The Touchstone of Fortune written by Charles Major

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He stopped speaking, bent forward, breathed upon a gold plate covered
with mystic signs which rested on a table, rose to an upright posture,
again became rigid, stretched out his hands with face upturned, and
whispered in tones almost inaudible:--

"Come thou, great Raphael, spirit of rescue, and help me this night in a
righteous cause. In the name of Jupiter, the father of the gods, Mercury,
his son, and Psyche, the spirit of the stars!"

He stood dazed for a moment, as though just awakened, then turning
quickly to me, said: "Lose not a moment's time. Hasten at once to the
rescue. I am sure my directions will lead you to her whom you seek."

Betty, George, and I gathered our hats and cloaks, and George, turning to
me, said:--

"We must find a light coach and four good horses. The road will be heavy
with snow, and we must be prepared to travel rapidly."

"Father has four good horses, as strong and swift as any in London,"
suggested Betty. "He has a light coach, too. Let us return to the Old
Swan and prepare to start at once."

"Betty, you are too wise for one of your age and sex," said George. "But
without your wisdom, I don't know what we should have done this night.
Let us go immediately."

Our coachman put his horses to a gallop, we reached the Old Swan in a
short time, and within less than half an hour, a porter informed me that
a coach and four were awaiting us in the courtyard. Pickering lent us
greatcoats and rugs and all things needful to keep us warm. He did not
know the exact reason for our journey, but had learned from Betty that it
was undertaken in an affair of great moment, involving my cousin's
safety.

George and I each carried a heavy sword and a pistol in addition to two
hand guns, primed and charged, which lay in a box on the coach floor. The
drivers on the box were each armed with a sword and a pistol. They had
been reluctant to leave the kitchen fire to face the storm, but when they
had a hint that a fight was possible, and when Pickering offered them a
guinea each, they changed their minds, quickly wrapped themselves in
greatcoats, and were on the box when we came out. George stopped at the
inn door to have a word with Pickering, and while they were talking I
climbed to the top of the front wheel of the coach to give instructions
to the drivers. I told them to drive at a moderate gait down Candlestick
Street and the Strand till they reached Charing Cross; then to turn up
towards Saint-Martin's-in-the-Fields and take the crooked road across
the Common till they reached the Oxford Road. When on the main highway,
they were to travel at full gallop.

"How long is the journey, sir?" asked one of the drivers. "I ask so that
I may know how fast to drive the horses."

"Between six and seven leagues," I answered.

"Ah, they can go that distance at a good pace if we on the box don't
freeze to death," he returned, buttoning up his greatcoat, bringing the
rug tightly about him and drawing on his gloves.

I sprang from the wheel and started to enter the coach just as George
left Pickering, but when I put my foot on the step, I saw a small man
sitting in the furthest corner of the back seat.

"Come, come, what are you doing here? And who are you?" I asked, stepping
into the coach for the purpose of pulling the fellow out.

I was greeted by a soft laugh and this answer: "I am sitting here, and my
name is Betty Pickering."

"My God, Betty, you can't go with us," I exclaimed, making ready to help
her out of the coach.

But she put her hand over my mouth to silence me and whispered, "The men
on the box must not know me."

Betty pushed me backward out of the coach, came out herself and led me to
George, who, by that time, was halfway across the courtyard.

"Who are you?" cried George, surprised to see the little man beside me,
for Betty was in greatcoat, trousers, and boots.

"I am Betty, and Baron Ned says I shall not go with you."

"No, no, Betty," answered George. "See the snow, the sleet, and the
storm. It is freezing and the wind cuts like a knife. It would kill you
to go with us."

"Think a moment," she answered, whispering, so that her words might not
be overheard by the men on the box. "Mistress Jennings may need the help
of a woman, but in any case you shall not have the coach and horses if I
don't go."

"Does your father know?" I asked.

"Yes, yes, come on! We are wasting valuable time," answered Betty,
starting toward the coach.

George and I were helpless against Betty's will, so we said nothing more,
and she climbed into the coach, taking her former place at the left end
of the back seat. George followed, taking the middle place next to her,
and after giving the word to start, I followed George, taking the right
hand corner, thus leaving him between Betty and me, an arrangement that
did not at all please me. But my disappointment was short lived, for
hardly was I seated till Betty spoke in tones plainly showing that she
was pouting:--

"I want Baron Ned to sit by me."

