CHAPTER XI
"ALL SUNSHINE MAKES THE DESERT"
Whatever faults Whitehall may have had as a place of residence, dulnesswas not among them. There were balls, games with high stakes, theatres,gossip, scandals, and once in a long while an affair of state to interestus. In order to interest the court thoroughly, an affair of state musthave involved the getting of money for the privy purse; that is, for theking's personal use, for out of it the courtesans were fed and gamblingdebts were paid.
The time of our Dover journey was one of extreme depletion in the privypurse. The king had borrowed from every person and every city within therealm 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 ofwhich was the rich city of Dunkirk, situate on the French side of theStraits of Dover. This fortified city, within a few leagues of Calais,had cost the English nation heavily in blood and gold to gain, and stillmore heavily to hold, but its value to England commercially andpolitically was beyond measure.
Since Queen Mary had lost Calais, Dunkirk was the only important footholdEngland had on continental soil; therefore it was almost as dear to theEnglish people as the city of London itself. Because of its importance,it was greatly coveted by the French king, who shortly before the timeof 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 hispeople, but because he feared the storm of indignation its sale wouldraise. The Lord Chancellor objected to the sale of Dunkirk, and triedto show Charles the great folly of entertaining the offer. He was theonly wise, honest man in the king's council, and, by reason of hiswonderful knowledge of mankind, was called "the Chancellor of HumanNature." But the king needed money, so after a time he listened toBerkeley, Crofts, Castlemain, and others of like character, whosestrongest 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 fearof a rabble which quakes if you but crook your finger. A like fear of hissubjects cost your father his head. The people will crawl before you ifyou kick them, but let them see that you fear them, and you will learnthat there is no cruelty like that of the good people."
De Grammont, the French exile, called attention to the French king'ssuccessful tyranny, declaring that his master would sell Paris if hechose. 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 camefrom the people, but no one is so stubborn as a fool in the wrong, soCharles remained firm in his determination.
Finding that protest would avail nothing, the people of London offered tobuy Dunkirk, and began to bid for it against the French king. Louis,knowing that London was a rich city, and believing that its people wouldrun up the price of Dunkirk to an exorbitant figure, took counsel withhimself--his only adviser--and determined to employ other means than goldalone to obtain the coveted city.
My first definite knowledge of the French king's new plan to buy Dunkirkat his own price came in a letter from Hamilton, which reached me atLilly's house two or three weeks after my return from Dover. Like theothers, 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 foryour watchfulness. I had full information of King Charles's design uponmy life from no less a person than Monsieur le Grand himself, who showedme 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 betweenhim and a lady who despises him. While Monsieur le Grand was much insympathy with the English king's grievance, his contempt for Charles,his regard for me, which seems to be sincere, and his longing to possessDunkirk all induced him to laugh at the request, the nature of which hehad imparted to no one save me.
"My account of the lady who despised King Charles's love gave Monsieur leGrand a new idea, and suggested a method of purchasing Dunkirk which hehopes 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 closetand began to question me.
"'Do you possess the love of the lady who despises King Charles?' heasked.
"'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 sacrificesyou would not ask,' returned the king. 'We here in France would say thatyour 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 helpme buy Dunkirk. It is easy to lead a fool to do the wrong thing, and I'msure 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 ownterms, I'll make you its governor and a rich man. I'll put you in aposition 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 younow that De Grammont had given me full information concerning the king'sview of La Belle Jennings and your relations to her before I wrote myfirst letter, inviting you to visit me.'
"I am loath to undertake so mean an office as that of inducing KingCharles to sell an English city, but I cannot save Dunkirk, and I mayprofit by helping what I cannot prevent. So I beg you broach the subjectto Frances, cautioning her for me to take no risk, and if she is willingto 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 hangingin 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 everknown, this king of ours is the greatest dupe. Since the return of thecourt to Whitehall, he has been growing more importunate every day. Heseems to have lost what little wits he had, and does and says thesilliest things one can imagine."
"And you do not fear attempting to lead him on to sell Dunkirk? You donot fear going too near the precipice?" I asked, wishing to weigh herself-confidence more by the manner of her reply than by her words.
She laughed and answered: "There is no precipice, cousin Ned; nothing tofear 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, andsurely one may lie to the father of lies without sin."
