The Touchstone of Fortune written by Charles Major

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I speak of this friendship between George Hamilton and me at this time
because of the great strain its bonds were soon to have; so great that I
am still wondering why they did not break. To close this mention of my
own love affair, I would say that at the time of my visit to Sundridge
I had reasonable cause to hope for a favorable termination. Not that I
expected ever to kindle a fiery passion in Mary's breast, for she was not
of the combustible sort, but I believed she liked me, favored my suit,
and I hoped would accept me in the end. While she was very pretty, she
was not of so great beauty as to mislead her family into expecting that
she would catch an earl by fishing in a duck pond, and, barring the earl,
I should be a husband more or less satisfactory to her and her family.
George was my friend in the matter, and to him I believed I owed much of
my prospects of success. Soon the relation of my own love affair to that
of my cousin Frances will be apparent.

My second day at Sundridge was spent with my uncle and my cousins,
Frances remaining at home with us. Adroit Sarah had talked with her
father about the maid-of-honorship and had found an opportunity to tell
me that while he was not yet persuaded, he was at least in a receptive
mood, ready to listen to what I had to say. In the evening Frances and
Sarah went off to bed early, leaving Sir Richard to the mercies of myself
and a flagon of wormwood wine which I had brought in as an ally from the
Black Dog Tavern.

At first when I broached the subject of Frances becoming a maid of honor,
he turned away from me, saying:--

"I fear, nephew, I fear! I confess that I did not expect the suggestion
to come from you; you know the court even better than I do. My dear boy,
we might as well send the little girl to the devil at once."

"Whitehall is no heaven, I admit," I answered. "But you don't know
Frances. She will be as safe at court as she is in your house. The devil
is everywhere, uncle, if one chooses to seek him."

"That is true, Ned."

"And Frances will not seek him anywhere. Of that I was sure before I
determined to suggest this matter. It is true she has seen nothing of
life beyond the pale of your influence and protection, but you are well
along in years, uncle, and must face the truth that your daughters will
have to confront the world without you, sooner or later--later, I hope."

"That terrible truth is my only reason to fear death," returned Sir
Richard, sighing and leaning back in his chair.

"Yes, it must be a terrible thought to you," I answered, cruelly, for the
purpose of forcing my dear old antagonist into the right way of thinking.
"But it is your duty to your daughters to face it squarely, and if
possible, to let it help you in preparing them to meet the world. They
may, if they will, find evil everywhere; they may avoid it anywhere.
Frances, with her marvellous beauty, is sure to meet good fortune at
court, and good fortune is a great moral preservative of women."

"Bad doctrine, Ned, bad doctrine," said my uncle, shaking his head.

"But good truth," I answered. "Vice, like disease, breeds best in
poverty."

"You have just admitted that Whitehall is a nest of vice. Wealth has not
prevented it there," returned my uncle, beating me in the argument for a
moment.

But I soon rallied: "Wealth will not help those who want to go wrong, but
it has saved many a woman who wanted to be good. However, all this
argument is impertinent. Frances is strong, and she is good, and you may
rest your mind of all fear that she will ever be otherwise. Hers is not
only the virtue of goodness, but of stubbornness and pride."

"I believe you are right, nephew," returned my uncle, smiling for the
first time that evening. "Stubbornness is a good thing in a woman, and my
Frances has a store of it 'that might surprise one knowing her but
slightly."

"Yes," I replied. "And now, while her beauty is reaching its climax,
is the time for her to make the most of it. I know the world, uncle,
and I know the court, only too well, I am ashamed to say. But above all,
I know my cousin, and knowing also the evil state of your fortune, I
unhesitatingly urge you to seize the opportunity presented by the Duchess
of York. She is a good woman and my dear friend. Frances will be under
her care and mine. Of my care I need not boast. It shall be that of a
brother. But Frances will need no one's care for long. She will soon find
a husband, rich and of high rank, and then--"

"Would you send my girl out angling for a husband?" asked Sir Richard.

"Yes, if you insist on putting it so," I replied. "What is every girl
doing? What else is every good mother doing for her daughter? Marriage
is the one way in which a gentlewoman may find settlement in life.
Frances has no mother. Let us help her to win the happiness she deserves.
'Angling' is an ugly word, and in Frances's case is not the right one.
Great men and rich men will soon be angling for her. Let us place her
where the bait is worth taking. Let us not mince matters, but admit
between ourselves that we are sending Frances to court to make a good
marriage. No one less than a rich duke or a wealthy earl will satisfy
me. If you wish to allow a mere jealous fear in your heart to blight her
prospects, she will be the sufferer, and hereafter may thank your folly
for her misfortune."

