CHAPTER II
A MAIDEN ST. GEORGE
After breakfast the following morning, while Sir Richard and I weresipping our morning draught in the dingy little library, he brought upthe subject of the night before.
"As you justly observed, Baron Ned," my uncle began, restraining hisemotion as best he could, "sooner or later my daughters will have to facethe world alone. I am of no help to them now, and perhaps shall be noloss when I am gone, but it is like taking the heart out of me to send mybeautiful girl to this unholy king; the wickedest man in the vilest courton earth. But it must be done. God help me and save her!"
"I will not go!" cried Frances, running into the room from the hallway,and kneeling by her father's chair.
"I fear you must, Frances," answered Sir Richard. "There, there, we'llsay it is settled and let it rest a few days, so that we may grow used tothe thought before making our plans in detail."
* * * * *
After dinner I missed Frances, and when I asked Sarah where she had gone,I received answer in one word: "Walking."
"Alone?" I asked. Sarah smiled.
In a moment I said, "I think I, too, shall go walking."
"The Bourne Path is pretty," suggested Sarah.
"Will you come with me?" I asked.
Again Sarah smiled, shaking her head for answer, and I set off, taking myway down the path which wound beside a rocky bourne, a distance ofseveral miles in the direction of Hamilton House, one of the countryplaces of Count Hamilton.
When I reached a point perhaps half a league from Sundridge, I saw a ladyand gentleman walking leisurely ahead of me. Her hand was on his arm, andhis head was bent toward her, evidently in earnest conversation. Her headdrooped prettily, indicating a listening mood, and the two seemed verymuch like lovers in the early wooing stage. At once I recognized thebeautiful figure of my cousin Frances. The gentleman I did not know,seeing only his back, though there was something familiar to me in thetall, straight form, the broad shoulders, and the graceful carriage ofthe head. He was a cavalier, every inch of him, from his long, dark,slightly curling hair to the golden buckles on his shoes. He carried hisbeaver hat in his hand, dragging the rich plume on the ground.
I hastened forward, but they were so interested in each other that theydid not know of my presence till I asked:--
"Cousin, won't you introduce me?"
Frances turned with a little scream, and the gentleman spun aroundquickly, putting on his hat and dropping my cousin's hand, which he hadbeen holding. At first my surprise deprived me of the power to think, butsoon I recovered self-control, and said:--
"Ah, there is no need to introduce me, cousin. I already know MasterHamilton."
"Yes," stammered the gentleman, holding out his hand, "Baron Ned and Iknow each other well."
I did not take his hand, and when I saw anger mounting to his eyes, Iexplained with the best smile at my command:--
"I do not take your hand, sir, because I have that to say to my cousinwhich will greatly displease you. I am glad to have the opportunity ofsaying it in your presence, as I dislike speaking ill of a man behind hisback."
"You need speak no ill of Master Hamilton either in his presence orbehind his back, if you intend to do so on my account," interruptedFrances, throwing back her head defiantly.
But I was not to be halted in my duty. Here was a future duchess indanger of being lost to the world for the sake of a vicious, pennilessgambler, having neither title, estates, nor character.
"I do not ask your permission, cousin," I answered, bowing and smiling,for it is well to keep one's temper in such a case. "What I shall say isthe truth, word for word, and Master Hamilton himself shall be thearbiter."
"Speaking the truth may be a great impertinence," remarked Frances,trying to hide her anger under an air of carelessness.
"True," I returned. "And what I have to say will confirm your position.Shall I speak now before Master Hamilton, or shall I say what I have tosay in your father's presence and send to Master Hamilton later a fullaccount of my remarks?"
"For my part, sir, I shall be glad to hear whatever you have to say now,"interrupted Hamilton, with an angry gleam in his eyes and a poor attemptat a smile playing about his mouth.
I would say here that I was confronting one of the bravest men in Englandand one of the best swordsmen in the world. While he was not prone toseek a quarrel, he certainly had never avoided one because of fear of hisantagonist.
I took advantage of my cousin's silence and, turning to Hamilton, said:"If I speak one work of untruth, you are at liberty to give me the lie."Then turning to Frances, I continued: "What I have to say, cousin, isthis, Master Hamilton is one of the most disreputable men at court."