"But the lie may be recognized," I suggested, "if one be too bold aboutit."
"My lie will go little beyond a smile or two. The king's vanity will dothe rest. He will make himself believe that I mean more than I say."
France
s and I felt that we were traitors to our country in helping theFrench king, but we knew that in the end he would buy Dunkirk from ourspendthrift monarch, and that out country's loss would be no greater byreason of our gain. Therefore I wrote George as follows:--
"DEAR FRIEND:
"The Duchess of Hearts is eager and confident. Write at once, giving fulldirections.
"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 mein 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 facewould have been amusing had I not known that some good cause was back ofit. As soon as she entered I saw that she was going to speak, but closetsin Whitehall have ears, so I placed my finger on my lips to enjoinsilence, 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 yourfather's this morning. Wait for me at Holbein's Gate. I'll be there inten minutes."
Within the promised time I found Frances at Holbein's Gate, and we walkedup to Charing Cross, thence down the Strand toward Temple Bar.
"What is the trouble, Frances?" I asked, anxious to hear her news, whichI feared was bad. She was in great distress, and I saw that a flood oftears was ready to accompany her tale of woe, so I said hurriedly: "Don'tcry. Laugh while you speak. You will attract less attention."
She tried to laugh, but the effort was piteous and became a failure, asshe 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 theywere 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: "Lastnight at the queen's ball, the king showed me a letter sent by order ofthe French king, saying that George had sailed from Bordeaux for Canadanearly 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 tome.' I smiled, but it was a poor effort, and he smiled, showing hisyellow fangs as he left me. I pray God that I may never be called upon tohate another man as I hate him."
"I can hardly believe that George has gone to Canada without notifyingus," I said.
"Yes, I fear it is true," she returned. "But if I am ever so fortunateas 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 heis 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 issomething back of King Louis's letter of which we do not know. SurelyGeorge would not have sailed without notifying us."
"He may have feared to betray himself by writing," she suggested, "sinceKing Charles had asked King Louis to detain him."
"That is true," I returned. "But the occasion must have been urgentindeed if he could not have sent us word in some manner."
But I could find no comfort for her, for I really believed that Georgehad gone to Canada, and there was a certain relief to me in knowing thathe had passed out of Frances's life.
After along silence this feeling of relief found unintentional expressionwhen I said:--
"Time heals all wounds, Frances. One of these days you will find a manwho will make amends for your present loss, and then--"
"No, no, Baron Ned. Your words are spoken in kindness, but what yousuggest is impossible. Perhaps if there had been fewer obstacles betweenus, or if I had not misjudged him so cruelly, I might have found my heartmore obedient to my will."
The only comfort I could give my beautiful cousin was that a letter wouldsoon come explaining everything. In default of a letter, I promised to goto 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, SirRichard 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 madeincognito.
As a result of this royal visit, which was made for the purpose of seeingFrances, a part of Sir Richard's estates near St. Albans were restored tohim, and from poverty he rose at once to a comfortable income of, say, athousand or twelve hundred pounds a year.
Immediately all of Sir Richard's hatred of Charles II fell away, and oncemore the king shone in the resplendent light of his divine appointment.
While Frances estimated the king's generosity at its true value, she wasglad 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, ifpossible, 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 alsobrought a pang of regret, because it had come too late. Her only purposein going to Whitehall had been to marry a rich nobleman and thereby raisethe fallen fortunes of her house. Now that reason existed no longer, andif George were here, she could throw herself away upon him with injury tono one but herself. But George was not here, and liberty to throw herselfaway had come too late to be of any value.
Every day during the fortnight that Frances remained at home, she askedif I had any news from court, meaning the French court, but using theform of inquiry to avoid acquainting her father and Sarah with the realcause 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 shouldhave supposed capable of languishing and dying of love, but the formershe did before my eyes, and the latter I almost began to fear if news didnot reach us soon from George.
Betty came up to see Frances nearly every day, and the kissing andembracing that ensued disgusted Sarah.