Sir Richard remained silent a moment or two and then spoke tremulously:
"The saddest thing about age is its hesitancy, its doubts, its fears."
Here the tears began to stream down the old man's cheek as he continued:
"Through all my misfortunes Frances has been my joy, my solace. Sarah is
a good daughter, but she lacks the ineffable tenderness, the calm, ready
sympathy of her sister. If evil were to befall Frances, my heart would
break--break." He covered his face with his hands and sobbed, murmuring
as though to himself: "My God, I fear! I fear! She is my all--all! The
king has taken everything else, and now you ask me to give her to him."

A great lump came to my throat, but in a moment I was able to say: "Do
not fear, uncle, do not fear! Rather, rejoice! Let me be your staff, your
courage, your strength! Think it over till morning, and then give your
consent with the full assurance that it will mean happiness for the girl
whom you and I so dearly love."

The old man rose, took my hand, held it in his feeble grasp for a moment,
and went to his room without another word.

As I was going down the narrow passageway to my bedroom, Frances opened
her door and asked: "What does father say? I know it almost kills him."

"Yes," I answered. "But he will consent in the morning."

Tears came to her eyes and she gave me her hand, saying: "Thank you,
brother Ned. We are wounding him only for his own sake. If it were not to
help him, all the wealth in the world would not tempt me to give him this
pain nor to go to Whitehall, for I fear the place."

As she stood at the door, candle in hand, her low-cut gown exposing her
beautiful throat with its strong full curves, its gleaming whiteness and
the pulsing hollow at the base, her marvellous hair of sunlit gold
hanging in two thick braids to below her waist, her sweet oval face of
snowy whiteness, underlaid with the faint pink of roses, her great
luminous eyes with their arched and pencilled brows, and the tears
pendant from the long black lashes, I could not help knowing that there
was not in all Whitehall beauty to compare with hers. And when her full
red lips parted in a tearful smile, showing a gleam of ivory between
their curving lines, I knew that if our king were an unmarried man, she
could be our queen, but barring that high estate, I felt sure that a
score of titles and great fortunes would lie at her feet before she had
been a month in Whitehall. That is, I knew all this would happen if she
kept her head. The king himself would be her greatest danger, for in a
way, he was handsome of person when he kept his mouth closed, and even a
little beauty in a king, like a candlelight in a distant window, shines
with magnified radiance.

I went to bed that night having great faith in my cousin's strength and
discretion, but my confidence was to receive a shock the next day.

CHAPTER II

A MAIDEN ST. GEORGE

After breakfast the following morning, while Sir Richard and I were
sipping our morning draught in the dingy little library, he brought up
the subject of the night before.

"As you justly observed, Baron Ned," my uncle began, restraining his
emotion as best he could, "sooner or later my daughters will have to face
the world alone. I am of no help to them now, and perhaps shall be no
loss when I am gone, but it is like taking the heart out of me to send my
beautiful girl to this unholy king; the wickedest man in the vilest court
on earth. But it must be done. God help me and save her!"

"I will not go!" cried Frances, running into the room from the hallway,
and kneeling by her father's chair.

"I fear you must, Frances," answered Sir Richard. "There, there, we'll
say it is settled and let it rest a few days, so that we may grow used to
the thought before making our plans in detail."

* * * * *

After dinner I missed Frances, and when I asked Sarah where she had gone,
I received answer in one word: "Walking."

"Alone?" I asked. Sarah smiled.

In a moment I said, "I think I, too, shall go walking."

"The Bourne Path is pretty," suggested Sarah.

"Will you come with me?" I asked.

Again Sarah smiled, shaking her head for answer, and I set off, taking my
way down the path which wound beside a rocky bourne, a distance of
several miles in the direction of Hamilton House, one of the country
places of Count Hamilton.

