Hamilton was away from home and was friendless, all of which gave his accusers the courage to fix suspicion on him, though they did so without taking the responsibility of making the charge themselves.

So it was that when George returned to England, several weeks later, he found trouble awaiting him in many forms.

* * * * *

My cousin's presentation to the duchess was made in private and was a success in every respect. I asked Mary Hamilton to accompany Lady Wentworth, Frances, and myself on this occasion, and she graciously consented. Lady Wentworth insisted on making the presentation, so one morning I called for my cousin and her chaperone, took the Wentworth barge at Blackfriars water stairs, and proceeded by river up to Westminster stairs, where we disembarked. I left my companions in a bookstall in the Abbey and went to fetch Mary, who lived near by in a house called Little Hamilton House, under the shadow of Great Hamilton House, which was the home of Count Anthony.

Mary was waiting for me, so she and I hastened to the bookstall, took up Frances and Lady Wentworth, went back to the barge, and then by water to Whitehall Garden stairs. There we left the river, walked to the Palace, and proceeded immediately to the parlor of her Grace, the Duchess of York, whom we met by appointment.

When we entered her Grace's parlor, she rose, came to meet us, paused for a moment, gave one glance to Frances, and, without a word of presentation, offered her hand to my cousin, saying:—

"I need no introduction to Mistress Jennings. Her beauty has been heralded, and I know her. I understand she wishes to do me the grace of becoming one of my maids of honor?"

"Yes, madam," returned Frances, kneeling and kissing her Grace's hand. "I hope you may do me the grace of accepting my poor services."

"Oh, do not kneel to me here among ourselves," said the duchess, smiling graciously. "It is you who grant the favor, and, without more ado, I heartily welcome you to our family."

Thus, almost before she knew it, Frances's beauty had won, as we had been sure it would, and she was a maid of honor in Whitehall Palace to her Grace, the Duchess of York, sister-in-law to the king.

"The Mother of the Maids will instruct you in your duties, chief of which you will find easy enough, that is, to be beautiful," said the duchess, taking a chair and indicating that we were to be seated.

Frances, Mary, and Lady Wentworth took chairs, but nothing short of a broken leg or tottering age would have justified me in accepting the invitation to sit.

"Before I send for the Mother of the Maids," said the duchess, graciously, "let us talk a few minutes about ourselves and other people."

Her suggestion being taken by silent consent, she asked Lady Wentworth about Sir William's health and was graciously inquisitive concerning many of her Ladyship's personal affairs, to her Ladyship's infinite delight. She talked to Mary and to me for a moment, and then turned to Frances, of whom she asked no personal questions, but spoke rather of her Grace's own affairs and of life at court, dropping now and then many valuable hints that had no appearance of being instructions.

Presently her Grace said, "Now we have talked about ourselves, let us talk about other people."

We all laughed, and Frances inquired, "Will your Grace kindly tell us whom we may abuse and whom praise?"

"Oh, abuse anybody—everybody. Praise only the very young, the very old and the halt; abuse all able-bodied adults, and laugh at any one in whom you see anything amusing," answered the duchess.

"Not the king and—" laughed Frances.

"The king!" interrupted her Grace, with a tone of contempt in her voice. "Every one laughs at him. He's the butt of the court. Do you know his nickname?"

"No," returned Frances.

"Yes, yes," interrupted Lady Wentworth, laughing nervously. She did not want to be left out of the conversation entirely, so she chimed in irrelevantly.

"We call him Old Rowley in honor of the oldest, wickedest horse in the royal mews," said the duchess, laughing. "You need not restrain yourself. Soon every one at court will be talking about you, the men praising your beauty, and insinuating ugly stories about your character, and the women wondering how any one can admire your doll's face or find any wit in what you say. Remember that the ordinary rule of law that one is deemed innocent until proved guilty is reversed in Whitehall. Here one is deemed guilty till one proves one's self innocent, and that is a difficult task. Ah, my! It has been many a day since we have had any convincing proof! Eh, Lady Wentworth?"

"Yes, yes, your Grace! Many a day, many a day! Ah, we are a sad, naughty court, I fear," answered my Lady, with a penitent sigh. Her chief desire was to be a modish person; therefore she would not be left out of the iniquitous monde, though her face, if nothing else, placed her safely beyond the pale of Whitehall sin. One of the saddest things in life is to be balked in an honest desire to be wicked!

"Yes, you won't know yourself when your character comes back to you, filtered through many mouths," said the duchess, laughing. "But don't take offence; retaliate!"

"My cousin will have to learn the art, your Grace," I suggested.

"Ah, I have a thought!" cried the duchess, turning to Frances. "Nothing succeeds like novelty here at court. Be novel. Don't abuse people save to their faces, but don't spare any one then. Remember that a biting epigram is the best loved form of wit among us Sodomites. We love it for its own sake, but more for the pain it gives the other fellow. We like to see him squirm, and we have many a joyous hour over our friends' misfortunes. Turn yourself into a mental bodkin, and you will find favor among us, for it is better to be feared than loved in our happy family."

"Ah, how beautiful!" cried Lady Wentworth, determined to be heard, even though never addressed.

"But as I have said," continued the duchess, "try, if you can, to be novel, and be a bodkin only to the victim's face, save, of course, in the case of a new bit of racy scandal. That must be used to the greatest advantage as soon as possible, for scandal, like unsalted butter, will not keep."

The duchess laughed, as though speaking in jest, but she was in earnest and spoke the truth.

"But I must learn the current faults of my friends-to-be," suggested Frances, laughing, "so that I may not fall into the unpardonable error of repeating an old story. Stale scandal is doubtless an offence in the ear of the Anointed."

The Anointed was the king.

"That is true," returned the duchess, seriously. "Old scandals bore him, but if, by good fortune, a rich new bit comes your way, save it for our Rowley, whisper it in his ear and forget it. Leave to him the pleasure of disseminating it. He dearly loves the 'ohs' and 'ahs' of delight incident to the telling of a racy tale. But I'll take you in hand one of these days and tell you how best to please the king, though your beauty will make all other means mere surplusage. To please the king, you need but be yourself; to please my husband, the duke, is even an easier task. He is everybody's friend. They will be wanting to divorce the queen and me for your sake. Two such fools about pretty women the world has never known before and I hope never will again. To see the two royal brothers ogling and smiling and smirking is better than a play. I used to be disgusted, but now it amuses me. So if my husband makes love to you, don't fear that I shall be offended, and if the king makes love to you, as he surely will, have no fear of the queen. She is used to it."

"I shall try to please every one," said Frances.

"No, no, no!" cried the duchess. "That would be your ruin! A dog licks the hand that smites it. We're all dogs. Every failure I have known at court has come from too great a desire to please."

Frances laughed uneasily, for she knew she was hearing the truth, disguised as a jest. After a moment's silence, she asked:—

"May I not at least try to please your Grace? And may I not seek your advice and thank you now and then for a reprimand?"

"Yours is the first request of the sort I have ever heard from a maid of honor, and I shall take you at your word," said the duchess. "I'm not posing as the head of a morality school, but if I may, I shall try to be your guide."

Lady Wentworth was almost comatose with pride—"pride on the brain" Frances afterwards called it.

Presently her Grace continued seriously. "The king will make love to you on sight. If he fails in obtaining a satisfactory response, he may affect to be offended for a few days, during which time my husband may try his hand. Failing, he will smile and will withdraw to make room for Rowley's return attack. Rowley's return will be in earnest, and then will come your trial, for the whole court will fawn upon you, will lie about you, and beg your favor for them with the king."

"Surely it is a delightful prospect," returned my cousin, smiling.

"Oh, delightful, delightful!" ejaculated Lady Wentworth in a semilucid interval.

"Now I'll send for the Mother of the Maids," said her Grace, "who will show you to your rooms and instruct you in the duties, forms, and ceremonies of court. I suppose you dance the country dances. They are the king's favorites. He calls the changes."

"Yes, your Grace," answered Frances.

"And the brantle and the coranto?" asked the duchess.

"Yes, your Grace."

"And do you play cards?"

"Yes, your Grace, but I loathe games."

"Ah, I see you're equipped," said the duchess. "But here comes the Mother of the Maids."

The duchess presented Frances to the Mother, who presently led her forth across the threshold of a new life, destined to be filled with many strange happenings.

After leaving the Duchess of York, Frances and the Mother of the Maids entered the Stone Gallery, half the length of which they would have to traverse before reaching the door that entered the narrow corridor leading to the apartments of the maids of honor. Midway in the gallery, a man, evidently in wine, accosted Frances without so much as removing his hat.

"Ah, ah! Whom have we here?" he asked, winking to the Mother of the Maids.

Frances was astonished and a little frightened, but she soon brought herself together and retorted:—

"What is it to you, sir, whom we have here?"

At once it occurred to Frances that the impertinent man was either the king or the duke, but she hid her suspicion.

"Much it is to me, fair mistress," returned the gentleman, taking off his hat and bowing. "The sun shines for all, and when one dare be as beautiful as yourself, all men may bask in the radiance and may ask, 'What new luminary is this?'"

"You may bask to your heart's content," retorted Frances, laughing, "but you must know that it does not please the sun to be stopped by an unprepossessing stranger."

The Mother's face bore a look of consternation, and the gentleman threw back his head, laughing uproariously.

"Ah, my beauty, but I would not remain a stranger. If I am unprepossessing, it is because I am as God made me and I cannot help it. But I can help being a stranger to you and would make myself known, and would present my compliments to—"

"To the devil, who perhaps may like your impertinence better than I like it," retorted Frances, turning from him angrily and hastening toward the opposite end of the gallery.

When Frances reached the door of the corridor, she looked back and saw the Mother of the Maids listening attentively to the gentleman. He was laughing heartily, and when the Mother left him, Frances noticed that she courtesied almost to the floor, a ceremony little used save with the king, the queen, the duke, and the duchess.

