The Touchstone of Fortune written by Charles Major

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"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
pronunciation. "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 sunshine, 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 hell, 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!
Not a pig--a prig! Is it not so?"

"True, true, count," I returned, unable to restrain a laugh. "It is the
affectation of virtue that makes frank vice attractive by comparison."

"Ah, true, true, my dear baron. May I proceed with my errand?"

"Proceed, count."

"Monsieur le Comte Hamilton begs me to say that he was called away from
London early to-day on the king's business, but that he will return
in four weeks. When he returns he will do himself the honor to send
me again, asking you to name a friend, unless you prefer to apologize,
which no gentleman would do in a case of this sort. You said, I am told,
that Monsieur le Comte lied. If you admit that he did not lie, of course
you admit that you did. So, im-pos-si-ble! There must be to fight!"

"Do you know, count, the cause of my having given Count Hamilton the
lie?" I asked.

"I did not inquire," he answered smilingly. "To me it was to carry the
message."

"George Hamilton is your friend, is he not?" I asked.

"Yes, but far more, he is the friend of my king, and will make entreaty
with my monarch for my return to France," answered De Grammont.

"It was because of Count Hamilton's insulting reference to his brother
that I used the ugly word," I returned.

"A-ah, that is different!" Then recovering himself quickly: "But I
undertook the mission. It is to finish. Monsieur George Hamilton? My
friend? My king's friend? If it had been known to me! But you have the
message of 'Sieur le Comte."

After a short silence he said, "When Monsieur le Comte Hamilton returns,
I shall ask him to relieve me of this duty."

As De Grammont was leaving my closet, he paused at the door, and, after a
moment's hesitancy, whispered:--

"You may expect a letter from France soon. It will come from M. l'Abbe du
Boise, who I hope will come soon to London on the business of my king.
You know him not--M. l'Abbe?" The eyebrows lifted questioningly. "No? You
soon will know him, yet you will not know him. You and perhaps a lady may
help him in his mission. I, too, shall help him, but I, too, know him
not. Yet I know him. If he succeed in his mission, he will be rich, he
will be powerful. And I? Mon Dieu, my friend! If he succeed, my decree of
banishment from Paris--it will be to revoke. I may return once more to
bask in the smile of my king. You must not speak; the lady must not
speak; I must not speak when Monsieur l'Abbe comes, nor before. It is to
silence. Stone walls have one ear."

"Two, sometimes, count," I suggested, laughing.

"Yes, I should have said one ears! Non, non! I forget this damnable
tongue of yours! When I arrive to great interest, it is to talk faster
than it is to think, and--" A shrug of the shoulders finished the
sentence.

"Let us speak French hereafter, my dear count," I suggested.

"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! It is to me more of pain to hear my sweet language
murdered than to murder yours," answered Grammont, seriously.

"Ah, but I speak French quite as well as I speak English. Perhaps I shall
not murder it," I replied.

"Perhaps? We shall try," he said, though with little show of faith.

I began speaking French, but when I paused for his verdict, he shrugged
his shoulders, saying:--

"Ah, _oui, oui!_ It may be better than my English." But notwithstanding
his scant praise, we spoke the French language thereafter.

The count bowed himself out and left me to decipher, if I could, the
problem of M. l'Abbe du Boise. Presently I discovered the cue. The
Abbe was George Hamilton, and for the moment my heart almost stopped
beating. If he should come to England on the French king's business,
which could be nothing more nor less than the Dunkirk affair, and
should be discovered, there would be a public entertainment on Tyburn
Hill, with George as the central figure.

When I found a spare hour, I hastened to see Lilly and came upon the
good Doctor among the stars, as usual. There was a letter for me from
Hamilton. It was short and in cipher:--

"DEAR FRIEND:

"This is to tell you that M. l'Abbe du Boise will soon be in London. He
will be the guest of M. Comte de Grammont.

"You do not know him. Please call on him when he arrives. Tell the
Duchess of Hearts that he will want to see her. Ask her to be ready to
help him. He goes to buy Dunkirk for the French king, and his success
will mean good fortune for me.

"Your friend,

"LE BLANC."

After reading the letter, I felt sure that the Abbe du Boise was George
Hamilton. I could hardly bring myself to believe that he would be so
foolhardy as to visit Whitehall, though I knew the adventure was of a
nature likely to appeal to his reckless disregard of consequences. I
knew also that, if successful, he would win the reward without which
life had little value to him.

I was sure that Hamilton had fully weighed the danger of his perilous
mission, and that he was deliberately staking his life on a last
desperate chance to win fortune and Frances Jennings.

