The Touchstone of Fortune written by Charles Major

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"On that ground it may be excusable," I suggested.

"No, no," she protested. "It can be excused on no grounds. But I did it,
and it can't be helped now. Without waiting for permission, he turned,
and we walked together almost to Hamilton House. I suppose, under the
circumstances, he considered it best not to ask for a permission which
might have been refused, and from his standpoint doubtless he was right.
Take without asking seems to be man's best method with woman. When I saw
we were approaching Hamilton House, I turned about for home, hoping, yet
fearing, that he would not go back with me. But he did."

"Yes, you were sure to be disappointed in that respect," I answered. And
she continued hastily:--

"Yes, he walked all the way with me. Before reaching Sundridge stile, I
asked him to leave me. That was another mistake, for it gave to our
meeting a clandestine appearance. He said my word was law to him, and
that he would obey, though to do so, that is, to leave me, was pain, you
understand."

"Yes, I can understand that he did not want to leave you," I answered.
But I saw that she had not finished, so I remained silent, and in a
moment she continued:--

"He had been so respectful to me throughout that I thought him a modest,
well-behaved gentleman, and--"

I laughed, interrupting her to explain: "All art, Frances, all art.
You'll find much of that manufactured modesty at court. It is the trump
card in the game of love and is but a cloak for brazenness."

"Yes, I so found it," she answered, drooping her head, "for when he was
about to leave me at a secluded spot, he took my hand and would have
kissed me without so much as 'By your leave,' had I not caught his intent
before it was too late. I drew away, inclined to be angry, and said,
'Sir, one may overrun one's course by going too fast.'"

"That truism, under like circumstances at court, would have made you
famous," I said, pleased alike with her naivete and her wisdom.

"I tried, with fair success, to appear offended," she continued, blushing
deeply, "but the awful truth certainly is that I was not. I suppose it is
true that women like boldness and do not find wickedness in men as
distasteful as mothers say it is."

"On the contrary," I remarked, growing more and more delighted with her
wisdom, innocence, and candor.

"Yes," she continued, blushing exquisitely, "even since you have told me
how wicked he is, I am not sure that I like him less, though I fear him
and shall avoid him as I should a pestilence."

"Ah, but will you, can you, Frances?" I asked.

"Indeed, yes, brother Ned, and if you doubt me, you don't know me," she
returned.

"But do you know yourself?" I asked.

"Yes, now I do, thanks to your bravery," she answered.

"But you saw him many times after his first bold attempt," I suggested.

"Oh, it was easily forgiven," she returned, naively. "Yes, I have met him
almost every day since then. The days I did not see him seemed to be
blanks in my life. After his first boldness, he was always courteous. He
never again became familiar, but seemed to try only to convince me of his
regard in most respectful terms, and--and I listened all too willingly,
but made no answer save what I could not conceal in my manner. That, I
fear, was answer all too plain. But now you have opened my eyes, and I
see clearly. I owe you a debt of gratitude I can never repay."

"If you go to court, this affair will have been a good lesson," I
returned encouragingly. "For there you must learn to despise the
proffered love of men, whether it be pretended or real, until one comes
who is worthy of you in person, wealth, and station."

"Yes, I shall," she answered earnestly. "But here we are at home. As you
suggest, let us not speak of this poor little affair."

"By no means," I answered, as I opened the gate.

"And Baron Ned," she said, holding me back for a moment, "have no fear
that I shall lose my heart at court to the detriment of my fortune. I may
not consider myself--only my father and my house. It is my duty to make
him happy, and I am going to do it without regard to any other purpose in
life. My having known Master Hamilton will not only keep other men out of
my heart, but will help me to know them and will lead me to fear them
when I go to court."

Later in the evening my cousin and I walked out in town, and I had a long
talk with her, partly concerning Hamilton, a theme to which she always
returned, and partly concerning conditions she would meet if she became a
maid of honor. And my faith in her grew as we talked.

That night I went to sleep convinced that my beautiful cousin was strong
enough and shrewd enough to evade all the pitfalls of Whitehall, and that
her experience with Hamilton had been the one thing needful to make her
keenly alive to her danger. I felt that she was safe, but--

Near the hour of two o'clock the next afternoon, Sir Richard and I,
returning from a short walk, did not find Frances at home, so I made my
way to the Bourne Path, thinking it hardly possible that in the face of
yesterday's events Frances could have gone to meet Hamilton. Still one
can never tell; therefore I took the benefit of the doubt and set forth
to make sure.