When the door of the gallery was closed behind Frances, she asked the Mother:—

"Who is the impudent fellow?"

"He? Why, he—is—why, he is Sir Rowley," answered the Mother, hesitatingly, and Frances knew that she had won her first round with the king, though she kept her knowledge to herself.



CHAPTER IV

A SMILE AT THE DEVIL

In the evening the duchess gave a little ball in her parlor to present Frances to the king and to the queen, if her Majesty should attend, to the Duke of York, and to others living in Whitehall immediately connected with the palace household.

I went to the ball early, wishing to be there before Frances arrived, to help her if need be over the untrodden paths of court forms and etiquette. Soon after I entered her Grace's parlor, Mary Hamilton came in with her mother, and I joined them. I should have been glad to see a gleam of joy in Mary's eyes when I approached, but I had to be content with a calm, gracious "I'm glad to see you, baron."

Presently the Duke of York arrived with the duchess on his arm, and they took their places at the end of the room opposite the musicians' gallery. Mary and I hastened to kiss their hands, and, withdrawing to a little distance, awaited Frances's arrival. After the others in the room had paid their respects to her Grace, she beckoned me to her chair and said:—

"Your cousin will arrive presently. I have just seen her. Look for a sensation when she comes. She is radiant, though her gown is as simple as a country girl's."

"I hear you have brought us a great beauty, baron," remarked the duke.

"Yes, your Highness. We who love her think so," I answered.

"You'll be wanting to be made an earl for your service in bringing her, eh, baron?" said the duke, laughing. Then bending toward me and whispering: "A word in your ear, Clyde. You may have it if you play your cards right and are persistent in importunity."

"No, your Highness. I ask for nothing save favor to my cousin," I replied.

"She is like to have enough of that and to spare, without asking, if she is half as beautiful as she is said to be," returned his Grace.

"Of that your Highness may now be your own judge," I returned. "Here she comes."

At that moment Frances entered on the arm of the Mother of the Maids, and the duke, catching sight of her, exclaimed:—

"God have pity on the other women! Half has not been told, baron. There is no beauty at court compared to hers. Earl? You may be a duke!"

While Frances and the Mother were making their way across the room to pay their respects to the duke and the duchess, a buzz of admiration could be heard on every hand, and Mary whispered to me behind her fan:—

"If the king were unmarried, I would wager all I have that your cousin would be our queen within a month."

Count Grammont, who was standing behind me, leaned forward and whispered, "Your cousin, baron?"

"Yes, count," I answered.

"Mon Dieu!" he returned, shrugging his shoulders. "You will soon be a duke. We may not call her the queen of hearts, for already we have one, but surely she is the duchess of hearts. I wish I might present her in Paris. Ah Dieu! She would make quickly my peace with my king!"

Poor Grammont's one object in life was that his peace might be made with his king. He lived only in the hope of a recall to Versailles.

Frances made a graceful courtesy, as she kissed their Highness's hands, and, when the brief ceremony of presentation to the duke was over, turned to Mary and me, glad to have a moment's respite beside us. She said nothing, but I could see that for the moment the gorgeous scene about us had bewildered her. The vast mouldings of gold, the frescoed cupids, nymphs and goddesses, the wonderful paintings, the brilliant tapestries, all fairly shone in the light of a thousand wax candles, while the polished floor of many-colored woods was a mirror under her feet, reflecting all this beauty.

The powdered and rouged courtiers, arrayed in silks, gold lace and jewels, seemed more like creatures from a land of phantasy than beings of flesh and blood. The men with their great curled wigs, their plumed, bejewelled hats and glittering gold swords, seemed to have stepped from the pages of a wonderful picture-book, and the women, whose gorgeous gowns exposed their bepowdered skin halfway to their waists, measuring from the chin, and whose lifted petticoats made a proportionate display, measuring from the feet, surely were brought from some fair land of folly and shame.

I touched Frances's hand to awaken her, and whispered: "Show neither wonder nor interest. See nothing, or these fools about us will laugh."

She laughed nervously, nodding her head to tell me that she understood.

"But I must look. I can't help it," she said.

"You must see it all without looking," I suggested, and Mary helped me out by saying:—

"It is all tinsel, not worth looking at. That is the quality of all you will see at court; gold foil, king and all."

Presently I saw the gentlemen removing their hats and tucking them under their arms, so I knew the king had entered, and felt sure he would soon come up to salute his hostess, the duchess, near whom we were standing.

I told Frances that she was about to meet the king, and admonished her to keep a strong heart. She smiled as she answered:—

"I think I have met him already." Then she told us briefly of her encounter with the tipsy gentleman in the Stone Gallery.

She had entirely recovered her self-possession and was prepared to meet calmly the man who was a demigod to millions of English subjects.

The queen did not come with the king, so he loitered a moment among the courtiers before making his way to the duchess, but the delay was short, and soon he presented himself. The duchess rose when he approached, but hardly allowed him time to finish his bow till she took his arm, turned toward us, and smiled to Frances to approach. I touched my cousin's arm, gently thrusting her forward, and the next moment she was courtesying to the floor before the man who believed, in common with most of his subjects, that he owned by divine right the body and soul of every man in England, together with every man's ox and his ass, his wife and his daughter, and all that to him belonged.

The king raised Frances, still retaining her hand, and bent most gallantly before her.

"I have met Mistress Jennings," said he, smiling, "and she told me to pay my compliments to the devil."

The king laughed, so of course the courtiers who heard him also laughed. Instantly the news spread, and one might have heard on every hand, "The new maid told the king to go to the devil." But as the king seemed to be pleased, the courtiers were, too, and the new maid of honor became a person of distinction at once.

The king's unexpected remark disconcerted Frances for a moment, and her confusion added to her charm. In a moment she recovered herself, courtesied, and said:—

"I beg your Majesty not to remind me of my terrible mistake. I thought you were a bold cavalier, and of course did not know that I was speaking to my king. I offer my humble apology. Pray do not pay your compliments to the devil, but keep them for me, your Majesty's most devoted subject."

"Odds fish!" exclaimed his Majesty. "I'm glad of the reprieve. I did not want to go to the devil, but Odds fish! I'd be willing to do so for a smile from my most devoted subject."

"Merci, sire!" answered Frances, with a courtesy and smiling as graciously as even a king could ask.

"If my most devoted subject will honor her king by asking him to dance the next coranto with her, he will do his best to make amends for his boldness earlier in the day, for he is naturally a modest king."

"A modest manner and a bold heart, I fear, your Majesty," returned Frances, making the most pleasing compliment she could have paid her sovereign. "May I be honored with your Majesty's hand for the next coranto?"

"It is my will," graciously answered the king.

The ball opened with a brantle which his Majesty danced with the duchess, Frances remaining, meantime, with Mary and me, awaiting the coranto with the king, a royal favor which would win for her the envy of many a lady, as the king seldom danced.

When the brantle was finished, the king worked his way over to Frances, and when the bugle announced the coranto, she was saved the embarrassment of seeking him, as she must have done had he not been by her side.

An altogether unexpected ordeal awaited Frances, for when the French musicians began to play and his Majesty led her out, she found herself and the king the only dancers on the floor except the Duke of York with Mistress Stuart, and the Duke of Monmouth with his father's friend, Lady Castlemain. Every one else stood by the wall, many of the ladies hoping to see the new maid fail, and all of the gentlemen eager to behold her and to comment.

The coranto is a difficult movement to perform gracefully. It consists of a step forward, a pause during which the dancer balances on one foot, holding the other suspended forward for a moment, then another step, followed by a bow on the gentleman's part and a deep courtesy by the lady.

I confess that I was uneasy, for Frances was a country girl, and the coranto was the most trying, though, if well done, the most beautiful of all dances.

Mary clasped my hand in alarm for Frances and whispered: "I do hope she dances well. The lack of grace in a woman is inexcusable. She had better not dance at all than poorly."

Mary's hopes were realized at once, for the king and Frances had not been on the floor three minutes till the gentlemen began to clap their hands softly, and in a moment a round of applause came from the entire audience, as often happened in those informal balls.

The king turned to Frances, saying: "They are applauding your dancing. Take your bow."

"No, it's all for your Majesty," she returned.

"No, no, my dancing is an old story to them. It is your grace they are applauding."

"Spare me, your Majesty," she pleaded, laughing.

As the applause continued, they stopped dancing for a moment, and Frances made her courtesy to the audience. Thereupon the applause increased, and she courtesied again, kissing her hand as she rose from the floor.

The girl was in high spirits, and laughed as she talked to the king, who smiled on her in a manner that caused my Lady Castlemain to remark:—

"The young milkmaid's affectations are disgusting." Other equally flattering remarks were to be heard from women of the Castlemain stamp, but the men were a unit in praising the new beauty.

Of course the king soon declared his undying love for her, and she answered, laughing:—

"If your Majesty will swear by your grandmother's great toe that you have never before spoken to a woman in this fashion, I'll listen and believe, but failing the oath, you must pardon me if I laugh."

"I hope you would not laugh at your king?" he asked.

"Ay, at the Pope," she retorted, "if I found him amusing."

"But if I swear by the sacred relic you name, never again so long as I live to speak in this fashion to any other woman, may I proceed?" returned the king.

"I would not be a party to an oath whereby my king would be forsworn," she answered.

To which the king replied: "I shall say what I please to my most devoted subject. Am I not the king?"

"I am content that you say what you please if you grant me the same privilege," answered Frances.

The king laughed and said he would gladly grant the privilege in private, but that in public he had a "damnable dignity" to uphold.

* * * * *

After the dancing was over for the evening, the king offered Frances a purse of gold to be used at the card-table, but she declined, and as nearly every one else went to the tables, the duchess granted leave to Frances, Mary, and myself to depart.