When I reached a point perhaps half a league from Sundridge, I saw a lady
and gentleman walking leisurely ahead of me. Her hand was on his arm, and
his head was bent toward her, evidently in earnest conversation. Her head
drooped prettily, indicating a listening mood, and the two seemed very
much like lovers in the early wooing stage. At once I recognized the
beautiful figure of my cousin Frances. The gentleman I did not know,
seeing only his back, though there was something familiar to me in the
tall, straight form, the broad shoulders, and the graceful carriage of
the head. He was a cavalier, every inch of him, from his long, dark,
slightly curling hair to the golden buckles on his shoes. He carried his
beaver hat in his hand, dragging the rich plume on the ground.

I hastened forward, but they were so interested in each other that they
did not know of my presence till I asked:--

"Cousin, won't you introduce me?"

Frances turned with a little scream, and the gentleman spun around
quickly, putting on his hat and dropping my cousin's hand, which he had
been holding. At first my surprise deprived me of the power to think, but
soon I recovered self-control, and said:--

"Ah, there is no need to introduce me, cousin. I already know Master
Hamilton."

"Yes," stammered the gentleman, holding out his hand, "Baron Ned and I
know each other well."

I did not take his hand, and when I saw anger mounting to his eyes, I
explained with the best smile at my command:--

"I do not take your hand, sir, because I have that to say to my cousin
which will greatly displease you. I am glad to have the opportunity of
saying it in your presence, as I dislike speaking ill of a man behind his
back."

"You need speak no ill of Master Hamilton either in his presence or
behind his back, if you intend to do so on my account," interrupted
Frances, throwing back her head defiantly.

But I was not to be halted in my duty. Here was a future duchess in
danger of being lost to the world for the sake of a vicious, penniless
gambler, having neither title, estates, nor character.

"I do not ask your permission, cousin," I answered, bowing and smiling,
for it is well to keep one's temper in such a case. "What I shall say is
the truth, word for word, and Master Hamilton himself shall be the
arbiter."

"Speaking the truth may be a great impertinence," remarked Frances,
trying to hide her anger under an air of carelessness.

"True," I returned. "And what I have to say will confirm your position.
Shall I speak now before Master Hamilton, or shall I say what I have to
say in your father's presence and send to Master Hamilton later a full
account of my remarks?"

"For my part, sir, I shall be glad to hear whatever you have to say now,"
interrupted Hamilton, with an angry gleam in his eyes and a poor attempt
at a smile playing about his mouth.

I would say here that I was confronting one of the bravest men in England
and one of the best swordsmen in the world. While he was not prone to
seek a quarrel, he certainly had never avoided one because of fear of his
antagonist.

I took advantage of my cousin's silence and, turning to Hamilton, said:
"If I speak one work of untruth, you are at liberty to give me the lie."
Then turning to Frances, I continued: "What I have to say, cousin, is
this, Master Hamilton is one of the most disreputable men at court."

Frances drew back, startled, and Hamilton grasped his sword hilt, drawing
the blade half from its scabbard.

I bowed, smiled, and said: "Tut, tut, Hamilton! A lady should never see a
naked sword blade. Later, later, of course, at your pleasure! I shall be
found at my uncle's house in Sundridge during the next three or four
days. After that you know my lodgings in the Wardrobe at Whitehall. I
shall be delighted to receive your messenger, if it is your pleasure,
after you have heard what I have to say."

His sword disappeared, and his smile broadened to a grim laugh: "You're
right, baron. Pardon my haste. There's ample time, ample time."

Turning to my cousin, I took up my thread: "Master Hamilton is penniless,
which is no small failing in itself. Therefore he lives by gambling,
which might be excusable if he did not cheat. In gambling, you know,
cousin, the mere law of chance will not put much money in a man's purse.
Good luck is but another name for skill in trickery. If one would thrive
by cards and dice, one must be a thief."

There was another angry movement by Hamilton, which I interrupted,
smiling, bowing, and saying, "Let us talk this matter over calmly,
smilingly, if possible."

"I'll smile when I can," returned Hamilton, made more angry, if that were
possible, by a paradoxical inclination to laugh. "Proceed, baron,
proceed! I am becoming interested in myself."

Frances gave a nervous little laugh, looked first to Hamilton, then to me
and back again, as though she would ask what it all meant, and I
continued:--

"As I have said, Frances, Master Hamilton and his friends live by
cheating at cards and other games in a manner to make all decent men
avoid play with them. They pluck strangers and feather their purses from
new geese who do not know their methods. They also derive considerable
revenue from passe women who have more wealth than beauty, are more
brazen than modest, and more generous than chaste."