When perhaps two miles from Sundridge, the day being warm, I climbed to a
ledge of rock on the shelving bank of the bourne, twelve or fifteen feet
above the path, and sat down to rest in the cool shade of a clump of
bushes. Below me, perhaps five or six feet above the path and far enough
back among the bushes to be hidden from passers-by, was another rocky
shelf or bench, admirably fitted to accommodate two persons.

Sarah had told me, after much questioning, that Frances had left home
only a few minutes before Sir Richard and I had returned. I had walked
rapidly, and as I had not overtaken her, I concluded I was on the wrong
scent.

Within ten minutes I discovered that I was not on the wrong scent, for,
much to my surprise, sorrow, and disgust, I saw Frances and Hamilton come
around a turn in the path, push aside the bushes as though they knew the
place, enter the dense thicket bordering the path, and sit down on the
rocky bench beneath me. My first impulse was to speak, but for many
reasons I determined to listen. Silence reigned below me during the next
minute or two, and then Hamilton spoke:--

"You must deem me a coward, Mistress Jennings, since I did not call your
cousin to account for what he said yesterday?"

"No," she answered. "It was brave of you to refrain. It must be a great
deal easier for a gentleman to resent an insult than to endure it. My
cousin said as much to me yesterday evening. He said he had always known
that you were brave, but that he had not expected to find in you the
moral courage to bear his words with equanimity. He also said he was glad
he did not have to meet you in a duel, because you were so greatly his
superior with the sword. It was brave of you not to challenge him.
Perhaps it was on my account you desisted."

"No, it was because I respected him far more than any man I have ever
known, and because he told the truth. Do not speak of my bravery in the
same breath with his. He was as cool as though he were telling an amusing
story."

"He certainly was," returned Frances, laughing softly and closing with a
sigh.

"But he had truth on his side, and truth is a great stimulant to
courage," remarked Hamilton.

Frances sighed again, diligently studying her hands resting listlessly on
her lap.

"Yes, he told the truth," continued Hamilton. "That is why I sent the
letter to you early this morning, asking you to meet me for the last
time--the last time, Frances. This is not a mere promise to lure you on,
but the truth, for I have learned my lesson from Baron Ned, and with
God's help, I, too, shall hereafter protect you from all evil, including
myself. It is not the Hamilton of yesterday who is speaking to you, but a
new man, born again in the fierce light your cousin threw upon me. I
feared you might resent his effort to protect you, and I wanted to tell
you again that he spoke nothing but the truth, and that he did his duty
where another man less brave would have failed."

Frances sighed audibly, and I was sure her eyes were filled with tears.

"Hereafter I shall be as honest with you and as brave for your welfare as
Baron Ned was yesterday," said Hamilton, his voice choking with emotion.
"I see you now for the last time, unless--" He stopped speaking for a
moment and, taking her hand, continued hesitatingly, "Does the thought
pain you?"

"I suppose I should say no," answered the girl, withdrawing her hand.
"But you see, I, too, have a little moral courage, and, in the face of an
inevitable future, do not fear to say, yes, the greatest pain I have ever
known."

He moved toward her with evident intent to embrace her, but she rose,
saying calmly, almost coldly:--

"Master Hamilton, do you wish me to leave you?"

In Hamilton's place, I should have preferred trying to embrace St.
George's dragon rather than the girl standing before him.

Hamilton bowed with humility and said: "Please do not fear. Sit down and
hear me out. I shall not detain you long."

She sat down, seeming to feel that notwithstanding her recent admission,
there was no danger of further unseemly demonstration on Hamilton's part.

"I want to say," continued Hamilton, "that while Baron Ned spoke the
truth, I have never been guilty of the crimes which it is said some of my
friends have committed. I am unworthy enough in every respect, but I am
innocent of murder and robbery. I shall mend my ways from now on. I don't
ask you to believe in me, but when I am at all worthy of your kind
regard, I shall tell you, and you _may_ believe me, for from this day
forth I shall try to be as truthful as Baron Ned. No man can be more so."

Frances sighed and answered, "I hope so."