Though perhaps Lilly was a charlatan in many respects, he was to be
trusted; still I did not feel that it was my place to impart George's
secret to him, though I had in mind a plan whereby he might be of great
help to the Abbe du Boise in influencing King Charles. The king consulted
him secretly in many important affairs, and I was sure that if the good
Doctor should be called in by his Majesty in the Dunkirk affair, the
stars would tell a story in accord with our desires if we made it to
Lilly's interest.

However, all of that must wait for the Abbe du Boise. Of one thing I was
sure; I must tell Frances at once so that she might be paving the way to
the king with her smiles. It would be a disagreeable task, but I knew she
would do it gladly, and I also knew that no woman could do it better.

While I had expressed my doubts to Frances concerning Hamilton's
emigration to Canada, I had not felt entirely sure there was nothing in
it, and she, womanlike, taking the worst for granted, had accepted it as
true. But the coming of the Abbe du Boise changed everything, and when I
saw her at her father's house and told her of my suspicions, and showed
her Le Blanc's letter, she was so greatly alarmed that she said she would
rather know that George had gone to Canada than to fear his return to
England under the circumstances.

"The dastardly king will take his life if he comes," she said.

"I admit the danger," I answered, as hopefully as possible, "but I
believe, if George comes, he will be able to take care of himself."

"Danger!" she exclaimed. "It is certain death! George will find no
mercy."

"If he is caught," I answered. "But the letter from King Louis will
convince King Charles that Hamilton is in Canada and will throw our
jealous monarch off his guard. Perhaps Hamilton will be safer than we
suppose. He speaks French like a Parisian, but, above all, he is cool,
calm, and thoughtful in danger. The London merchants will be far more
dangerous than the king."

"It does seem that we are guilty of treason to our country in thus
helping France," she said. Then laughingly, "But I'll go back to the
palace at once and begin my task of wheedling the king." She paused for a
moment, then continued hesitatingly, "Do you suppose it possible that
George would doubt me afterwards?"

"Impossible," I answered, with emphasis that seemed to reassure her.

"I am doing it for him," she continued with a sigh. "God knows I would
do almost anything in the same cause. But I do not know men, and I fear
it is possible that he will doubt me after I have succeeded. Let us go
to see Betty. She is restful to me, and always soothes my nerves. But
besides, I want to have her help. I'll introduce her to the king--"

"No, by God, you'll not introduce her to the king! I'll explode the whole
affair, and Dunkirk may go to the devil before you shall introduce Betty
to the king," I answered.

"Yet you are willing that I should meddle in the dangerous affair?
Evidently you love her more than you love me?"

"Only a few hundred million times more," I answered sullenly.

"Is it that way with you, my dear brother?" she asked, coming to me as I
stood gazing out the window, seeing nothing save Bettina's face. Frances
put her hand on my shoulder and said coaxingly: "Forgive me. No harm
shall come to her through me."

Of course I was sorry that I had allowed myself to become angry, and at
once made my apology as well as I could.

"Let us go to see Betty, anyway," said Frances. And I assenting, she went
to fetch her cloak, hat, and vizard.

But when she returned, I had changed my mind and declined to go, telling
Frances that I must see Bettina no more.

"Why?" asked Frances.

"Because I would not win a love from her which I cannot accept."

"Baron Ned, there are few men who would be so considerate."

But I required little coaxing, and when Frances had made ready for the
journey, I buckled on my sword, which I had left standing in the corner,
took my hat from the floor, and started out with her.

While walking from the Bridge to the Old Swan, I remarked to Frances, "My
engagement with Mary Hamilton is likely to be broken by her family."

"Why, Baron Ned?" she asked in surprise.

"Count Hamilton has challenged me to a duel, to be fought when he
returns, and you see, if I kill him or if he kills me, well--" I
answered, shrugging my shoulders.

She was much alarmed at my disclosure, but was reassured when I made
light of the affair, probably because there was no danger in it to George
Hamilton, and, perhaps, because if I should kill Count Hamilton, George
would inherit the title and estates.

"But poor Mary! She will grieve," said Frances.

"I think you need waste no tears for her sake," I answered. "She is a
fine, pretty little creature, who will take what comes her way without
excess of pain or joy. She is incapable of feeling keenly. God has been
good to her in giving her numbness."

"No, no, cousin Ned, you are wrong!" she returned. "Life without pain
is not worth living. I have heard that the Arabs have a saying, 'All
sunshine makes the desert.' God is good to us when he darkens the sun
now and then and gives us the sunshine afterwards."

"Perhaps you are right, Frances," I returned. "But you and I are in the
cloud now, and a little sunshine would be most welcome."