Mary and I went with Frances to her parlor adjoining her bedroom, where we remained for an hour or more talking over the events of the night. Mary had heard one in the ballroom say this and another say that. Frances had heard all sorts of remarks, some of them kind, others spiteful. I had heard nothing but praise of my cousin, and all that we had heard was discussed excitedly and commented on earnestly or laughingly, as the case might be.

Frances was in high spirits till by an unlucky chance Mary spoke of her brother George, of whose acquaintance with Frances she knew nothing, and instantly my cousin's eyes began to fill. I saw that the tears would come, despite all her efforts, if something were not done to stay them. Therefore I spoke of her father's joy when he should hear of her triumph, and my remark furnished an excuse for her weeping. In the course of an hour Mary and I left Frances and went to the card-tables, where we found Mary's mother, who at that time, happening to be winner in a large sum, was ready to quit the game, so we all walked home across the park with linkboys.

* * * * *

During the following month or two Hamilton was abroad, neither I nor any one else at court so far as I knew having heard from him. After a time the rumors connecting his name with Roger's death reached my ears, but I paid no heed to them, believing them to have been made of whole cloth, for I did not know that he had been present when the crime was committed. But one day my cousin's actions and words set me thinking.

Roger was only a tanner; therefore after a deal of stir in the matter of his death with no result more tangible than vague insinuations from Crofts and his friends, the investigation by the London authorities was dropped, at least for a time. Roger's tragedy was forgotten or was put aside, save in so far as it was kept alive by Crofts, who felt that it was well to keep the person of George Hamilton as a fender between himself and the crime.

So, as frequently happens when a bad man turns good, Hamilton's troubles began to gather and were awaiting his return. I did not know where he was (though I afterwards learned he was in Paris), and therefore was unable to warn him. In fact, I knew little that was worth telling him at the time of which I am writing, since I did not believe he was really in danger. I did not even know that he was aware of the Roger Wentworth tragedy.

Meantime Frances was making progress at court, of which even I, with all my hopefulness, had little dreamed. What she desired above all else was money for her father. Sir Richard and Sarah had moved up to London to be near Frances and were living in a modest little house at the end of a cul-de-sac called Temple Street, just off the Strand near Temple Bar.

The opportunity to get money soon came to Frances in the form of an offer by the king of a small pension which would have placed her and her father beyond the pale of want. But the king's manner in offering it had caused her to refuse.

She had fallen into the wholesome way of telling me all that occurred touching herself, which during this time consisted chiefly of the efforts of nearly every man of prominence in Whitehall, from the king and the duke to bandylegged Little Jermyn, the lady-killer, to convince her of his desperate passion. She laughed at them all, and her indifference seemed to increase their ardor.

One day Frances met me in the Stone Gallery as I was coming from my lodging in the Wardrobe over the Gate, and asked me to walk out with her. I saw that something untoward had happened, so I joined her and we went to the park. When we were a short way from the palace, she told me of the king's offer and tried to tell me of his manner, the latter evidently having been meant to be understood by Frances in case she wished to see it as he doubtless intended she should. She saw it as the king intended, but the result was far from what he expected.

"I turned my back on him," she said angrily, "and left him without so much as a word or a courtesy, and I intend to leave Whitehall."

"By no means!" I exclaimed. "Accept or refuse the king's pension as you choose, and pass serenely on your way, unconscious of what he may have implied. If you remain at court, you must learn not to see a mere implied affront, and perhaps to smile at many an overt one. Before you came you had full warning of what would happen. Don't see! Don't feel! Don't care! Be true to yourself and smile at the devil if you happen to meet him. He has no weapon against a smile. One escapes many a disagreeable situation by not seeing it, and one always finds trouble by looking for it."

"Your philosophy wearies me," she answered petulantly.

"In that case, I'll confine my remarks to facts and to a mere statement of your duty. You must have money. Accept the king's pension and laugh at him."

"I'll not take your advice," she retorted angrily. "I'll return to my father's house at once. He was right. A decent woman has no business at court."

"Since you speak so plainly, I'll do likewise," I rejoined, growing angry. "You came to court to make your fortune by marriage. That is a bald, ugly way to state the case, but it is the truth. Admit it."

"I fear I must," she answered, hanging her head.

"You surely could not ask greater progress toward your desire than you are making," I continued. "You came into favor at a bound, and have been growing each day, not only with the king, but with all the court, including the queen, the duchess, and the duke. Every one loves you and, better still, respects you, which is a distinction few beautiful women enjoy nowadays. Dick Talbot, the Duke of Tyrconnel, the richest unmarried nobleman in England, is eager to marry you, and would ask you to be his wife if you would but throw him a smile."

"I hate him!" she retorted impatiently. "An overgrown Irish fool. One would as well marry a bull calf!"

"But he is as decent as any man I know, and will meet all your purposes in coming to court in the matter of wealth and station. I don't know that it is a misfortune for a woman to marry a man she can rule."

"Yes, it is," she answered. "She always despises him. I should prefer one who would beat me to such a man."

"But if you intend to carry out the purpose you had in coming to court, you—"

But she interrupted me, speaking slowly, almost musingly: "The purpose I had, perhaps, but not the one I have. I did not know myself. I did not know. I doubt if any girl does. I don't want to marry any man."

"Is it because another man fills your heart?" I asked, speaking gently. "Tell me, my beautiful sister, tell me. I'll find no fault with you. I'll help you if I can."

I received a sigh for my answer, and another and another, as she walked by my side, hanging her head. But when I urged her to speak, she raised her eyes to mine, and there was a cold, angry glint in them as she asked:—

"Do you mean—?"

She did not mention Hamilton's name, but I knew whom she meant and answered:—

"Yes."

A long pause followed, during which I was unable to read the expression on her face, but presently she spoke, her voice trembling with anger or emotion, I knew not which:—

"I hate him! If he were to touch my hand, I believe I should want to cut it off! I hate him—that is, I try to hate him."

Her words and manner caused me uneasiness in two respects: first, it led me to fear that she loved Hamilton; and second, in view of the rumors I had heard connecting his name with Roger Wentworth's death, it flashed upon me that possibly he was the man she had recognized by the light of Noah's lanthorn. Either of these surmises, if true, was enough to mar my peace of mind, but together they brought me trouble indeed.

I had come to look for a speedy accomplishment of my cousin's good fortune, and also to regard Hamilton as my dearest friend among men. Still I was helpless to remedy these evils if they really existed. What I did at the time was to insist, first, that Frances regain her senses as soon as possible, and second, that she say nothing of her intention to leave Whitehall for at least ten days. To my first request she replied that she had never been so completely in possession of her senses as at that present moment, and my second, she positively refused to consider.

The best of women want their way, at least in part, so I said, "I abandon my first request as unreasonable."

She looked up to me, hardly knowing whether to laugh or to frown, but she chose the former, and I continued, "And as to my second suggestion, I amend it to, say, five or six days."

"Three!" she insisted. So we let it stand at that, each with a sense of triumph.

We returned to the palace, and soon I had an opportunity to ask the king for a word privately. He graciously consented, and led me to his closet, overlooking the River Thames. From this closet, on the second floor, a privy stairs led down to a door which opened on a small covered porch at the head of a flight of stone steps falling to the king's private barge landing at the water's edge. When I noticed the narrow stairway, I had no thought of the part it would one day play in the fortunes and misfortunes of Frances, Hamilton, and myself.

On the king's command, I sat down near him, and he asked:—

"What can I do for you, baron? I do not remember your having ever solicited a favor of me, and I shall be delighted to grant what you ask, if I can."

"I seek no favor, your Majesty," I returned. "I simply want to tell you that my cousin, Mistress Jennings, has just informed me of her intention to leave Whitehall, and I wonder—"

"No, no," cried the king, interrupting me. "She shall not go! Why is she discontented here?"

"I am not sure that I can tell your Majesty," I answered evasively. "I am loath to see her go, and, knowing well your kindliness, hoped you would be willing to urge her to remain."

"Gladly," replied the king. "She is the most beautiful ornament of our court, and we must not lose her. I don't mind telling you for your own ear that I suspect the cause of her sudden resolution and respect it."

He laughed, and after a long pause, continued:—

"I forgot that she was fresh from the country, and that she still retained part of her prudish ideas, so while walking with her yesterday on the Serpentine, I offered her a pension, to which she is justly entitled, adorning our court as she does. But I fear she took my honest efforts at gallantry too seriously. My dear baron, the girl shall have her pension without the slightest return on her part save one of her rare smiles now and then. Say to her, please, that the king sends his apology and eagerly awaits an opportunity to offer it in person."

"I thank your Majesty," I answered, rising and bowing, "and feel sure you have done all that is needful to keep my cousin at court. She has certain prudish standards which I fear are too easily shocked, and is as self-willed as—well, as a beautiful woman—"

"Ought to be," interrupted the king, laughing and finishing my sentence.

I wanted him to suspect that his gallant speeches would be repeated to me, hoping that the knowledge might temper them.

After talking a moment longer with him, I asked permission to withdraw, and at once sought Frances. When I found her in the parlor of the duchess, I drew her to one side and told her of my interview with the king.

"You have tamed the lion," I said, "and you may accept the pension without harm to your sensitive dignity. But please don't make a fool of yourself again by taking such a matter seriously. Keep your head, keep your heart, keep your temper, and thrive. Lose either, and have the whole court laughing at you. I'm sorry Hamilton is so fixed in your heart that you cannot dislodge him, but this good may grow out of the evil: you may judge other men dispassionately."

A great sigh was her only answer.

* * * * *

Frances took my advice, along with the king's pension, and soon learned that as good wine needs no bush, so true virtue needs no defence.

A brief account of Frances's triumphs and adventures at court is necessary before this history can be brought to the point of Hamilton's return; that is, to the time when I knew he was in London.

Her first great triumph was over the heart of the king, to whose lovemaking she learned to listen and to smile; not the smile of assent, but of amusement.

