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.
She sent a boy to fetch a physician, then turned to me, saying:—
"I'll go up to him. I believe I can quiet him."
So we went back to George's room and found him out of bed, prowling about like a caged wild thing, tossing his arms, and shouting his intention to kill the king.
"You must go back to bed, Master Hamilton," commanded Betty in her soft, low voice.
He caught her around the waist and said, laughing, "You're a good girl,
Betty."
"I hope I am, sir. But you must go back to bed," she answered.
"And you're pretty, too. Pretty and good don't usually go together," said
George, drawing her close to him.
"No, but you must go back to bed, Master Hamilton, or you will be very ill," she pleaded.
"I'll go for a kiss, Betty," he answered, bending over to take it. But she put up her hands to ward him off.
"I'll give you the kiss, Master Hamilton, if you insist. But it will be only a bribe to induce you to do what is for your own good, and if you take it, I shall never come back to your room again."
"Ah, Ned, here's another good girl!" exclaimed George, releasing Betty. "There are two of them in the world! Who would have suspected it? Keep your kisses for your husband, Betty."
"Yes, Master Hamilton," she answered demurely, giving me a luminous glance, all unconscious of its meaning. The glance was my first hint that perhaps Betty had at times been thinking of me.
"All right! Here's to bed, my girl," said Hamilton.
She smoothed the bed covering and turning to leave the room, said, "I'll come back when the physician arrives."
I could easily see that Hamilton was going to have what the old women call a "bad night," so I asked Betty to sit with him, and she consenting, I went by river to my lodging in Whitehall, where I collected a few necessary articles in a bag and returned quickly as possible to the Old Swan. When I reached George's room, I found Betty at her post. The physician had given Hamilton a quieting potion, and he was resting, though at intervals he broke out, shouting his intention to kill the king.
During nearly two weeks Hamilton lay moaning and raving, sweet, dear Betty rarely leaving his side for more than a few minutes at a time. I, too, clung to my post faithfully, but at least a part of my motive in doing so was selfish, being the joy I found in Betty's company. At the end of two weeks George began to recover rapidly, and I was dismissed along with the physician.
When I returned to Whitehall, I found that my Lord Sandwich, under whom I held my place as Second Gentleman of the Wardrobe, had been seeking me. The king had gone to Sheerness on business of the navy two weeks before, and the Earl of Sandwich, being at that time Lord Admiral, was to go down the river on a summons from his Majesty. Much against my will, I was compelled to go with him, and, by reason of this enforced absence, was away from London during the next month or two, when I very much wished to be there.
I saw Frances only twice during George's illness, and as she made no inquiries about him, I concluded that sober thought had brought back her old aversion. Therefore I did not mention his name nor try to correct her error, feeling that it was better for her to remain in her present state of mind.
I was convinced that Hamilton's threats against the life of the king were but the ravings of a frenzied brain, and that he had no intention of killing Charles, but I also felt sure that trouble would come of it, since he had been overheard by several persons. The treason was certain to reach the king's ear, and if it did, Hamilton's life would be in jeopardy. But of that in its turn.
* * * * *
Immediately on my return to London I went down to the Old Swan to see George, of course having Betty in mind. In truth, Betty had been in mind most of the time and much to my regret ever since the day I left her.
Even if I had not been plighted to Mary Hamilton, I could not have asked Betty to be my wife. She would not be happy in my sphere of life, and I could not live in hers. The painful knowledge of this truth did not in any way help me to put her out of my thoughts, but rather made my longing for her all the greater. Since I had learned to know her well, I thought I meant honestly by her. Still she was a barmaid, and I could not always bring myself to respect her as she deserved. Time and again I resolved in all sincerity never to see her again. Since I could not marry her, I would gain nothing but unhappiness myself and perhaps misery for her by continuing my suit.
But when back in London, I persuaded myself that it was my duty to see George, and tried to shut my eyes to the fact that Betty was the real cause of my anxiety.
When I reached the Old Swan, I soon found Betty, and there could be no mistake in my reading of the light I saw in her eyes.
After talking with her a minute or two in the tap-room, I asked her to tell me of Hamilton, and she said hesitatingly that he had left the inn nearly two months ago.
"Do you know where he is?" I asked.
She answered hesitatingly, "N-o-o-o."
I saw that she did not want to be questioned, so I remained chatting with her for an hour, and returned to Whitehall, very proud that I had restrained my tongue during the interview.
