HER LADYSHIP'S SMILE
We landed at the Old Swan stairs below the Bridge on Lower Thames Street,
and went to the end of the Bridge, where De Grammont waited till I had
taken Bettina home.
When I returned to the Bridge, the count and I took coach, and after a
rapid journey across silent London, I arrived at the palace just as Old
Tom of Westminster was striking eleven.
I climbed over the porch to my closet and reached there none too soon,
for I was hardly in bed when my door opened and in walked the king
followed by two men bearing candles. I pretended to be in a deep sleep
and when aroused sprang from my bed seemingly half dazed and ready to
defend myself, till the king spoke, when, of course, I was humble enough.
"How long have you been here?" demanded the king.
"All night I suppose, your Majesty; what time is it now?"
"Past eleven!" the king answered.
"In what may I serve your Majesty?" I asked.
"By telling me the truth!" he said, glaring at me and whining out his
words. "Do you know anything about the attack on my closet this evening?"
Nothing is ever gained by denying, so I took a leaf from woman's logic,
and answered his question by another.
"An attack on your Majesty's closet?" I cried. Then after a long pause,
and with a manner of deep injury, I demanded: "Has anything untoward
befallen my cousin? I carried out your Majesty's instructions without
objection or protest. I intrusted her to your care, and it is my right
and my duty to demand an account of her and to hold your Majesty
responsible for her welfare."
He looked at me for a moment with a hang-dog expression on his face, but
he could not stand my gaze, so he turned on his heel and left the room
without another word.
He was not convinced of my guilt, nor would he believe me innocent.
Evidently the royal verdict was "not proven." But in any case I knew that
my favor at court was at an end.
During the next week I constantly importuned the king to tell me what
had become of my cousin, and intimated my intention to make trouble in
terms so plain--for I knew the king's favor was lost to me--that my Lord
Clarendon was instructed to offer me a sum of money to say nothing more
about the matter. I agreed to accept the money, it was paid, and I
remained silent.
Frequently the difference between an acted lie and a spoken lie is the
difference between success and failure. Then, too, the acted lie has this
advantage; there is no commandment against it. We should congratulate
ourselves that so many pleasant sins were omitted on Sinai.
At the end of a week after our great adventure I went to the country, and
within a fortnight returned to find that my place in the Wardrobe was
taken by another, and my place in the king's smile by the world at large;
at least, it was lost to me.
When a wise courtier loses his king's smile, he takes himself out of his
king's reach. Therefore I cast about in my mind for a London friend who
would like to possess my title. I thought of Sir William Wentworth,
rather of his wife, and suggested to her that for the sum of thirty
thousand pounds I would resign my estates and title to the king, if Sir
William would arrange for their transfer to himself. The transfer
directly from me to him was not within the limits of the law. It could
only be made through the king by forfeiture and grant. But the like had
happened many times before, and could be accomplished now if the king
were compensated for his trouble.
Wentworth broached the subject to our august sovereign who, in
consideration of the sum of ten thousand pounds "lent" by Sir William to
his Majesty, and because he was glad to conciliate a prominent citizen of
London, that city being very angry on account of the sale of Dunkirk,
agreed to the transfer, and the baronetcy of Clyde with the appurtenant
estates passed to the house of Wentworth, where, probably, they brought
trouble to Sir William and joyous discontent to his aspiring lady.
Aside from the fact that I knew the king's ill temper was cumulative, I
had received a hint, coming through Castlemain's maid to Rochester, that
if I remained in England, the king would despoil me. Then, too, I had
other reasons for making the sale. I was sick of England's fawning on a
poor weak creature, as cowardly as he was dull, and almost as dull as he
was vicious, and longed to flee to the despotism of strength as I should
find it in France under Louis XIV. There was still another reason, of
which I shall speak later.
Three days after the consummation of my sale to Sir William Wentworth,
Count Hamilton returned, and, learning of the manner in which I had
disgraced myself, withdrew his challenge, sending De Grammont to tell me
the sad news. He would not honor me by killing me.
"Why did you sell your title and estates?" asked De Grammont.
"I have several good reasons, my dear count," I answered. "The first
is that I should have lost them had I not sold them. While the king
does not know that I was connected with the fight on the privy stairs,
he doubtless suspected it, for I have lived in the royal frown ever
since. The second reason is that I hate Charles Stuart, and, admiring at
least the strength of your king's tyranny, desire to live in France. King
Louis says he is the state, and by heaven, he is! Charles Stuart knows
that he is nothing, and he is right!"
"Give me your hand, baron!" cried De Grammont, a smile of satisfaction
spreading over his face. "I now tell you my secret. No one else knows it.
The purchase of Dunkirk has bought for me the smile of my master. I have
been recalled to Versailles. I return to La Belle France within a
fortnight! Come with me! I'll show you a king in very deed, and promise
furthermore that his smile shall be for you!"
"I can't go with you, my dear count," I returned gratefully. "But I
promise to see you soon in Paris. I suppose you will take with you the
elder Mistress Hamilton, to whom I understand you have long been plighted
in marriage, or will you return for her?"
"O-o-oh! Return for her, dear baron, return for her!" answered the count,
shrugging his shoulders.