Frances drew back, startled, and Hamilton grasped his sword hilt, drawingthe blade half from its scabbard.
I bowed, smiled, and said: "Tut, tut, Hamilton! A lady should never see anaked sword blade. Later, later, of course, at your pleasure! I shall befound at my uncle's house in Sundridge during the next three or fourdays. After that you know my lodgings in the Wardrobe at Whitehall. Ishall be delighted to receive your messenger, if it is your pleasure,after you have heard what I have to say."
His sword disappeared, and his smile broadened to a grim laugh: "You'reright, baron. Pardon my haste. There's ample time, ample time."
Turning to my cousin, I took up my thread: "Master Hamilton is penniless,which is no small failing in itself. Therefore he lives by gambling,which might be excusable if he did not cheat. In gambling, you know,cousin, the mere law of chance will not put much money in a man's purse.Good luck is but another name for skill in trickery. If one would thriveby cards and dice, one must be a thief."
There was another angry movement by Hamilton, which I interrupted,smiling, bowing, and saying, "Let us talk this matter over calmly,smilingly, if possible."
"I'll smile when I can," returned Hamilton, made more angry, if that werepossible, by a paradoxical inclination to laugh. "Proceed, baron,proceed! I am becoming interested in myself."
Frances gave a nervous little laugh, looked first to Hamilton, then to meand back again, as though she would ask what it all meant, and Icontinued:--
"As I have said, Frances, Master Hamilton and his friends live bycheating at cards and other games in a manner to make all decent menavoid play with them. They pluck strangers and feather their purses fromnew geese who do not know their methods. They also derive considerablerevenue from passe women who have more wealth than beauty, are morebrazen than modest, and more generous than chaste."
"I'll not listen to another word!" exclaimed Frances, looking up toHamilton in evident wonder at his complacency.
"Just one moment longer, Frances," I insisted. "Master Hamilton'sintimate friends have been known on more than one occasion to stoop tothe crimes of theft, robbery, and even murder to obtain money, and haveescaped punishment only because of royal favor. I do not say that MasterHamilton has ever participated in these crimes, but he knew of them, didnot condemn them, helped the criminals to escape justice, and retainedthe guilty men as his associates and nearest friends. Add to this listthe fact that Hamilton is a roue and a libertine, to whom virtue is but ajest, and with whom no pure woman, knowing him, would be seen alone, andI believe I have drawn a picture of a man who is in no way fit to beyour companion in a lonely stroll. On the other hand, he is a brave man,a generous enemy, a staunch friend, and a ready help at all times to theneedy. Now I have finished what has been a disagreeable though imperativeduty. Doubtless it has been disagreeable to you, also, Master Hamilton,but--"
"On the contrary," he interrupted, in low tones, and with bowed head.
"But, of course, I am ready to stand by my words," I continued. "And now,sir, you may, if you wish, say to Mistress Jennings that I have lied.Doubtless she will believe you, in which case it shall be my pleasure tosend a messenger to you, thereby saving you the trouble of sending one tome."
I put on my hat and awaited hi
s reply. His hat was in his hand, and hisface was bent toward the ground, his air of ironical politeness havingleft him. Frances turned to him and was about to speak, but, noticing thepeculiar expression in his face and attitude, remained silent. After along pause Hamilton spoke without lifting his eyes:--
"I suppose no other man ever received such an arraignment in cold bloodas I have just heard from Baron Clyde." Then turning hesitatingly to mycousin, "But I am sorry to say it is true, Mistress Jennings, true inevery word."
He looked into my eyes, again bowed his head, and spoke after a longsilence: "Baron Ned, I can almost find it in my heart to thank you forhaving done your duty so bravely. I have known for some time that I amnot fit to be this lady's companion and that I have no right to seek herfriendship."
I bowed low, without speaking, and after another long pause he looked upto me again as he asked:--
"Now will you take my hand?"
"Gladly, George," I answered, giving him my hand, which he held for amoment and dropped without a word, a strange smile playing about hislips.
Naturally enough, Frances was at a loss how to act. Tears of vexationcame to her eyes, and she turned from us to dry them with herhandkerchief. She failed to find the handkerchief, so she turned toGeorge, who, seeing her need, drew it from his pocket where she had leftit for safe-keeping. The first favor a young girl shows to a man whenshe finds herself in a "coming on disposition" is to hide some of herintimate personal belongings in his pocket. The little incident of thehandkerchief caused us all to laugh and went a long way toward making useasy.