"I'll not listen to another word!" exclaimed Frances, looking up to
Hamilton in evident wonder at his complacency.

"Just one moment longer, Frances," I insisted. "Master Hamilton's
intimate friends have been known on more than one occasion to stoop to
the crimes of theft, robbery, and even murder to obtain money, and have
escaped punishment only because of royal favor. I do not say that Master
Hamilton has ever participated in these crimes, but he knew of them, did
not condemn them, helped the criminals to escape justice, and retained
the guilty men as his associates and nearest friends. Add to this list
the fact that Hamilton is a roue and a libertine, to whom virtue is but a
jest, and with whom no pure woman, knowing him, would be seen alone, and
I believe I have drawn a picture of a man who is in no way fit to be
your companion in a lonely stroll. On the other hand, he is a brave man,
a generous enemy, a staunch friend, and a ready help at all times to the
needy. Now I have finished what has been a disagreeable though imperative
duty. Doubtless it has been disagreeable to you, also, Master Hamilton,
but--"

"On the contrary," he interrupted, in low tones, and with bowed head.

"But, of course, I am ready to stand by my words," I continued. "And now,
sir, you may, if you wish, say to Mistress Jennings that I have lied.
Doubtless she will believe you, in which case it shall be my pleasure to
send a messenger to you, thereby saving you the trouble of sending one to
me."

I put on my hat and awaited his reply. His hat was in his hand, and his
face was bent toward the ground, his air of ironical politeness having
left him. Frances turned to him and was about to speak, but, noticing the
peculiar expression in his face and attitude, remained silent. After a
long pause Hamilton spoke without lifting his eyes:--

"I suppose no other man ever received such an arraignment in cold blood
as I have just heard from Baron Clyde." Then turning hesitatingly to my
cousin, "But I am sorry to say it is true, Mistress Jennings, true in
every word."

He looked into my eyes, again bowed his head, and spoke after a long
silence: "Baron Ned, I can almost find it in my heart to thank you for
having done your duty so bravely. I have known for some time that I am
not fit to be this lady's companion and that I have no right to seek her
friendship."

I bowed low, without speaking, and after another long pause he looked up
to me again as he asked:--

"Now will you take my hand?"

"Gladly, George," I answered, giving him my hand, which he held for a
moment and dropped without a word, a strange smile playing about his
lips.

Naturally enough, Frances was at a loss how to act. Tears of vexation
came to her eyes, and she turned from us to dry them with her
handkerchief. She failed to find the handkerchief, so she turned to
George, who, seeing her need, drew it from his pocket where she had left
it for safe-keeping. The first favor a young girl shows to a man when
she finds herself in a "coming on disposition" is to hide some of her
intimate personal belongings in his pocket. The little incident of the
handkerchief caused us all to laugh and went a long way toward making us
easy.

Hamilton's frankness had taken part of the wind out of my sails, and his
open confession had at least paved the way for absolution, which I feared
might be followed by disastrous results, since to forgive always makes
the heart grow fonder.

Presently Hamilton turned to Frances, saying: "You may better appreciate
your cousin's fidelity to your interest when I tell you that in speaking
thus frankly to you, he placed himself in danger of two misfortunes, both
of which, probably, he felt sure would befall him. Please do not think
that I boast, but it is true, nevertheless, that my sword point is
considered one of the most dangerous in England. Doubtless Baron Ned
expected to be called upon to stand by his words. Furthermore, he is a
suitor for my sister's hand, as you may know, and of late has sought my
friendship, in part, no doubt, for the purpose of forwarding his cause."

At this point he turned toward me and smiled. I, too, smiled, though not
joyously, for I thought surely this affair would ruin all my chances with
Mary.

"Therefore," continued Hamilton, "he had much to lose in arraigning me,
and nothing to gain but your welfare. You must see that it was
unselfishly done. If there is gratitude in your heart, give it here." He
placed his hand on my shoulder and, after a long pause and an apparent
effort, finished what he had to say: "Forget me. I am unworthy to speak
your name or to have the great joy of hearing you speak mine."

This was taking the wind out of my sails at a great rate. In truth, it
was taking the sails themselves, though I believed he was not speaking
for sake of the advantage. In a moment he bowed low, sweeping the plume
of his hat in the dust, saying as he left us:--

"Farewell, Mistress Jennings, and thank you, Baron Ned. You say I am a
staunch friend. You have still to learn the whole truth of your praise."

