The Touchstone of Fortune written by Charles Major

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"Did you see him at Merlin House?" asked George, turning to Frances.

"No," she answered. "It seems that the drivers of the coach lost their
way. The horses were poor beasts, and, owing to many halts on the road,
our progress was slow. When I first entered the house, an old woman led
me to the room in which you found me. The ropes on my wrists and ankles
had been removed soon after I left London, but I was not allowed to
remove the cloak until after the old woman had closed the door on me.
Then I sat down so stunned that I could hardly think. But it seemed only
a few minutes till I heard dear, brave Betty at the window.
You must have come rapidly."

When we told Frances our side of the story, how Betty had come to
Whitehall to see me and had been the real leader throughout it all,
Frances leaned forward and kissed the girl, saying:--

"God bless her, and you, too, Baron Ned. She is worthy of you, and you
have my consent."

In further discussing Frances's journey, she said that the men who were
with her in the coach were masked and that she did not know them, but she
was sure neither was the king. They did not speak, save to tell the
driver to travel slowly to avoid reaching the house too far ahead of the
"other coach."

The other coach, which Frances said she heard enter the gate, arrived not
more than ten minutes before we reached Merlin House, and it is probable
that we were undisturbed in our rescue because of the fact that supper
was in progress.

It was nearly three o'clock by George's watch when we reached the dark
clump of houses standing west of Covent Garden, and within less than half
an hour we were in the cozy courtyard of the Old Swan.

Pickering was waiting for us, having kept vigil alone since midnight.
When he saw me carrying Betty from the coach, he ran to us with a cry and
snatched her from my arms. We followed him into the house where we found
him weeping over the girl, and kissing her hands as she lay on a bench
near the fire.

"What have you been doing? Have you killed my little girl?" he asked
sorrowfully.

"I hope not, Pickering," I answered. "She had a fall of not more than
eight or ten feet, and although I fear she is hurt, I am sure the injury
is not serious, as I caught her and broke the fall."

"Let us take her to bed," suggested Frances.

George went to fetch Doctor Price, the surgeon, and I carried Betty
upstairs. I laid her on the bed, and after I had talked a few minutes
with Pickering, explaining to him the events of the night, and telling
him of Betty's glorious part in our success, I went downstairs to wait in
the tap-room for George and the surgeon.

Presently they came, and George and I followed the surgeon to Betty's
door, where we waited in the hallway outside to hear his report.
Presently Frances came out to tell us that Betty's injuries were no
greater than a few sprains and bruises, and that the surgeon said she
would be well in a few days.

I could have shouted for joy on hearing the news, but restrained myself,
and suggested to Frances that she go at once to her father's house and
that I go to Whitehall to be there before its awakening.

If I learned that the king had been absent during the night, I should
know with reasonable certainty that he had been privy to the outrage
perpetrated on Frances. If he has been at the palace all night, he might
be innocent of the crime.

"In neither case will I return to Whitehall," declared Frances,
indignantly, when I spoke of the possibility of the king's innocence.

"But you must," I replied insistently. "We must say nothing of your
terrible experience. Publicity of this sort ruins a woman's fair name,
but the result in this case would be far more disastrous. Fear will drive
the king to further acts of villainy to protect himself if he learns that
we suspect him, and your life and mine, as well as George's, may be in
peril. I shall go to my bedroom in the Wardrobe, and no one shall know
that I have not been there all night."

Frances seemed stubborn, but knowing her danger, I continued: "Let
us have a conference with your father and your sister. I deem it best
that we let it be known abroad that you were at your father's house all
night. Since the king did not see you at Merlin House, he may come
to suspect that his agents kidnapped the wrong person. Later on you may
leave court with honor; now you would leave in disgrace. Right or wrong,
the king can do no wrong, and even were it known that he had kidnapped
you, every one would laugh at you as the victim of a royal prank. Many
would say that you were willing to be kidnapped, and the court hussies
would rejoice at your downfall."

Frances and George saw the force of my argument, and we agreed to act
accordingly, George, of course, having little to do in the premises save
to remain hidden.

In a few minutes Pickering brought us a coach, and Frances and I drove to
Temple Bar, where I dismissed the coach and walked with my cousin to her
father's house.