"Not enough sunshine to make a desert," she answered.

"Ay! But enough to make a garden," I returned, as we climbed the narrow
flight of steps leading to the private entrance to the Old Swan.

When we paused at the door, Frances said, "Your garden is at hand." And
when she opened the door, there stood Betty, and I was in Eden. The moist
glow of her eyes, the faint blush of her cheeks, the nervous fluttering
of her voice, spoke more eloquently than all the tongues of Babel could
have spoken, and I could not help comparing her welcome with that which
Maxy Hamilton had given me at the queen's ball.

Bettina led us to the parlor, and while we were drinking a cup of tea,
we had the great pleasure of asking and answering questions of which we
always had a large supply in reserve.

When it was time to go, Bettina walked down to the Bridge with us. As it
was growing dark, Frances suggested that I walk back to the Old Swan with
Betty, which I did, she taking my arm of her own accord, and both of us
very happy, though we spoke not a word, for fear of saying too much, save
"good night" at the door.

"Good night at the door!" God gave its sweetness to youth right out of
the core of His infinite love.

CHAPTER XII

A PERILOUS EMBASSY

Four or five days after our visit to Bettina, I met De Grammont at
Charing Cross, and he surprised me with an invitation to his house
that night to meet Monsieur l'Abbe du Boise at supper.

"The king and a dozen other gentlemen will be present," he said, "but
there will be no ladies. Monsieur l'Abbe, being of the church, is not a
ladies' man, and besides, ladies have sharper eyes than men, and might
see much that is intended to remain unseen."

The count's remark seemed to settle the question of the Abbe's identity,
and I hastened to Frances with the news. She assured me that she was
ready to die of fright, but showed no outward sign of dissolution, and
when I complimented her on her power of self-control, said:--

"Fortunately, I am part hypocrite, and can easily act a part."

"You have a hard one ahead of you," I returned, "and will need all your
strength before it is played to the end."

* * * * *

I was on hand early at De Grammont's supper, but found several gentlemen
ahead of me, awaiting, with the count in his parlor, the arrival of the
king. Soon after I entered the room, De Grammont presented me to the
Abbe. I was convinced at once that he was not George Hamilton. His beard,
worn a la Richelieu,--a mustache and a tuft on the chin,--was snow white,
and his hair, which was thin, hung in long white waves almost to his
shoulders. He walked with a stoop and wore spectacles, the glasses of
which were slightly colored. Being an ecclesiastic, though not a priest,
he wore no wig; but he was of the Order of the Cordon Bleu, and wore, in
addition to his badge and blue ribbon, a sword beneath his long coat. It
was the first time I had ever seen an ecclesiastic wearing a sword,
though it has since become common in France, where there are many "Abbes"
who are neither priests nor in orders.

The Abbe spoke poor English, therefore the conversation was carried on in
French, much to the annoyance of some of our guests, who pretended to a
greater knowledge of that language than they possessed.

Soon after my presentation to the Abbe, the king arrived, and we all went
out to the supper table, where the Abbe's chair was on the king's right,
with De Grammont on his Majesty's left. After the king had been seated a
moment, he rose and asked us to be seated; so we took our places, all
save the king dropping our hats beside us on the floor because of his
Majesty's presence.

I sat next to De Grammont, almost opposite the Abbe, and had a good
opportunity to observe the French emissary. The king's French was
excellent, and the dinner conversation was carried on largely between him
and the Abbe. All subjects were discussed, but the Abbe adroitly avoided
Dunkirk and seemed to prefer talking on religious and philosophical
topics, in which he took the liberty to disagree with the king in many
respects, politely though positively.

I listened attentively, hoping that some tone of the Abbe's voice, a pose
or a gesture, might reveal George Hamilton, if it were he, in the most
excellent disguise I had ever seen. But nothing of the sort occurred, and
before the dinner was over, I was still more convinced that whoever the
Abbe du Boise might be, he was not Hamilton.

After dinner came the heavy wines, of which the Abbe did not partake, and
of which De Grammont and I drank sparingly. All the others, including the
king, were gloriously drunk long before the night was over.

While smoking our pipes, the king, who was eager to get his hands
on French money, told the Abbe that he hoped to see him, with his
credentials, at Whitehall on the second morning following at ten o'clock,
and the Abbe said he would leave his credentials with my Lord Clarendon,
and would be at Whitehall at the hour suggested by the king, for the
purpose of making the French king's offer.

Most of the guests went home between two men, very late at night, but
fortunately I was able to walk home by myself.

I was both glad and disappointed not to find George in the gown of the
Abbe. I was glad because of the risk he would have taken had he come to
England, yet disappointed in missing what would have been the most
picturesque, daring personal exploit of English court history. But on the
whole it was better as it was.