"Now, if Frances were a man, I could understand it," said Sarah. "Thelittle 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 theirexpression comes from their color, their size, and their preposterouslylong eyelashes. Black long lashes often give a radiance to the eyes whichpasses for expressiveness, and I doubt not--"
"Nonsense, Sarah!" I cried, half angrily. "Bettina's eyes are expressivein themselves. As you say, their soft dark brown is the perfection ofcolor, and they certainly are large. But aside from all that, theirexpression 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 appearindifferent, "it is my opinion that the possession of great intellectualpower by a woman is the one virtue with which men, as a rule, findthemselves most willing to dispense. It gives her too great anadvantage."
"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!" criedSarah, dismissing the subject with a wave of her hand.
But men, too, sometimes like to have the last word, so I remarked: "Themother 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 youwere a man, I'd give you the lie direct!"
Sarah began to laugh and clapped her hands, saying: "I was leading youon. I suspected you were fond of her. Now I know it."
But Sarah's remark, being so near the truth, did nothing to allay myanger, 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 tohave a cup of tea. To see Bettina boil the tea (steep it or draw it, shesaid was the proper phrase) was as pretty a sight as one could wish tobehold, and when she poured it out in thin china cups, handing one tome and taking one herself, her pride in following the fashion of modishladies was as touching as it was simple and beautiful. It was almost morethan my feeble resolutions could withstand, so when I was about to leaveI had a great battle with myself and was defeated, for I seized herhands, and although I said nothing, she knew what was in my mind, so shehung 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, holdingmy hands for a moment, then dropping them suddenly and turning from me.
I have refrained from speaking of Mary Hamilton of late, partly becauseI did not see her frequently at this time, and partly because the shame Ifelt at the time of which I am now writing comes surging over me wheneverI touch upon the subject. Not that I did anything of which I need beashamed, but because I remember so vividly my motives and desires thatthe old sensations return, even at this distant day, as a perfume, astrain of music, the soft balminess of spring, or the sharp bite ofwinter's frost may recall a moment of the past, and set the heartthrobbing or still it as of yore.
After leaving Bettina, I went back to Whitehall and dressed for a ballwhich the queen was giving that night. It was an unfortunate time for meto see Mary. My heart was full, not to overflowing, but to sinking, withmy love of Bettina and her love of me. There was nothing I would not havegiven at that time to be able to take her as my wife. I should have beenglad to give my title, estates, and position--everything--to be a simpletradesman or an innkeeper so that I might take Bettina with happiness toher and without the damning sin of losing caste to me.
It was true the king's brother had made a marriage of comparatively thesame sort, but it is almost as impossible for a prince to lose caste asit is difficult for a mere baron to keep it. Bettina would not be happyin my sphere of life, nor could I live in hers, so what was there for meto do but to keep my engagement with Mary Hamilton and, if I could, losemy love for Bettina.
* * * * *
The queen's ball was to be held that night at St. James's Palace, andI was glad to have the walk from Whitehall across the park. The night wasperfect. A slim moon hung in the west, considerately withholding a partof her light that the stars might twinkle the brighter in their vaineffort to rival Bettina's eyes. The night wind came to me, odor-ladenfrom the roses, only to show me how poor a thing it was compared withBettina's breath upon my cheek and its sweetness in my nostrils. Now andthen a belated bird sang its sleepy song, only to remind me of the melodyof her lullabies, and the cooing dove moaned out its plaintive call lestI forget the pain in her breast while selfishly remembering the ache inmy 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 tohelp 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 metGeorge's brother, Count Anthony Hamilton. He had never been friendly tohis younger brother, and had ceased to look upon him as a brother at allafter his disgraceful reformation. Then when the king turned againstGeorge, Anthony, good courtier that he was, turned likewise, and there isno 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 knewanything 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 ourfamily, you will cease to consider him your friend," returned hisLordship, making an effort to conceal his anger.
I was not in the mood to take his remark kindly, therefore I answeredwarmly:--
"Shall my entering the ranks of your noble family curtail my privilege ofchoosing my own friends?"
"No, with one exception," he replied.
"The honor of the alliance is great, my lord, but I shall not consent toeven one exception at your dictation. Your sister, my future wife, lovesher brother, and if she does not object to my friendship for him, yourLordship oversteps your authority, as head of your house, by protesting."
He turned angrily upon me, saying: "You have been paying your court withlukewarm ardor of late, Baron Clyde. Perhaps you would not grieve if yourfriendship for a family outcast were to bar you from the family."