Hamilton again took her hand, which she now permitted him to retain, and
continued: "If I am ever so fortunate as to gain wealth and position
worthy of you, I shall kneel at your feet, if you are free to hear me. If
the good fortune never comes, this will be our farewell."

"I hope the good fortune will come soon, for your sake, and--" But she
did not finish.

"Yes, yes, and--and--?" asked George, pleadingly.

"Yes, and for my own sake," she answered, turning her face from him,
probably to hide the tears that were in her eyes.

"I shall see that good fortune does come," said he, "but I do not ask you
to wait an hour for it. If happiness comes to you in the right man--I
cannot finish. Good-by!"

He rose, bent over her, kissed her hand, and was about to leave her
hastily, evidently in fear of himself. But she clung to his hand and,
drawing him down to her, offered him her lips. At first he seemed to draw
away, but unable to resist, caught her in his arms, kissed her, and fled.

Frances thrust aside the bushes and watched him as he walked rapidly down
the path. When he turned, just before reaching the bend, she kissed her
hand to him, murmuring as though speaking to herself, "Good-by, good-by!"
Then she sat down and covered her face with her hands.

After a short time she rose, dried her eyes, and started home, and in a
few minutes I climbed the hill and took a short cut to Sundridge. I
reached home before Frances, and, notwithstanding all I had seen, was
fully convinced that she would be as safe in Whitehall Court as in her
father's house.

* * * * *

That evening Frances and I walked out together, and I, feeling stricken
in conscience, confessed that I had witnessed the interview between her
and Hamilton. She was surprised, and at first was inclined to be angry,
but she had so little vindictiveness in her nature and was so gentle of
disposition that her ill-temper was but the shadow of anger, and soon
passed away. Then, too, her good common sense, of which she had an ample
fund, came to her help and told her that whatever I had done was for her
own good. So the rare smile, which was one of her greatest charms, came
to her face, like the diaphanous glow of a good spirit, rested for a
moment on her lips, mounted to her eyes and faded slowly away, as though
it would linger a moment to ask my forgiveness.

"I am glad I witnessed the interview," said I, drawing her hand through
my arm to reassure her, "for notwithstanding all that happened, I now
feel sure you are to be trusted."

"But am I?" she asked, showing a self-doubt which I wished to remove.

"Yes, you will have no greater trial at court than the one through which
you have just passed. You have combated successfully not only your own
love, but the love of the man you love."

"Ah, Baron Ned, don't!" she exclaimed, in mild reproach, shrinking from
the thought I had just uttered so plainly.

"It is always well to look misfortunes squarely in the face," I answered.
"It helps one to despise them. The thing we call bad luck can't endure a
steady gaze."

"It will help me in one respect,--this--this--what has happened," she
returned, hanging her head.

"In what way?" I asked, catching a foreboding hint of her meaning.

She hesitated, but, after an effort, brought herself to say, "I shall
never again have to combat my own heart, and surely that is the hardest
battle a woman ever has to fight."

"Because your heart is already full?" I asked.

She nodded "Yes," her eyes brimming with tears.

Her heart was not only full of her first love, which of itself is a
burden of pain to a young girl, but also it was sore from the grief of
her first loss, the humiliation of her first mistake, and the pang of her
first regret for what might have been.

"It will all pass away, Frances," I returned assuringly.

"Ah, will it, Baron Ned? You know so much more about such matters than I,
who know nothing save what I have learned within the last few weeks."

"I feel sure it will," I answered.

"I wish I felt sure," she returned, trying to smile, but instead
liberating two great tears that had been hanging on her lashes.

After pausing in thought a moment, she said: "But I believe I should
despise myself were I to learn that what I have just done had been
prompted by a mere passing motive. I shall never again see him as I have
seen him. Of that I have neither fear nor doubt, but this I cannot help
but know: he is the first man who has ever come into my heart, and I fear
that in all my life I shall never be able to put him out entirely."

"But you may see him at Whitehall," I suggested. "What then?"

"If he remains there, I shall not. But when he learns that his presence
will drive me away, I know he will leave," she answered.

"I believe you estimate him justly. Did you tell him you were going to
court?" I asked.

"No," she answered, "because I am not sure that I shall go."

"Then we'll not tell him," I suggested.

"Nor any one else?" she asked.

"By all means, no one else," I replied. "I am sure you will win in this
beauty contest, but you might fail, in which case we should be sorry if
any one knew of the attempt."