The next morning the king sent for me to come to his closet, and asked if
I knew one Lilly, an astrologer. I answered that I knew little of him
personally, but had heard much of his wisdom and learning.

"Yes, yes, but you know where he lives, do you not? On the Strand, a
dozen houses this side of Temple Bar?" asked the king.

"I have seen the house often, your Majesty," I replied.

"Good! Now listen attentively to what I have to say," returned the king,
graciously taking my arm and leading me to a window overlooking the
river. "I hear from De Grammont that the Abbe du Boise is a firm believer
in the teachings of astrology. I want you to arrange, without letting any
one know that my finger is in the pie, to take Lilly to see the Abbe, or
the Abbe to see Lilly. I'll whisper a word in your ear. The stars will
tell our friend, the Abbe, a story to suit our purposes. The French king
and his ambassadors will find their match in me, I warrant you. I have
bought Lilly, body and soul--with promises." The king shrugged his
shoulders and whispered: "With promises, you understand, Baron Ned, with
promises. Now give him a chance at the Abbe."

Charles laughed and chuckled in self-gratulation, not the least
suspecting that he was talking to the wrong man and playing into the
French king's hand. I bore in mind the fact that the king had bought
Lilly with promises, and I determined to buy the good Doctor with ready
gold.

"I'll try to carry out your Majesty's commands," I answered, apparently
doubtful of my ability. "But of course you would not have me insist, if
the Abbe seems disinclined to consult Lilly."

"No, no! Odds fish, man, no! But find a way to bring them together,
and your reward will come later. I choose, you for this little piece of
business because you are in no way connected with the affair between the
French king and me, and because I know you are to be trusted."

I to be trusted! So was Brutus!

"I shall do my best, your Majesty, and if I fail, I shall notify you at
once," I said, taking my leave.

I hastened to De Grammont's house, which at that time was over near the
Mall, and told the count what the king had said.

"Ah, that is good!" cried De Grammont. "A fool, who knows himself to be a
fool, is likely to be wary, but one who deems himself wise is the easiest
dupe in the world. I'll see Monsieur l'Abbe. Wait."

De Grammont returned in a few minutes, saying that the Abbe would go with
me to see Doctor Lilly, and I suggested that I return for him in three
hours.

I went back to Whitehall, where I found Frances, and told her to be at
Lilly's house on the Strand within three hours, to meet the French king's
ambassador, and to receive the instructions which George's letter had
intimated the Abbe would give. I told her, also, that the Abbe was not
the person we had expected to see.

The evening before, she was ready to die of fright because we believed
that the Abbe was George Hamilton, and now, since I had found he was not,
she was ready to die of disappointment--so she assured me.

At the appointed time, De Grammont, the Abbe, and I took the count's
barge and went down to the water stairs nearest Temple Bar, where the
Abbe and I left De Grammont and walked up through the crowded streets to
Lilly's house. Owing to the crowded condition of the street, the Abbe and
I found no opportunity to exchange words until we were before Lilly's
house.

Lilly was at home, I having sent word of our coming, so when we knocked,
the servant opened and directed us to the waiting parlor, saying that the
Doctor would soon come down.

We started upstairs, I in the lead, the Abbe following ten paces behind.
When I entered the room, I found Bettina and Frances sitting by the
street window. They came to me quickly, and Frances explained Bettina's
presence.

"I did not like to come here alone, so I asked Betty to come with me. She
is to be trusted."

"You need not assure me of that," I answered, taking Betty's hand. "I
already know it. I am glad you--"

But here I was interrupted by a soft cry from Bettina, and by a
half-smothered scream from Frances, both of whom deserted me suddenly
and ran toward the door I had just entered. Turning, I saw Frances with
her arms about the Abbe's neck, and Bettina clasping one of his hands.
I thought the two had gone mad, but when Bettina saw my look of surprise
and inquiry, she dropped his hand, came to me, and asked:--

"Did you want us to pretend that we did not know him? If so, you should
have told us."

"But you don't know him," I declared.

"Perhaps I don't," she returned, laughing softly and shrugging her
shoulders, "but evidently your cousin does. If not, she should take her
arms from around his neck."

"But she is mistaken," I insisted.

"She seems to be convinced," answered Bettina, with a curious little
glance up to me, half laughing, half inquiring. Evidently she was
doubtful whether I spoke in jest or in earnest.

Frances still clung to the Abbe, her head resting on his shoulder, so I
started toward her, intending to correct her mistake. Bettina, seeing my
purpose, caught me by the arm, saying:--

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