"If your Lordship means to say that I wish to withdraw dishonorably frommy engagement with your sister, I crave the privilege of telling you thatyou lie!"
I never was more calm in my life, and my words brought a cold smile toHamilton's lips.
"My friend De Grammont will have the honor of waiting on you to-morrowmorning," he answered, bowing politely.
"I shall be delighted to see his Grace," I answered. "Good night, mylord!"
Here was a solution of my problem in so far as it concerned my engagementwith Mary Hamilton, for if I killed her brother, she would not marryme, and if he killed me, I could not marry her. The fact that a gleamof joy came to me because of my unexpected release caused me to feelthat I was a coward not to have broken the engagement in an honorable,straightforward manner rather than to have seized this opportunity toforce a duel upon her brother. It is true I had not sought the dueldeliberately and had not thought it possible one second before utteringthe word that made it necessary. Still it was my act that brought itabout, and I felt that I had taken an unmanly course.
After leaving Count Anthony I walked across the room to where Marywas standing at the outer edge of a circle of ladies and gentlemen whosurrounded De Grammont, listening to a narrative in broken English, ofhis 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 notexpected the least display of emotion on her part; therefore I was notdisappointed when the smile with which she greeted me was the same shewould have given to any other man. But Mary was Mary. Nature and art hadmade her what she was--charming, quiescent, and calm, not cold, simplylukewarm.
"I have seen little of you this last month," said Mary, taking my arm andwalking with me away from De Grammont's group. She might have remarkedwith equal emotion that Cromwell was dead or the weather fine. She didnot wait for an explanation of my absence, but continued with a touch ofeager hesitancy and a fluttering show of anxiety, "Have you had newsrecently of my brother George?"
Of course I could not tell her the truth, so I answered evasively: "Isuppose you have heard the news spread throughout the court that he hasgone 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 beenunable to learn, for George is a forbidden topic in our household andseems to be the same at court. What has he done, baron? I have heard ithinted that he threatened to take the king's life. Surely he did nothingof the sort."
"If he did, it was in a delirium of fever," I answered, hoping that shewould cease speaking of George and would ask a question or two concerningmyself.
But no. She turned again to me, asking, "Did you hear him?"
"I have been told that the accusation comes from his phys
ician, andperhaps from one who was listening at his door," I answered, avoiding adirect reply.
"I suspect the informant is a wretched little hussy of whom I haveheard--the daughter of the innkeeper," remarked Mary, looking up tome for confirmation.
"Suspect no longer," I answered, with sharper emphasis than I should haveused.
"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 atyour brother's bedside, day and night, and probably saved his life at atime when he was deserted by his sisters and his mother."
"We often find that sort of kindness in those low creatures," sheanswered, unaware of the tender spot she was touching, and ignoringmy reference to George's sisters and his mother.
Naturally Mary was kind of heart, but her mother was a hard, paintedold Jezebel, whose teachings would have led her daughter away from everygentle truth and up to all that was hard, cruel, and selfish in life. Awoman in the higher walks of life is liable to become enamelled beforeher 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 fora dance, and she left me, saying hurriedly in my ear:--
"I'll see you soon again. I want to ask you further about George." Shehad not a question to ask about me.
She was not to see me again, for I asked permission of the queen towithdraw, and immediately left the ball.
While I was crossing the park on my way back to Whitehall, the windmoaned and groaned--it did not breathe. The stars did not twinkle--theyglared. The nightingales did not sing--they screamed. And the roses wereodorless. Perhaps all this change to gloom was within me rather thanwithout, but it existed just the same, and I went home and to bed, hatingall the world save Bettina, whom I vowed for the hundredth time never tosee again.
The next day at noon De Grammont came to my closet, where I had waitedfor him all morning.
"Welcome to you, dear count!" I cried, leading him by the hand to achair.
"Perhaps you will not so warmly welcome me," he returned, "when you learnmy errand."
"I already know your errand, Count Grammont, and it makes you doublywelcome," I answered, drawing a chair for myself and sitting down infront of him.
"Ah, that is of good," he returned, rubbing his hands. "You already knowthe purpose of my visit?"
"Yes, I do, my dear count, but any purpose would delight me which bringsthe pleasure of your company."