* * * * *
On the afternoon following my interview with Betty, I was sitting in my room adjoining my Lord's private closet in the Wardrobe, trying in vain to think of something besides Betty, when I heard a peal of merry laughter, which I recognized as Nelly Gwynn's. Immediately following, I heard the deep, unmistakable voice of the king. They had just entered my Lord's private closet, between which and my room there was a loosely hung door, permitting me to hear all that was said.
"Ah, Rowley," said Nell. "You have been away from me a long weary time, and I know you have forgotten me."
The king denied the charge, and doubtless took his own way to convince her.
"While you have been away, I have found a new friend to console me," said
Nelly.
"Ah!" exclaimed the king, with suddenly awakened interest.
"Yes," returned Nelly.
"Is your new friend a man or a woman?" asked Charles.
"A woman, of course, oh, jealous heart! You know there is but one man in the world for me—your ugly self."
"Who is your friend?" asked the king.
"I'll give you three guesses. You admire her greatly," said Nelly.
"Indeed, it must be the Bishop of Canterbury's lady," suggested his
Majesty.
"Surely!" exclaimed Nell, with a merry laugh. "But guess again."
When the king had exhausted his three guesses, she said triumphantly, "My new friend's name is Frances Jennings."
"Ah, indeed!" exclaimed the king. "She will have nothing to say to my friends, Lady Castlemain and others, and I supposed she would be too nice and proper to choose you for her friend."
"No, no," returned Nelly. "She is my first friend among the court ladies. We have had several rare adventures together, and don't you know, I have discovered that she is in love."
"With whom?" demanded the king.
"With your friend and mine, George Hamilton," returned Nelly.
"Ah, well, he is in France, and we shall see that he remains there," said the king.
"No, he is not in France. He is in London," said Nelly. "I saw him at the
Old Swan just before you left for Sheerness, nearly two months ago."
"Odds fish!" swore his Majesty. "We'll find a mission for him abroad."
"You'll have to find him first," said Nelly. "I've been down to the Old Swan to see him, but the girl there tells me he left the tavern long ago, and I suspect he is at his brother's house near St. Albans. But I'll tell you further."
Then she told the king what Frances had said about a mysterious man whom Nelly asserted Frances both hated and loved. She told him also that Frances had recognized one of the highwaymen who had robbed Roger Wentworth, and closed her narrative with an account of my cousin's refusal to recognize Hamilton and her eagerness to explain to him after the fight.
"So you see, Rowley dear, I put this and that together and concluded that Frances Jennings loves George Hamilton because she can't help it, and hates him because she recognized him as one of the murderers of Roger Wentworth. She did not say that this is all true, nor will she talk on the subject, but one may see through a millstone with a hole in it."
"Perhaps Hamilton's complicity in the crime may save us the trouble of sending him abroad," said the king. "We may be able to hang him instead."
"Surely you would not hang him for so small an offence? The murdered man was only a tanner!" cried Nelly, fearing she had brought trouble on Hamilton by her gossip.
"Of course, if there were no reason save the demands of grasping justice, we should not trouble ourselves to look into the matter," said Charles, "but stern justice, if used and not abused, is often a ready help to kings."
Charles laughed, doubtless showing his yellow fangs, as was his habit when uttering a cruel jest, and Nelly began to coax him, hoping to avert the unforeseen trouble she had set afoot. At last the king promised that he would take no steps against Hamilton, but I knew that royal promises were never worth the breath they cost in making.
* * * * *
As soon as Nelly and the king left my lord's closet, I hastened to the river and took a boat for the Old Swan, intending to find Hamilton and to warn him.
When I told Betty that I wanted to see Hamilton on an affair of great urgency, she admitted that she knew where he was, and that she had refused to tell me when I asked her the last time because he had exacted a promise from her to tell no one.
"But I shall see him," said Betty, "and if you will come back to-morrow,
I'll tell you where he can be found if he consents."
During the last month or two a News Letter had been circulated by thousands throughout London and Westminster, in which the character of the king had been assailed with great bitterness. At first Charles paid no attention to the new journal, but soon its attacks got under his skin. I was told that efforts had been made to discover the publisher and his printing shop, but that nothing could be learned save that the sheets were left at taverns and bookstalls by boys who declared they found them in bundles in the churchyards.