Turning instantly, he hastened away from us down the Bourne Path, and
though we waited for him to look back, he disappointed us, and soon was
lost as he passed beyond a bend. Frances was weeping gently, and I, too,
felt a lump in my throat, not because of what I had said or done, but
because of the unexpected good I had found in Hamilton, whom I had always
liked; good, which up to that time I had never suspected, having always
seen him in the shadow of a throne.

When Hamilton had disappeared, I asked Frances if we should return
to Sundridge, and she answering by a nod, we started home, each of us
heavy-hearted, one of us weeping pathetically. Her heart had just
received its first sharp blow, and I pitied her, for the first one hurts.

After walking a little way in silence, I remarked, "There is no reason
why we should add to your father's troubles by telling him of this
affair."

"Nor Sarah," sobbed Frances. "She is like a wasp--all sting." After a
long pause devoted to drying her eyes, she continued, "But it has not
been much of an affair."

"I am not asking what it has been, Frances," I returned, speaking
tenderly, for I knew her heart was sore. "I have no right to ask."

"Yes, you have the right to ask," she replied, earnestly. "You have
earned it to-day, if never before. I'll tell you all about it. You see I
did not know--I did not think it possible--that he was the evil person
you described. To me he seemed as high-minded as he was gallant and
handsome."

"He is high-minded in many respects," I said, "and might have been a
decent man in all respects had he lived under other conditions. He is far
the best of what is known at court as 'the Royal Clique,' and is an angel
of goodness compared with the king and his despicable son, James Crofts,
Duke of Monmouth. Do you want to tell me where and how you met Hamilton?"

After a moment's silence she began her pathetic little narrative,
hesitating at first, but gathering courage as she spoke:--

"I first saw him on the street in St. Albans, more than a month ago. Of
course I did not look directly at him, but I saw him and knew that he was
looking at me. I have been used to being stared at by men since I was a
child of twelve--I am past eighteen now, you know--and learned long
ago not to resent an impertinence which is alike unavoidable and, in a
poor way, flattering. But there was this difference: when he stared at me
I blush to say I liked it, nor should I have repulsed him had he spoken
to me. He was the first man I had ever seen that had really attracted me.
You are not a woman, therefore you cannot understand me fully. You see, a
man goes to a woman; a woman is drawn to a man, usually, I suppose,
against her will. I know little about the subject, this being my first,
and, I hope, my last experience, but--"

"And I, too, hope," I interrupted.

"Yes," she continued quickly. "But do you know I can almost understand
the feeble, hopeless resistance which the iron tries to exert against the
magnet. But, cousin Ned, it is powerless."

Here she brought her handkerchief to her eyes, and I exclaimed
regretfully, "Oh, Frances, I am surprised and sorry!"

"Yes, yes! I, too, was surprised, and was so sorry that I wept through
the whole night following my first sight of him, and between shame for
what I felt and longing to see him again, I suffered terribly. I prayed
for strength against this, my first temptation, and then my heart shrunk
in fear lest I should never again be tempted. The next day I walked out
on the Bourne Path toward Hamilton House and met him. To my shame I
confess that I looked at him. He stopped, bowed low before me, and asked
if he might introduce himself, since there was no one else to do that
office for him. He said that soon Lord St. Albans would be up from
London and would introduce him to my father. But having seen me the day
before at St. Albans, he was unable to wait; therefore, he was at that
moment on his way to Sundridge, hoping to see me. He seemed confused and
shy, but from what you say, I fear he was not."

"Oh, yes, he was," I interrupted, in fine irony. "George Hamilton is as
shy and as modest as the devil himself."

"I fear it is true," she answered smiling faintly and sighing.

I could see plainly that she did not look upon satanic modesty as a
serious fault in itself, and I fear it is not objectionable to her sex.
It is the manner of brazenness more than the fact which is offensive.
George's modest-faced boldness was both alluring and dangerous.

As she progressed she grew eager in her narrative, and after two or three
false starts, continued: "Then he said that Count Hamilton, our neighbor,
was his brother. I was silent for a moment, but presently was so foolish
as to say that I had seen him at St. Albans and had asked a shopkeeper
who he was. You see I was confused. I had not at all intended to say that
I had seen him, and certainly would have concealed the fact that I had
asked about him. But I said what I said because I could not help it."

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