To close the chapter of De Grammont's life in England, I would say that
he kept the secret of his recall to France, and one night after dark left
his house near the Mall, taking a coach to Dover without saying to
Mistress Hamilton when he would return.
But Mistress Hamilton had two brothers still in England, Count Anthony
and James, who, catching wind of De Grammont's exodus, took horse and a
small escort, made all possible speed, and came up with De Grammont's
coach some six or eight leagues east of London.
Count Anthony rode up to one door of the coach, while James brought his
horse to the other.
"Good morning, count," said Anthony, bending down to the coach window.
"Good morning, my dear count," returned De Grammont, blandly.
"Is there not something you have forgotten, count?" asked Anthony.
"Odds fish! Yes! I forgot to marry your sister," answered De Grammont,
appropriating the king's oath, and apparently astounded at his own
forgetfulness. "Thank you, dear count, for reminding me. I'll go back
to London and do it at once."
"Your parole?" asked Anthony.
"Yes, the word of a De Grammont," answered the count, whereupon the
Hamiltons lifted their hats and galloped home, knowing certainly that De
Grammont would follow.
De Grammont reached London soon after sun-up, and, true to his word,
married Miss Hamilton, blessed his stars ever afterward for having done
so, and gave her no cause for unhappiness save a French one.
Soon after the sale to Wentworth, I received a letter from George telling
me that King Louis had not only made him rich, but had appointed him
Governor of Dunkirk, with promise of further advancement. George said,
also, that the French king, having heard of my part in the Dunkirk
transaction and my disgrace with my king, had offered to advance my
interest if I would go to France. In a postscript to the letter, which
was much longer than the letter itself, Frances told me how she and
George had been married immediately on landing in France, and were living
very happily in Paris, where they would remain until George should take
up the government of Dunkirk.
So it had all fallen out just as one might have expected to find it
in a story-book. George had been proved by Fortune's touchstone, and
her Ladyship had chosen him for her smile. He had won the long odds.
What remains to be told is simply the denouement of my own affairs.
* * * * *
At the time of my transaction with Wentworth I said nothing to Bettina
about the sale of my title and estates, but when I heard that our friends
were safe and happy in France, I went down to the Old Swan, with more
fear than I should have thought possible, to broach a certain matter,
which was very near my heart, to Betty and her father.
I knew that in so far as Betty herself was concerned, I should find no
trouble, but I also knew that I might find difficulty in persuading her
to leave her father, for duty was a tremendous word in Betty's
vocabulary.
When I reached the Old Swan, policy and fear each told me that it
would be safer to attack Betty and her father separately. The odds of
two against one, in this case, I feared would be too great for me to
overcome. So I led Betty to her parlor,--rather she led me,--and after a
preliminary skirmish, I told her I had come to see her on a most
important piece of business.
"I'm glad to see you, whatever brings you, Baron Ned," she answered,
smoothing out her skirts in anticipation of an interesting budget of
news.
"But I'm no longer 'Baron Ned,' Betty," I informed her.
She asked a hundred questions with her eyes and eyebrows, and I hastily
answered them by telling of the sale to Wentworth.
"Ah, I'm so sorry," she answered, "and I'm so glad, too, that I could
cry. You don't seem so much above me nor so far away."
"That was my chief reason for selling my title and estates," I answered,
reaching forward and taking her hand, which for the first time she did
not withdraw. "I sold them, Betty, for a large price, but my reason for
so doing was one that could not be measured by money. I want you for my
wife, Betty, and my title, at least, stood between us. I should have
given it away if I could not have sold it, because I want you, Betty,
more than anything else in all the world."
"Ah, please don't, Baron Ned!" she cried, bringing her handkerchief to
her eyes. "It can't be. I'm not so selfish as to take you at your word."
I was sitting on the cushioned bench by the wall, and she was in a chair
facing me, within easy reach, so I caught her wrists and drew her to me,
whispering:--
"Sit here, Bettina, by my side, and tell me why it cannot be, for I
pledge you my honor I am not to be denied." She resisted for a moment,
but at last sat down beside me, and I put my arm about her, despite her
fluttering struggle. "Now, tell me why, Bettina. I need not tell you that
you have my love. You know it without the telling."
She nodded her head "Yes," and covered her face with her hands.
"And am I wrong in believing that I possess your love?" I asked.
She shook her head to indicate that I was not wrong, and the little
gesture was as good as an oath to me. After her confession, she would
not dare to resist me, nor did she, save to say pleadingly:--
"Please, Baron Ned, it cannot be."
Tears were trickling down her cheeks, and I could see that she was in
great trouble.
"I do not ask you to come to me now," I said, "but you may take a long
time, if you wish--a day, or two, or even three, if you insist. But
Betty, I am not to be refused, and you may as well understand now and for
all that you are to be my wife. But tell me, Betty, what is your reason
for denying me at this time?"
She dried her eyes, sat erect, and answered in a voice full of tears:
"Well, you are so far above me that the time might come when you would
be ashamed of me."
"Nothing of the sort, Betty. Drop that argument at once. You know you do
not mean it. You are not speaking the exact truth. There is no sweetness,
no beauty, like yours."