George laughed, he and I changed places, and when I was settled beside
Betty, she caught my hand, giving it a saucy little squeeze, and fell
back in her corner with a sigh and a low gurgling laugh.

When we had climbed Gracious Street hill, we turned into Candlestick
Street and drove along at a brisk pace, George and I watching the houses
to note our progress.

After passing Temple Bar, the street being broader and the night very
dark, we could not distinguish the houses save when a light gleamed over
a front door now and then, and were not sure where we were until we saw
the flambeaux over Whitehall Gate scintillating through the falling snow.

Before reaching Charing Cross, one of the drivers lifted the rug which
hung across the front of the coach between us and the box and asked:--

"Did you say, sir, to take the road across the Common from
Saint-Martin's-in-the-Fields?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Then, sir, have your pistols ready, for it is the worst bloody stretch
of road about London for highwaymen, though I doubt if they be out on a
night like this."

"You're not afraid?" I asked.

"Devil a bit, sir! I'd rather fight than eat, but I thought maybe your
honors would rather eat."

He cracked his whip, and soon we were over the dangerous ground,
travelling along on the Oxford Road at a fine gallop. On reaching the
open country the wind gave us its full force, there being no doors to our
coach, and soon our rugs were covered with snow. But George and I were
wrapped to our chins, and Bettina nestled cozily down in her corner
untouched by the storm.

After leaving Westminster, we had no means of knowing our rate of
progress, for there were no houses near the road, and, if there had been,
we should not have known them. The drivers kept the horses in a strong
trot, at times a vigorous gallop, and I judged that we were making nearly
three leagues an hour. At that rate it would require perhaps two hours to
reach the shrine mentioned by Lilly.

We had instructed the men on the box to watch for a sharp bend in the
road just before crossing a bourne, and we, too, began to watch soon
after leaving Westminster. After what seemed to be a long time, George
asked me to make a flare in my tinder box, while he caught a glimpse
of the face of his watch. This I did under the rug, and, much to our
disgust, we found that we had been less than twenty minutes on the road,
so provokingly had time lagged.

After our disappointment we lay back in the coach, determined to ignore
time, and thereby perhaps hasten it. In truth, time's lagging was not
unpleasant for me, in one respect, at least, for Bettina was by my side.
I found delight in keeping her well tucked about with rugs, so that not
even a breath of the storm nor a flake of snow could reach her. She wore
a great fur hood which buttoned under her chin, almost covering her face
and falling in a soft warm curtain to her shoulders and bosom. She was
warm, and aside from our great cause of anxiety, I believe, was happy.
I wished a hundred times that George were in another coach, though had
he been, I well knew that I should have said a great deal to Betty which
on the morrow would have been regretted, both for her sake and my own.

Just at a point when time seemed to have halted, the driver lifted the
rug hanging behind him, and said:--

"Here is the bend, sir, and yonder is the bourne."

Presently we knew by the breaking of the ice and the splashing of the
water that we were crossing the bourne, and when we were over, George
called to the driver, directing him to allow the horses to walk until the
order came to stop.

George dropped the front curtain, and turning to Betty and me, said:--

"Now, let us count as the clock ticks to the number 847, and when
finished, we shall be at the shrine."

"We are more apt to find a bleak moor and a sharp blast of wind," I
suggested.

While under the spell of Lilly's incantations, I had almost accepted his
absurd vaporings, but cooler thought had brought contempt, and I had
begun to look upon our journey as a very wild goose chase indeed.

"We have found the sharp turn in the road and the bourne," said George,
"and I see no reason to doubt that we shall find the shrine."

"Lilly may have passed over the road and may know that the shrine is
here; but when we find it, what will it prove?" I asked.

"It will prove nothing, though I am willing to stake my life that we find
Frances in Merlin House."

"Count!" exclaimed Betty, sharply. In our discussion, George and I had
forgotten to count, but Betty had been counting under her breath as the
clock ticks, and we took her number and started with it.

