettina, I went back to Whitehall and dressed for a ball
which the queen was giving that night. It was an unfortunate time for me
to see Mary. My heart was full, not to overflowing, but to sinking, with
my love of Bettina and her love of me. There was nothing I would not have
given at that time to be able to take her as my wife. I should have been
glad to give my title, estates, and position--everything--to be a simple
tradesman or an innkeeper so that I might take Bettina with happiness to
her and without the damning sin of losing caste to me.
It was true the king's brother had made a marriage of comparatively the
same sort, but it is almost as impossible for a prince to lose caste as
it is difficult for a mere baron to keep it. Bettina would not be happy
in my sphere of life, nor could I live in hers, so what was there for me
to do but to keep my engagement with Mary Hamilton and, if I could, lose
my love for Bettina.
* * * * *
The queen's ball was to be held that night at St. James's Palace, and
I was glad to have the walk from Whitehall across the park. The night was
perfect. A slim moon hung in the west, considerately withholding a part
of her light that the stars might twinkle the brighter in their vain
effort to rival Bettina's eyes. The night wind came to me, odor-laden
from the roses, only to show me how poor a thing it was compared with
Bettina's breath upon my cheek and its sweetness in my nostrils. Now and
then a belated bird sang its sleepy song, only to remind me of the melody
of her lullabies, and the cooing dove moaned out its plaintive call lest
I forget the pain in her breast while selfishly remembering the ache in
my own. Then I thought of what the Good Book says about "bright clouds,"
and I prayed that my pain might make me a better man and might lead me to
help Bettina in the days of her sorrowing, which I knew were at hand.
Soon after I had kissed the hands of the king and the queen, I met
George's brother, Count Anthony Hamilton. He had never been friendly to
his younger brother, and had ceased to look upon him as a brother at all
after his disgraceful reformation. Then when the king turned against
George, Anthony, good courtier that he was, turned likewise, and there is
no bitterness that may be compared with that of an apostate brother.
After we had talked for a minute or two, Count Anthony asked if I knew
anything of "the fool," as he was pleased to call his brother.
"I know nothing of your brother George, my lord, if it is him you mean."
"He is no brother of mine, and if you wish to become a member of our
family, you will cease to consider him your friend," returned his
Lordship, making an effort to conceal his anger.
I was not in the mood to take his remark kindly, therefore I answered
warmly:--
"Shall my entering the ranks of your noble family curtail my privilege of
choosing my own friends?"
"No, with one exception," he replied.
"The honor of the alliance is great, my lord, but I shall not consent to
even one exception at your dictation. Your sister, my future wife, loves
her brother, and if she does not object to my friendship for him, your
Lordship oversteps your authority, as head of your house, by protesting."
He turned angrily upon me, saying: "You have been paying your court with
lukewarm ardor of late, Baron Clyde. Perhaps you would not grieve if your
friendship for a family outcast were to bar you from the family."
"If your Lordship means to say that I wish to withdraw dishonorably from
my engagement with your sister, I crave the privilege of telling you that
you lie!"
I never was more calm in my life, and my words brought a cold smile to
Hamilton's lips.
"My friend De Grammont will have the honor of waiting on you to-morrow
morning," he answered, bowing politely.
"I shall be delighted to see his Grace," I answered. "Good night, my
lord!"
Here was a solution of my problem in so far as it concerned my engagement
with Mary Hamilton, for if I killed her brother, she would not marry
me, and if he killed me, I could not marry her. The fact that a gleam
of joy came to me because of my unexpected release caused me to feel
that I was a coward not to have broken the engagement in an honorable,
straightforward manner rather than to have seized this opportunity to
force a duel upon her brother. It is true I had not sought the duel
deliberately and had not thought it possible one second before uttering
the word that made it necessary. Still it was my act that brought it
about, and I felt that I had taken an unmanly course.
After leaving Count Anthony I walked across the room to where Mary
was standing at the outer edge of a circle of ladies and gentlemen who
surrounded De Grammont, listening to a narrative in broken English, of
his adventures, fancied or real, I know not which, but interesting,
and all of a questionable character.
When I spoke to Mary, she turned and gave me her hand. I had not
expected the least display of emotion on her part; therefore I was not
disappointed when the smile with which she greeted me was the same she
would have given to any other man. But Mary was Mary. Nature and art had
made her what she was--charming, quiescent, and calm, not cold, simply
lukewarm.
"I have seen little of you this last month," said Mary, taking my arm and
walking with me away from De Grammont's group. She might have remarked
with equal emotion that Cromwell was dead or the weather fine. She did
not wait for an explanation of my absence, but continued with a touch of
eager hesitancy and a fluttering show of anxiety, "Have you had news
recently of my brother George?"
