CHAPTER XI
"ALL SUNSHINE MAKES THE DESERT"
Whatever faults Whitehall may have had as a place of residence, dulness was not among them. There were balls, games with high stakes, theatres, gossip, scandals, and once in a long while an affair of state to interest us. In order to interest the court thoroughly, an affair of state must have involved the getting of money for the privy purse; that is, for the king's personal use, for out of it the courtesans were fed and gambling debts were paid.
The time of our Dover journey was one of extreme depletion in the privy purse. The king had borrowed from every person and every city within the realm who, by threats or cajolery, could be induced to part with money. But now he had reached the end of his tether.
When matters were thus in extremis, some one, probably Castlemain, suggested the sale of England's possessions on the continent, chief of which was the rich city of Dunkirk, situate on the French side of the Straits of Dover. This fortified city, within a few leagues of Calais, had cost the English nation heavily in blood and gold to gain, and still more heavily to hold, but its value to England commercially and politically was beyond measure.
Since Queen Mary had lost Calais, Dunkirk was the only important foothold England had on continental soil; therefore it was almost as dear to the English people as the city of London itself. Because of its importance, it was greatly coveted by the French king, who shortly before the time of our journey to Dover had made overtures to buy it.
Charles turned a deaf ear to King Louis's first proposal to buy Dunkirk, not because he loved the city, or cared a farthing for its value to his people, but because he feared the storm of indignation its sale would raise. The Lord Chancellor objected to the sale of Dunkirk, and tried to show Charles the great folly of entertaining the offer. He was the only wise, honest man in the king's council, and, by reason of his wonderful knowledge of mankind, was called "the Chancellor of Human Nature." But the king needed money, so after a time he listened to Berkeley, Crofts, Castlemain, and others of like character, whose strongest argument consisted in accusing the king, most offensively, of being afraid of his people.
"Are you not king?" asked Castlemain. "Does not Dunkirk belong to you, and may you not sell that which is your property? Are not these dogs, the people, your slaves, your property? Yet you stand in cowardly fear of a rabble which quakes if you but crook your finger. A like fear of his subjects cost your father his head. The people will crawl before you if you kick them, but let them see that you fear them, and you will learn that there is no cruelty like that of the good people."
De Grammont, the French exile, called attention to the French king's successful tyranny, declaring that his master would sell Paris if he chose. De Grammont was acting secretly in the French king's interest.
A weak man easily finds logic to justify the course he desires to take, so Charles turned a deaf ear to Clarendon, and, listening to Castlemain, announced that Dunkirk was for sale. As expected, a strong protest came from the people, but no one is so stubborn as a fool in the wrong, so Charles remained firm in his determination.
Finding that protest would avail nothing, the people of London offered to buy Dunkirk, and began to bid for it against the French king. Louis, knowing that London was a rich city, and believing that its people would run up the price of Dunkirk to an exorbitant figure, took counsel with himself—his only adviser—and determined to employ other means than gold alone to obtain the coveted city.
My first definite knowledge of the French king's new plan to buy Dunkirk at his own price came in a letter from Hamilton, which reached me at Lilly's house two or three weeks after my return from Dover. Like the others, it was written in cipher, but, translated, was as follows:—
DEAR FRIEND:
"Your warning letter reached me nearly a week ago, and I thank you for your watchfulness. I had full information of King Charles's design upon my life from no less a person than Monsieur le Grand himself, who showed me the letter asking that I be returned to England.
"I explained to Monsieur le Grand that the English king sought my life, not because he is in fear of me, but because he thought I stood between him and a lady who despises him. While Monsieur le Grand was much in sympathy with the English king's grievance, his contempt for Charles, his regard for me, which seems to be sincere, and his longing to possess Dunkirk all induced him to laugh at the request, the nature of which he had imparted to no one save me.
"My account of the lady who despised King Charles's love gave Monsieur le Grand a new idea, and suggested a method of purchasing Dunkirk which he hopes will save the heavy cost of bidding against the citizens of London. I had no hint of what he intended till one day he took me to his closet and began to question me.
"'Do you possess the love of the lady who despises King Charles?' he asked.
"'I do, your Majesty,' I answered.
"'Do you know you possess it?' he asked.
"'As well as a man who is not a king may know,' I returned.