"Ah, it is said like a civilized man," he returned, complimentingme by speaking English, though I shall not attempt to reproduce hispronunciation. "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 stickinga mere pig. Is it not so?"
"True as sunshine, my dear count," I returned. "There's a vast differencebetween the trade of butchering and the gentle art of murder."
De Grammont threw back his head, laughing softly. "Ah, good, good! Verygood, dear baron! The sentiment is beau-ti-ful and could not be betterexpressed--in English. You should have been born across the channel."
"I wish I had been born any place, not excepting hell, rather than inEngland," I answered.
"True, true, what a hole it is," returned the count, regretfully. "TheEnglishman is one pig."
He saw by the expression of my face that while I might abuse my owncountrymen, I did not relish hearing it from others, so with true Frenchtact he held up his hand to keep me from speaking till he could correcthimself.
"Pardon, baron, I forgot the 'r,' The Englishman's affectation of avirtue 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 theaffectation 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 fromLondon early to-day on the king's business, but that he will returnin four weeks. When he returns he will do himself the honor to sendme 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 courseyou 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 thelie?" I asked.
"I did not inquire," he answered smilingly. "To me it was to carry themessage."
"George Hamilton is your friend, is he not?" I asked.
"Yes, but far more, he is the friend of my king, and will make entreatywith my monarch for my return to France," answered De Grammont.
"It was because of Count Hamilton's insulting reference to his brotherthat I used the ugly word," I returned.
"A-ah, that is different!" Then recovering himself quickly: "But Iundertook the mission. It is to finish. Monsieur George Hamilton? Myfriend? My king's friend? If it had been known to me! But you have themessage 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 amoment's hesitancy, whispered:--
"You may expect a letter from France soon. It will come from M. l'Abbe duBoise, who I hope will come soon to London on the business of my king.You know him not--M. l'Abbe?" The eyebrows lifted questioningly. "No? Yousoon will know him, yet you will not know him. You and perhaps a lady mayhelp him in his mission. I, too, shall help him, but I, too, know himnot. Yet I know him. If he succeed in his mission, he will be rich, hewill be powerful. And I? Mon Dieu, my friend! If he succeed, my decree ofbanishment from Paris--it will be to revoke. I may return once more tobask in the smile of my king. You must not speak; the lady must notspeak; I must not speak when Monsieur l'Abbe comes, nor before. It is tosilence. Stone walls have one ear."
"Two, sometimes, count," I suggested, laughing.
"Yes, I should have said one ears! Non, non! I forget this damnabletongue of yours! When I arrive to great interest, it is to talk fasterthan it is to think, and--" A shrug of the shoulders finished thesentence.
"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 languagemurdered than to murder yours," answered Grammont, seriously.
"Ah, but I speak French quite as well as I speak English. Perhaps I shallnot 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 shruggedhis shoulders, saying:--
"Ah, _oui, oui!_ It may be better than my English." But notwithstandinghis scant praise, we spoke the French language thereafter.
The count bowed himself out and left me to decipher, if I could, theproblem of M. l'Abbe du Boise. Presently I discovered the cue. TheAbbe was George Hamilton, and for the moment my heart almost stoppedbeating. If he should come to England on the French king's business,which could be nothing more nor less than the Dunkirk affair, andshould be discovered, there would be a public entertainment on TyburnHill, with George as the central figure.
When I found a spare hour, I hastened to see Lilly and came upon thegood Doctor among the stars, as usual. There was a letter for me fromHamilton. It was short and in cipher:--
"DEAR FRIEND:
"This is to tell you that M. l'Abbe du Boise will soon be in London. Hewill be the guest of M. Comte de Grammont.
"You do not know him. Please call on him when he arrives. Tell theDuchess of Hearts that he will want to see her. Ask her to be ready tohelp him. He goes to buy Dunkirk for the French king, and his successwill mean good fortune
for me.
"Your friend,
"LE BLANC."
After reading the letter, I felt sure that the Abbe du Boise was GeorgeHamilton. I could hardly bring myself to believe that he would be sofoolhardy as to visit Whitehall, though I knew the adventure was of anature likely to appeal to his reckless disregard of consequences. Iknew also that, if successful, he would win the reward without whichlife had little value to him.