It was impossible to find even the boys. The bookstalls and taverns were ordered not to sell the News Letter, but the people hated the king so bitterly that the circulation increased rather than diminished after the royal interdict, and as the sheets sold for the extravagant price of one shilling, it was impossible to stop the sale, since every one who handled them was making a rich profit.
Judging from many articles appearing in the News Letter, I suspected that Hamilton was a contributor, if not the editor. If either, he was piling up trouble, should he be discovered.
On leaving the Old Swan, I went back to the palace and met Frances at the
Holbein Gate, cloaked and bonneted, ready to go to see her father.
I offered to accompany her, and we took a coach at Charing Cross for Sir
Richard's house.
My conscience had troubled me because I had done nothing to clear Hamilton of her unjust suspicions. Up to that time I had found no opportunity to speak to her privately after my return from Sheerness, nor had I fully made up my mind to try to convince her that George was not guilty of Roger's death. But when she and I entered the coach to go to her father's house, I broached the subject:—
"You remember, cousin," I began, "what I said to you in Hamilton's presence on the Bourne Path?"
"Every word," she replied. "It was all true, and I shall be grateful so long as I live."
"But what I said at that time did not seem to cause you to hate him?" I continued, wondering what her reply would be.
"No," she answered, with slight hesitancy. "It did not."
"Is the aversion you now feel toward him the result of what I said at that time?" I asked.
"No, no," she returned quickly. Then suddenly checking herself, she demanded, "Why do you speak of my aversion to him, and what do you know about it?"
I told her that I knew all the particulars of her meeting with Hamilton at the Old Swan, of her refusal to recognize him and of the fight that ensued. I told her of my talk with him, at the beginning of his sickness, two weeks before I left for Sheerness, and then without giving her time to guard against surprise, I asked:—
"Do you believe he was implicated in the Roger Wentworth tragedy?"
She looked at me a moment, and answered defiantly: "I do not believe it. I know it. I have not spoken to any one else about it, nor shall I speak of it again, but I saw him, and of course I hate him." She turned her face from me, and I fancied there were tears in her eyes.
"You know that I do not favor Hamilton as your suitor?" I asked.
"Yes," she answered, still with averted face.
"And if I were to tell you that you were wrong, that Hamilton had no part in the robbing and killing of Roger Wentworth, would you believe me?"
"No, no!" she exclaimed, turning to me quickly, with an angry gleam in her eyes. "I tell you I saw him, and I thank God that at last I know him as he is! After he had fought so bravely to defend me at the Old Swan, my heart softened for a moment, and I forgot that he was a murderer. He is brave and strong, but—why should you try to excuse him now, when you spoke so plainly at Sundridge? I thought you were too severe then; now I know that you told me only a part of the terrible truth. My softened mood lasted only a short time after I left the Old Swan, and I cared not whether he lived or died."
Hoping to put her right, I told her of the wager at the Leg Tavern, which in my opinion fully explained George's presence on the St. Albans road, but she declared that it was a flimsy excuse, and said she did not want to talk further on the subject.
Knowing that I could not convince her at that time, I bore away from the topic and called her attention to the impropriety of taking dinner unescorted at a public house.
"I know all about it, cousin," she returned, "but a good character is of no value in Whitehall. It is an incumbrance. As to my conscience, you need have no fear. When I first came to court, I supposed I should encounter dangers. I was mistaken. I am as safe here as I should be in my father's house. All the pitfalls and snares are to be seen by any one who wishes to see them. It is the sleeping spider that catches the fly, not your bold, brazen hunter, clumsily alert."
I did not want to be preaching constantly to Frances, so we talked on other subjects till we reached my uncle's house, where I remained, singing, dancing, and very merry with Frances, Sarah, and Churchill, till we heard the night watch call, "One o'clock and raining!"
Churchill and I slept at Sir Richard's and returned to Whitehall the next morning.
During the following week I went to see Betty frequently under the pretence of wishing to see Hamilton, but she told me (honestly, I believed) that he had left the Old Swan and that she did not know where he was. So I repeated my visits every day, each visit growing longer and I growing fonder. Betty, too, seemed to be looking for my visits with a degree of pleasure that both pleased and grieved me, for with all my longing for the girl, I never lost sight of the fact that if I were the right sort of man, I should not wish to gain her love to an extent that would mean sorrow to her.
If I were the right sort of man? The question has always set me wondering. The man who never doubts that he is the right sort of man may be put down as all bad, though the right sort of man is not necessarily all good.