Soon our august monarch became silly with love of the new beauty, and with her help often made himself ridiculous. On one occasion, a few months after Frances's installation as maid of honor, he left a love note in her muff which she pushed out at one end as she thrust her hand in at the other. She was careful to do this little trick in such a manner that those who saw the king place the note in her muff should see it fall out. It was picked up by an inquisitive soul, reached the hands of the "lampooners," and appeared in biting verse in the next issue of the News Letter.

When the king complained to Frances of her ill-treatment of his note, she declared, with a great show of astonishment, that she had not seen it, which was literally true, since she had only felt it. She said that it must have fallen to the ground as she took up her muff, and tried to make it appear that she was greatly disappointed.

"I would not slight so great an honor as a letter from my king," she said demurely.

"No, no," returned his Majesty, laughing. "Our most devoted subject would not slight her king's message. I believe you did it intentionally."

"In which case your Majesty will leave no more notes for me in public," answered Frances. And the king's choice lay between taking offence and looking upon the affair as a jest. He was too far gone in love to take offence, so he chose to laugh.

On another occasion, at the queen's ball, the king asked Frances to walk out to the garden with him.

"It is dark, your Majesty, and I fear the dark," she replied. "Let us walk there in the daytime, so that every one may see how graciously my king honors me."

He could not coax her out, so he said: "Very well, my prudish Miss Solomon. Have your way and break my heart."

"To do either would please me," she retorted. "I like to have my own way, and there are few women who would not be delighted to break a handsome king's heart."

Frances having captured the king, every other man at court was her admirer. She could have had her choice of a husband from among the noblest and richest men of the land, but she showed no one especial favor. If one imagined that she smiled with marked graciousness on him, he soon learned that others were equally fortunate, and after a time each accepted his smile from her and took it for granted that his failure to receive greater favor was because of the king's success. All praised her discretion, though many believed that she was concealing adroitly what she would not have the world suspect. With all her circumspection, it soon became the common talk at court that she was the king's new favorite, though there was no reason given for the rumor save the belief that the king was not to be resisted.

* * * * *

The Duchess of York and I knew the truth concerning Frances, but all Westminster and London talked of the new star at Whitehall who was outshining Castlemain, Nell Gwynn, Stuart, and the host of other luminaries who had scintillated with scandal ever since the king's return to Britain's throne.

One morning, shortly after the king's last-mentioned conversation with Frances, she met Nell Gwynn in the palace garden, and was surprised when Nelly addressed her as "Little Solomon."

"Where did you learn the name?" asked Frances.

"From its author, the king," answered Nell. "Come home with me and I'll tell you all about it."

They took Nell's barge and went to Westminster water stairs, where they walked across the park to her house in Pell Mell.

Frances cordially hated Lady Castlemain and the king's other brazen friends, but, after having met Nelly several times, she had learned to love the sweet, profane, ignorant girl because, despite her apparently evil life, there was honesty, kindliness, and truth in Nelly's heart.

When the two young women were seated in Nelly's cozy parlor, she began to open her heart to Frances.

"Yes, the king told me how he invited you to go to the garden with him one evening, and how he dubbed you 'Little Solomon' when you refused."

"Ah, did he?" asked Frances, surprised at the king's willingness to speak of his rebuff.

"Yes," returned Nelly, surprising Frances still further by a soberness of manner rarely seen in the laughing girl.

After a long pause, Nelly continued: "Do you know, I hate the fat Castlemain woman. And the bow-legged Stuart hussy! She seems to be proud of her crooked shanks and exhibits them on every possible occasion. There is something about extreme ugliness that drives it to exposure, on the principle, I suppose, that murder will out. And there's ugly Wells! I hate her, too! Her charm, like that of the Puritan's face, lies wholly in her damned ugliness. I hate them all, though I do not fear them, but oh, Mistress Jennings—" Here she leaned forward and grasped Frances's wrist almost fiercely, "The human heart is a strange thing, at least mine is, for I love you, but oh, I fear you!"

"No, no," cried Frances, at a loss just what to say.

"Yes," continued Nell, insistently. "Let me tell you! Of late I can neither eat nor sleep because of the dread that you will rob me of the king's love. I can do nothing but pray and swear. He does love me more than he loves all the world, because he knows I am true to him! And his love is meat and drink and life itself to me! If you could see but one little part of my love for him, if you could know that I worship him, God help me! as I should worship only my Maker, if you could understand that if you were to steal him from me, you would take my life, my very soul,—if so poor a thing as I can have a soul,—you, who may choose and pick men at will, would leave his love to me!"

"You need not fear, you need not fear," said Frances, soothingly.

"He is not true to me," continued Nelly, impetuously, "and I know it. But I do not care. I have his love, and with that I am content. I would not ask fidelity. I care nothing for the wealth he gives. I accept only a meagre portion of what he offers, and have refused honors and titles which would be a burden to me. I want only the man, Charles Stuart."

She began to weep softly, drying her eyes and trying to laugh. "He's not much of a man, and I know his weaknesses better than any one in all the world knows them. But he is all to me, and I beg you to leave me this part of a man, for you only, of all women I know, can take him from me."

"I would not take the king from you, even to be his queen, if that were possible. I promise that I shall not rob you of his love. It is the last thing in the world I want. You say you love me. I believe you and give you like return. Every one loves you, Nelly."

"Ah, I thank you—Frances," answered Nelly, hesitating at the name.

"Let us seal a pact of friendship," said Frances. "We shall need each other's help in this vile court that takes its quality from its king."

"Yes, truly he is vile," returned Nelly. "But women of my class, born and bred in the slums of life, do not measure a man by his virtues, but by their love of him. I know not how it is, nor why, but this I know, we love because of what we give, and the more we give, the more we love."

"I fear the same is true of all women," answered Frances, with a sigh. "If a woman could but say to her heart, 'Thou shalt' and 'Thou shalt not,' there would be fewer unhappy women in this world."

"Oh, do you, too, know that awful truth?" exclaimed Nelly, eagerly bringing her hands to Frances's shoulders. "Tell me all about it. There is nothing sweeter than to hear the troubles of a friend. They help to make our own seem smaller. Tell me."

"I cannot," answered Frances, now as woebegone as Nelly herself. "It is too terrible even to think upon, yet I think of nothing else. A woman may love a man to the point of madness and still hate him."

"But it is not the king you love?" cried Nelly, in alarm.

"No, no, Nelly. You have my word. But let us talk of something else," answered Frances.

"No, no, let us talk about you," insisted Nelly, whose curiosity was equalled only by her good nature.

"Not another word," returned Frances. "Don't you want to go to the barge for a ride on the river?" And Nelly eagerly assented.

When they were seated in the barge, Nelly's waterman asked her where he should take them, and she proposed going to the Bridge, leaving the barge at the Bridge stairs, and walking up Gracious Street to the Old Swan Tavern for dinner. Frances liked the plan and accepted Nelly's invitation to dinner—and to trouble.



CHAPTER V

THE FIGHT AT THE OLD SWAN

On the way down to the Bridge, inquisitive, irresistible Nelly drew out of Frances a meagre statement of her case. Although Nelly could not write her own name, she was excellent at putting two and two together, and on this occasion quickly reached the conclusion that there was a man whom Frances had good reason to hate, but loved.

Without suspecting that Roger Wentworth's death bore any relation to Frances's trouble, Nelly soon began asking questions about the tragedy, and learned that Frances had recognized one of the highwaymen. When Frances refused in a marked and emphatic manner to describe the man she had seen, or to speak of him beyond the first mention, Nelly began again with her two-and-two problem, and, as the result of her second calculation, reached the conclusion that the highwayman Frances had recognized and the man she loved and hated were one and the same person. However, Nelly had the good taste to keep the result of her calculations to herself, and dropped the subject which seemed so distasteful to her companion.

When Frances and Nelly reached the landing at the water stairs just above the Bridge, they left their barge and walked up Gracious Street (called by some Grace Church Street, though, in fact, it should be Grass Church Street) to the Old Swan Tavern on the east side of the street, a little above Eastcheap.

The Old Swan was a picturesque structure, beautiful in its quaintness, sweet in its cleanliness, and lovable in its ancient air of hospitality. Its token, a full-grown swan, was the best piece of sign painting in London. Its kitchen was justly celebrated. The old inn was kept by Henry Pickering, a man far above his occupation in manner, education, and culture. He had lived many years in France, where he had married a woman of good station, and where his only child, Bettina, whom we called Betty, was born and lived during her early childhood. Pickering's wife died in France, and his fortunes failed, so he returned to England, bought the Old Swan, and soon became rich again.

The Old Swan Tavern must not be confused with the Old Swan wharf and stairs, which were a short distance below the Bridge.

Neither Frances nor Nelly had ever visited the old tavern before, so, being unacquainted with the private entrance, Nelly marched bravely into the tap-room and asked Pickering to show them to a quiet dining room.

Two unescorted ladies of quality taking dinner at even so respectable a house as the Old Swan was an adventure well calculated to shock the judicious, but Nelly did not care a straw for appearances, and Frances hardly knew how questionable the escapade was.

When Pickering had seated his beautiful guests in the small dining room adjoining the tap-room, he returned to the bar and sent his daughter Betty to serve them. She was a beautiful girl of eighteen, who had returned only a few months before from France, where she had spent three or four winters in a convent, her summers having been spent with her father.

There was no fairer skin nor sweeter face than Betty Pickering's. The expression of her great brown eyes, with their arching brows, was so demure as to give the impression that somewhere back in the shadow of their long, thick lashes lurked a fund of laughter and harmless mischief as charming as it was apparently latent. Her form was of the partridge fashion, though not at all too plump, and her hands, which were white and soft as any lady's, were small and dimpled at every knuckle. Her little feet and ankles—but we shall stop at the ankles.

