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The Touchstone of Fortune written by Charles Major

C >> Charles Major >> The Touchstone of Fortune




"I should not trouble myself about the wounded," I answered, reluctant to
evade the truth, for he was an honest soul, very much in earnest.

"But do you speak honestly?" he asked, mopping the perspiration from his
face with the tablecloth. "She laughs when I speak seriously, but I have
hoped that it was because of my damnable manner of speech rather than my
suit. Tell me, what do you think about it? Is she in love with Hamilton?"

His appeal was hard to resist, but I answered evasively in the spirit if
not the letter of a lie: "Thus much I know. My cousin has seen very
little of Hamilton--so little that it appears almost impossible for one
of her sound judgment and cool blood to have fallen in love with him. I
can swear that she has not, nor ever has had, a thought of marrying him.
She had better kill herself."

"Ah, that's all true enough," he answered. "And now that he is in
disgrace, with a noose awaiting him on Tyburn, it is of course impossible
for her to marry him. But you see, my dear fellow, she may love him.
Nelly Gwynn says she does."

"Yes," I replied. "Nelly set the story afloat. Her tongue is self acting.
But she had no reason to do so save in her imagination and her love of
talking. Half the troubles in life are caused by your automatic talkers."

I then told him of my cousin's visit with Nelly to the Old Swan, laying
emphasis on Frances's refusal to recognize Hamilton, but saying nothing
of the fight that followed.

"I am glad to learn the truth, if it is the truth," lisped his Lordship,
musingly.

"If you would know the real danger to Frances, you must look higher,"
I said, cautiously refraining from being too explicit. "There is one
whom my cousin scorns, but from whom she is in hourly peril. There is no
length to which he would not go, no crime, however dastardly, he would
not commit to gain his end. I watch over her constantly, and although my
fear may be groundless, still I believe that her only safety is to marry
at once and to leave court with her husband."

"But you say she despises him?" he asked.

"Yes, she even hates him. Still she is in great danger; perhaps in danger
of her life. We all know that crimes have been committed by this person--
crimes so horrible as to be almost past belief. You remember the parson's
daughter who jumped from a high wall and killed herself to escape him."

"You are her guardian, baron. Let me be her watchdog," said Tyrconnel,
leaning eagerly across the table toward me. "And if I am so fortunate as
to win her love by constant devotion, she shall be my wife."

I offered my hand as a silent compact, and we finished our mutton almost
without another word.

Two days after my interview with Tyrconnel, George Hamilton's _News
Letter_ appeared, containing a vicious attack on the king, which angered
his Majesty greatly and seemed to arouse anew his suspicion that Hamilton
was not in France, some one having told him on a mere suspicion that
George was the editor of the _News Letter_. His Majesty accused Frances
of falsehood in having told him that she had not seen Hamilton and that
she believed he was in France, but she becoming indignant, he again
apologized.

Frances's account of the king's state of mind alarmed me, and I
determined to see George as soon as possible and advise him to leave
England at once. I was delayed in going, but on a cold, stormy day at the
end of a fortnight I found my opportunity, and took boat for the Old
Swan, not minding the snow and sleet, because I was very happy knowing
that I should see Betty. I had of late done all in my power to keep
away from her, but the longing had grown upon me, and I was glad to have
an honest excuse to visit Gracious Street.

I have spoken heretofore of my engagement to marry Mary Hamilton, and
my passion for Betty may indicate that my heart was susceptible, if not
fickle. But aside from Betty's Hebe-like charms of person and sweetness
of disposition, there were other reasons for my falling off respecting
Mary. While she had promised to marry me, still there was a coldness,
perhaps I should say a calmness, in her manner toward me, and a
cautiousness in holding me aloof which seemed to indicate a desire on her
part for a better establishment in life than I could give, if perchance
a better offered. My suit had not prospered, though it had not failed,
since she was to be my wife provided she found no more eligible husband
within a reasonable time.

Dangling blunts the edge of ardor; therefore I soon found myself noticing
beauty elsewhere and discovered none that could be compared with that of
Betty Pickering of the Old Swan. It is true she was, in a sense, a
barmaid, and equally true that I had no thought of marrying her. Still it
was significant even at that early time that my mind reverted to the fact
that Edward Hyde, Lord Chancellor of England and Earl of Clarendon, had
married an innkeeper's widow, whose daughter became the mother of two
queens.

While this was true, still I respected Betty less than I admired her and
far less than she deserved, never entirely forgetting her station in life
nor ceasing to recognize the great distance between us.