Hamilton's frankness had taken part of the wind out of my sails, and hisopen confession had at least paved the way for absolution, which I fearedmight be followed by disastrous results, since to forgive always makesthe heart grow fonder.
Presently Hamilton turned to Frances, saying: "You may better appreciateyour cousin's fidelity to your interest when I tell you that in speakingthus frankly to you, he placed himself in danger of two misfortunes, bothof which, probably, he felt sure would befall him. Please do not thinkthat I boast, but it is true, nevertheless, that my sword point isconsidered one of the most dangerous in England. Doubtless Baron Nedexpected to be called upon to stand by his words. Furthermore, he is asuitor for my sister's hand, as you may know, and of late has sought myfriendship, in part, no doubt, for the purpose of forwarding his cause."
At this point he turned toward me and smiled. I, too, smiled, though notjoyously, for I thought surely this affair would ruin all my chances withMary.
"Therefore," continued Hamilton, "he had much to lose in arraigning me,and nothing to gain but your welfare. You must see that it wasunselfishly done. If there is gratitude in your heart, give it here." Heplaced his hand on my shoulder and, after a long pause and an apparenteffort, finished what he had to say: "Forget me. I am unworthy to speakyour name or to have the great joy of hearing you speak mine."
This was taking the wind out of my sails at a great rate. In truth, itwas taking the sails themselves, though I believed he was not speakingfor sake of the advantage. In a moment he bowed low, sweeping the plumeof his hat in the dust, saying as he left us:--
"Farewell, Mistress Jennings, and thank you, Baron Ned. You say I am astaunch friend. You have still to learn the whole truth of your praise."
Turning instantly, he hastened away from us down the Bourne Path, andthough we waited for him to look back, he disappointed us, and soon waslost as he passed beyond a bend. Frances was weeping gently, and I, too,felt a lump in my throat, not because of what I had said or done, butbecause of the unexpected good I had found in Hamilton, whom I had alwaysliked; good, which up to that time I had never suspected, having alwaysseen him in the shadow of a throne.
When Hamilton had disappeared, I asked Frances if we should returnto Sundridge, and she answering by a nod, we started home, each of usheavy-hearted, one of us weeping pathetically. Her heart had justreceived its first sharp blow, and I pitied her, for the first one hurts.
After walking a little way in silence, I remarked, "There is no reasonwhy we should add to your father's troubles by telling him of thisaffair."
"Nor Sarah," sobbed Frances. "She is like a wasp--all sting." After along pause devoted to drying her eyes, she continued, "But it has notbeen much of an affair."
"I am not asking what it has been, Frances," I returned, speakingtenderly, for I knew her heart was sore. "I have no right to ask."
"Yes, you have the right to ask," she replied, earnestly. "You haveearned it to-day, if never before. I'll tell you all about it. You see Idid not know--I did not think it possible--that he was the evil personyou described. To me he seemed as high-minded as he was gallant andhandsome."
"He is high-minded in many respects," I said, "and might have been adecent man in all respects had he lived under other conditions. He is farthe best of what is known at court as 'the Royal Clique,' and is an angelof goodness compared with the king and his despicable son, James Crofts,Duke of Monmouth. Do you want to tell me where and how you met Hamilton?"
After a moment's silence she began her pathetic little narrative,hesitating at first, but gathering courage as she spoke:--
"I first saw him on the street in St. Albans, more than a month ago. Ofcourse I did not look directly at him, but I saw him and knew that he waslooking at me. I have been used to being stared at by men since I was achild of twelve--I am past eighteen now, you know--and learned longago not to resent an impertinence which is alike unavoidable and, in apoor way, flattering. But there was this difference: when he stared at meI blush to say I liked it, nor should I have repulsed him had he spokento me. He was the first man I had ever seen that had really attracted me.You are not a woman, therefore you cannot understand me fully. You see, aman goes to a woman; a woman is drawn to a man, usually, I suppose,against her will. I know little about the subject, this being my first,and, I hope, my last experience, but--"
"And I, too, hope," I interrupted.