Betty was unusually rich in dimples, having one in each cheek and a half score or more about her lips and chin whenever she smiled. She was well aware of the beauty of her dimples and her teeth; therefore, like a sensible girl that she was, she smiled a great deal, both from feminine policy and natural inclination. In short, Bettina was a Hebe in youth and beauty, and soon after I learned to know her, I learned also that she was an earthly little angel in disposition. It may appear from the enthusiasm of this description that there was a time in my life when I was in love with her. I admit it—desperately in love with her.

To have Betty's services at the Old Swan was a favor enjoyed only by her friends and guests of the highest quality. She was not an ordinary barmaid, though she had friends whom she delighted to honor. Among these were Hamilton and myself, we having visited the Old Swan frequently prior to the time of Hamilton's going to France.

Frances and Nelly had chosen a table in a secluded corner of the private dining room, and were waiting somewhat impatiently when Betty went in to serve them.

"Will my ladies eat from table linen—extra, sixpence?" asked Betty, bending her knee in what might have been called a perpendicular courtesy. Had she been sure that her customers were of high rank, she would have saluted them with a low bow, omitting to mention the extra charge for the linen. But as Frances and Nelly were not escorted by a gentleman, she was not sure of their station.

"Will we eat from table linen?" demanded Nelly, in apparent indignation. "Now, damn the girl! Just hear her! From what else, in God's name, hussy, should we eat? From a trough? And mind you, if there is a spot on it as large as my smallest finger nail, I'll tear it to shreds!" She winked to Frances, perhaps to show Betty that she was only chaffing, for in all the world there was no kinder heart than Nelly Gwynn's.

Betty at once concluded that her guests were great ladies, perhaps from Whitehall itself, for surely none save ladies of the highest or lowest rank would use the language that came so trippingly on Nelly's tongue. So Betty made a deep courtesy, smiled, and answered:—

"Yes, my ladies, it shall be as spotless as a maid of honor's character. It cost five shillings the ell."

"Is that the best you can do?" demanded Nelly, laughing despite herself at Betty's reference to the maids of honor. "Never in all my life have I eaten from anything cheaper than guinea linen, and I know I shall choke—choke, I tell you! Odds fish! this is terrible!" Then turning to Frances: "But it serves us right, duchess, for leaving the palace."

"Yes, your Highness," returned Frances. "But you insisted on coming to the place."

Betty was almost taken off her feet! A princess and a duchess! So her third courtesy was nearly to the floor, as she asked:—

"What will your Highness and your Grace have to eat?"

"A barrel of oysters, a lobster broiled—make it two lobsters—a dish of raw turnips, with oil, vinegar, and pepper, a bottle of canary, a bit of cheese, and a pot of tea. But Lord! I suppose you never heard of tea! It's a new drink, child, recently brought from China."

"Yes, your Highness," answered Betty, very proud that the Old Swan could furnish so new a beverage. "We have some excellent tea of my father's own importation."

"Then fetch it, and in God's name, be quick about it! Doubtless you could be quick enough in running after a man!" said Nelly.

"In running away from him if I wanted to catch him," answered Betty, casting down her eyes demurely, as she courtesied and left to give the order in the kitchen.

Nelly's love of fun brought trouble before the dinner was over.

When Betty left her guests, she went to her father in the tap-room and told him that a princess and a duchess had honored his house, whereupon Pickering began to swell with pride. As friends dropped in from time to time, he informed them that a princess and a duchess were waiting for their dinner in the small dining room, and followed up the extraordinary announcement in each case by asking proudly:—

"Show me another tavern this side of Westminster that entertains guests of like rank. If they were to drop into the Dog's Head, old Robbins would drop dead. And on what would he serve them? I would wager a jacobus to a farthing that he hasn't a tablecloth of real linen in his house, and as for forks, why, he never heard of them. Your fingers and a knife at the Dog's Head! The Old Swan serves its guests of high rank with five shilling linen and silver forks. Silver, mind you, hammered from unalloyed coin by Backwell himself. If any of you happen to be at the Dog's Head, drop a hint that you saw a princess and a duchess in the Old Swan's small dining room."

If a guest doubted Pickering's statement concerning the quality of his guests, he led them to the door of the small dining room, where the sceptic was relieved of his doubts, for Frances and Nelly looked their assumed parts convincingly.

Soon after Nelly's dinner had been served, a handsome gentleman entered the tap-room, sat down at a table, and tapped with his sword-hilt for service. His doublet and trunks of rich velvet, his broad beaver hat with its long flowing plume, and his silken hose, had all been elegant in their good days, but now they were stained, shabby, and almost threadbare in spots. His shoe buckles showed vacant jewel holders, and his sword hilt was without a precious stone, all giving evidence that their owner had been dealing with pawnbrokers. He was shabby from head to feet, though he bore himself with the convincing manner of a gentleman.

Pickering sent the barboy to wait on the newcomer, but the boy returned immediately and whispered:—

"Ye made a mistake in sending me, master. Better send one of the maids or Mistress Betty. The gentleman is more than he seems to be."

"What did he say?" asked Pickering.

"'Ee didn't say nothing," answered the boy. "'Ee looked at me."

At that moment Betty came in, and Pickering nodding toward the stranger, she went to serve him. When she stopped by his table, she made a perpendicular courtesy, and asked:—

"How may I serve you, sir?"

"You may bring me a bit of cheese, Betty, and a mug of your father's famous beer," said the gentleman, giving his order modestly.

"Very well, sir," returned Betty, making another stiff courtesy to "a bit of cheese and a mug of beer." But while her knee was bent, she caught a glimpse of the man's face beneath the drooping brim of his hat, and the stiff courtesy instantly changed to a bow as she exclaimed softly:—

"Ah, Master Hamilton, I did not know you. We have not seen you at the Old Swan this many a day, and—and you are very much changed, sir."

"You are not changed, Betty, unless you have grown prettier, if that be possible," returned George Hamilton.

"Thank you, Master Hamilton," answered Betty, laughing softly, and bringing her dimples and teeth into fine display. With all her profound respect for the high rank of her lady guests, Betty's smiles, while waiting on handsome George, were of a far rarer quality than those given to rank and station in the small dining room. In Hamilton's case, she could not suppress the smile nor restrain the soft laugh incident to her surprise. The warm glow in her eyes and her murmured words of modest welcome came of their own accord, because she was kind of heart and as bewitching a bit of humanity as one could possibly want to caress.

At different times I had imagined that Betty was in love with Hamilton, and had suffered strange twinges of jealousy on account of my fear; twinges that surprised and angered me, for my heart had no business going astray after a barmaid. She had always been kind to me, with a shy fluttering in her manner from which I should have taken comfort had she not been freer and easier with Hamilton.

Betty's manner with me should have given me a hint of the way her heart was tending, even at that early time, but Hamilton was so much more likely to attract a woman than I, and his manner was so much more offhand and dashing than mine that I thought it impossible for such a girl as Betty to think twice of me while she might have been thinking of him. But I was wrong, as will unfold later; wrong, greatly to my trouble and surprise.

I should be delighted if I could discover the standards whereby women measure men. Ugly John Prigg is adored by a beautiful wife, from whom no other man can win a smile. Stupid little Short possesses a tall rare Venus, and cadaverous Long a bewitching Hebe. Bandy-legged Little Jermyn, of Whitehall, he of the "pop eyes" and the rickets head, he with neither manner, presence, brains, rank, nor money, save what he steals and begs, is beyond doubt the lady-killer of our court, so what are we to do about it all but wonder and "give it up"?

"While you have changed for the better, if at all," said Hamilton, "I also have changed for the better, and sadly for the worse, in some respects. There is a paradox for you, Betty. I'm better and I'm worse. Do you know what a paradox is"?

"I'm not sure, Master Hamilton. Perhaps Lord Monmouth is one," answered Betty, laughing, and coming so close to the truth that Hamilton concluded she knew the word. "He has been coming here of late, and has been trying to make love to me."

"And succeeding, Betty?" asked George.

"Ah, no. I've stopped waiting on him. He hasn't money enough to buy the shadow of a smile from me, even though he is the king's son."

"I commend your discretion, Betty," said George. "But if Monmouth and his friends have been coming here, the Old Swan must be having rare company."

"Yes," returned Betty, with a touch of pride. "A duchess and a princess are now taking dinner in the small dining room. There! You may hear the princess laughing now! She is a merry one."

"A princess, say you, Betty?" asked George. "Nonsense! That is Nelly Gwynn laughing. I should know her laugh in the din of battle."

"Nelly Gwynn?" cried Betty, joyously. There was not in all England a duchess nor a princess half so great in Betty's opinion as Nelly Gwynn. She was the queen of all London east of Temple Bar, and dearer to the City's heart than any one else at court.

George, too, liked Nelly, and when Betty left him to fetch the pot of tea from the kitchen for the ladies, he determined to go to the private dining room and see the king's sweetest sweetheart, from whom he knew he would hear all the news of court, including perhaps a word about Frances.

Taking his hat from the floor, Hamilton entered the small dining room and hurried toward the princess and the duchess. Frances sat with her back toward the door, so that she did not see him as he approached, nor did he see her face. When Nelly saw him she rose hastily, stretched out her hands in welcome, and exclaimed:—

"Well, well, handsome George, as sure as I'm not a bishop's wife! How are you, my long-lost love?"

She stepped forward to meet him, gave him both her hands, stood on tiptoe to be kissed, and when that pleasing operation had been finished, said:—

"Come with me. I want to present you to my hated rival, the king's latest love. Mistress Jennings, this is my dangerous friend, Master George Hamilton."

Nelly's words were my cousin's first warning of Hamilton's presence, and her surprise, nay, her consternation, deprived her, for the moment, of the power to think. Hamilton bowed low before my cousin and said:—

"I have the great pleasure of knowing Mistress Jennings."

Anger came to Frances's help, and she retorted: "You are mistaken, sir. You have not the pleasure of knowing me, nor have I the humiliation of knowing you."