I went in with Frances, and we aroused Sir Richard to tell him of his
daughter's experience, and of the plan of action agreed upon, though we
did not mention the king's name, leading Sir Richard to believe that we
did not know the guilty persons.

Sir Richard and Sarah readily agreed that secrecy was our only means of
saving Frances from ruinous publicity. Sarah especially grasped the point
and cleared the situation of all cloud by suggesting:--

"My sister has been here ever since yesterday noon, as my father, John
Churchill, and I will testify."

That was a very long speech for Sarah, but it was a helpful one. I, too,
might add my testimony and thus furnish enough evidence to convince any
reasonable person that Frances had not been kidnapped, but had remained
safe and well in her father's house through all this terrible night.

Just as soon as our plans were completed, I left my uncle's house and
took another coach for Charing Cross, dismissed the coach, ran down to
Whitehall, and climbed over the balcony to my closet, glad to find myself
once more at home. I did not permit myself to sleep, but rose at the
usual hours and was at my post ready for duty when the others arrived.

I soon learned that the king had been away from the palace all night,
having left in a coach near the hour of five the preceding afternoon, so
that he must have been not far ahead of George, Betty, and me on the way
to Merlin House. When I learned that he was away, and that I would not be
needed that morning at the Wardrobe, I went to seek Frances.

Before ten o'clock, the hour at which the maids assembled to greet the
duchess in her closet, Frances was on hand, looking pale, and explaining
that she had been ill at her father's house over night.

Near the hour of four that afternoon, while I was looking out the window,
I saw a coach approach from the direction of Charing Cross, and seemed to
know that the king was in it. I hastened to Frances and told her to
station herself where the king could see her before he went to his
closet, and perhaps speak to her. I stood near by, and when the king
entered I noticed him start on seeing Frances. When he came up to us, she
smiled and made so deep a courtesy that one would have thought she was
overjoyed to see him.

The king stopped before us for a moment, saying, "We have had a terrible
storm, baron."

"Indeed we have, your Majesty," I answered, bowing, "though I have not so
much as thrust my head out-of-doors save to go down to Sir Richard's
yesterday evening to fetch Mistress Jennings home."

"Did she come--I mean, would she face the storm?" asked the king.

"No, no," answered Frances, laughing. "Why face the storm to return to
Whitehall when the king was away? I remained with my father, and was so
ill that a physician was called at seven o'clock."

"I hope you are well again," said the king.

"Not entirely. But now I shall be," she answered, laughing.

"You mean now that I am at home?" asked the king, shaking his head
doubtfully.

"Yes, your Majesty."

"If your heart were as kind as your tongue, I should be a much happier
man than I am."

His Majesty sighed as he turned away, and the expression on his face was
as an open book to me, knowing as I did that he had just failed in
perpetrating an act of villainy which would have hanged any other man in
England.

One of the king's greatest misfortunes was his mouth. He could never keep
it closed. A secret seemed to disagree with him, physically and mentally;
therefore he relieved himself of it as soon as possible by telling any
one that would listen. Knowing this royal weakness, I was not at all
surprised to learn, two or three days after our adventure, that it was
being talked about by the court.

One evening at the queen's ball, my Lady Castlemain, a very cat of a
woman, came up to a group consisting of the king, the duchess, Frances,
myself, and three or four others who were standing near the king's chair.
Elbowing her way to the king, near whom Frances was standing, Lady
Castlemain said:--

"Ah, la Belle Jennings, tell us of your adventure Sunday night!"

"Of what adventure, la Belle Castlemain?" asked Frances, smiling sweetly.

"Why, when you were kidnapped and carried to a country house for the
night," returned Castlemain, with a vindictive gleam in her eyes and an
angry toss of her head.

"I kidnapped Sunday night?" asked Frances, in well-feigned surprise. "No
such romantic adventure has befallen me."

"Yes, kidnapped Sunday night," returned Castlemain, showing her teeth.
"Of course you were kidnapped! I'm sure nothing would induce so modest a
lady as the fair Jennings to go of her own free will. She would insist on
being taken by force. Ha! ha! Force!"

She laughed as though speaking in jest, but her real intent was plain to
every one that heard her. Frances, too, laughed so merrily that one might
have supposed she considered it all a joke, and her acting was far better
than Castlemain's.