"Yes," she continued quickly. "But do you know I can almost understandthe feeble, hopeless resistance which the iron tries to exert against themagnet. But, cousin Ned, it is powerless."
Here she brought her handkerchief to her eyes, and I exclaimedregretfully, "Oh, Frances, I am surprised and sorry!"
"Yes, yes! I, too, was surprised, and was so sorry that I wept throughthe whole night following my first sight of him, and between shame forwhat I felt and longing to see him again, I suffered terribly. I prayedfor strength against this, my first temptation, and then my heart shrunkin fear lest I should never again be tempted. The next day I walked outon the Bourne Path toward Hamilton House and met him. To my shame Iconfess that I looked at him. He stopped, bowed low before me, and askedif he might introduce himself, since there was no one else to do thatoffice for him. He said that soon Lord St. Albans would be up fromLondon and would introduce him to my father. But having seen me the daybefore at St. Albans, he was unable to wait; therefore, he was at thatmoment on his way to Sundridge, hoping to see me. He seemed confused andshy, but from what you say, I fear he was not."
"Oh, yes, he was," I interrupted, in fine irony. "George Hamilton is asshy and as modest as the devil himself."
"I fear it is true," she answered smiling faintly and sighing.
I could see plainly that she did not look upon satanic modesty as aserious fault in itself, and I fear it is not objectionable to her sex.It is the manner of brazenness more than the fact which is offensive.George's modest-faced boldness was both alluring and dangerous.
As she progressed she grew eager in her narrative, and after two or threefalse starts, continued: "Then he said that Count Hamilton, our neighbor,was his brother. I was silent for a moment, but presently was so foolishas to say that I had seen him at St. Albans and had asked a shopkeeperwho he was. You see I was confused. I had not at all intended to say thatI had seen him, and certainly would have concealed the fact that I hadasked about him. But I said what I said because I could not help it."
"On t
hat ground it may be excusable," I suggested.
"No, no," she protested. "It can be excused on no grounds. But I did it,and it can't be helped now. Without waiting for permission, he turned,and we walked together almost to Hamilton House. I suppose, under thecircumstances, he considered it best not to ask for a permission whichmight have been refused, and from his standpoint doubtless he was right.Take without asking seems to be man's best method with woman. When I sawwe were approaching Hamilton House, I turned about for home, hoping, yetfearing, that he would not go back with me. But he did."
"Yes, you were sure to be disappointed in that respect," I answered. Andshe continued hastily:--
"Yes, he walked all the way with me. Before reaching Sundridge stile, Iasked him to leave me. That was another mistake, for it gave to ourmeeting a clandestine appearance. He said my word was law to him, andthat he would obey, though to do so, that is, to leave me, was pain, youunderstand."
"Yes, I can understand that he did not want to leave you," I answered.But I saw that she had not finished, so I remained silent, and in amoment she continued:--
"He had been so respectful to me throughout that I thought him a modest,well-behaved gentleman, and--"
I laughed, interrupting her to explain: "All art, Frances, all art.You'll find much of that manufactured modesty at court. It is the trumpcard in the game of love and is but a cloak for brazenness."
"Yes, I so found it," she answered, drooping her head, "for when he wasabout to leave me at a secluded spot, he took my hand and would havekissed me without so much as 'By your leave,' had I not caught his intentbefore it was too late. I drew away, inclined to be angry, and said,'Sir, one may overrun one's course by going too fast.'"
"That truism, under like circumstances at court, would have made youfamous," I said, pleased alike with her naivete and her wisdom.
"I tried, with fair success, to appear offended," she continued, blushingdeeply, "but the awful truth certainly is that I was not. I suppose it istrue that women like boldness and do not find wickedness in men asdistasteful as mothers say it is."
"On the contrary," I remarked, growing more and more delighted with herwisdom, innocence, and candor.
"Yes," she continued, blushing exquisitely, "even since you have told mehow wicked he is, I am not sure that I like him less, though I fear himand shall avoid him as I should a pestilence."
"Ah, but will you, can you, Frances?" I asked.
"Indeed, yes, brother Ned, and if you doubt me, you don't know me," shereturned.
"But do you know yourself?" I asked.
"Yes, now I do, thanks to your bravery," she answered.
