The Touchstone of Fortune Part 6

"I shall not fail," she answered confidently, though not in vanity.

"But Hamilton said he would return to the siege when he had made his fortune," I suggested.

"Of that I have no hope," she returned dolefully, "and I shall put him out of my thoughts if I can, as soon as I can."

"It must be done now," I returned emphatically.

"Ay, it is easy to say 'now,' but 'now' is a hard, hard time. It is much easier to do a difficult thing to-morrow. But do not fear, Baron Ned. It shall be done, and I shall marry a duke or an earl, loathing him."

She was almost ready to weep, so, believing that she would like to be alone, I left her.

Within half an hour she was at home, sitting in a low chair by her father's side, laughing, happy, and beautiful, with that rare, indefinable home charm a woman may have which is as far beyond the mere beauty of hair and skin and eyes as the sparkle of a bright mysterious star is beyond the beauty of the moon's pale sheen.

With all my cousin's marvellous beauty, her rarest charm lay in her gracious manner, her un.o.btrusive vivacity, and her quaint combination of Sarah's Machiavellian wisdom with the intense femininity of Eve. Add to these qualities the unmistakable mark which a pure heart leaves on the face, and we complete the picture of one who in a short time was acknowledged to be without a peer in Whitehall, the most famous beauty court the world has ever known.

Before I left Sundridge it had been agreed among us all that Frances should go to London, though the plans had not been arranged nor the time fixed. There was no need of haste, as the choosing of the maids would not be closed for two months or more. I left with my uncle funds necessary for the purchase of gowns, and the payment of other expenses, and, with his consent, undertook to notify the d.u.c.h.ess of York that Frances would seek to enter her Grace's service in the near future. Then I went back to London, and when next I saw my cousin it was in the shadow of a tragedy.

My uncle's humble friend, Roger Wentworth, the leather merchant of Sundridge, had a brother living in London, who was also a leather merchant, Sir William Wentworth. He had been Lord Mayor at one time, and had been knighted by the king because of a loan made by the city to his Majesty. Sir William was an honest, simple man, who cared little to rise above his cla.s.s, but he had a wife who thrilled to the heart whenever she heard the words "Lady Wentworth," and experienced a spasm of delight whenever she saw her name in the news letters or journals.

Sir William had a son, also, who imagined himself to be ornamental, but laid no claim to usefulness of any sort. Lady Wentworth concurred heartily and proudly in her son's opinion of himself and encouraged his uselessness to a point where it became worthlessness. But Sir William took no pains to conceal his disappointment and disgust. Young William held a small post at court, and, being supplied with money by his mother, was one of the evil spirits of the set composed of Crofts, Berkeley, Little Jermyn, the court lady-killer, and others too numerous and too vicious to mention. Wentworth was goose to these pluckers and was willing to give his feathers in exchange for their toleration.

* * * * *

Shortly after I left Sundridge, Sir Richard learned that Roger intended journeying to London in the course of a month to buy leather, so he asked him to take Frances with him. To this request Roger gladly and proudly a.s.sented. He usually travelled a-horseback to London, but this being a state occasion, he brought out his old coach, a huge lumbering concern, and had it painted a brilliant green in honor of his fair pa.s.senger-to-be. Roger also promised Frances the services of his sister-in-law with the d.u.c.h.ess of York, a help so great, in Roger's opinion, that it could not be overestimated.

I had been at home more than a month before Frances started on her journey. I did not know when she expected to leave Sundridge, as we had agreed that she should notify me as soon as she reached London.

I had seen George on several occasions after my return from Sundridge, and although he said little about himself, I knew from others that he was at least trying to quit his old way of life and to avoid his evil friends. Soon after my return to court he went to France, and I did not see him again for several months, although he came home, most unfortunately, and spent a day or two in London at the time of Frances's arrival, of which he knew nothing until after his return to France.

All that took place at Sundridge after I left there and the occurrences on my cousin's journey to London, I learned from her and from Hamilton afterwards, though I shall write them down now in the order of their happening.

Early one morning Roger presented himself at my uncle's house with the huge green coach drawn by two horses so fat that they could hardly breathe, driven by an old servant, Noah Sullivan, who was so fat that at times he could not breathe at all.

The season was fair for travelling, and barring a heavy rain, the road to London would be good. But it had a bad reputation for highwaymen, and no cautious man with anything to lose cared to risk a journey after dark, especially near London, save with a guard. Roger was taking with him a thousand pounds in gold; therefore it was desirable that he and his fair pa.s.senger should reach the city before nightfall. To do this with the fat horses, he must start early,--a fact of which Frances had received due notice.

On the appointed morning she was ready when the coach drove up. Her box was placed in the boot, and she took a seat beside her old friend Roger, giving vent to the tears she had held back so bravely while saying good-by to her father and Sarah, who were to move up to London in case she remained at court.

Wheezy old Noah on the box cracked his whip, the fat horses in the traces pulled and grunted, the coach creaked and groaned, the wheels turned and Frances had set forth, a maiden St. George, to fight the dragon of Whitehall, compared to which the old-time monster was but a bleating lamb. Roger had hoped to be in his brother's house long before sundown, but when he reached that justly famous halfway house, the c.o.c.k and Spur, Noah insisted that the fat horses were so badly winded that a rest of several hours was necessary before they could proceed a step farther.