"But one must keep up an appearance of virtue and must insist on being
kidnapped," said Frances, banteringly. "It not only enhances one's value,
but excuses one's fault. All these little subterfuges are necessary until
one reaches a point where one is both brazen and cheap."

Castlemain's life of shame at court had long ceased to be even a matter
of gossip, but at this time she was notoriously involved with one Jacob
Hall, a common rope dancer. Therefore my cousin's thrust went home.

"So you admit having been kidnapped?" asked Castlemain, with little
effort to conceal her vindictiveness.

"Sunday, say you?" asked Frances.

"Yes, Sunday noon, in the public streets, and Sunday night in a country
house," returned Castlemain.

"Let me see," said Frances, pausing for a moment to recall what she
had been doing at the time of the supposed kidnapping. Then turning
to the Duchess of York, who stood beside her, and who, she felt sure,
would catch the hint and help her out, she asked, "Were we not playing
at cards in your Grace's parlor Sunday afternoon?"

"Sunday afternoon?" repeated the duchess, quite willing to thwart
Castlemain's design. "Yes, my dear, Sunday afternoon. Yes, we began just
after dinner, and it was almost dark when we stopped. Don't you remember
I said, after we had lighted the candles, that I wished my husband could
afford to give me wax in place of tallow?"

We all laughed except the king, who became very much interested, and of
course, excepting Castlemain, who was rapidly losing her head in anger.

After the duchess had spoken, the king asked, with as careless an air as
he could assume:--

"At what hour, sister, did Mistress Jennings leave your parlor?"

"I think it was about four o'clock," replied her Grace. "She asked
permission to spend the night with her father, and Baron Clyde called
about four o'clock to escort her. Was not that the hour, baron?"

"Yes, your Grace," I answered, bowing. "I accompanied my cousin to
her father's house, returned later to fetch her back to the palace,
but she did not care to face the storm, so I remained till ten o'clock,
returned to Whitehall, and slept till morning. Here is another witness,"
I continued, laughing, as I turned to John Churchill, who was standing
near the king. "Step forward, Churchill, and testify. I left him making
his suit to one of the most interesting ladies in London."

The king turned with an inquiring look, and Churchill answered: "Yes,
your Majesty, it is all true. I was making my suit until near the hour
of eleven, when Mistress Jennings, who was ill, told me it was time to
go home. If she was kidnapped Sunday night, it was before five o'clock
or after eleven."

I flattered myself that we had all done a neat bit of convincing lying in
a good cause.

"Odds fish!" mumbled the king, pulling his chin beard, evidently puzzled.

"Odds fish!" exclaimed Frances, mimicking the king's tone of voice and
twisting an imaginary beard. "Some one has been hoaxing Jacob Hall's
friend."

It was a bold speech, but Frances carried it off splendidly by turning to
the king and speaking in mock seriousness:--

"Your Majesty should put a check on Rochester and the wags. It is a shame
to permit them to work upon the credulity of one who is growing weak in
mind by reason of age."

The country girl had vanquished the terror of the court, and all who had
witnessed the battle rejoiced; that is, all save the king and Castlemain.
She glared at Frances, and her face, usually beautiful despite the lack
of youth, became hideous with rage. She was making ready for another
attack of words, if not of finger nails, when the duchess interposed,
saying:--

"Evidently some one has been hoaxing you, Lady Castlemain. Mistress
Jennings was not kidnapped Sunday nor any other day. She has been with
me constantly of late, excepting Sunday after four o'clock, and she has
accounted for herself from that time till her return to my closet."

Castlemain was whipped out, so she turned the whole matter off with a
forced laugh, saying:--

"It was that fool Rochester who set the rumor afloat."

After standing through an awkward minute or two, Castlemain bowed stiffly
to the king and the duchess, turned away from our group, and soon left
the ballroom.

When Castlemain was gone, we all laughed save the king. Presently he left
us, and I saw him beckon Wentworth and Berkeley to his side. I followed
him as though going to the other side of the gallery, but walked slowly
when I approached him and the two worthy villains. I was rewarded by
hearing his Majesty say:--

"Odds fish! But you made a mess of it! You got the wrong woman! Who in
the devil's name did you pick up?"

I could not stop to hear the rest of this interesting conversation, but
two days later I heard from Rochester, who had it from Wentworth, that
the following occurred:--

"We thought we had her," answered Berkeley, nodding towards Frances, "but
the woman wore a full vizard and was wrapped in furs to her ears, so that
we did not see her face."