When I entered the Old Swan, Betty greeted me with a smile amid a nest of
dimples, and led me upstairs to her parlor, so that we might talk without
being overheard. I sat down on a settle, and Betty took her place beside
me. Her hands rested on her lap, giving her an air of contentment as she
turned her face toward me and asked:--

"Have you come to see Master Hamilton?"

"Yes," I answered, "and you."

"And me?" she asked, looking up with a curious little smile. "In what way
may I serve you?"

"By sitting there and permitting me to look at you," I answered.

"Oh, is that all?" she asked, laughing softly.

"And by smiling once in a while," I suggested.

"Who shall smile? You or I?" she queried, glancing slyly up to me.

"Oh, you, by all means," I returned. "There is no beauty in my smile,
while yours--"

"Come, come, Baron Ned," she interrupted, looking up to me pleadingly.
"My smiles are honest, and that is all that is needful in my case. So
don't try to make me believe they are anything more. Don't make a fool of
me by flattery."

"Don't you like flattery, Betty?" I asked.

"Yes, of course I do," she returned, smiling and dimpling exquisitely.
"But it is not good for me. You know I might grow to believing it and
you."

"But it is true, Betty, and you may believe me," I answered, very
earnestly, taking her hand from her lap.

She permitted me to hold her hand for a moment, and said:--

"I am so desirous of keeping my regard for you and of holding your regard
for me that I am tempted to tell you I fear it will all change if I find
you inclined to doubt that I am an honest girl."

"I do not doubt it, Betty," I answered. "I know you and respect you, and
you shall have no good cause to change your regard for me, if you have
any."

"Frequently gentlemen are rude to me in the tap-room, and I submit rather
than make trouble by resenting it, but you have always been respectful,
and--and I have appreciated it, Baron Ned. Father says I need not go to
the tap-room hereafter, but may direct the maids in the house, now that I
am growing old--near twenty."

"Twenty?" I asked. And she nodded her head proudly.

"Yes."

"I thought you were still a child," I remarked.

"No, no," she returned, looking up to me open-eyed and very serious. "I
am a woman."

"Yes, a beautiful child-woman--the most beautiful in all the world," I
said, grasping her hand and holding it a moment till its fluttering
ceased. "And I am jealous of every other man who comes near you."

I saw that my remark had offended her, so I continued earnestly: "I meant
it, Betty; I meant it. I was not jesting."

Betty sighed, looked quickly up to me, half in doubt, half in inquiry,
and was about to speak, but closed her lips on her words and leaned
forward, her head drooping eloquently. Her gentleness, her sweetness, and
her beauty were so tempting that I could not resist their charm. Again I
caught her hand, and it trembled in mine as she tried faintly to withdraw
it. I tried to check myself but failed, and I put my arm about her waist.
Then, after a mighty effort to stay my words, I said pleadingly:--

"Ah, Betty, I love you. Please, please, Betty, believe me, and--and--just
one kiss."

"No, no," she cried pleadingly, trying to draw away from me. "It
could not be honest between us. You are a nobleman--I, a barmaid. Your
friendship is very dear to me. Please let me keep it, Baron Ned, and
let me keep my regard for you. Let there be at least one man whom I do
not fear. You know there can be nothing honest between us, and if it
be possible that one so lowly as I can deserve your respect, let me have
it, Baron Ned, let me have it. Let me keep it, for it is the dearest
thing in life to me."

There was such deep entreaty in her voice that it touched me to the
heart, and I drew away from her immediately, saying:--

"I do know there can be nothing honest between us, Betty, and knowing it,
have suffered. What I have said to you is little compared to what I feel
and to what I would say. I can't help it that I love you, Betty, but you
shall never have cause to fear me. Do you believe me and do you trust me,
Betty?"

For answer she held up her lips to me. What she had refused on my
request, she gave of her own accord, saying:--

"There, Baron Ned. Now, if you really respect me, you will know that
I trust you, for I am not a girl to do this thing wantonly. Perhaps I
should not have done it at all, but you must know that I could not help
it. If you care for my friendship or are concerned for my happiness, I
beg you never tempt me to repeat my folly. There is no other man, but now
you must know after what I have done, that there is one--yourself. But
there can be nothing but friendship between us, Baron Ned, and oh, that
is so much to me! Let me have what happiness I can find in it!"

"But I love you, Betty, and I know that you love me," I answered, unable
to restrain my tongue.