"But you saw him many times after his first bold attempt," I suggested.
"Oh, it was easily forgiven," she returned, naively. "Yes, I have met himalmost every day since then. The days I did not see him seemed to beblanks in my life. After his first boldness, he was always courteous. Henever again became familiar, but seemed to try only to convince me of hisregard in most respectful terms, and--and I listened all too willingly,but made no answer save what I could not conceal in my manner. That, Ifear, was answer all too plain. But now you have opened my eyes, and Isee clearly. I owe you a debt of gratitude I can never repay."
"If you go to court, this affair will have been a good lesson," Ireturned encouragingly. "For there you must learn to despise theproffered love of men, whether it be pretended or real, until one comeswho is worthy of you in person, wealth, and station."
"Yes, I shall," she answered earnestly. "But here we are at home. As yousuggest, let us not speak of this poor little affair."
"By no means," I answered, as I opened the gate.
"And Baron Ned," she said, holding me back for a moment, "have no fearthat I shall lose my heart at court to the detriment of my fortune. I maynot consider myself--only my father and my house. It is my duty to makehim happy, and I am going to do it without regard to any other purpose inlife. My having known Master Hamilton will not only keep other men out ofmy heart, but will help me to know them and will lead me to fear themwhen I go to court."
Later in the evening my cousin and I walked out in town, and I had a longtalk with her, partly concerning Hamilton, a theme to which she alwaysreturned, and partly concerning conditions she would meet if she became amaid of honor. And my faith in her grew as we talked.
That night I went to sleep convinced that my beautiful cousin was strongenough and shrewd enough to evade all the pitfalls of Whitehall, and thather experience with Hamilton had been the one thing needful to make herkeenly alive to her danger. I felt that she was safe, but--
Near the hour of two o'clock the next afternoon, Sir Richard and I,returning from a short walk, did not find Frances at home, so I made myway to the Bourne Path, thinking it hardly possible that in the face ofyesterday's events Frances could have gone to meet Hamilton. Still onecan never tell; therefore I took the benefit of the doubt and set forthto make sure.
When perhaps two miles from Sundridge, the day being warm, I climbed to aledge of rock on the shelving bank of the bourne, twelve or fifteen feetabove the path, and sat down to rest in the cool shade of a clump ofbushes. Below me, perhaps five or six feet above the path and far enoughback among the bushes to be hidden from passers-by, was another rockyshelf or bench, admirably fitted to accommodate two persons.
Sarah had told me, after much questioning, that Frances had left homeonly a few minutes before Sir Richard and I had returned. I had walkedrapidly, and as I had not overtaken her, I concluded I was on the wrongscent.
Within ten minutes I discovered that I was not on the wrong scent, for,much to my surprise, sorrow, and disgust, I saw Frances and Hamilton comearound a turn in the path, push aside the bushes as though they knew theplace, enter the dense thicket bordering the path, and sit down on therocky bench beneath me. My first impulse was to speak, but for manyreasons I determined to listen. Silence reigned below me during the nextminute or two, and then Hamilton spoke:--
"You must deem me a coward, Mistress Jennings, since I did not call yourcousin to account for what he said yesterday?"
"No," she answered. "It was brave of you to refrain. It must be a greatdeal easier for a gentleman to resent an insult than to endure it. Mycousin said as much to me yesterday evening. He said he had always knownthat you were brave, but that he had not expected to find in you themoral courage to bear his words with equanimity. He also said he was gladhe did not have to meet you in a duel, because you were so greatly hissuperior with the sword. It was brave of you not to challenge him.Perhaps it was on my account you desisted."
"No, it was because I respected him far more than any man I have everknown, and because he told the truth. Do not speak of my bravery in thesame breath with his. He was as cool as though he were telling an amusingstory."
"He certainly was," returned Frances, laughing softly and closing with asigh.
"But he had truth on his side, and truth is a great stimulant tocourage," remarked Hamilton.
Frances sighed again, diligently studying her hands resting listlessly onher lap.