Of course I could not tell her the truth, so I answered evasively: "I
suppose you have heard the news spread throughout the court that he has
gone to Canada? Doubtless you can tell me more than I know."
"That is all I know," she answered. "When he went, or where, I have been
unable to learn, for George is a forbidden topic in our household and
seems to be the same at court. What has he done, baron? I have heard it
hinted that he threatened to take the king's life. Surely he did nothing
of the sort."
"If he did, it was in a delirium of fever," I answered, hoping that she
would cease speaking of George and would ask a question or two concerning
myself.
But no. She turned again to me, asking, "Did you hear him?"
"I have been told that the accusation comes from his physician, and
perhaps from one who was listening at his door," I answered, avoiding a
direct reply.
"I suspect the informant is a wretched little hussy of whom I have
heard--the daughter of the innkeeper," remarked Mary, looking up to
me for confirmation.
"Suspect no longer," I answered, with sharper emphasis than I should have
used.
"Do you know her?" she asked.
"I do not know a 'wretched hussy' who is the daughter of the innkeeper,"
I answered sullenly. "I know a beautiful girl who watched devotedly at
your brother's bedside, day and night, and probably saved his life at a
time when he was deserted by his sisters and his mother."
"We often find that sort of kindness in those low creatures," she
answered, unaware of the tender spot she was touching, and ignoring
my reference to George's sisters and his mother.
Naturally Mary was kind of heart, but her mother was a hard, painted
old Jezebel, whose teachings would have led her daughter away from every
gentle truth and up to all that was hard, cruel, and selfish in life. A
woman in the higher walks of life is liable to become enamelled before
her twentieth year.
While I did not blame Mary for what she had said relating to Bettina,
still I was angry and longed to do battle with any one who could fight.
After we had been together perhaps ten minutes, some one claimed her for
a dance, and she left me, saying hurriedly in my ear:--
"I'll see you soon again. I want to ask you further about George." She
had not a question to ask about me.
She was not to see me again, for I asked permission of the queen to
withdraw, and immediately left the ball.
While I was crossing the park on my way back to Whitehall, the wind
moaned and groaned--it did not breathe. The stars did not twinkle--they
glared. The nightingales did not sing--they screamed. And the roses were
odorless. Perhaps all this change to gloom was within me rather than
without, but it existed just the same, and I went home and to bed, hating
all the world save Bettina, whom I vowed for the hundredth time never to
see again.
The next day at noon De Grammont came to my closet, where I had waited
for him all morning.
"Welcome to you, dear count!" I cried, leading him by the hand to a
chair.
"Perhaps you will not so warmly welcome me," he returned, "when you learn
my errand."
"I already know your errand, Count Grammont, and it makes you doubly
welcome," I answered, drawing a chair for myself and sitting down in
front of him.
"Ah, that is of good," he returned, rubbing his hands. "You already know
the purpose of my visit?"
"Yes, I do, my dear count, but any purpose would delight me which brings
the pleasure of your company."
"Ah, it is said like a civilized man," he returned, complimenting
me by speaking English, though I shall not attempt to reproduce his
pronunciation. "How far better it is to say: 'Monsieur, permit to me,'
before one runs a man through than to do it as though one were sticking
a mere pig. Is it not so?"
"True as sunshine, my dear count," I returned. "There's a vast difference
between the trade of butchering and the gentle art of murder."
De Grammont threw back his head, laughing softly. "Ah, good, good! Very
good, dear baron! The sentiment is beau-ti-ful and could not be better
expressed--in English. You should have been born across the channel."
"I wish I had been born any place, not excepting hell, rather than in
England," I answered.
"True, true, what a hole it is," returned the count, regretfully. "The
Englishman is one pig."
He saw by the expression of my face that while I might abuse my own
countrymen, I did not relish hearing it from others, so with true French
tact he held up his hand to keep me from speaking till he could correct
himself.
"Pardon, baron, I forgot the 'r,' The Englishman's affectation of a
virtue he despises makes of him a prig--not a pig. Non, non! Mon Dieu!
Not a pig--a prig! Is it not so?"
"True, true, count," I returned, unable to restrain a laugh. "It is the
affectation of virtue that makes frank vice attractive by comparison."
"Ah, true, true, my dear baron. May I proceed with my errand?"
"Proceed, count."
"Monsieur le Comte Hamilton begs me to say that he was called away from
London early to-day on the king's business, but that he will return
in four weeks. When he returns he will do himself the honor to send
me again, asking you to name a friend, unless you prefer to apologize,
which no gentleman would do in a case of this sort. You said, I am told,
that Monsieur le Comte lied. If you admit that he did not lie, of course
you admit that you did. So, im-pos-si-ble! There must be to fight!"