"Do you suppose we could have made a mistake?" asked Wentworth.

"You surely did," answered the king. "She has established an alibi. At
what hour did you leave Baynard's Castle?"

"Near one o'clock," returned Berkeley.

"One o'clock! She was playing cards with the duchess till four,"
exclaimed the king, impatiently. "You picked up the wrong woman. But
I'm glad you did. I suppose the lampooners will get hold of the story
and will set every one laughing at me. Kidnapped the wrong woman and
lost her! Odds fish! But you're a pair of wise ones. I see I shall have
to find me a new Lord High Kidnapper."

The king was right concerning the lampooners, for soon they had the
story, and he became the laughing-stock of London, though Frances's name
was not mentioned.

It is a significant index to the morals of our time that the king's
attempt to kidnap a woman in the streets of London should have aroused
laughter rather than indignation.

As it was, the kidnapping episode brought no harm to my cousin, but she
did not want it to happen again, and so was careful to take a trusted
escort with her when she went abroad thereafter.

CHAPTER X

AT THE MAID'S GARTER

Betty was confined to her room during the greater part of the next month,
and Frances visited her frequently. Notwithstanding my vows not to see
Betty, I was compelled to go with Frances as her body-guard. I even went
so far in my feeble effort to keep my resolution as to suggest Churchill
as a body-guard, but Frances objected, and the quality of my good intent
was not enduring. So I went with my cousin, and the joy in Betty's eyes
whenever we entered her room was not the sort that would come because she
was glad to see Frances.

* * * * *

During the first week of Bettina's illness she was too sick to talk,
therefore we did not remain long with her. But as she grew better our
visits lengthened, and my poor resolutions grew weaker day by day because
my love for the girl was growing stronger and stronger hour by hour.

On one occasion while Frances's back was turned, Betty impulsively
snatched up my hand and kissed it, dropping it instantly, blushing
intensely and covering her tracks by humming the refrain of a French
lullaby. I longed to return the caress, but did not, and took great
credit to myself because of my self-denial. Betty understood my sacrifice
and appreciated it, feeling sure that she need not thereafter restrain
herself for the purpose of restraining me.

During those times I was making an honest effort to do the right by this
beautiful child-woman and to save my own honor unsullied from the sin of
making her unhappy for life through winning her love beyond her power to
recall; and my effort toward the right, like all such efforts, achieved
at least a part of the good for which I strove.

One day after our visit to Betty's room, Frances asked me to take her to
see George. I suspected that she had seen him frequently, but was not
sure. I objected, but changed my mind when she said:--

"Very well. I prefer going alone."

I shall not try to describe the scene between them. We found George
alone, and she sprang to him as the iron springs to the magnet.

I knew then, if never before, that there could be no happiness in this
world for her away from him. Whether she would find it with him was
impossible for me to know, but I saw that she was in the grip of a mighty
passion, and I could only hope that a way would open to save her.

Hamilton's fortunes would need to mend a great deal before he could
or would ask her to be his wife, for now he was at the bottom of the
ladder. He lost no opportunity to impress this disagreeable truth upon
her, but his honest efforts to hold himself aloof only increased her
respect and love for him. It not only convinced her that notwithstanding
his past life, he was a man of honor capable of resisting himself and of
protecting her, but it gave him the quality so irresistible to a
woman--unattainability.

Taking it all in all, my poor beautiful cousin was falling day by
day deeper into an abyss of love from which she could in no way
extricate herself. In short, level-headed Frances had got far out
of plumb, and, though she struggled desperately, she could not right
herself, nor could any one help her. I fully realized that the small
amount of self-restraint and passivity she still retained would give
way to disastrous activity when the time should come for her to part
with George and lose him forever. But I could see no way to save her
unless I could induce George to leave England at once, for good and
all.

At times the fates seem to fly to a man's help, and in this instance they
came to me most graciously that same day in Whitehall, in the person of
my friend the Count de Grammont.