She turned again to her dinner. Nelly whistled in surprise, and Hamilton said: "I beg your pardon." Then turning to Nelly: "I thought I knew the king's new lady love, but it seems I was mistaken. Adieu, Mistress Gwynn." And turning hastily, he left the room.

As George was resuming his chair at the table in the tap-room, three roystering, half-tipsy fellows, wearing the uniform of the King's Guard, entered, flung themselves into chairs at the long table and called loudly for brandy. Hamilton did not know any of them, though he knew by their uniforms and swords that they were in the king's service.

Soon after the guardsmen were seated, Betty came from the kitchen carrying a pot of hot tea and a bottle of wine for Nelly and Frances. As she was passing the newcomers, one of them rose, seized her about the waist, and tried to kiss her. But the girl belonged, flesh and blood, to the class of women with whom kissing goes strictly by favor, so she dashed the hot tea in the fellow's face and went her way with the bottle of wine. Though the tea was hot, it cooled the fellow's ardor, and he sat down, cursing furiously. Pickering tried to quiet him, saying:—

"A little less noise, please, gentlemen. A duchess and a princess are dining in the next room."

"A duchess and a princess?" exclaimed one of the men. "We should like to see the duchess and the princess that would dine here. By God! A duchess and a princess! Come, gentlemen, let us introduce ourselves."

Accordingly the three of them made a dash for the door of the small dining room and entered. Immediately a series of screams came from the princess and the duchess, announcing that the intruders were introducing themselves. Instantly Hamilton drew his sword and hastened to the rescue. When he entered the room he saw one of the men embracing Nelly and another trying to seize Frances. His first attention was given to the man with Frances. He struck him with the hilt of his sword, stunning him for the moment, but the fellow soon recovered, and the three ruffians drew their blades.

Finding himself assailed from all quarters, George made a dash for a corner of the room, where his back and flank were protected. In telling me of it afterward, Frances said that she and Nelly were so badly frightened that they could neither move nor scream. The deafening noise of the clashing swords, the tramping of the heavy boots on the bare oak floor, the blasphemous oaths of the drunken ruffians, and the stunning din of battle almost deprived her of consciousness.

After a time all that she could see was Hamilton's face behind the curtain of flashing swords, and all that she could hear, even above the din, was his heavy breathing. He had thrown off his doublet and was fighting in his shirt sleeves, desperately, and it seemed hopelessly. Soon the blood began to stream down his face, and the white linen of his shirt was covered with red blotches.

No man can stand long against odds of three to one, but, for what seemed a very long time to Frances, Hamilton defended himself gallantly, and seemed to be giving back as much as he received.

But the fight could not have lasted much longer, and sooner or later, George would have been cut to pieces, had not little Betty entered the fray. No weapon had she, not even a teapot, but she ran bravely in, knelt behind one of the ruffians, and when an opportunity came, seized him by the foot, bringing him down to the floor with a thud. Quickly another foot was in Betty's deadly grasp, and another man fell, leaving only one assailant standing, whom Hamilton soon routed. The two men on the floor attempted to rise, but Betty clung to their feet, and George's sword quieted them.

When George was satisfied that the ruffians would not try again to introduce themselves to the duchess and the princess, he wiped his sword on Betty's five shilling table linen, remarking:—

"I thank you, Betty dear. You came into the fight just in time to save my life. Another half minute and I should have needed a coffin." He was breathing heavily and spoke with great effort.

When George had sheathed his sword, he started to leave the room without speaking to Frances or Nelly, but before he reached the door, Frances called out faintly:—

"Master Hamilton! Please wait, Master Hamilton!"

For the moment she forgot the cause of her hatred of him, forgot that he had been implicated in Roger's murder, as she supposed, forgot everything in all the broad world save her love for him, and that he had just been at death's door in her defence.

Hamilton stopped a little short of the door, and Frances ran to him, calling softly: "Oh, sir, wait! Forgive me! I do know you! A moment since I did not know you, but now—Oh, I must have made a terrible mistake! I have judged you wrongfully. I do know you! I do know you!"

Hamilton bowed and smiled grimly through the blood which was trickling down his face, then standing proudly erect, answered:—

"Mistress Jennings is mistaken. She does not know me, nor have I the honor of knowing the king's new favorite."

Here Betty cut the conversation short by saying: "I'll fetch a barber-surgeon, while father takes you to a room."

"You'll do nothing of the sort for me," objected Hamilton. "My wounds are mere scratches. I'll go to the pump. It is the only surgeon I shall need. Fetch a barber for the men on the floor there."

George went to the pump in the courtyard, followed by Betty, after whom came Nelly and Frances. Betty was proceeding to wash George's wounds, when Nelly offered to take the towel from her hand, but the girl refused with a touch of anger, saying:—

"Please do not interfere, Mistress Gwynn. You and the duchess stood by gaping while he was fighting to protect you. He would have been dead by now if he had waited for help from either of you. I advise you to leave the Old Swan, but don't forget to pay your bill to the barboy."

"Never mind the bill," said Pickering, who was at the pump handle. "But please take my daughter's advice and go."

"Go where you may find guinea linen. Persons of your quality make too much trouble at the Old Swan," interposed Betty, who was not in a good temper.

At first Nelly was inclined to resent Betty's sharp words, but in a moment she returned softly:—

"You're right, girl. You have earned the privilege to scold."

"And please forgive us," said Frances, to which Betty did not reply.

"Where are your wounds?" asked Nelly, addressing George. "Off with your clothes and let us see."

"Not here, Nelly, not here," he answered, bending over the tub in front of the pump. "My wounds are mere trifles. Only a scratch or two on the scalp and a pink or two on the arms. Take Betty's advice. Leave at once. This is no place for your friend. The society of our virtuous monarch doubtless will be far more congenial."

Nelly hesitated, and George, seeing that Frances was about to speak, turned upon her, almost angrily:—

"Please go before greater trouble comes. I could not hold out for another fight. I am almost finished. Let the king fight the battles of his friends. The ruffian that escaped will return with re-enforcements, and I am not able to fight them again."

"Oh, but she is not the king's friend, as you suppose, as my idle words might lead you to believe," returned Nelly, pleadingly.

George rose from the tub over which he was standing and answered: "Show your gratitude for what I have done by going at once."

Seeing that George was in earnest, Nelly left the courtyard, leading reluctant Frances by the hand. Hamilton's supposed crime had been forgotten, and I believe would have been forgiven had he permitted Frances the opportunity at that time.

When Frances and Nelly reached the street, Frances said, "I must see him again to tell him that I am not—"

"What I am," interrupted Nelly. "Do not fear to speak plainly. I am content with myself. But I shall take measures at once to convince George that you are what you are. I'll set you right with him."

"I'll return and explain for myself," insisted Frances.

"He will refuse to hear you. If you wish, I'll leave you at the barge and go back to explain to him."

Frances consenting, they went back to the barge, and Nelly, returning to the tavern, sought Betty. Hamilton was not to be seen, and in reply to Nelly's inquiries, Betty told her that he had fainted at the pump and had been taken upstairs to a room.

"His wounds are deeper than he supposed," said Betty, "and the loss of blood has been very great. We have sent for a surgeon."

"I'll go to see him," said Nelly.

"No," returned Betty, shaking her head emphatically. "Father says that fever may set in, and that Master Hamilton must not be disturbed. You cannot see him."

"Have your way, Betty," answered good-natured Nell. "And Betty dear, I was only teasing you about the table linen."

"I understand. Just a little sport with the barmaid," returned Betty, a note of sarcasm ringing sharply in her usually soft voice.

"Yes, Betty. I'm sorry. Forgive me. Here are two guineas."

"I don't want them," answered Betty, clasping her hands behind her.

"Again forgive me," said Nelly. "I have been wrong altogether in my opinion of you. You are a good, beautiful girl, and I'm coming back to see you very soon."

"Please don't come on my account, Mistress Gwynn," returned Betty.

"No, I shall come on my account," replied Nell, coaxingly. "I'll go now for fear of making more trouble for you, but I intend to be your friend, and you shall be mine. When Nelly makes up her mind to have a friend, she always has her way. Good-by, Betty."

Betty courtesied, and Nelly left the Old Swan, returning at once to Frances, who was waiting in the barge. On their way back to the palace neither Frances nor Nelly spoke after Nelly had told what she had heard at the inn. Usually Nelly was laughing or talking, or both, and when a woman of her temperament is silent, she is thinking. In this instance her thinking brought her to two conclusions: first, that Hamilton was the man Frances loved and hated; and second, that it was his face she had recognized on the night Roger Wentworth was killed.

The dangerous element in these calculations was that they were sure to reach the king's ear as soon as Nelly found an opportunity to impart them. It were treason to withhold from his Majesty such a tearing bit of scandal. She had no reason to suspect that the telling of what had happened and of what she had deduced would bring trouble to Frances and George. She simply knew that the king would be vastly pleased with the story, and her only purpose in life was to give him pleasure. How well she pleased him in this instance and the result of her innocent effort to make him happy will soon appear.

The day after the adventure of Frances and Nelly at the Old Swan, I had business with Backwell, the goldsmith, and when I had disposed of my matters, I walked over to the Old Swan near by to eat a grilled lobster, a dish for which the inn was famous. I knew nothing of the trouble that had occurred the day before, not having seen my cousin, nor did I know that Hamilton was in London, not having seen nor heard from him since Frances's arrival at court.

By far my greatest motive in going to the Old Swan was to see Betty, whose beauty and sweetness had begun to haunt me about that time.

If Mary Hamilton had shown me the least evidence of warmth, my admiration for Bettina, perhaps, would have remained merely admiration. But in view of Mary's admirable self-control, I found myself falling into a method of thought morally then prevalent with all modish men. I confess with shame that I hoped to have Mary for my wife and Bettina to love me and to be loved. I did not know Betty then, and have regretted all my life that once I looked upon her as—well, as a barmaid. While I thoroughly realized that she was an unusual girl in many respects, still I held to a theory then prevalent that barmaids were created to be kissed.