"'Tush, tush! Kings are no more certain than other men.'
"'I know I possess this woman's love,' I said.
"'Would she be willing to make a great sacrifice to help you?'
"'Anything that I should ask,' I replied.
"'Ah, I see, I see! Should ask? I take it there are certain sacrifices you would not ask,' returned the king. 'We here in France would say that your position was Quixotic. However, your King Charles is a weak fool, easily imposed upon. Is the lady quick and resourceful in expedients, calm and thoughtful in emergencies, and silent on great occasions?'
"To all of which I answered, 'Yes.'
"'Surely the lady is not La Belle Jennings?' asked the king.
"'Yes,' I replied.
"'In that case you are the very man I want, and your lady-love can help me buy Dunkirk. It is easy to lead a fool to do the wrong thing, and I'm sure La Belle Jennings will find a way to gain her end and ours. If, through her, you induce King Charles to sell Dunkirk to me on my own terms, I'll make you its governor and a rich man. I'll put you in a position to marry this paragon, Mam'selle Jennings, if, as I take it, lack of fortune is all that stands between you. I do not mind telling you now that De Grammont had given me full information concerning the king's view of La Belle Jennings and your relations to her before I wrote my first letter, inviting you to visit me.'
"I am loath to undertake so mean an office as that of inducing King Charles to sell an English city, but I cannot save Dunkirk, and I may profit by helping what I cannot prevent. So I beg you broach the subject to Frances, cautioning her for me to take no risk, and if she is willing to use and to hoodwink the man who would not hesitate to take her life, let me know, and I shall write to you again with further instructions.
"With gratitude,
"Your friend,
"LE BLANC."
I sought Frances, and when I told her the substance of George's letter, she was almost wild with joy.
"Am I willing to try?" she exclaimed, laughing while tears were hanging in her eyes. "I am not only willing to try, but am determined to succeed. Ay, I'd sell England itself in the same cause. Of all the men I have ever known, this king of ours is the greatest dupe. Since the return of the court to Whitehall, he has been growing more importunate every day. He seems to have lost what little wits he had, and does and says the silliest things one can imagine."
"And you do not fear attempting to lead him on to sell Dunkirk? You do not fear going too near the precipice?" I asked, wishing to weigh her self-confidence more by the manner of her reply than by her words.
She laughed and answered: "There is no precipice, cousin Ned; nothing to fear save kidnapping, and I am always guarded against that danger; nothing to do of which I need feel ashamed, save the acting of a lie, and surely one may lie to the father of lies without sin."
"But the lie may be recognized," I suggested, "if one be too bold about it."
"My lie will go little beyond a smile or two. The king's vanity will do the rest. He will make himself believe that I mean more than I say."
Frances and I felt that we were traitors to our country in helping the French king, but we knew that in the end he would buy Dunkirk from our spendthrift monarch, and that out country's loss would be no greater by reason of our gain. Therefore I wrote George as follows:—
"DEAR FRIEND:
"The Duchess of Hearts is eager and confident. Write at once, giving full directions.
"YOUR FRIEND."
Frances added a postscript in cipher, but I shall not translate it.
One morning, some three weeks after sending my letter, Frances came to me in my closet in the Wardrobe, and I saw at once she was in great trouble. Her eyes were red with weeping, and the woebegone expression of her face would have been amusing had I not known that some good cause was back of it. As soon as she entered I saw that she was going to speak, but closets in Whitehall have ears, so I placed my finger on my lips to enjoin silence, and spoke loud enough to be heard if any one was listening:—
"Ah, Frances, I forgot that I had promised to go with you to your father's this morning. Wait for me at Holbein's Gate. I'll be there in ten minutes."
Within the promised time I found Frances at Holbein's Gate, and we walked up to Charing Cross, thence down the Strand toward Temple Bar.
"What is the trouble, Frances?" I asked, anxious to hear her news, which I feared was bad. She was in great distress, and I saw that a flood of tears was ready to accompany her tale of woe, so I said hurriedly: "Don't cry. Laugh while you speak. You will attract less attention."
She tried to laugh, but the effort was piteous and became a failure, as she said:—
"George Hamilton has sailed for Canada, and my heart is broken."
Again she tried to smile, but the smile never reached her eyes, for they were full of tears.