We all reached the number 847 almost at the same second, when we stopped
the coach, and sure enough, there by the roadside, on a small rocky
hillock surrounded by a bleak moor, was the shrine. Even from the road we
could see the fragment of a cross projecting above the one piece of wall
left standing. One would hardly have taken it to be a shrine unless the
fact had been suggested, but with the thought in mind, the fragmentary
cross was convincing evidence. Had its sacred quality been suspected
during the time of Cromwell, not one stone would have been left upon
another, but no one knew that it was the Virgin's shrine, therefore it
was not disturbed, but stood there, black on a field of luminous white.
We all saw it at the same moment. I was content to view it from the
coach, but George went to examine it, and returned, saying:--

"It is a shrine. Part of the cross still remains surmounting a fragment
of a wall."

He climbed into the coach and was about to give the word to start again,
when Betty spoke up, hesitatingly, pleadingly but emphatically:--

"Please wait a moment. I want to see it."

I followed Betty when she got out of the coach, and, as we approached the
shrine, she exclaimed: "Doctor Lilly was right! There is no snow on the
shrine. The Virgin protects it. There must be a relic beneath the
stones!"

We climbed a little hillock and after standing before the shrine for a
moment, Betty said, "Please return to the coach and leave me alone."

"Why, Betty?" I asked. "You may speak plainly to me. I think I know your
motive."

"I want to offer a little prayer to the Virgin here at her broken
shrine--a prayer for your cousin and for you--and for me."

I knelt with her, and after Betty had finished her simple invocation, we
rose, and I, who at another time would have laughed at the prayer, felt
the thrill of her whispered words lingering in my heart. I seemed to know
that we should rescue Frances, and I also knew that my love for Bettina
would bring me nothing but joy, softened and sanctified by sadness, and
to her nothing of evil save the pain of a gentle longing.

Betty felt as I did, for when she rose she said, "Now we shall find
Mistress Jennings, and, Baron Ned, I shall fear you no more."

"Have you feared me?" I asked, touched to the quick by her artless
candor.

"Yes," she answered, sighing. "Though I have feared myself more. You
are so far above me in every way that it is no wonder I am bewildered
when you say--say--that you--. You know what I mean."

"Yes, Betty," I answered quickly, feeling that she had more to say.

"I was bewildered in my parlor at the Old Swan to-day," she said, hanging
her head. "Your opinion of me must have fallen."

"No, no, I understood, Betty, I understood, and I dare not tell you how
much my opinion has risen because I would say more than would be good for
you or for me," I answered reassuringly.

"But you must remember that a girl has impulses and yearnings at times,
and she should not be too harshly blamed if she sometimes fails to beat
them down. But now it will all be different. The Blessed Virgin will help
us, and our conflict is over."

Betty and I started back to the coach, both feeling the uplift of
our answered prayer. Probably we were the only devotees that had knelt
before the shrine in hundreds of years, and the Virgin had heard our
supplication. It was a proposition I should have laughed at and held to
scorn prior to that time.

After leaving the shrine, it was only a few minutes till the coach
turned to the left into a narrow road, and we were approaching the end
of our rough journey. We continued to travel at a brisk trot and came
to the forest, "dark and wild," of which Lilly had spoken. Thus far his
"calculations" were correct, and I was beginning to take hope that they
would continue so to the end. After half an hour on the winding road
through the forest, the drivers halted at the gate of which Lilly had
spoken, and in ten minutes more drew rein beside the high brick wall
surrounding Merlin House.

Without the least trouble we found the gates or doors in the wall, and
truly enough, they were of "thick oak" so strong that we could not feel
them vibrate when we tried to shake them, and so firmly locked in the
middle that we almost despaired of opening them. The wall was too high
to scale, and for a moment it looked as though our journey had been in
vain. But Betty's keen wits came to our rescue.

When George and I had examined the gates and had almost despaired of
opening them, Betty undertook an inspection of her own, and presently
called our attention to a hole, perhaps four inches in diameter, in
each gate, which was hidden by round curtains of wood hung within, so
completely closing up the holes as to make them invisible save on close
examination. She suggested that we pass the trace chain through one hole,
draw it out through the other, hitch the horses to the two ends, and pull
down the wall if the gates refused to give way.

Her plan was so good that the horses soon opened the gate, though it
required a strong pull from all four of them to do it. Betty and I were
the first to enter, George following close at our heels. The two drivers,
who had taken the horses back to the coach, hitched them to a tree and
soon followed us, bringing the long leather reins to be used as climbing
ropes if necessary.