When I reached the Old Swan, I chose a table in a remote corner of the tap-room, ordered a lobster from one of the maids, and, while waiting for it, drank a cup of wormwood wine.

The place seemed dingy and drear with its great ceiling beams of time-darkened oak, its long, narrow windows of small square panes, its black fireplace, lifeless without the flames, and its dark, grim mahogany bar stretching halfway across the south side of the room. The white floor, well sanded and polished, seemed only to accentuate the general gloom, and the great clock, ticking solemnly behind the bar, seemed to be marking time for a funeral dirge. But suddenly all changed to brightness when Betty entered. Pickering was talking to me, standing between me and the girl, so that she did not see me when she first came into the room. She stepped behind the bar for some purpose and called to her father, who started to go to her, but before he reached her she looked up and saw me. In a moment she was by my side, smiling and dimpling in a manner fit to set the heart of an anchorite a-thumping.

"I came for a lobster, Betty," I said, taking her hand, "and to see you. I was afraid you might forget me."

"The Old Swan is likely to forget you, Baron Ned," she answered, withdrawing her hand, "if you don't come to see us oftener."

"Ah, Betty, you're a mercenary bit of flesh and blood. Always looking out for customers," I returned, shaking my head.

"Yes," she replied, laughing softly. "And—and very sorry when certain customers come so seldom."

Had she spoken glibly, her words would have meant nothing, but there was a hesitancy, a pretty fluttering in her manner which pleased me, so I was emboldened to say:—

"I hope I am one of the 'certain customers,' Betty."

Again she laughed softly, as she answered, "Yes, Baron Ned, the certain one."

"Do you mean, Betty, that I am the 'certain one' for the Old Swan or for Betty?" I asked.

She was standing near me, and I again caught her hand, but it was not a part of Betty's programme to be questioned too closely, so she withdrew her hand, saying, "I must go."

On former occasions I had put forth what I considered adroit efforts to steal small favors from the girl, for, as already intimated, I considered her merely a barmaid; but I had failed, and the conviction was dawning on my mind that either she was not an ordinary barmaid or that I was the wrong man. The first assumption would make me all the more eager, but the second would deter any self-respecting man from further pursuit. My fears inclined me to accept the second, and resulted in a dim sort of jealousy of the right man, who, I suspected, was Hamilton.

When Betty started to leave me, I caught her skirt to detain her, and said: "When George Hamilton used to come here, I was jealous of him, and feared that he might be the 'certain customer.' But I am glad that he has left England."

The girl blushed as she answered, "No, no, Baron Ned, there is no other 'certain customer.'" But she checked herself, evidently having said more than she intended, and continued hurriedly: "But Master Hamilton has not left England. He is now in the Old Swan. He asked me to say nothing of his presence in London, but I know he would want me to tell you."

"Yes, yes, of course he would, Betty. Where is he?" I asked.

"Upstairs in bed," she answered.

"Is he sick?" I asked, rising.

"No and yes," she replied. "He is suffering from his wounds, and the surgeon says the fever is mounting rapidly to his head."

"His wounds?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, lots of them," she answered. "But I hope none of them are serious, save for the loss of blood."

"Wounds? Blood? Tell me, Betty, tell me! Has he been in trouble?" I asked, deeply concerned.

"You see it was this way, Baron Ned," she began, leaning back against the table and smoothing out her apron. "Yesterday while Mistress Gwynn and another lady, a duchess, were eating their dinner in the small dining room, three drunken ruffians came in and tried to kiss them. Master Hamilton, who was here at this very table, heard the disturbance, so he drew his sword, ran to the rescue, and he and I beat the fellows out. He fought beautifully, but one man can't stand long against three, so I upset two of the ruffians by tripping them—pulled their feet from under them, you know—and Master Hamilton's sword did the rest. One of them ran away, and the other two were carried to the hospital on stretchers. One of the ruffians had tried to kiss me a few minutes before, and I had almost drowned him with a pot of tea. If he ever returns, I'll see that the tea is boiling."

"It seems that every one is wanting to kiss you, Betty," I remarked.

"Not every one, but too many," she rejoined.

"And you don't want to be kissed, Betty?" I asked.

"Well, not by the wrong man," she answered, laughing softly and tossing her head emphatically.

"I wish I were the right man," I suggested.

"There is no right man—yet," she returned, laughing and dimpling till I almost wished there was not a dimpling stubborn girl in all the world.

"Betty, you're a bloodthirsty little wretch," I said, shaking my head sorrowfully. "You scald one man and help Hamilton to kill two."

"Oh, they will not die," she answered seriously. "I was haunted by the fear that they might, so I got up in the middle of the night, took father and one of the boys with a link, and went to the hospital, where I learned that they will recover."

"Show me to Hamilton's room, Betty, and bring two lobsters there instead of one. He and I will have dinner together," I said, turning to go with her.

"He doesn't seem to want to eat, though I doubt if his lack of appetite is owing wholly to his wounds," she replied, as we were leaving the tap-room.

"How long has he been here?" I asked.

"Since yesterday noon," she answered. "He came just in time to find trouble. An hour ago I took a bowl of broth to him and a plate of sparrow-grass, but he said dolefully that the food would stick in his throat. I told him he was not wounded in the throat. Then he said it was in his heart, and that such a wound kills the appetite. I believe he's in love, Baron Ned," she concluded, leaning toward me and whispering earnestly.

"With you, Betty?" I asked.

"No, no, with some one else."

"Would it make you unhappy?" I asked.

"To be in love?" she asked, arching her eyebrows.

"No. For him to be in love," I said.

"If he is unhappily so, I should be sorry," she answered.

"And you would not be jealous?" I asked.

"Ah, Baron Ned!" she returned, protestingly.



CHAPTER VI

SWEET BETTY PICKERING

When we knocked at Hamilton's door, he answered, "Come," and I entered, Betty closing the door behind me, leaving George and me together. He was lying on the bed, his head and arms bandaged, and a feverish gleam shining in his eyes. I went toward him, offering my hand. He rose and sat on the edge of the bed, but did not accept my greeting. I was about to speak when he lifted his hand to interrupt me, saying coldly:—

"Well, Clyde, what do you want?"

"I want to see you and help you, if I can," I answered, in surprise.

"Now that you have seen me, you may go," he returned.

I did not know the cause of his ill feeling, though I knew that something had happened to turn him against me, so I stood my ground and answered:—

"I shall go if you insist, but before I go, please tell me in what manner I have offended you. Neither you nor I have so many friends that we can afford to lose one without an effort to save him. The world is full of men and women, but a friend is a gift of God. I thought you had forgiven me what I said at Sundridge. Your time to take offence was then, not now."

"I hold no ill will for what you said then in my hearing. It is what you have done in so cowardly a manner since I last saw you, and at a time when I was not present to hear or to resent it."

"But what have I done?" I asked.

"You should know. I don't," he answered, sullenly.

"If neither you nor I know what I have done to offend, how are we to settle this matter? How may I apologize or make amends?" I asked.

"You can't," he returned.

"Ah, but I can and I will, George Hamilton," I answered, determined not to let him put me off without knowing wherein I had offended. "Save what you heard at Sundridge, I have neither done nor said anything unfit to come from a friend. If any man has reported me otherwise, he has lied. If any woman—well, she is mistaken."

"No one has reported you otherwise or any wise," he answered.

"Then tell me the cause of your grievance, and I may be able to explain or deny. You perhaps know by this time that I always speak the truth to you, so out with it, George. Let us settle this matter, whatever it be—one way or the other. Friendship should not be left to dangle between love and hatred. It sits squarely on the heart of an honest man, or is cast out candidly and above board. Shall I sit down?"

"Yes," he answered, rising from the bed, drawing the rug up over his shoulders, and taking a chair not far from where I was sitting. "I saw your cousin—"

"When and where?" I interrupted.

"Yesterday, in this house," he replied.

"Did she come to see you? And did you permit her to come?" I asked, finding it my turn to be angry.

"No, she did not come to see me, nor had I anything to do with her visit to the Old Swan. She was eating dinner with Nell Gwynn, and—"

"Was she the duchess, of whom Betty told me?" I asked, interrupting him.

"Yes, the Duchess of Hearts, as I hear she has been dubbed at court," he answered, with an angry gleam in his eyes and a sharp note of contempt in his voice.

"And was it for her you fought?" I asked, feeling as though I was reading a page from a story-book. "Betty told me about it, but you tell me, please?"

"Betty usually exhausts a subject, so there is no need to tell you about the fight," he said. "It was really a small affair, and my wounds are nothing to speak of. I suffered more from other causes."

"Yes, yes, George. Tell me all about it," I returned, drawing my chair nearer to him. "I fear a mistake has been made, a misunderstanding of some sort, though I cannot imagine even the sort. Now, tell me."

"I came up from Sheerness on a Dutch boat and landed at Deptford yesterday morning," he began hesitatingly. "After sending a messenger on business in which I was deeply interested, I came to the Old Swan to get a bite to eat and to find a bed. While waiting in the tap-room for my dinner, I recognized Nelly's laugh and went into the private dining room to see her, hoping that she might drop a word concerning another person. I should not have gone to see her, for while in France I had heard from De Grammont, with whom I have had some correspondence, that I was out of favor with the king and that Crofts had been trying to fix on me the guilt of a crime which he himself committed.

"Grammont wrote me, also, of the triumphs of Mistress Jennings, the new beauty of the court, but I paid little heed to the gossip, though I confess I was thrown into great fear by what he wrote about her. I knew also that the king would help Crofts make trouble for me, so I felt it was just as well that my presence in London should remain unknown. But I did go in to see Nelly, and, much to my surprise, found the other person."