"How do you know?" I asked, almost stunned by the news.
She tried to stay her tears, but failed, and answered between sobs: "Last night at the queen's ball, the king showed me a letter sent by order of the French king, saying that George had sailed from Bordeaux for Canada nearly a fortnight ago. I could not help showing my grief, and the king, who was boisterously happy, said: 'Now you will forget him and listen to me.' I smiled, but it was a poor effort, and he smiled, showing his yellow fangs as he left me. I pray God that I may never be called upon to hate another man as I hate him."
"I can hardly believe that George has gone to Canada without notifying us," I said.
"Yes, I fear it is true," she returned. "But if I am ever so fortunate as to find him again, I intend to go with him whether he consents or no, regardless of father and all the world. Just as soon as I learn where he is in Canada, I will go to him. You will take me, won't you, Baron Ned?"
"I'll not give that promise," I answered. "But I am sure there is something back of King Louis's letter of which we do not know. Surely George would not have sailed without notifying us."
"He may have feared to betray himself by writing," she suggested, "since
King Charles had asked King Louis to detain him."
"That is true," I returned. "But the occasion must have been urgent indeed if he could not have sent us word in some manner."
But I could find no comfort for her, for I really believed that George had gone to Canada, and there was a certain relief to me in knowing that he had passed out of Frances's life.
After along silence this feeling of relief found unintentional expression when I said:—
"Time heals all wounds, Frances. One of these days you will find a man who will make amends for your present loss, and then—"
"No, no, Baron Ned. Your words are spoken in kindness, but what you suggest is impossible. Perhaps if there had been fewer obstacles between us, or if I had not misjudged him so cruelly, I might have found my heart more obedient to my will."
The only comfort I could give my beautiful cousin was that a letter would soon come explaining everything. In default of a letter, I promised to go to Paris and learn the truth from George's friends, if possible.
Frances did not go back to Whitehall that day, but remained at home, pretending to be ill of an ague.
At the end of a week, Frances not having returned to Whitehall, Sir Richard was honored by a visit from no less a person than the king, accompanied by the duchess and a gentleman in waiting. The visit was made incognito.
As a result of this royal visit, which was made for the purpose of seeing Frances, a part of Sir Richard's estates near St. Albans were restored to him, and from poverty he rose at once to a comfortable income of, say, a thousand or twelve hundred pounds a year.
Immediately all of Sir Richard's hatred of Charles II fell away, and once more the king shone in the resplendent light of his divine appointment.
While Frances estimated the king's generosity at its true value, she was glad her father had received even a small part of what was his just due, and although she knew the restoration had been made to please, and, if possible, to win her, she was glad to have spoiled the royal Philistine, and despised him more than ever before, if that were possible.
Sir Richard's good fortune brought a gleam of joy to Frances, but it also brought a pang of regret, because it had come too late. Her only purpose in going to Whitehall had been to marry a rich nobleman and thereby raise the fallen fortunes of her house. Now that reason existed no longer, and if George were here, she could throw herself away upon him with injury to no one but herself. But George was not here, and liberty to throw herself away had come too late to be of any value.
Every day during the fortnight that Frances remained at home, she asked if I had any news from court, meaning the French court, but using the form of inquiry to avoid acquainting her father and Sarah with the real cause of her solicitude.
But my answers were always, "Oh, nothing but Castlemain's new tantrum," or "The duke's defeat at pall-mall."
Frances was the last girl in the world, save, perhaps Sarah, who I should have supposed capable of languishing and dying of love, but the former she did before my eyes, and the latter I almost began to fear if news did not reach us soon from George.
Betty came up to see Frances nearly every day, and the kissing and embracing that ensued disgusted Sarah.
"Now, if Frances were a man, I could understand it," said Sarah. "The little barmaid must be tempting to a man, being pretty and—"
"Beautiful, Sarah!" I interrupted.
"Yes, beautiful, if you will."
"Her eyes—" I began, again interrupting Sarah.
"Oh, yes!" cried Sarah, impatiently. "Her eyes are fine enough, but their expression comes from their color, their size, and their preposterously long eyelashes. Black long lashes often give a radiance to the eyes which passes for expressiveness, and I doubt not—"
"Nonsense, Sarah!" I cried, half angrily. "Bettina's eyes are expressive in themselves. As you say, their soft dark brown is the perfection of color, and they certainly are large. But aside from all that, their expression is—"
"There is no intellect in them!" cried Sarah.