Hardly had we entered the gate till we saw a starlike gleam of light in a
window of a room in the third story of the tower, as Lilly had predicted.
While I was convinced that the light came through a hole in the curtain
rather than from a star held by Raphael to guide us, still my scepticism
was rapidly turning to awe.

We were speaking of the light when two great dogs came bounding out of
the darkness and attacked us. I drew my sword, a sharp, heavy blade, and
being much frightened, began to swing it heroically in every direction.
Fortunately one of the dogs happened to be in one of the directions, and
I split its head. The other dog attacked Betty, but George ran to her
rescue and finished the animal before it had time to bark.

Having vanquished the dogs, we hastened to the tower and stopped beneath
the window of the star. We had hoped to attract Frances's attention by
casting pebbles against the window-pane, but we had counted without our
ammunition. We could find no pebbles, the snow being at least a foot
deep.

A thick vine, probably an ivy, covered the front of the tower, and George
attempted to make the escalade by climbing. He would have denuded the
wall had he continued his efforts, for the vine broke, not being strong
enough to bear his weight.

"Let me try it," whispered Betty, taking off her greatcoat, hood, gloves,
and boots and tossing them to the ground.

I objected to her risking her pretty neck and limbs, but she insisted
that she could make the ascent easily, and George agreeing with her, I
reluctantly consented.

Brave little Betty at once began the ascent, I standing under her to
break the fall if she should take one. When she had climbed five or six
feet from the ground, the vine broke and she fell, landing gracefully on
her feet. Instantly she was at it again, for Betty had a will of her own
greatly disproportioned to her size. Again the vine broke, and when I
picked her up I found that she had lost her breath by the fall, but she
laughed as soon as her breath returned, and was in no way discouraged.

In a moment she tried again, despite my protest, saying she would go more
slowly and use greater care in choosing the larger vines. This time she
was determined to succeed, so she again tied the leather reins about her
arm, grasped the vine, and within two minutes was standing on the upper
coping of the second-story window, her waist on a level with the sill of
the window of the star.

The wind howling through the trees and around the corner of the tower
made so great a din that at first we did not hear what Betty said to
attract Frances's attention, but presently, the storm lulling for a
moment, we listened intently and heard her say:--

"It is Betty Pickering."

We supposed she spoke in response to an inquiry from within, and we were
right, for almost instantly the curtains parted, the window opened, and
we saw Frances standing in the light of Raphael's star--a candle.

Up to that time I had been incredulous of Lilly's wisdom, and while I
had hoped to find my cousin, I had little faith in the result. But now
conviction came with a shock and, notwithstanding my joy at seeing
Frances, I found myself forgetting where I was in wondering whether Lilly
were a god, a devil, or merely a shrewd charlatan who had obtained his
wonderfully accurate knowledge from something that had happened in the
past wherein the king was concerned, or from some one who knew where
Frances had been taken.

I was awakened from my revery by hearing George call in a low voice to
Frances, telling her to fasten the ends of the leathers to a bedpost or a
heavy piece of furniture, and asking her if she could come down hand
under hand. She answered that she could and took the end of the reins
from Betty. After a minute or two spent by Frances back in the room, she
reappeared, tossed her cloak down to us, climbed out the window, and
stood for a moment beside Betty on the lower window cap. I heard Betty
encouraging her, and presently Frances began her descent, reaching the
ground safely. George would have been demonstrative, but I interrupted
him, saying:--

"Be ready to help me catch Betty in case she falls!"

Betty started down, but George called to her, telling her to climb into
the room, loosen the reins, and throw them out.

"But how shall I go down?" asked Betty, whose nerve was deserting her.

"You must come down as you climbed up--by the vines," returned George.

Betty climbed in at the window, and presently the leathers fell at our
feet. In a moment she reappeared, put one foot out the window, hesitated,
and called to me:--

"I'm afraid, Baron Ned. It seems so far, looking down."

George started toward the coach with Frances, leaving me and one of the
drivers to care for the girl who had saved our expedition from failure.

I could help Betty only by encouraging her, so I spoke softly: "Be brave,
Betty. Go slowly. Don't lose your head."

"It is not my head I fear to lose; it is my footing," she answered,
sitting on the window-sill, one foot hanging outside.

"But you must come, Betty," I said encouragingly. "Now say a little
prayer to the Virgin, and you'll be all right."