"I shall not fail," she answered confidently, though not in vanity.

"But Hamilton said he would return to the siege when he had made his
fortune," I suggested.

"Of that I have no hope," she returned dolefully, "and I shall put him
out of my thoughts if I can, as soon as I can."

"It must be done now," I returned emphatically.

"Ay, it is easy to say 'now,' but 'now' is a hard, hard time. It is much
easier to do a difficult thing to-morrow. But do not fear, Baron Ned. It
shall be done, and I shall marry a duke or an earl, loathing him."

She was almost ready to weep, so, believing that she would like to be
alone, I left her.

Within half an hour she was at home, sitting in a low chair by her
father's side, laughing, happy, and beautiful, with that rare,
indefinable home charm a woman may have which is as far beyond the mere
beauty of hair and skin and eyes as the sparkle of a bright mysterious
star is beyond the beauty of the moon's pale sheen.

With all my cousin's marvellous beauty, her rarest charm lay in her
gracious manner, her unobtrusive vivacity, and her quaint combination of
Sarah's Machiavellian wisdom with the intense femininity of Eve. Add to
these qualities the unmistakable mark which a pure heart leaves on the
face, and we complete the picture of one who in a short time was
acknowledged to be without a peer in Whitehall, the most famous beauty
court the world has ever known.

Before I left Sundridge it had been agreed among us all that Frances
should go to London, though the plans had not been arranged nor the time
fixed. There was no need of haste, as the choosing of the maids would not
be closed for two months or more. I left with my uncle funds necessary
for the purchase of gowns, and the payment of other expenses, and, with
his consent, undertook to notify the Duchess of York that Frances would
seek to enter her Grace's service in the near future. Then I went back to
London, and when next I saw my cousin it was in the shadow of a tragedy.

My uncle's humble friend, Roger Wentworth, the leather merchant of
Sundridge, had a brother living in London, who was also a leather
merchant, Sir William Wentworth. He had been Lord Mayor at one time, and
had been knighted by the king because of a loan made by the city to his
Majesty. Sir William was an honest, simple man, who cared little to rise
above his class, but he had a wife who thrilled to the heart whenever she
heard the words "Lady Wentworth," and experienced a spasm of delight
whenever she saw her name in the news letters or journals.

Sir William had a son, also, who imagined himself to be ornamental, but
laid no claim to usefulness of any sort. Lady Wentworth concurred
heartily and proudly in her son's opinion of himself and encouraged his
uselessness to a point where it became worthlessness. But Sir William
took no pains to conceal his disappointment and disgust. Young William
held a small post at court, and, being supplied with money by his mother,
was one of the evil spirits of the set composed of Crofts, Berkeley,
Little Jermyn, the court lady-killer, and others too numerous and too
vicious to mention. Wentworth was goose to these pluckers and was willing
to give his feathers in exchange for their toleration.

* * * * *

Shortly after I left Sundridge, Sir Richard learned that Roger
intended journeying to London in the course of a month to buy leather,
so he asked him to take Frances with him. To this request Roger gladly
and proudly assented. He usually travelled a-horseback to London, but
this being a state occasion, he brought out his old coach, a huge
lumbering concern, and had it painted a brilliant green in honor of his
fair passenger-to-be. Roger also promised Frances the services of his
sister-in-law with the Duchess of York, a help so great, in Roger's
opinion, that it could not be overestimated.

I had been at home more than a month before Frances started on her
journey. I did not know when she expected to leave Sundridge, as we had
agreed that she should notify me as soon as she reached London.

I had seen George on several occasions after my return from Sundridge,
and although he said little about himself, I knew from others that he
was at least trying to quit his old way of life and to avoid his evil
friends. Soon after my return to court he went to France, and I did
not see him again for several months, although he came home, most
unfortunately, and spent a day or two in London at the time of Frances's
arrival, of which he knew nothing until after his return to France.

All that took place at Sundridge after I left there and the occurrences
on my cousin's journey to London, I learned from her and from Hamilton
afterwards, though I shall write them down now in the order of their
happening.

Early one morning Roger presented himself at my uncle's house with the
huge green coach drawn by two horses so fat that they could hardly
breathe, driven by an old servant, Noah Sullivan, who was so fat that at
times he could not breathe at all.