"There is tenderness, gentleness, love, and truth in them," I answered, with as careless an air as I could assume.
"Yes, there may be for a man, but I insist there is no real intellect."
"Well, Sarah," I answered, showing irritation despite an effort to appear indifferent, "it is my opinion that the possession of great intellectual power by a woman is the one virtue with which men, as a rule, find themselves most willing to dispense. It gives her too great an advantage."
"Yes, a soft, plump figure like Betty's, long lashes and red lips, surrounded by dimples, are apt to please a fool."
"But they're good in their way, Sarah, you'll admit—excellent!"
I retorted sharply, caring little if she saw that I was angry.
"And men are fools, so there! Not another word about the barmaid!" cried
Sarah, dismissing the subject with a wave of her hand.
But men, too, sometimes like to have the last word, so I remarked: "The mother of the Duchess of York was a barmaid, at least, a barmistress."
"Yes, but is that any reason why Frances should be kissing this one?
Doubtless your friend Betty finds men enough to do the office."
"Sarah!" I cried, springing to my feet, now thoroughly angry. "If you were a man, I'd give you the lie direct!"
Sarah began to laugh and clapped her hands, saying: "I was leading you on. I suspected you were fond of her. Now I know it."
But Sarah's remark, being so near the truth, did nothing to allay my anger, so I told her she was a fool, and went into an adjoining room, where I found Frances and Bettina luxuriating in tearful sympathy.
I walked home with Bettina, and she invited me to go to her parlor to have a cup of tea. To see Bettina boil the tea (steep it or draw it, she said was the proper phrase) was as pretty a sight as one could wish to behold, and when she poured it out in thin china cups, handing one to me and taking one herself, her pride in following the fashion of modish ladies was as touching as it was simple and beautiful. It was almost more than my feeble resolutions could withstand, so when I was about to leave I had a great battle with myself and was defeated, for I seized her hands, and although I said nothing, she knew what was in my mind, so she hung her head, murmuring:—
"If you are willing to make me more unhappy than I am."
"Not for the world, Bettina," I answered, rallying against myself.
"Goodnight."
"Good night. Now I know you are my friend," she answered softly, holding my hands for a moment, then dropping them suddenly and turning from me.
I have refrained from speaking of Mary Hamilton of late, partly because I did not see her frequently at this time, and partly because the shame I felt at the time of which I am now writing comes surging over me whenever I touch upon the subject. Not that I did anything of which I need be ashamed, but because I remember so vividly my motives and desires that the old sensations return, even at this distant day, as a perfume, a strain of music, the soft balminess of spring, or the sharp bite of winter's frost may recall a moment of the past, and set the heart throbbing or still it as of yore.
After leaving Bettina, I went back to Whitehall and dressed for a ball which the queen was giving that night. It was an unfortunate time for me to see Mary. My heart was full, not to overflowing, but to sinking, with my love of Bettina and her love of me. There was nothing I would not have given at that time to be able to take her as my wife. I should have been glad to give my title, estates, and position—everything—to be a simple tradesman or an innkeeper so that I might take Bettina with happiness to her and without the damning sin of losing caste to me.
It was true the king's brother had made a marriage of comparatively the same sort, but it is almost as impossible for a prince to lose caste as it is difficult for a mere baron to keep it. Bettina would not be happy in my sphere of life, nor could I live in hers, so what was there for me to do but to keep my engagement with Mary Hamilton and, if I could, lose my love for Bettina.
* * * * *
The queen's ball was to be held that night at St. James's Palace, and I was glad to have the walk from Whitehall across the park. The night was perfect. A slim moon hung in the west, considerately withholding a part of her light that the stars might twinkle the brighter in their vain effort to rival Bettina's eyes. The night wind came to me, odor-laden from the roses, only to show me how poor a thing it was compared with Bettina's breath upon my cheek and its sweetness in my nostrils. Now and then a belated bird sang its sleepy song, only to remind me of the melody of her lullabies, and the cooing dove moaned out its plaintive call lest I forget the pain in her breast while selfishly remembering the ache in my own. Then I thought of what the Good Book says about "bright clouds," and I prayed that my pain might make me a better man and might lead me to help Bettina in the days of her sorrowing, which I knew were at hand.