I saw her bow her head and cross herself, and the prayer giving her
strength, she climbed to the lower window coping and began her descent
on the vine. When halfway down she fell, and though I caught her, partly
breaking her fall, I knew that she was hurt. I helped her to her feet,
and she said breathlessly:--

"I'm all right. I'm not hurt."

But when we started toward the coach, she clung to me, limping, and
began to cry from pain. When I saw that she was hurt, I caught her up
in my arms and carried her to the coach, followed by the driver, bearing
the reins and Betty's hood, cloak, gloves, and boots. Frances was already
inside the coach, and George was about to follow her, when I came up with
poor helpless Betty, and somewhat angrily ordered him to stand aside
while I made her comfortable. Frances began to soothe Betty, whose tears
flowed afresh under the sympathy. By the time George and I were in the
coach, the drivers were on the box, but before we started one of them
lifted the curtain and said:--

"I hear them moving in the house."

"Make the more haste," I answered.

"Shan't we stay for a fight, sir?" asked the driver, evidently
disappointed.

"We'll have it later on," said George, and the next moment the coach was
turned and we were on our homeward road.

When we reached the Oxford Road, the horses started at a smart gallop,
and we began to hope that we had not been discovered by the inmates of
Merlin House. But soon we heard horses galloping behind us. After a
consultation, George and I concluded to stop the coach. Frances and Betty
were much alarmed, and begged us to try to escape by whipping the horses.
But I knew that our pursuers, being on horseback, would soon overtake us,
and I was convinced that nothing could be gained by attempting flight. I
have seen a small dog stop a larger one by waiting for it.

So we waited, and when our pursuers, a half score of men on horseback,
came up to us, we met them with a fusillade of powder and shot, which
persuaded them to allow us to go our way and evidently made them content
to go theirs, for we saw nothing more of them.

On the way to London, Frances told us briefly the story of the day. She
had started to her father's house and had left the river at Baynard's
Castle stairs. It was near one o'clock when she left her boat, and the
snow, which had been falling for an hour or more, covered the ground.
When she reached the head of the narrow street leading to Upper Thames
Street from the river stairs, she found a coach waiting for her. The
driver touched his hat and asked if she was Mistress Jennings. When she
answered that she was, he said I had sent him to watch for her and to
take her to Sir Richard's house, the snow being deep and the storm
violent. My name and Sir Richard's fell so glibly from the fellow's
tongue that she, suspecting nothing, entered the coach. Within three or
four minutes the coach stopped, but she thought nothing of it, supposing
the way was blocked.

While waiting, two men wrapped to their eyes in greatcoats came up, one
on either side of the coach, entered, threw a cloak over her head, and
bound her hand and foot. Immediately the coach started, but presently it
stopped again, and Frances had an opportunity to speak to the girl who
had come to see Betty. Fortunately a buttonhole in the cloak which the
men had thrown over Frances's head happened to fall over one of her eyes,
and thus enabled her to see the girl.

* * * * *

When our pursuers turned back, we reduced our speed, so that the journey
might be easier for Betty, who had moaned at every jolt, and when the
coach went smoother she fell asleep.

After we had all been silent for a long time, Frances said:--

"I have been thinking it all over, cousin Ned, and if Master Hamilton,
that is, George, wishes it, I will go with him, regardless of
consequences. I am tired of the fight."

"What?" I cried, startled almost to anger.

"Do not run me through, Ned," cried Hamilton. "This is the first
intimation I have had of her purpose, and to save myself from slaughter
at your hands, I hasten to say that I will not accept her sacrifice. It
were kinder in me to kill her than to marry her."

We all laughed to cover our embarrassment, and George said ruefully:
"The king, I fear, will settle the question without consulting us. De
Grammont tells me that his Majesty believes I am in London and that he
is eager to give a public entertainment on Tyburn Hill, wherein I shall
be the principal actor. Now our beloved monarch's hatred will be
redoubled, for he will suspect that I helped in the rescue to-night."

"Do you suspect him of being privy to the outrage tonight?" asked
Frances.

"I know it. There is no villainy he would not do, provided it required no
bravery," said George.

"But we must not let the king know that we suspect him," I suggested. "He
may be innocent of the crime. I shall know the truth before to-morrow
night."

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