"Do you really mean it, Baron Ned?" she answered, smiling up to me.
"Yes, yes, every word and a thousand more," I answered.
"But I am so unworthy," she said.
"You're pretending, Betty," I answered, and I argued so well that she
abandoned her position.
"Now, give me another reason, Betty," I demanded, feeling encouraged by
the success of my first bout. To this she answered with great hesitancy,
murmuring her words almost inaudibly:--
"I could not leave father."
That was the reason I had feared, and when I drew away from her, showing
my great disappointment in my face, she took one of my hands in both of
hers, saying:--
"Not that I should not be happy to go with you anywhere, but you see I am
all the world to father. He would die without me."
Here, of course, I might expect tears, nor was I disappointed. I, too,
found the tears coming to my eyes, for her grief touched me keenly, and
her love for her father showed me even more plainly than I had ever
before known the unselfish tenderness of the girl I so longed to possess.
It was hard for me to speak against this argument of hers; for it was
like finding fault with the best part of her, so for a little time we
were silent. After a minute or two, she glanced up to me and, seeing my
great trouble, murmured brokenly:--
"If you think I am worth waiting for, and if you will wait till father is
gone, I will go with you, and your smallest and greatest wish alike shall
be mine. And when you become ashamed of me, I'll--"
"I'll not wait, Betty," I answered, ignoring the latter half of her
remark. "I have a far better plan. I am going to France, and you and
your father shall go with me."
"Ah, will you take him?" she cried, falling to the floor on her knees,
creeping between mine, and clasping her hands about my neck. Her sweet,
warm breath came to me like a waft from a field of roses, the fluffy
shreds of her hair tingled my cheek, thrilling me to the heart, while the
touch of her hand and the clasp of her arm carried me to heaven.
Then she laid her head on my breast, her lips came close to mine, and she
murmured with a sigh:--
"Now, Baron Ned, as you will."
I told Betty to call Pickering, and when he came in I related my story.
I told him how Betty and I were of one mind, how George had prospered in
France and had invited me to share his good fortune, how I wanted to go
to France and to take Bettina with me, and how I wanted him to sell the
Old Swan and go with us to the fair land across the Channel, where his
wealth would give him station such as he deserved.
Immediately he objected, saying that the scheme was impossible. He said
that he could sell the Old Swan for a great sum to Robbins, of the Dog's
Head, and that all he possessed, aside from the inn, was in gold, lodged
with Backwell, but for all that, my plan could not be considered for a
moment.
"My dear Pickering, hear my side of the case," I insisted, determined to
win this last bout as I had won the others. "You love your daughter and
would be unhappy if she were to leave you alone in the world?"
"Indeed I should be," he answered firmly. "I will not consider your
suggestion. I will not. I will not."
"She is more generous than you," I returned, "and refuses to leave you,
though she would be very unhappy if you force her to remain."
"I suppose you think so," he replied sullenly.
"I know so," I answered, "and can prove it by Betty." Betty nodded her
head "Yes," and I continued: "You will not be unhappy in France with us.
You will be happy. Yet you refuse to be happy save in your own stubborn
way, even though you bring grief to the tenderest heart in the world. But
come, come, Pickering! This will not do! I tell you, I'm not to be
refused!"
Pickering lapsed into stubborn silence, and as there is no arguing with a
man who will not argue, I determined to take another course; so I spoke
sharply:--
"Since you will not be reasonable, I have another plan to suggest: I
will give up my prospects of fortune in France, and will live here in
this rotten Old Swan as long as you live, never taking Betty from your
side. If you do not give her to me under these conditions, I will take
her away without any conditions. Eh, Betty?"
Betty hung in the wind for a moment, then nodded slowly:--
"Yes."
Pickering covered his face with his hands for a moment, then looked up to
me and asked:--
"Would you do that, baron? Would you come down from your high estate to
our lowly condition for the sake of my poor little girl?"
"Yes, Pickering," I answered.
Then after a moment's thought, he said: "I'll sell the Old Swan and go
with you to France."
Betty took my hand, then she grasped her father's, drew him down to her
and kissed him.
So Betty and I were married in the little chapel at the Southwark end
of London Bridge, and off we went to our friends in France, where
God blessed us and we were very happy. We had all been tried by the
Touchstone of Fortune, and had won her Ladyship's smile! May God comfort
those on whom she frowns!
NOTE
Baron Clyde seems to be the only writer of the period of Charles II who
mentions the part taken by George Hamilton and Frances Jennings in the
sale of the city of Dunkirk, but, of course, the particulars of that
disgraceful affair would have been kept a secret from all save those who
participated in it.
It is said that Nell Gwynn, John Churchill, and Sarah Jennings were
younger than Baron Clyde indicates. Therefore there are many discerning
persons who hold that he was "idealizing" when he wrote of them being at
court at the time Dunkirk was sold.
There appears to be some ground for the criticism.
But in all essential respects the baron's history is held, justly, to be
true to facts and conditions, and that, after all, is the main thing.
Exact truth is evasive; therefore the virtues of approximation are not to
be deprecated.