Soon after I had kissed the hands of the king and the queen, I met George's brother, Count Anthony Hamilton. He had never been friendly to his younger brother, and had ceased to look upon him as a brother at all after his disgraceful reformation. Then when the king turned against George, Anthony, good courtier that he was, turned likewise, and there is no bitterness that may be compared with that of an apostate brother.
After we had talked for a minute or two, Count Anthony asked if I knew anything of "the fool," as he was pleased to call his brother.
"I know nothing of your brother George, my lord, if it is him you mean."
"He is no brother of mine, and if you wish to become a member of our family, you will cease to consider him your friend," returned his Lordship, making an effort to conceal his anger.
I was not in the mood to take his remark kindly, therefore I answered warmly:—
"Shall my entering the ranks of your noble family curtail my privilege of choosing my own friends?"
"No, with one exception," he replied.
"The honor of the alliance is great, my lord, but I shall not consent to even one exception at your dictation. Your sister, my future wife, loves her brother, and if she does not object to my friendship for him, your Lordship oversteps your authority, as head of your house, by protesting."
He turned angrily upon me, saying: "You have been paying your court with lukewarm ardor of late, Baron Clyde. Perhaps you would not grieve if your friendship for a family outcast were to bar you from the family."
"If your Lordship means to say that I wish to withdraw dishonorably from my engagement with your sister, I crave the privilege of telling you that you lie!"
I never was more calm in my life, and my words brought a cold smile to
Hamilton's lips.
"My friend De Grammont will have the honor of waiting on you to-morrow morning," he answered, bowing politely.
"I shall be delighted to see his Grace," I answered. "Good night, my lord!"
Here was a solution of my problem in so far as it concerned my engagement with Mary Hamilton, for if I killed her brother, she would not marry me, and if he killed me, I could not marry her. The fact that a gleam of joy came to me because of my unexpected release caused me to feel that I was a coward not to have broken the engagement in an honorable, straightforward manner rather than to have seized this opportunity to force a duel upon her brother. It is true I had not sought the duel deliberately and had not thought it possible one second before uttering the word that made it necessary. Still it was my act that brought it about, and I felt that I had taken an unmanly course.
After leaving Count Anthony I walked across the room to where Mary was standing at the outer edge of a circle of ladies and gentlemen who surrounded De Grammont, listening to a narrative in broken English, of his adventures, fancied or real, I know not which, but interesting, and all of a questionable character.
When I spoke to Mary, she turned and gave me her hand. I had not expected the least display of emotion on her part; therefore I was not disappointed when the smile with which she greeted me was the same she would have given to any other man. But Mary was Mary. Nature and art had made her what she was—charming, quiescent, and calm, not cold, simply lukewarm.
"I have seen little of you this last month," said Mary, taking my arm and walking with me away from De Grammont's group. She might have remarked with equal emotion that Cromwell was dead or the weather fine. She did not wait for an explanation of my absence, but continued with a touch of eager hesitancy and a fluttering show of anxiety, "Have you had news recently of my brother George?"
Of course I could not tell her the truth, so I answered evasively: "I suppose you have heard the news spread throughout the court that he has gone to Canada? Doubtless you can tell me more than I know."
"That is all I know," she answered. "When he went, or where, I have been unable to learn, for George is a forbidden topic in our household and seems to be the same at court. What has he done, baron? I have heard it hinted that he threatened to take the king's life. Surely he did nothing of the sort."
"If he did, it was in a delirium of fever," I answered, hoping that she would cease speaking of George and would ask a question or two concerning myself.
But no. She turned again to me, asking, "Did you hear him?"
"I have been told that the accusation comes from his physician, and perhaps from one who was listening at his door," I answered, avoiding a direct reply.
"I suspect the informant is a wretched little hussy of whom I have heard—the daughter of the innkeeper," remarked Mary, looking up to me for confirmation.
"Suspect no longer," I answered, with sharper emphasis than I should have used.
"Do you know her?" she asked.