"Do you know, count, the cause of my having given Count Hamilton the
lie?" I asked.
"I did not inquire," he answered smilingly. "To me it was to carry the
message."
"George Hamilton is your friend, is he not?" I asked.
"Yes, but far more, he is the friend of my king, and will make entreaty
with my monarch for my return to France," answered De Grammont.
"It was because of Count Hamilton's insulting reference to his brother
that I used the ugly word," I returned.
"A-ah, that is different!" Then recovering himself quickly: "But I
undertook the mission. It is to finish. Monsieur George Hamilton? My
friend? My king's friend? If it had been known to me! But you have the
message of 'Sieur le Comte."
After a short silence he said, "When Monsieur le Comte Hamilton returns,
I shall ask him to relieve me of this duty."
As De Grammont was leaving my closet, he paused at the door, and, after a
moment's hesitancy, whispered:--
"You may expect a letter from France soon. It will come from M. l'Abbé du
Boise, who I hope will come soon to London on the business of my king.
You know him not--M. l'Abbé?" The eyebrows lifted questioningly. "No? You
soon will know him, yet you will not know him. You and perhaps a lady may
help him in his mission. I, too, shall help him, but I, too, know him
not. Yet I know him. If he succeed in his mission, he will be rich, he
will be powerful. And I? Mon Dieu, my friend! If he succeed, my decree of
banishment from Paris--it will be to revoke. I may return once more to
bask in the smile of my king. You must not speak; the lady must not
speak; I must not speak when Monsieur l'Abbé comes, nor before. It is to
silence. Stone walls have one ear."
"Two, sometimes, count," I suggested, laughing.
"Yes, I should have said one ears! Non, non! I forget this damnable
tongue of yours! When I arrive to great interest, it is to talk faster
than it is to think, and--" A shrug of the shoulders finished the
sentence.
"Let us speak French hereafter, my dear count," I suggested.
"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! It is to me more of pain to hear my sweet language
murdered than to murder yours," answered Grammont, seriously.
"Ah, but I speak French quite as well as I speak English. Perhaps I shall
not murder it," I replied.
"Perhaps? We shall try," he said, though with little show of faith.
I began speaking French, but when I paused for his verdict, he shrugged
his shoulders, saying:--
"Ah, _oui, oui!_ It may be better than my English." But notwithstanding
his scant praise, we spoke the French language thereafter.
The count bowed himself out and left me to decipher, if I could, the
problem of M. l'Abbé du Boise. Presently I discovered the cue. The
Abbé was George Hamilton, and for the moment my heart almost stopped
beating. If he should come to England on the French king's business,
which could be nothing more nor less than the Dunkirk affair, and
should be discovered, there would be a public entertainment on Tyburn
Hill, with George as the central figure.
When I found a spare hour, I hastened to see Lilly and came upon the
good Doctor among the stars, as usual. There was a letter for me from
Hamilton. It was short and in cipher:--
"DEAR FRIEND:
"This is to tell you that M. l'Abbé du Boise will soon be in London. He
will be the guest of M. Comte de Grammont.
"You do not know him. Please call on him when he arrives. Tell the
Duchess of Hearts that he will want to see her. Ask her to be ready to
help him. He goes to buy Dunkirk for the French king, and his success
will mean good fortune for me.
"Your friend,
"LE BLANC."
After reading the letter, I felt sure that the Abbé du Boise was George
Hamilton. I could hardly bring myself to believe that he would be so
foolhardy as to visit Whitehall, though I knew the adventure was of a
nature likely to appeal to his reckless disregard of consequences. I
knew also that, if successful, he would win the reward without which
life had little value to him.
I was sure that Hamilton had fully weighed the danger of his perilous
mission, and that he was deliberately staking his life on a last
desperate chance to win fortune and Frances Jennings.
Though perhaps Lilly was a charlatan in many respects, he was to be
trusted; still I did not feel that it was my place to impart George's
secret to him, though I had in mind a plan whereby he might be of great
help to the Abbé du Boise in influencing King Charles. The king consulted
him secretly in many important affairs, and I was sure that if the good
Doctor should be called in by his Majesty in the Dunkirk affair, the
stars would tell a story in accord with our desires if we made it to
Lilly's interest.
However, all of that must wait for the Abbé du Boise. Of one thing I was
sure; I must tell Frances at once so that she might be paving the way to
the king with her smiles. It would be a disagreeable task, but I knew she
would do it gladly, and I also knew that no woman could do it better.
While I had expressed my doubts to Frances concerning Hamilton's
emigration to Canada, I had not felt entirely sure there was nothing in
it, and she, womanlike, taking the worst for granted, had accepted it as
true. But the coming of the Abbé du Boise changed everything, and when I
saw her at her father's house and told her of my suspicions, and showed
her Le Blanc's letter, she was so greatly alarmed that she said she would
rather know that George had gone to Canada than to fear his return to
England under the circumstances.