It was to my surprise, also, but I said only: "Yes, yes, George. Your story is growing interesting. Proceed!"

After a moment, he continued: "Nelly offered to present me to the other person, whom she designated as 'the king's new favorite.' Naturally I said that I already had the honor of knowing Mistress Jennings. Then your cousin looked up to me and remarked calmly that I was mistaken; that I did not have the honor of knowing her, nor she the humiliation of knowing me. So I made my bow, went back to the taproom, and in a moment the fight occurred, of which you already know."

"But what has all this to do with your grievance against me?" I asked.

He turned his face away from me, looked out the window for a minute or two, and answered: "These are my causes of offence, Baron Clyde. You have brought your cousin, your own flesh and blood, to Whitehall to sell her to the king, and—"

"That is a lie, Hamilton!" I cried, springing to my feet, "and, by God, you shall answer for it as soon as you are able to hold a sword!"

"I shall be very willing," he returned, though it was evident he was somewhat cooled by my anger. "But since you would know the cause of my ill-feeling, sit down and hear what I have to say."

I resumed my chair, and he continued: "I can see no reason for your cousin's strange aversion to me save that you have used well the time of my absence in traducing me, hoping doubtless to smooth the king's path by removing me from her thoughts."

What he said did little to allay my anger until I looked into his face and saw that by reason of his fever and his great trouble, he was not responsible for his words. I had been on the point of giving him the lie the second time, but after a moment's consideration, my anger changed to pity, and I said:—

"Forgive me, Hamilton. I am sorry I spoke in anger. You did not lie. You have been simply jumping at conclusions."

"Perhaps," he answered wanderingly.

"But if I tell you, upon my honor, that you are mistaken, will you believe me?" I asked, still feeling a touch of irritation.

He did not answer, so, thinking to give him one more chance, I continued gently: "I have neither harbored an unkind thought of you nor spoken an unkind word of you since the day we parted at Sundridge. On the contrary, I believed that the hot moment there had welded a friendship between us which would last all our lives through."

He walked over to the window, stood looking out a moment, then came back and resumed his chair before me.

"I do not favor your suit with my cousin to any greater extent than I did when we were at Sundridge," I continued, determined that there should be no misunderstanding of my position in that respect, "though since that time I have learned that you are a far better man than I had ever supposed. I have not recommended my cousin to the king, nor is she his favorite in the sense you seem to believe. I do not know the cause of her aversion to you, and, sir, I have nothing else to say except that I take it for granted that you know I speak the truth. This is my explanation. It is for you to say whether you accept or reject it."

I rose, giving him to understand that I was ready to take my leave, but he motioned me to resume my chair. After gazing vacantly out the window for a moment, he covered his face with his hands and answered:—

"I accept your explanation gladly, Baron Ned. I have wronged you. I have been in such turmoil of mind and conscience for so long a time that I am hardly responsible, and now I suppose I am in a fever because of the loss of blood."

I resumed my chair, the difference being settled between us, and in a moment we began to discuss the cause of Frances's sudden change.

It must be remembered that I knew nothing all this time of Hamilton's remote connection with Roger Wentworth's murder. The dimly hinted rumors that had reached my ears I had put down to Crofts's desire for a scapegoat, and the conversation between Frances and Nelly, and Nelly's conclusions, all came to me after this interview with Hamilton.

Failing to reach any conclusion after a long discussion of the subject, Hamilton and I began to speak on other topics, and I asked him where he had been and what he had been doing.

"I have been at the French court, gambling furiously, and hoarding my money," he answered. "I have not even bought a suit of clothes, and have turned every piece of lace and every jewel I possessed into cash."

"I supposed you were leaving off some of your old ways, gambling among them," I remarked, sorry to hear of his fall from grace.

"And so I have," he answered. "But I wanted a thousand pounds to use in a good cause, and felt that I was doing no wrong to rob a very bad Peter in France to pay a very good Paul at home. I have paid the good Paul, and am now done with cards and dice forever."

"I'm glad to hear you say so, George," I returned.

"Yes, I'll tell you how it was," he continued. Then he gave me an account of the killing of Roger Wentworth, the particulars of which I then learned for the first time. I allowed him to proceed in his narrative without interruption, and he finished by saying: "I learned that same evening that a thousand pounds had been stolen from a traveller. I suspected Crofts, Wentworth, and Berkeley of the robbery, but I did not know certainly that they had committed the crime, since I did not see them do it. The next morning I learned that a man had been killed by highwaymen, and as I felt sure that the murder had been committed in the affair I had witnessed, I went to France because I did not want to be called to testify in case criminal proceedings were instituted. In France I learned that the murdered man was young Wentworth's uncle.

"Of course, I did not receive a farthing of the money, but I almost felt that I was accessory before the fact because I had not hastened to prevent the crime, and after the fact because I had made no effort to bring the criminals to justice. Churchill told me flatly that I should be alone if I tried the latter, and said that he was not so great a fool as to win the enmity of the king by attempting to bring the law upon Crofts. You know Churchill's maxim, 'A fool conscience and a fool damned.'"

"There is wisdom in it," I answered.

"I suppose there is," returned Hamilton. "I wanted the thousand pounds to pay Roger Wentworth's widow, so I won it in France, brought it to England, and yesterday sent it by a trusted messenger to Sundridge. Of course the widow does not know where it came from."

"It was like you, George," said I. "One does not do a thing of that sort for sake of a reward, but, believe me, the reward always comes."

"It was the right thing to do," he answered. "But instead of the reward comes now the keenest grief I have ever known, the loss of the small regard in which I was one time held by the only woman I ever loved or ever shall love."

He stopped speaking, but I fancied he had not finished, so I did not interrupt him. I had so much to say in return that I did not care to begin until I had a clear field. He was becoming restless, and I could see that the fever was mounting rapidly. After a long pause he continued:—

"But, in a way, the loss of her regard is the least of my troubles, and I should bear it with equanimity, for if I am honest with her, I would not desire to keep it, as I can bring her no happiness. It is the loss of my respect for her, the knowledge that I was wrong in deeming her better than other women, the humiliation of learning that I was a pitiable dupe in giving my love to one who could give herself to Charles Stuart, that hurts."

I saw that he was trying to suppress his excitement, but it soon got the better of him. He rose from his chair, drew the rug closer about him, and walked rapidly to and fro across the room a minute or two. Being near my chair, he bent down to me, looked wildly about him to see that no one was eavesdropping, and whispered:—

"I intend to kill the king just as soon as I'm out of this. Then God or the devil, I care not which, may finish me."

At that moment Betty came in, followed by one of the maids carrying our dinner. I asked George to eat with me, but he refused and lay down on the bed, drawing the rugs up to his chin and shaking in an ague. The maid left us, but Betty remained, evidently expecting to wait on us and incidentally to talk, for she dearly loved to relieve her mind.

As much as I liked Betty, I asked her to leave us, and when she was gone, I drew my chair to George's bedside, leaving the dinner to cool.

"First, I want to tell you again," said I, "that Frances is not the king's mistress, nor ever will be."

"Do you know, or do you believe?" he asked.

"I know," I answered, and followed up my assertion with a full account of her life at court, the king's infatuation, at which she laughed, his offer of a pension, which at first she refused, the respect in which every one held her, and the wisdom with which she carried herself through it all.

"Ned, you're as great a fool about her as I was," he returned, shaking his head. "Do you suppose Charles Stuart would give her a pension with no other purpose than kindness or justice? Be sane! Don't be a fool!"

"I say nothing of his purposes; I speak only of her conduct. But I shall not argue with you. If you find any pleasure in your opinion, keep it," I answered, knowing that I could not reason with a man who was half crazy.

"I shall," he replied sullenly.

"But there is another matter in which I believe you will agree with me," I continued. "I have discovered the cause of my cousin's ill feeling—of her change respecting yourself."

He rose from his bed, demanding excitedly: "What is it? Tell me, tell me!"

"You have just told me that you and Churchill were walking at a considerable distance behind Crofts and the others when Roger Wentworth was killed."

"Yes, yes," he returned. "Perhaps as much as two hundred yards."

I watched his face closely to study the effect of my next bit of information, and after a long pause, asked, "Do you know that Frances was in the coach?"

"No, no! Hell and furies! In the coach when Wentworth was killed? My God, tell me all about it, man!" he cried, clutching my arm, and glaring at me with the eyes of a crazy man.

"Yes," I answered. "And she tells me she recognized one of the robbers by the light of the coach lanthorn, though she refused to describe the man she saw and will not be induced to talk about him. Possibly you were the unlucky man. If true, can you wonder that she hates you?"

He sat down on the edge of the bed, musing, then fell back on the pillow with a great sigh, and muttered as though speaking to himself:—

"I can wonder at nothing save my marvellous ill luck. This tale points a moral, Baron Ned. If one belongs to the devil, one should stand by one's master. Hell is swifter in revenge than heaven in reward."

"It is only the long run that tells the tale," I answered, taking his hot hand to soothe him. "Heaven always wins, and your reward will come."

"Ah, yes, the long run is all right if one can only hold out," he answered, gripping my hand and breathing rapidly. He was almost in delirium. "But I'll take the short run, Baron Ned." Here his voice rose almost to a scream: "I'll take the short run, Ned, and will kill the king! Then to hell after him by way of Tyburn Hill!"

He sprang to me, grasped my shoulders fiercely, and spoke as one in a frenzy: "I was right, Ned. She is all I thought she was at Sundridge. When I first knew her I doubted my senses. I did not know there was a pure woman outside of a convent, but when I learned to know her I changed my mind. Now comes this accursed Charles Stuart! His house has been a bane to England ever since the spawn of the Scotch courtesan first came to London. But his reign will be short!"

He was becoming delirious, so I induced him to lie on the bed while I went downstairs to find Betty. When I found her, I told her that the fever was mounting to Hamilton's brain, and that I feared he would soon become violent.