"I do not know a 'wretched hussy' who is the daughter of the innkeeper," I answered sullenly. "I know a beautiful girl who watched devotedly at your brother's bedside, day and night, and probably saved his life at a time when he was deserted by his sisters and his mother."
"We often find that sort of kindness in those low creatures," she answered, unaware of the tender spot she was touching, and ignoring my reference to George's sisters and his mother.
Naturally Mary was kind of heart, but her mother was a hard, painted old Jezebel, whose teachings would have led her daughter away from every gentle truth and up to all that was hard, cruel, and selfish in life. A woman in the higher walks of life is liable to become enamelled before her twentieth year.
While I did not blame Mary for what she had said relating to Bettina, still I was angry and longed to do battle with any one who could fight.
After we had been together perhaps ten minutes, some one claimed her for a dance, and she left me, saying hurriedly in my ear:—
"I'll see you soon again. I want to ask you further about George." She had not a question to ask about me.
She was not to see me again, for I asked permission of the queen to withdraw, and immediately left the ball.
While I was crossing the park on my way back to Whitehall, the wind moaned and groaned—it did not breathe. The stars did not twinkle—they glared. The nightingales did not sing—they screamed. And the roses were odorless. Perhaps all this change to gloom was within me rather than without, but it existed just the same, and I went home and to bed, hating all the world save Bettina, whom I vowed for the hundredth time never to see again.
The next day at noon De Grammont came to my closet, where I had waited for him all morning.
"Welcome to you, dear count!" I cried, leading him by the hand to a chair.
"Perhaps you will not so warmly welcome me," he returned, "when you learn my errand."
"I already know your errand, Count Grammont, and it makes you doubly welcome," I answered, drawing a chair for myself and sitting down in front of him.
"Ah, that is of good," he returned, rubbing his hands. "You already know the purpose of my visit?"
"Yes, I do, my dear count, but any purpose would delight me which brings the pleasure of your company."
"Ah, it is said like a civilized man," he returned, complimenting me by speaking English, though I shall not attempt to reproduce his pronunciation. "How far better it is to say: 'Monsieur, permit to me,' before one runs a man through than to do it as though one were sticking a mere pig. Is it not so?"
"True as sunshine, my dear count," I returned. "There's a vast difference between the trade of butchering and the gentle art of murder."
De Grammont threw back his head, laughing softly. "Ah, good, good! Very good, dear baron! The sentiment is beau-ti-ful and could not be better expressed—in English. You should have been born across the channel."
"I wish I had been born any place, not excepting hell, rather than in
England," I answered.
"True, true, what a hole it is," returned the count, regretfully. "The
Englishman is one pig."
He saw by the expression of my face that while I might abuse my own countrymen, I did not relish hearing it from others, so with true French tact he held up his hand to keep me from speaking till he could correct himself.
"Pardon, baron, I forgot the 'r,' The Englishman's affectation of a virtue he despises makes of him a prig—not a pig. Non, non! Mon Dieu! Not a pig—a prig! Is it not so?"
"True, true, count," I returned, unable to restrain a laugh. "It is the affectation of virtue that makes frank vice attractive by comparison."
"Ah, true, true, my dear baron. May I proceed with my errand?"
"Proceed, count."
"Monsieur le Comte Hamilton begs me to say that he was called away from London early to-day on the king's business, but that he will return in four weeks. When he returns he will do himself the honor to send me again, asking you to name a friend, unless you prefer to apologize, which no gentleman would do in a case of this sort. You said, I am told, that Monsieur le Comte lied. If you admit that he did not lie, of course you admit that you did. So, im-pos-si-ble! There must be to fight!"
"Do you know, count, the cause of my having given Count Hamilton the lie?" I asked.
"I did not inquire," he answered smilingly. "To me it was to carry the message."
"George Hamilton is your friend, is he not?" I asked.
"Yes, but far more, he is the friend of my king, and will make entreaty with my monarch for my return to France," answered De Grammont.
"It was because of Count Hamilton's insulting reference to his brother that I used the ugly word," I returned.
"A-ah, that is different!" Then recovering himself quickly: "But I undertook the mission. It is to finish. Monsieur George Hamilton? My friend? My king's friend? If it had been known to me! But you have the message of 'Sieur le Comte."
After a short silence he said, "When Monsieur le Comte Hamilton returns,
I shall ask him to relieve me of this duty."