She did not speak, so I asked, "Do you not, Betty?"

"No," she answered, shaking her head dolefully. But I knew she did not
tell the truth.

Presently she asked. "Do you want to see Master Hamilton?"

I answered that I did, and she said I might go to the printing shop,
where she was sure I should find him.

She rose and started toward the door. I called to her, but she did not
stop, so I ran after her, saying:--

"Have I offended you, Betty?"

"No," she answered, drooping her head. "But I am very unhappy, and I want
to be alone so that I may cry. You know it is much harder to forego the
thing one wants but may not take, than it is to do without the thing one
wants but cannot take. Yearning for the impossible brings longing, for
the possible anguish."

And I remained silent, almost hating myself.

I went to the tap-room with Betty, and the courtyard being vacant for a
moment, I ran across and down the steps to see Hamilton.

I had tried to see Frances that morning at Whitehall, but failed, being
told that she had gone to visit her father. I had stopped at Sir
Richard's house, but Frances was not there, and I half suspected I might
find her with Hamilton.

I found Hamilton at his printing-press, and after I had told him of the
risk he ran by remaining in London, he said:--

"I have been making an honest living from my _News Letter_ and am sorry
to give it up, but I fear trouble will come very soon if I continue to
publish it. The king has a score of human bloodhounds seeking me. It is
rather odd, isn't it, to hear a man of the house of Hamilton talking
about making money by work, but of all the money I have ever touched,
that which I have made honestly from the _News Letter_ has been the
sweetest. The work has been a delight to me, even aside from the fact
that it gives me an opportunity to abuse the king. Lilly tells me that
the king asked him to consult the stars concerning my threats against the
royal life. The result was favorable to me."

"It is strange that the king should be duped by a palpable humbug," I
remarked, supposing that George would agree with me. But, no! He turned
on me almost fiercely:--

"Lilly is not a humbug! Of course he humbugs the king, but everybody
does. I have known him to do some wonderful things by the help of his
astrological figures, conjunctions, constellations, and calculations."

"Nonsense! All humbug, I tell you!" I asserted, somewhat disgusted.

"No, it is not all nonsense," he insisted. "A poor woman lost a sum of
money ten days ago. Lilly set a figure and told her where to find it."

"And of course she found it?" I inquired incredulously.

"Yes, she found it," returned George. "And Lilly would not accept a
farthing for his service. Two months ago a child was stolen from its home
in Devonshire, and the parents came all the way to London to consult
Lilly."

"And of course they found the child?" I asked.

"They did. It was with a band of gypsies who made their headquarters at a
place called Gypsy Hill, Lambeth," returned Hamilton, provoked by my
scepticism. "He learns some very curious truths from the stars."

"The stars!" I exclaimed contemptuously. "He is a shrewd observer of men
and of things about him, and when he guesses right, I venture to say he
finds his inspiration much lower than the stars."

"Perhaps he does," returned Hamilton. "Of that I cannot say. But this I
know. He can put two and two together and make a larger sum total than I
have ever seen come from any other man's calculations. He is learned in
every branch of knowledge, and I respect his wonderful conclusions,
asking no questions about his methods."

"Very well, I'll not dispute with you if you admit that he receives even
a part of his knowledge from substellar sources. But while we are alone I
want to ask you, and I want you to tell me the truth: has Frances been
here to-day?"

"No! Tell me, for God's sake, tell me quickly! Why do you ask?" he
exclaimed, turning to me in alarm. "Of late I have been haunted with the
fear that she is in danger of violence from the king. He is capable of
committing any crime--has committed many, as we all know! Why do you ask
about Frances, Baron Ned?"

"Because she is not at Whitehall nor at her father's house, where the
duchess said she was going. She never goes any place else, and it only
now occurs to me to be alarmed."

"Only now?" he demanded angrily. "What have you been doing? I supposed
you were watching over her. A fine guardian, upon my word! Where is she?
Carried off by the king, of course! What else have you expected from our
friend at Whitehall? If harm comes to her, I'll kill him!"

He threw off his printer's cap and apron, hastily cleansed his face and
hands, put on the gray beard and wig, took his broad hat and long coat
from the chest, and started toward the door, bidding me follow.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"To Whitehall," he replied. "You to learn, if you can, where Frances is;
I to form my plans what to do in case you do not find her. You must go to
the river ahead of me and take a boat. I'll follow in another. We should
not be seen together. You stop at Sir Richard's house, and if she is not
there, go to Whitehall. Then come to me at the house of Carter, the
Quaker. You know where it is--just off King's Street, not far from the
Cross."