I was sure that Hamilton had fully weighed the danger of his perilousmission, and that he was deliberately staking his life on a lastdesperate chance to win fortune and Frances Jennings.
Though perhaps Lilly was a charlatan in many respects, he was to betrusted; still I did not feel that it was my place to impart George'ssecret to him, though I had in mind a plan whereby he might be of greathelp to the Abbe du Boise in influencing King Charles. The king consultedhim secretly in many important affairs, and I was sure that if the goodDoctor should be called in by his Majesty in the Dunkirk affair, thestars would tell a story in accord with our desires if we made it toLilly's interest.
However, all of that must wait for the Abbe du Boise. Of one thing I wassure; I must tell Frances at once so that she might be paving the way tothe king with her smiles. It would be a disagreeable task, but I knew shewould do it gladly, and I also knew that no woman could do it better.
While I had expressed my doubts to Frances concerning Hamilton'semigration to Canada, I had not felt entirely sure there was nothing init, and she, womanlike, taking the worst for granted, had accepted it astrue. But the coming of the Abbe du Boise changed everything, and when Isaw her at her father's house and told her of my suspicions, and showedher Le Blanc's letter, she was so greatly alarmed that she said she wouldrather know that George had gone to Canada than to fear his return toEngland 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 Ibelieve, if George comes, he will be able to take care of himself."
"Danger!" she exclaimed. "It is certain death! George will find nomercy."
"If he is caught," I answered. "But the letter from King Louis willconvince King Charles that Hamilton is in Canada and will throw ourjealous monarch off his guard. Perhaps Hamilton will be safer than wesuppose. He speaks French like a Parisian, but, above all, he is cool,calm, and thoughtful in danger. The London merchants will be far moredangerous than the king."
"It does seem that we are guilty of treason to our country in thushelping France," she said. Then laughingly, "But I'll go back to thepalace at once and begin my task of wheedling the king." She paused for amoment, then continued hesitatingly, "Do you suppose it possible thatGeorge 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 woulddo almost anything in the same cause. But I do not know men, and I fearit is possible that he will doubt me after I have succeeded. Let us goto see Betty. She is restful to me, and always soothes my nerves. Butbesides, 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 wholeaffair, and Dunkirk may go to the devil before you shall introduce Bettyto 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 Istood gazing out the window, seeing nothing save Bettina's face. Francesput her hand on my shoulder and said coaxingly: "Forgive me. No harmshall come to her through me."
Of course I was sorry that I had allowed myself to become angry, and atonce made my apology as well as I could.
"Let us go to see Betty, anyway," said Frances. And I assenting, she wentto fetch her cloak, hat, and vizard.
But when she returned, I had changed my mind and declined to go, tellingFrances 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 thejourney, 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, "Myengagement 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 hereturns, and you see, if I kill him or if he kills me, well--" Ianswered, shrugging my shoulders.
She was much alarmed at my disclosure, but was reassured when I madelight of the affair, probably because there was no danger in it to GeorgeHamilton, and, perhaps, because if I should kill Count Hamilton, Georgewould 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 afine, pretty little creature, who will take what comes her way withoutexcess of pain or joy. She is incapable of feeling keenly. God has beengood to her in giving her numbness."
"No, no, cousin Ned, you are wrong!" she returned. "Life without painis not worth living. I have heard that the Arabs have a saying, 'Allsunshine makes the desert.' God is good to us when he darkens the sunnow and then and gives us the sunshine afterwards."
"Perhaps you are right, Frances," I returned. "But you and I are in thecloud 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 narrowflight of steps leading to the private entrance to the Old Swan.
When we paused at the door, Frances said, "Your garden is at hand." Andwhen she opened the door, there stood Betty, and I was in Eden. The moistglow of her eyes, the faint blush of her cheeks, the nervous flutteringof her voice, spoke more eloquently than all the tongues of Babel couldhave spoken, and I could not help comparing her welcome with that whichMaxy 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 wealways had a large supply in reserve.
When it was time to go, Bettina walked down to the Bridge with us. As itwas growing dark, Frances suggested that I walk back to the Old Swan withBetty, which I did, she taking my arm of her own accord, and both of usvery 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 ofthe core of His infinite love.
The Touchstone of Fortune Page 11
