The Touchstone of Fortune Part 39

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 Lords.h.i.+p, 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 n.o.ble 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 friends.h.i.+p for him, your Lords.h.i.+p 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 friends.h.i.+p for a family outcast were to bar you from the family."

"If your Lords.h.i.+p 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 p.r.o.nunciation. "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 suns.h.i.+ne, 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 h.e.l.l, 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!