The season was fair for travelling, and barring a heavy rain, the road to
London would be good. But it had a bad reputation for highwaymen, and no
cautious man with anything to lose cared to risk a journey after dark,
especially near London, save with a guard. Roger was taking with him a
thousand pounds in gold; therefore it was desirable that he and his fair
passenger should reach the city before nightfall. To do this with the fat
horses, he must start early,--a fact of which Frances had received due
notice.

On the appointed morning she was ready when the coach drove up. Her box
was placed in the boot, and she took a seat beside her old friend Roger,
giving vent to the tears she had held back so bravely while saying
good-by to her father and Sarah, who were to move up to London in case
she remained at court.

Wheezy old Noah on the box cracked his whip, the fat horses in the traces
pulled and grunted, the coach creaked and groaned, the wheels turned and
Frances had set forth, a maiden St. George, to fight the dragon of
Whitehall, compared to which the old-time monster was but a bleating
lamb. Roger had hoped to be in his brother's house long before sundown,
but when he reached that justly famous halfway house, the Cock and Spur,
Noah insisted that the fat horses were so badly winded that a rest of
several hours was necessary before they could proceed a step farther.
Roger argued with his Master of Horse, but to no purpose. The fat horses
rested till near the hour of five, when Noah yielded to his master's
importunities and the journey was resumed. Meantime an unexpected rain
had begun to fall, which increased in violence as night approached. The
road grew heavier as the journey progressed, and the wheezy horses
required rest so frequently that Roger began to fear for the safety of
his gold and his fair passenger.

Supper time approached, but Roger was so anxious to reach London before
dark that he asserted his right as master and refused to stop at an inn
where Noah had drawn up the horses, insisting that they be fed.
Considerable time was lost in argument with Noah, but at last they took
the road once more, which by that time had become very heavy. Night fell
without twilight, because of the storm, and the travellers were overtaken
by darkness just as they reached the most dangerous part of the road
within less than a league of London.

The road grew heavier with every turn of the wheels, the horses wheezed
dismally, and Roger groaned inwardly. He kept his head out of the coach
door most of the time, looking for trouble, and found it before his
journey's end. Noah lighted the great lanthorn and hung it in front of
the dashboard, his only cause of anxiety being the horses, until a
greater arose.

CHAPTER III

IT IS HARD TO BE GOOD

There is an infernal charm about sin which should have been given to
virtue, but unluckily got shifted in very early human days. And so it was
that George Hamilton had troubles of his own in this respect. When he
left Frances Jennings at Sundridge, he was aglow with good resolutions,
all of which were to be put into immediate practice, and many of which he
carried out in part by strong though spasmodic effort when he returned
to court.

His attempts to be decent at first filled his friends with surprise, then
disgust, then raillery. The untoward thing had never been tried at
Charles II's Whitehall, and it furnished a deal of talk between routine
scandals. In fact, it was looked upon as a scandal in itself.

This new phase in one of the king's own subdevils soon fell under the
notice of his Majesty, who asked George one day if he would like to have
an easy benefice in the church where he could meditate on his past and
build for the future.

"And pray for Lady Castlemain's unbaptized children, your Majesty?" asked
George, whereupon the king shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Lady
Castlemain and Charles were--well, there had been talk about them, to say
the least.

The court ladies laughed when George declined to drink himself drunk or
refused to help his former companions fleece a stranger. Nell Gwynn told
him that even his language had grown too polite for polite society, and,
lacking emphasis, was flat as stale wine. In truth, it may well be said
that George had set out to mend his ways under adverse conditions. But he
_had_ set out to do it, and that in itself was a great deal, for there is
a likable sort of virtue in every good intent. He had reached the first
of the three great R's in the act of repentance, Recognition; Regret and
Recession being the second and third--all necessary to regeneration. I
had faith in his good intentions, but doubted his ability.

Hamilton and I had become fast friends, and by his help my suit of his
sister Mary had prospered to the extent of a partial engagement of
marriage. That is to say, Mary's mother, an old worldling of the hardest
type, had thought it well to secure me and to keep me dangling, to be
landed in case no better fish took the hook. I was aware of the mother's
selfish purposes, but did not believe that Mary shared them, though I
knew her to be an obedient child. This peculiar condition of affairs
somewhat nettled me, though I do not remember that I was at all unhappy
because of it.

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