"Yes, he told the truth," continued Hamilton. "That is why I sent theletter to you early this morning, asking you to meet me for the lasttime--the last time, Frances. This is not a mere promise to lure you on,but the truth, for I have learned my lesson from Baron Ned, and withGod's help, I, too, shall hereafter protect you from all evil, includingmyself. It is not the Hamilton of yesterday who is speaking to you, but anew man, born again in the fierce light your cousin threw upon me. Ifeared you might resent his effort to protect you, and I wanted to tellyou again that he spoke nothing but the truth, and that he did his dutywhere another man less brave would have failed."
Frances sighed audibly, and I was sure her eyes were filled with tears.
"Hereafter I shall be as honest with you and as brave for your welfare asBaron Ned was yesterday," said Hamilton, his voice choking with emotion."I see you now for the last time, unless--" He stopped speaking for amoment and, taking her
hand, continued hesitatingly, "Does the thoughtpain you?"
"I suppose I should say no," answered the girl, withdrawing her hand."But you see, I, too, have a little moral courage, and, in the face of aninevitable future, do not fear to say, yes, the greatest pain I have everknown."
He moved toward her with evident intent to embrace her, but she rose,saying calmly, almost coldly:--
"Master Hamilton, do you wish me to leave you?"
In Hamilton's place, I should have preferred trying to embrace St.George's dragon rather than the girl standing before him.
Hamilton bowed with humility and said: "Please do not fear. Sit down andhear me out. I shall not detain you long."
She sat down, seeming to feel that notwithstanding her recent admission,there was no danger of further unseemly demonstration on Hamilton's part.
"I want to say," continued Hamilton, "that while Baron Ned spoke thetruth, I have never been guilty of the crimes which it is said some of myfriends have committed. I am unworthy enough in every respect, but I aminnocent of murder and robbery. I shall mend my ways from now on. I don'task you to believe in me, but when I am at all worthy of your kindregard, I shall tell you, and you _may_ believe me, for from this dayforth I shall try to be as truthful as Baron Ned. No man can be more so."
Frances sighed and answered, "I hope so."
Hamilton again took her hand, which she now permitted him to retain, andcontinued: "If I am ever so fortunate as to gain wealth and positionworthy of you, I shall kneel at your feet, if you are free to hear me. Ifthe good fortune never comes, this will be our farewell."
"I hope the good fortune will come soon, for your sake, and--" But shedid not finish.
"Yes, yes, and--and--?" asked George, pleadingly.
"Yes, and for my own sake," she answered, turning her face from him,probably to hide the tears that were in her eyes.
"I shall see that good fortune does come," said he, "but I do not ask youto wait an hour for it. If happiness comes to you in the right man--Icannot finish. Good-by!"
He rose, bent over her, kissed her hand, and was about to leave herhastily, evidently in fear of himself. But she clung to his hand and,drawing him down to her, offered him her lips. At first he seemed to drawaway, but unable to resist, caught her in his arms, kissed her, and fled.
Frances thrust aside the bushes and watched him as he walked rapidly downthe path. When he turned, just before reaching the bend, she kissed herhand to him, murmuring as though speaking to herself, "Good-by, good-by!"Then she sat down and covered her face with her hands.
After a short time she rose, dried her eyes, and started home, and in afew minutes I climbed the hill and took a short cut to Sundridge. Ireached home before Frances, and, notwithstanding all I had seen, wasfully convinced that she would be as safe in Whitehall Court as in herfather's house.
* * * * *
That evening Frances and I walked out together, and I, feeling strickenin conscience, confessed that I had witnessed the interview between herand Hamilton. She was surprised, and at first was inclined to be angry,but she had so little vindictiveness in her nature and was so gentle ofdisposition that her ill-temper was but the shadow of anger, and soonpassed away. Then, too, her good common sense, of which she had an amplefund, came to her help and told her that whatever I had done was for herown good. So the rare smile, which was one of her greatest charms, cameto her face, like the diaphanous glow of a good spirit, rested for amoment on her lips, mounted to her eyes and faded slowly away, as thoughit would linger a moment to ask my forgiveness.
"I am glad I witnessed the interview," said I, drawing her hand throughmy arm to reassure her, "for notwithstanding all that happened, I nowfeel sure you are to be trusted."
"But am I?" she asked, showing a self-doubt which I wished to remove.
"Yes, you will have no greater trial at court than the one through whichyou have just passed. You have combated successfully not only your ownlove, but the love of the man you love."