Soon after leaving Frances in the maids' apartments, I met that most
interesting gentleman roue, his Grace de Grammont, coming from the king's
closet. As already stated, he had been banished from the French court by
Louis XIV because of a too great friendliness for one of the king's
sweethearts, and was living in exile in London till Louis should forgive
his interference. The French king really liked De Grammont and trusted
him when his Majesty's lady-loves were not concerned, so the count had
been sent to England in honorable exile, and was employed in certain
cases as a spy and in others as a means of secret communication between
the French king and persons connected with the court of Charles II.

When De Grammont saw me, he came forward, holding out both hands in his
effusive French manner, apparently overjoyed at finding a long-lost
brother.

"Come with me, my dear baron," he cried, bending so close to me that I
feared he was going to kiss me. "Come with me! You are the very man of
all the world I want, I need, I must have!"

"You have me, my dear count," said I, "but I cannot go with you. I am
engaged elsewhere."

"No, no, let me whisper!" He brought his lips close to my ear and
continued almost inaudibly: "You may please me. You may help a friend.
You may oblige--a king."

The last, of course, was the _ne plus ultra_ of inducement according to
the count's way of thinking, and he supposed the mere suggestion would
vanquish me. Still I pleaded my engagement. He insisted, however,
repeating in my ear:--

"Oblige a king! A real king! Not a flimsy fool of bourgeois, who makes of
himself the laughing-stock of his people, but a real king. I cannot name
him now, but you must know."

We were in a narrow passage leading to the Stone Gallery in Whitehall. He
looked about him a moment, then taking me by the arm, led me to the Stone
Gallery and thence to the garden. I wanted to stop, but he kept his grasp
on my arm, repeating now and then the word "Come" in whispers, till we
reached a lonely spot in St. James Park. There he halted, and though
there was not a living creature in sight, he brought his lips to my ear
and breathed the name, "'Sieur George Hamilton."

I tried not to show that I was startled, but the quickwitted, sharp-eyed
Frenchman read me as though I were an open book, and grasping my hand,
cried out:--

"Ah, I knew you could tell me. It is to rejoice! I knew it!"

"Tell you what, count?" I asked.

"Tell me where your friend and mine is, or if you will not tell me, take
to him a letter. I have been trying to find him this fortnight."

"I cannot tell you where he is, my dear count--"

"Of course not! I do not ask," he interrupted.

"--But I may be able to forward your letter to him. I heard only the
other day that he was in France."

"Of course, of course, he is in France! Not in England at all! Good,
good! I see you are to be trusted. But I must have your word of honor
that the letter will be delivered."

"I shall send it by none but a trusted messenger," I answered, "and shall
return it to you unopened unless I am convinced beyond a doubt that it
will reach our friend."

"Good, good! Come to my hotel. I will trust you."

We went to De Grammont's house, and after taking great precautions
against discovery, he gave me a small wooden box wound with yards of tape
and sealed with quantities of wax. I put the box in my pocket, saying:--

"I accept the trust on my honor, dear count, and though the package bears
no name nor address, I shall deliver it to the person for whom it is
intended."

De Grammont said he knew nothing of the contents of the box except that
it contained a message for a friend, and I believed him.

When I left his house he came to the door with me, murmuring: "My
gratitude! My gratitude! Also the gratitude of my king, which I hope may
prove of far greater value to your friend than my poor offering of
words."

I lost no time in seeking George, except to make sure that I was not
followed. I trusted De Grammont and felt sure that the box he had given
me contained a personal communication from no less a person than Louis
XIV of France, but I wanted to take no risk of betraying Hamilton by
leading De Grammont or any one else to his hiding-place.

Since Frances's providential escape, the king had suspected the right
persons of her rescue. At least he suspected Hamilton, and was seeking
him more diligently than ever before. His Majesty had not shown me any
mark of disfavor, but I feared he suspected me, and was sure he was not
convinced that Frances's alibi had been proved by unsuborned testimony.
If he was sure that she was the one who had been kidnapped, his
suspicious nature would connect George with the rescue, and would lead
him to conclude that Hamilton must be in England.

A maid of Lady Castlemain's told Rochester, who in turn told me, that the
king had again set his men to work searching for Hamilton. That being the
case, George was in danger, and should he be found by the king's secret
agents, who, I understood, were prowling all over England in the hope of
obtaining a reward, his life would not be worth a week's purchase.

George knew the risk he ran by remaining in England, but it was a part of
his reckless courage to take delight in it. Later on this recklessness of
disposition induced him to take a far greater risk. But of that in its
turn.

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