Roger argued with his Master of Horse, but to no purpose. The fat horses rested till near the hour of five, when Noah yielded to his master's importunities and the journey was resumed. Meantime an unexpected rain had begun to fall, which increased in violence as night approached. The road grew heavier as the journey progressed, and the wheezy horses required rest so frequently that Roger began to fear for the safety of his gold and his fair pa.s.senger.

Supper time approached, but Roger was so anxious to reach London before dark that he a.s.serted his right as master and refused to stop at an inn where Noah had drawn up the horses, insisting that they be fed.

Considerable time was lost in argument with Noah, but at last they took the road once more, which by that time had become very heavy. Night fell without twilight, because of the storm, and the travellers were overtaken by darkness just as they reached the most dangerous part of the road within less than a league of London.

The road grew heavier with every turn of the wheels, the horses wheezed dismally, and Roger groaned inwardly. He kept his head out of the coach door most of the time, looking for trouble, and found it before his journey's end. Noah lighted the great lanthorn and hung it in front of the dashboard, his only cause of anxiety being the horses, until a greater arose.

CHAPTER III

IT IS HARD TO BE GOOD

There is an infernal charm about sin which should have been given to virtue, but unluckily got s.h.i.+fted in very early human days. And so it was that George Hamilton had troubles of his own in this respect. When he left Frances Jennings at Sundridge, he was aglow with good resolutions, all of which were to be put into immediate practice, and many of which he carried out in part by strong though spasmodic effort when he returned to court.

His attempts to be decent at first filled his friends with surprise, then disgust, then raillery. The untoward thing had never been tried at Charles II's Whitehall, and it furnished a deal of talk between routine scandals. In fact, it was looked upon as a scandal in itself.

This new phase in one of the king's own subdevils soon fell under the notice of his Majesty, who asked George one day if he would like to have an easy benefice in the church where he could meditate on his past and build for the future.

"And pray for Lady Castlemain's unbaptized children, your Majesty?" asked George, whereupon the king shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Lady Castlemain and Charles were--well, there had been talk about them, to say the least.

The court ladies laughed when George declined to drink himself drunk or refused to help his former companions fleece a stranger. Nell Gwynn told him that even his language had grown too polite for polite society, and, lacking emphasis, was flat as stale wine. In truth, it may well be said that George had set out to mend his ways under adverse conditions. But he _had_ set out to do it, and that in itself was a great deal, for there is a likable sort of virtue in every good intent. He had reached the first of the three great R's in the act of repentance, Recognition; Regret and Recession being the second and third--all necessary to regeneration. I had faith in his good intentions, but doubted his ability.

Hamilton and I had become fast friends, and by his help my suit of his sister Mary had prospered to the extent of a partial engagement of marriage. That is to say, Mary's mother, an old worldling of the hardest type, had thought it well to secure me and to keep me dangling, to be landed in case no better fish took the hook. I was aware of the mother's selfish purposes, but did not believe that Mary shared them, though I knew her to be an obedient child. This peculiar condition of affairs somewhat nettled me, though I do not remember that I was at all unhappy because of it.

But to come back to George. One day, a fortnight before Frances's arrival in London, while he and I were watching the royal brothers, King Charles and the Duke of York, playing pall-mall, I expressed my doubts and fears of his ultimate success in reformation so long as he remained in any way a.s.sociated with Crofts, Berkeley, Wentworth, and others of the vicious clique.

"Yes, I know it is an uphill journey," returned George, laughing with a touch of bitterness, "but think of my reward if I succeed!"

"Do you mean my cousin?" I asked.

"Yes, but I have little hope," he replied, though perhaps he had more hope than he expressed.

I had told him of her intention to come to London, hoping that he would leave before her arrival, as he did, though neither he nor I knew when she was coming. So I asked:--

"Don't you know that she will be carried off by some rich lord before you are half good enough for her?"

"I suppose so," he answered, with a sigh.

"You must know that she is coming for that purpose," I returned, wis.h.i.+ng to take all hope out of him.

He winced perceptibly and answered after a long pause, nodding his head in the direction of the king: "There is the only man I fear--the king.

But rather than see her the victim of any man, by G.o.d, I'll kill him, though it cost me my life the next moment!"

I was touched by the new light in which I saw him and took his arm in friendliness as I said, "I judged you wrongfully at Sundridge."

"You were right," he answered impatiently. "You awakened in me not only a sense of my duty to Frances, but a knowledge of my obligation to myself."

"But are you so sure of my cousin, even barring other men?" I asked, hoping to sow the seeds of doubt.

"Yes," he answered, with emphasis. "As sure as a man may be in such a case."

"Well, George," said I, "it warms my heart to say that I hope you will gain wealth, station, and mode of life worthy of her, and that in the end you may win her. My candid opinion is, however, that you will have to do it quickly. She will accept none of these creatures at court, of that you may be sure, but there are many worthy gentlemen in England who are rich and of great name, who have business at court and will see her and want her. There is d.i.c.k Talbot, Duke of Tyrconnel. He is a fine fellow, enormously rich, and--"

"A mere lump of meat," interrupted Hamilton, angrily. "She could not love him."

"No," I answered. "Nor do I think she will try. But it is better in the long run that a woman respect a man, not loving him, than to love, despising him. Respect is likely to last; all sorts of love may die. But in any case it is Frances's intention to marry a fortune for her father's sake, even though she has to close her eyes in doing it."

"I'll try to prevent that misfortune," he answered gloomily. "But if she learns to love a man worthy of her, I shall take myself out of her way forever. Let us stand together, Baron Ned, and help this girl to happiness for life, without respect to myself. You see I'm not all bad.