As De Grammont was leaving my closet, he paused at the door, and, after a moment's hesitancy, whispered:—
"You may expect a letter from France soon. It will come from M. l'Abbé du Boise, who I hope will come soon to London on the business of my king. You know him not—M. l'Abbé?" The eyebrows lifted questioningly. "No? You soon will know him, yet you will not know him. You and perhaps a lady may help him in his mission. I, too, shall help him, but I, too, know him not. Yet I know him. If he succeed in his mission, he will be rich, he will be powerful. And I? Mon Dieu, my friend! If he succeed, my decree of banishment from Paris—it will be to revoke. I may return once more to bask in the smile of my king. You must not speak; the lady must not speak; I must not speak when Monsieur l'Abbé comes, nor before. It is to silence. Stone walls have one ear."
"Two, sometimes, count," I suggested, laughing.
"Yes, I should have said one ears! Non, non! I forget this damnable tongue of yours! When I arrive to great interest, it is to talk faster than it is to think, and—" A shrug of the shoulders finished the sentence.
"Let us speak French hereafter, my dear count," I suggested.
"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! It is to me more of pain to hear my sweet language murdered than to murder yours," answered Grammont, seriously.
"Ah, but I speak French quite as well as I speak English. Perhaps I shall not murder it," I replied.
"Perhaps? We shall try," he said, though with little show of faith.
I began speaking French, but when I paused for his verdict, he shrugged his shoulders, saying:—
"Ah, oui, oui! It may be better than my English." But notwithstanding his scant praise, we spoke the French language thereafter.
The count bowed himself out and left me to decipher, if I could, the problem of M. l'Abbé du Boise. Presently I discovered the cue. The Abbé was George Hamilton, and for the moment my heart almost stopped beating. If he should come to England on the French king's business, which could be nothing more nor less than the Dunkirk affair, and should be discovered, there would be a public entertainment on Tyburn Hill, with George as the central figure.
When I found a spare hour, I hastened to see Lilly and came upon the good Doctor among the stars, as usual. There was a letter for me from Hamilton. It was short and in cipher:—
"DEAR FRIEND:
"This is to tell you that M. l'Abbé du Boise will soon be in London. He will be the guest of M. Comte de Grammont.
"You do not know him. Please call on him when he arrives. Tell the Duchess of Hearts that he will want to see her. Ask her to be ready to help him. He goes to buy Dunkirk for the French king, and his success will mean good fortune for me.
"Your friend,
"LE BLANC."
After reading the letter, I felt sure that the Abbé du Boise was George Hamilton. I could hardly bring myself to believe that he would be so foolhardy as to visit Whitehall, though I knew the adventure was of a nature likely to appeal to his reckless disregard of consequences. I knew also that, if successful, he would win the reward without which life had little value to him.
I was sure that Hamilton had fully weighed the danger of his perilous mission, and that he was deliberately staking his life on a last desperate chance to win fortune and Frances Jennings.
Though perhaps Lilly was a charlatan in many respects, he was to be trusted; still I did not feel that it was my place to impart George's secret to him, though I had in mind a plan whereby he might be of great help to the Abbé du Boise in influencing King Charles. The king consulted him secretly in many important affairs, and I was sure that if the good Doctor should be called in by his Majesty in the Dunkirk affair, the stars would tell a story in accord with our desires if we made it to Lilly's interest.
However, all of that must wait for the Abbé du Boise. Of one thing I was sure; I must tell Frances at once so that she might be paving the way to the king with her smiles. It would be a disagreeable task, but I knew she would do it gladly, and I also knew that no woman could do it better.
While I had expressed my doubts to Frances concerning Hamilton's emigration to Canada, I had not felt entirely sure there was nothing in it, and she, womanlike, taking the worst for granted, had accepted it as true. But the coming of the Abbé du Boise changed everything, and when I saw her at her father's house and told her of my suspicions, and showed her Le Blanc's letter, she was so greatly alarmed that she said she would rather know that George had gone to Canada than to fear his return to England under the circumstances.
"The dastardly king will take his life if he comes," she said.
"I admit the danger," I answered, as hopefully as possible, "but I believe, if George comes, he will be able to take care of himself."
"Danger!" she exclaimed. "It is certain death! George will find no mercy."