"The dastardly king will take his life if he comes," she said.
"I admit the danger," I answered, as hopefully as possible, "but I
believe, if George comes, he will be able to take care of himself."
"Danger!" she exclaimed. "It is certain death! George will find no
mercy."
"If he is caught," I answered. "But the letter from King Louis will
convince King Charles that Hamilton is in Canada and will throw our
jealous monarch off his guard. Perhaps Hamilton will be safer than we
suppose. He speaks French like a Parisian, but, above all, he is cool,
calm, and thoughtful in danger. The London merchants will be far more
dangerous than the king."
"It does seem that we are guilty of treason to our country in thus
helping France," she said. Then laughingly, "But I'll go back to the
palace at once and begin my task of wheedling the king." She paused for a
moment, then continued hesitatingly, "Do you suppose it possible that
George would doubt me afterwards?"
"Impossible," I answered, with emphasis that seemed to reassure her.
"I am doing it for him," she continued with a sigh. "God knows I would
do almost anything in the same cause. But I do not know men, and I fear
it is possible that he will doubt me after I have succeeded. Let us go
to see Betty. She is restful to me, and always soothes my nerves. But
besides, I want to have her help. I'll introduce her to the king--"
"No, by God, you'll not introduce her to the king! I'll explode the whole
affair, and Dunkirk may go to the devil before you shall introduce Betty
to the king," I answered.
"Yet you are willing that I should meddle in the dangerous affair?
Evidently you love her more than you love me?"
"Only a few hundred million times more," I answered sullenly.
"Is it that way with you, my dear brother?" she asked, coming to me as I
stood gazing out the window, seeing nothing save Bettina's face. Frances
put her hand on my shoulder and said coaxingly: "Forgive me. No harm
shall come to her through me."
Of course I was sorry that I had allowed myself to become angry, and at
once made my apology as well as I could.
"Let us go to see Betty, anyway," said Frances. And I assenting, she went
to fetch her cloak, hat, and vizard.
But when she returned, I had changed my mind and declined to go, telling
Frances that I must see Bettina no more.
"Why?" asked Frances.
"Because I would not win a love from her which I cannot accept."
"Baron Ned, there are few men who would be so considerate."
But I required little coaxing, and when Frances had made ready for the
journey, I buckled on my sword, which I had left standing in the corner,
took my hat from the floor, and started out with her.
While walking from the Bridge to the Old Swan, I remarked to Frances, "My
engagement with Mary Hamilton is likely to be broken by her family."
"Why, Baron Ned?" she asked in surprise.
"Count Hamilton has challenged me to a duel, to be fought when he
returns, and you see, if I kill him or if he kills me, well--" I
answered, shrugging my shoulders.
She was much alarmed at my disclosure, but was reassured when I made
light of the affair, probably because there was no danger in it to George
Hamilton, and, perhaps, because if I should kill Count Hamilton, George
would inherit the title and estates.
"But poor Mary! She will grieve," said Frances.
"I think you need waste no tears for her sake," I answered. "She is a
fine, pretty little creature, who will take what comes her way without
excess of pain or joy. She is incapable of feeling keenly. God has been
good to her in giving her numbness."
"No, no, cousin Ned, you are wrong!" she returned. "Life without pain
is not worth living. I have heard that the Arabs have a saying, 'All
sunshine makes the desert.' God is good to us when he darkens the sun
now and then and gives us the sunshine afterwards."
"Perhaps you are right, Frances," I returned. "But you and I are in the
cloud now, and a little sunshine would be most welcome."
"Not enough sunshine to make a desert," she answered.
"Ay! But enough to make a garden," I returned, as we climbed the narrow
flight of steps leading to the private entrance to the Old Swan.
When we paused at the door, Frances said, "Your garden is at hand." And
when she opened the door, there stood Betty, and I was in Eden. The moist
glow of her eyes, the faint blush of her cheeks, the nervous fluttering
of her voice, spoke more eloquently than all the tongues of Babel could
have spoken, and I could not help comparing her welcome with that which
Maxy Hamilton had given me at the queen's ball.
Bettina led us to the parlor, and while we were drinking a cup of tea,
we had the great pleasure of asking and answering questions of which we
always had a large supply in reserve.
When it was time to go, Bettina walked down to the Bridge with us. As it
was growing dark, Frances suggested that I walk back to the Old Swan with
Betty, which I did, she taking my arm of her own accord, and both of us
very happy, though we spoke not a word, for fear of saying too much, save
"good night" at the door.
"Good night at the door!" God gave its sweetness to youth right out of
the core of His infinite love.