"Ah, Baron Ned, don't!" she exclaimed, in mild reproach, shrinking fromthe thought I had just uttered so plainly.
"It is always well to look misfortunes squarely in the face," I answered."It helps one to despise them. The thing we call bad luck can't endure asteady gaze."
"It will help me in one respect,--this--this--what has happened," shereturned, hanging her head.
"In what way?" I asked, catching a foreboding hint of her meaning.
She hesitated, but, after an effort, brought herself to say, "I shallnever again have to combat my own heart, and surely that is the hardestbattle a woman ever has to fight."
"Because your heart is already full?" I asked.
She nodded "Yes," her eyes brimming with tears.
Her heart was not only full of her first love, which of itself is aburden of pain to a young girl, but also it was sore from the grief ofher first loss, the humiliation of her first mistake, and the pang of herfirst regret for what might have been.
"It will all pass away, Frances," I returned assuringly.
"Ah, will it, Baron Ned? You know so much more about such matters than I,who know nothing save what I have learned within the last few weeks."
"I feel sure it will," I answered.
"I wish I felt sure," she returned, trying to smile, but insteadliberating two great tears that had been hanging on her lashes.
After pausing in thought a moment, she said: "But I believe I shoulddespise myself were I to learn that what I have just done had beenprompted by a mere passing motive. I shall never again see him as I haveseen him. Of that I have neither fear nor doubt, but this I cannot helpbut know: he is the first man who has ever come into my heart, and I fearthat in all my life I shall never be able to put him out entirely."
"But you may see him at Whitehall," I suggested. "What then?"
"If he remains there, I shall not. But when he learns that his presencewill drive me away, I know he will leave," she answered.
"I believe you estimate him justly. Did you tell him you were going tocourt?" I asked.
"No," she answered, "because I am not sure that I shall go."
"Then we'll not tell him," I suggested.
"Nor any one else?" she asked.
"By all means, no one else," I replied. "I am sure you will win in thisbeauty contest, but you might fail, in which case we should be sorry ifany one knew of the attempt."
"I shall not fail," she answered confidently, though not in vanity.
"But Hamilton said he would return to the siege when he had made hisfortune," I suggested.
"Of that I have no hope," she returned dolefully, "and I shall put himout of my thoughts if I can, as soon as I can."
"It must be done now," I returned emphatically.
"Ay, it is easy to say 'now,' but 'now' is a hard, hard time. It is mucheasier to do a difficult thing to-morrow. But do not fear, Baron Ned. Itshall be done, and I shall marry a duke or an earl, loathing him."
She was almost ready to weep, so, believing that she would like to bealone, I left her.
Within half an hour she was at home, sitting in a low chair by herfather's side, laughing, happy, and beautiful, with that rare,indefinable home charm a woman may have which is as far beyond the merebeauty of hair and skin and eyes as the sparkle of a bright mysteriousstar is beyond the beauty of the moon's pale sheen.
With all my cousin's marvellous beauty, her rarest charm lay in hergracious manner, her unobtrusive vivacity, and her quaint combination ofSarah's Machiavellian wisdom with the intense femininity of Eve. Add tothese qualities the unmistakable mark which a pure heart leaves on theface, and we complete the picture of one who in a short time wasacknowledged to be without a peer in Whitehall, the most famous beautycourt the world has ever known.
Before I left Sundridge it had been agreed among us all that Francesshould go to London, though the plans had not been arranged nor the timefixed. There was no need of haste, as the choosing of the maids would notbe closed for
two months or more. I left with my uncle funds necessaryfor the purchase of gowns, and the payment of other expenses, and, withhis consent, undertook to notify the Duchess of York that Frances wouldseek to enter her Grace's service in the near future. Then I went back toLondon, and when next I saw my cousin it was in the shadow of a tragedy.
My uncle's humble friend, Roger Wentworth, the leather merchant ofSundridge, had a brother living in London, who was also a leathermerchant, Sir William Wentworth. He had been Lord Mayor at one time, andhad been knighted by the king because of a loan made by the city to hisMajesty. Sir William was an honest, simple man, who cared little to riseabove his class, but he had a wife who thrilled to the heart whenever sheheard the words "Lady Wentworth," and experienced a spasm of delightwhenever she saw her name in the news letters or journals.