"If he is caught," I answered. "But the letter from King Louis will convince King Charles that Hamilton is in Canada and will throw our jealous monarch off his guard. Perhaps Hamilton will be safer than we suppose. He speaks French like a Parisian, but, above all, he is cool, calm, and thoughtful in danger. The London merchants will be far more dangerous than the king."
"It does seem that we are guilty of treason to our country in thus helping France," she said. Then laughingly, "But I'll go back to the palace at once and begin my task of wheedling the king." She paused for a moment, then continued hesitatingly, "Do you suppose it possible that George would doubt me afterwards?"
"Impossible," I answered, with emphasis that seemed to reassure her.
"I am doing it for him," she continued with a sigh. "God knows I would do almost anything in the same cause. But I do not know men, and I fear it is possible that he will doubt me after I have succeeded. Let us go to see Betty. She is restful to me, and always soothes my nerves. But besides, I want to have her help. I'll introduce her to the king—"
"No, by God, you'll not introduce her to the king! I'll explode the whole affair, and Dunkirk may go to the devil before you shall introduce Betty to the king," I answered.
"Yet you are willing that I should meddle in the dangerous affair?
Evidently you love her more than you love me?"
"Only a few hundred million times more," I answered sullenly.
"Is it that way with you, my dear brother?" she asked, coming to me as I stood gazing out the window, seeing nothing save Bettina's face. Frances put her hand on my shoulder and said coaxingly: "Forgive me. No harm shall come to her through me."
Of course I was sorry that I had allowed myself to become angry, and at once made my apology as well as I could.
"Let us go to see Betty, anyway," said Frances. And I assenting, she went to fetch her cloak, hat, and vizard.
But when she returned, I had changed my mind and declined to go, telling
Frances that I must see Bettina no more.
"Why?" asked Frances.
"Because I would not win a love from her which I cannot accept."
"Baron Ned, there are few men who would be so considerate."
But I required little coaxing, and when Frances had made ready for the journey, I buckled on my sword, which I had left standing in the corner, took my hat from the floor, and started out with her.
While walking from the Bridge to the Old Swan, I remarked to Frances, "My engagement with Mary Hamilton is likely to be broken by her family."
"Why, Baron Ned?" she asked in surprise.
"Count Hamilton has challenged me to a duel, to be fought when he returns, and you see, if I kill him or if he kills me, well—" I answered, shrugging my shoulders.
She was much alarmed at my disclosure, but was reassured when I made light of the affair, probably because there was no danger in it to George Hamilton, and, perhaps, because if I should kill Count Hamilton, George would inherit the title and estates.
"But poor Mary! She will grieve," said Frances.
"I think you need waste no tears for her sake," I answered. "She is a fine, pretty little creature, who will take what comes her way without excess of pain or joy. She is incapable of feeling keenly. God has been good to her in giving her numbness."
"No, no, cousin Ned, you are wrong!" she returned. "Life without pain is not worth living. I have heard that the Arabs have a saying, 'All sunshine makes the desert.' God is good to us when he darkens the sun now and then and gives us the sunshine afterwards."
"Perhaps you are right, Frances," I returned. "But you and I are in the cloud now, and a little sunshine would be most welcome."
"Not enough sunshine to make a desert," she answered.
"Ay! But enough to make a garden," I returned, as we climbed the narrow flight of steps leading to the private entrance to the Old Swan.
When we paused at the door, Frances said, "Your garden is at hand." And when she opened the door, there stood Betty, and I was in Eden. The moist glow of her eyes, the faint blush of her cheeks, the nervous fluttering of her voice, spoke more eloquently than all the tongues of Babel could have spoken, and I could not help comparing her welcome with that which Maxy Hamilton had given me at the queen's ball.
Bettina led us to the parlor, and while we were drinking a cup of tea, we had the great pleasure of asking and answering questions of which we always had a large supply in reserve.
When it was time to go, Bettina walked down to the Bridge with us. As it was growing dark, Frances suggested that I walk back to the Old Swan with Betty, which I did, she taking my arm of her own accord, and both of us very happy, though we spoke not a word, for fear of saying too much, save "good night" at the door.
"Good night at the door!" God gave its sweetness to youth right out of the core of His infinite love.