I followed Hamilton's suggestion. I did not find Frances at Sir Richard's
house, so I hastened to Whitehall, where I learned that she had left
shortly before noon, saying that she was going to spend the afternoon and
night at home. It was near the hour of three o'clock when I had started
up the river, from the Old Swan, and a snowstorm was raging which became
violent before I reached the palace.

While I was talking to one of the maids in the parlor of the duchess, a
page came to me and whispered, "A lady is waiting for you at Holbein's
Gate, and wishes you to go to her as soon as possible."

I suspected that the lady was Frances, so I hastened to the gate and
found, not my cousin, but Betty. I knew her the moment I saw her, despite
the fact that she wore a full vizard and a long cloak. I also knew that
nothing less than a matter of great urgency would have induced the girl
to call for me at the palace.

The snow, which had been falling all day, was now coming in horizontal
sheets, laden with sleet. The wind was blowing half a gale, and the
weather was turning bitterly cold, yet Betty had come to seek me, despite
weather and modesty. Eager to hear her errand, I led her toward Charing
Cross, and when we were away from the gate, asked:--

"What brings you, Bettina? I know it must be a matter of great urgency
that has induced you to venture forth in this terrible storm. What can I
do for you?"

"Nothing for me, Baron Ned," she answered, taking my arm and huddling
close to my side for protection against the storm.

"For whom, then? Tell me quickly," I asked.

"I fear Mistress Jennings is in trouble," she answered. "Soon after you
and Master Hamilton left the Old Swan, a girl came to me in my parlor and
told me that as she was passing a coach standing in front of Baynard's
Castle two hours or more ago, a lady called to her from the coach window
and told her to tell me that Mistress Jones was in great trouble; that
she had been seized by two men who were carrying her away. She said the
lady was bound hand and foot, and that immediately after she had spoken,
two gentlemen came from Baynard's Castle, entered the coach, and drove
toward Temple Bar. The girl said she followed the coach till she saw it
turn into the Strand beyond Temple Bar; then she came to see me."

"Did the girl say at what hour she saw the lady, Mistress Jones?" I
asked. "She probably did not catch the name Jennings."

"She said it was two hours or more before she saw me," answered Betty.
"That would make it perhaps between one and two o'clock. I ought to have
questioned her more closely, but I feared to delay telling you, so I left
her in my parlor and came to see you as quickly as possible."

"Brave Betty! Sweet Betty!" I exclaimed, rapturously. "I could find it in
my heart to kiss you a thousand times as a reward for your wisdom."

"And I could find it in my heart to be content with other reward," she
answered, though her words took a different meaning from the gentle
pressure she gave my arm.

"But tell me," asked Betty, "do you know where Mistress Jennings is?"

"She is not to be found," I returned. "Beyond a doubt the lady in the
carriage was my cousin. You say it was perhaps one o'clock when the girl
saw her?"

"Yes."

"It is after three now, nearly four, and will soon be dark. We must
hasten."

We fairly ran to the Quaker's house, where we found Hamilton, who,
forgetting his sacred calling, lapsed into the unholy manner of former
days and used language which caused Betty to cover her ears with her
hands. We did not, however, allow his profanity to delay us, but hastened
to the Cross, expecting to take a coach for the Old Swan. But none was to
be found, so we went to the river, where we were compelled to take an
open boat with a steersman and one oarsman. We made poor headway, having
to beat against the wind and the tide, so George and I each took an oar.
After a time the man at the steering oar said that he would row if George
or I would steer the boat, but neither of us knew the river and therefore
could not take his place.

Betty said that she knew the river, having kept a small boat since she
was strong enough to lift an oar, so she took the steering oar, and with
four sweeps out we sped along at a fine rate. I shall never forget that
water ride. We seemed to be pulling uphill every fathom of the way. The
black, oily waves, with their teethlike crests of white, rose above our
bow at every stroke of the sweeps, and when I looked behind me it seemed
that we must surely be engulfed.

The snow, driven by the wind, swirled in angry blasts, and the damp, cold
air chilled us to the bone. Our greatest danger would be when we came to
land at the Bridge stairs, for the tide was pouring in through the arches
of the Bridge and was falling in a great cataract just below the foot of
the stairs. One false stroke of Betty's steering oar when we came to
land, and our boat would be swamped. But she clung to the oar and brought
us safely to the stairs within a fathom of the breakers.