Sir William had a son, also, who imagined himself to be ornamental, butlaid no claim to usefulness of any sort. Lady Wentworth concurredheartily and proudly in her son's opinion of himself and encouraged hisuselessness to a point where it became worthlessness. But Sir Williamtook no pains to conceal his disappointment and disgust. Young Williamheld a small post at court, and, being supplied with money by his mother,was one of the evil spirits of the set composed of Crofts, Berkeley,Little Jermyn, the court lady-killer, and others too numerous and toovicious to mention. Wentworth was goose to these pluckers and was willingto give his feathers in exchange for their toleration.
* * * * *
Shortly after I left Sundridge, Sir Richard learned that Rogerintended journeying to London in the course of a month to buy leather,so he asked him to take Frances with him. To this request Roger gladlyand proudly assented. He usually travelled a-horseback to London, butthis being a state occasion, he brought out his old coach, a hugelumbering concern, and had it painted a brilliant green in honor of hisfair passenger-to-be. Roger also promised Frances the services of hissister-in-law with the Duchess of York, a help so great, in Roger'sopinion, that it could not be overestimated.
I had been at home more than a month before Frances started on herjourney. I did not know when she expected to leave Sundridge, as we hadagreed that she should notify me as soon as she reached London.
I had seen George on several occasions after my return from Sundridge,and although he said little about himself, I knew from others that hewas at least trying to quit his old way of life and to avoid his evilfriends. Soon after my return to court he went to France, and I didnot see him again for several months, although he came home, mostunfortunately, and spent a day or two in London at the time of Frances'sarrival, of which he knew nothing until after his return to France.
All that took place at Sundridge after I left there and the occurrenceson my cousin's journey to London, I learned from her and from Hamiltonafterwards, though I shall write them down now in the order of theirhappening.
Early one morning Roger presented himself at my uncle's house with thehuge green coach drawn by two horses so fat that they could hardlybreathe, driven by an old servant, Noah Sullivan, who was so fat that attimes he could not breathe at all.
The season was fair for travelling, and barring a heavy rain, the road toLondon would be good. But it had a bad reputation for highwaymen, and nocautious man with anything to lose cared to risk a journey after dark,especially near London, save with a guard. Roger was taking with him athousand pounds in gold; therefore it was desirable that he and his fairpassenger should reach the city before nightfall. To do this with the fathorses, he must start early,--a fact of which Frances had received duenotice.
On the appointed morning she was ready when the coach drove up. Her boxwas placed in the boot, and she took a seat beside her old friend Roger,giving vent to the tears she had held back so bravely while sayinggood-by to her father and Sarah, who were to move up to London in caseshe remained at court.
Wheezy old Noah on the box cracked his whip, the fat horses in the tracespulled and grunted, the coach creaked and groaned, the wheels turned andFrances had set forth, a maiden St. George, to fight the dragon ofWhitehall, compared to which the old-time monster was but a bleatinglamb. Roger had hoped to be in his brother's house long before sundown,but when he reached that justly famous halfway house, the Cock and Spur,Noah insisted that the fat horses were so badly winded that a rest ofseveral hours was necessary before they could proceed a step farther.Roger argued with his Master of Horse, but to no purpose. The fat horsesrested till near the hour of five, when Noah yielded to his master'simportunities and the journey was resumed. Meantime an unexpected rainhad begun to fall, which increased in violence as night approached. Theroad grew heavier as the journey progressed, and the wheezy horsesrequired rest so frequently that Roger began to fear for the safety ofhis gold and his fair passenger.
Supper time approached, but Roger was so anxious to reach London beforedark that he asserted his right as master and refused to stop at an innwhere Noah had drawn up the horses, insisting that they be fed.Considerable time was lost in argument with Noah, but at last they tookthe road once more, which by that time had become very heavy. Night fellwithout twilight, because of the storm, and the travellers were overtakenby darkness just as they reached the most dangerous part of the roadwithin less than a league of London.
The road grew heavier with every turn of the wheels, the horses wheezeddismally, and Roger groaned inwardly. He kept his head out of the coachdoor most of the time, looking for trouble, and found it before hisjourney's end. Noah lighted the great lanthorn and hung it in front ofthe dashboard, his only cause of anxiety being the horses, until agreater arose.