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.