We ran up Gracious Street and found the girl waiting in Betty's parlor.
But Betty had told us all there was to be learned, so we gave the girl a
few shillings and sent her home.

"What shall we do?" asked Betty, feeling that she had earned a right to
couple herself with Hamilton and me by the pronoun "we."

"I'll go to see Lilly," said Hamilton. "He lives in the Strand, not far
from Temple Bar."

"Why do you wish to see him?" I asked.

"He will tell us where Frances is and how to find her. Will you go with
me?" asked Hamilton.

"Certainly," I responded, though I considered the visit a waste of time.

"May I, too, go?" asked Betty, with the double motive, doubtless, of
helping and seeing. Lilly, engaged in his incantations, would be an
inspiring sight to her.

"No, no, you may not go with us," answered Hamilton.

Betty's eyes looked up to me entreatingly, so I took up her cause, and
suggested:--

"Lilly may want to question her about what the girl said."

"You are right," returned George. "Wrap yourself up well, Betty, and come
along. We'll take a coach to Lilly's."

A porter soon brought us a coach, and Betty, having explained to her
father where and why she was going, climbed in with George and me, and we
were off.




CHAPTER IX

KIDNAPPED


We found Lilly at home, eager to help us. He asked many questions
relating to my cousin's life and her friends at court, to all of which I
made full answer in so far as I knew, including an account of the king's
objectionable attentions. I suspected that the Doctor would make more use
of the knowledge he obtained from me than of that to be received from the
stars, but I did not care how he reached his conclusions if he could but
tell us how and where to find Frances.

Lilly questioned Betty also, and when he had learned all that she knew,
he left us seated in the parlor while he went to his observatory to set a
figure. In the course of ten minutes he returned and gave us the result
of his calculations, as follows:--

"I believe I can tell you where Mistress Jennings is, and how she may be
found," he said, speaking and acting as one walking in sleep. "But your
failure to tell me the exact hour of her birth lends uncertainty to my
calculations. I have all the particulars concerning the nativity of a man
whom I shall not name. I have read the stars many times for him and on
many subjects. If he is connected with the disappearance of Mistress
Jennings, you will find her at a place called Merlin House, six leagues
from Westminster and half a league from the Oxford Road."

Here his eyes began to roll and he seemed to be under a spell. He made
strange, weird passes in the air for a time, then became rigid, his face
upturned and his arms uplifted. Betty was frightened and drew close to my
side, grasping my arm.

After perhaps a minute of silence, Lilly began to speak again in low
sepulchral tones: "I see a house in the depths of a forest dark and wild.
It is surrounded by a high wall. In the east side of the wall is a double
door or gate of thick oak, which you will find locked and barred. The
house is of brick, save a tower at the southeast corner, which is of
stone three stories high. To reach the house, you must travel on the
Oxford Road a distance of six leagues and two furlongs, where you will
find a broken shrine, erected hundreds of years ago to the Blessed
Virgin. The shrine is on the left side of the road as you travel west,
one hundred paces back, on the top of a low hill surrounded by a bleak
moor. The shrine has gone to decay, but it holds a sacred relic of the
Blessed Virgin."

Betty, who was a Catholic, crossed herself and murmured an Ave. Lilly
continued:--

"On the apex of the shrine there is a broken cross. The night is dark
and you may pass without seeing it, therefore I shall direct you how to
find it. A short distance this side of the shrine the road turns sharply
to the left, just before crossing a bourne which is six leagues from
Westminster. After you have crossed the bourne, bring your horses to a
walk, and when you have counted a number equal to the sum of seven times
the square of eleven, counting as the clock ticks, halt, and you will
find the shrine on a hillock in a bleak moor. You may easily see it, as
it will be dark against the snow. Neither rain nor snow touches it, and
the storm spares it. It has been abandoned by men hundreds of years,
therefore the Blessed Virgin protects it from further decay."

He seemed to be a long time coming to the house, but after another pause,
he continued:--

"Half a league beyond the shrine a narrow road branches to the south.
Take it, and soon you will be in the midst of a forest, dark and wild.
The road will be dim and difficult to follow in its windings, but your
horses will keep the way and will take you to a gate in the midst of the
forest. Enter by the gate and follow the road winding among the trees
till you reach the double door or gate in the wall. The house will be
dark save in the third story of the stone tower, where you will see a
star beaming in the window. Raphael, my familiar spirit, will hold the
star for your guidance. In the room of the star, you will find the person
you seek. Delay not!"