The Touchstone of Fortune written by Charles Major

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"Yes, it is," she answered. "She always despises him. I should prefer one
who would beat me to such a man."

"But if you intend to carry out the purpose you had in coming to court,
you--"

But she interrupted me, speaking slowly, almost musingly: "The purpose I
had, perhaps, but not the one I have. I did not know myself. I did not
know. I doubt if any girl does. I don't want to marry any man."

"Is it because another man fills your heart?" I asked, speaking gently.
"Tell me, my beautiful sister, tell me. I'll find no fault with you. I'll
help you if I can."

I received a sigh for my answer, and another and another, as she walked
by my side, hanging her head. But when I urged her to speak, she raised
her eyes to mine, and there was a cold, angry glint in them as she
asked:--

"Do you mean--?"

She did not mention Hamilton's name, but I knew whom she meant and
answered:--

"Yes."

A long pause followed, during which I was unable to read the expression
on her face, but presently she spoke, her voice trembling with anger or
emotion, I knew not which:--

"I hate him! If he were to touch my hand, I believe I should want to cut
it off! I hate him--that is, I try to hate him."

Her words and manner caused me uneasiness in two respects: first, it led
me to fear that she loved Hamilton; and second, in view of the rumors I
had heard connecting his name with Roger Wentworth's death, it flashed
upon me that possibly he was the man she had recognized by the light of
Noah's lanthorn. Either of these surmises, if true, was enough to mar my
peace of mind, but together they brought me trouble indeed.

I had come to look for a speedy accomplishment of my cousin's good
fortune, and also to regard Hamilton as my dearest friend among men.
Still I was helpless to remedy these evils if they really existed. What I
did at the time was to insist, first, that Frances regain her senses as
soon as possible, and second, that she say nothing of her intention to
leave Whitehall for at least ten days. To my first request she replied
that she had never been so completely in possession of her senses as at
that present moment, and my second, she positively refused to consider.

The best of women want their way, at least in part, so I said, "I abandon
my first request as unreasonable."

She looked up to me, hardly knowing whether to laugh or to frown, but she
chose the former, and I continued, "And as to my second suggestion, I
amend it to, say, five or six days."

"Three!" she insisted. So we let it stand at that, each with a sense of
triumph.

We returned to the palace, and soon I had an opportunity to ask the king
for a word privately. He graciously consented, and led me to his closet,
overlooking the River Thames. From this closet, on the second floor, a
privy stairs led down to a door which opened on a small covered porch at
the head of a flight of stone steps falling to the king's private barge
landing at the water's edge. When I noticed the narrow stairway, I had no
thought of the part it would one day play in the fortunes and misfortunes
of Frances, Hamilton, and myself.

On the king's command, I sat down near him, and he asked:--

"What can I do for you, baron? I do not remember your having ever
solicited a favor of me, and I shall be delighted to grant what you ask,
if I can."

"I seek no favor, your Majesty," I returned. "I simply want to tell you
that my cousin, Mistress Jennings, has just informed me of her intention
to leave Whitehall, and I wonder--"

"No, no," cried the king, interrupting me. "She shall not go! Why is she
discontented here?"

"I am not sure that I can tell your Majesty," I answered evasively. "I am
loath to see her go, and, knowing well your kindliness, hoped you would
be willing to urge her to remain."

"Gladly," replied the king. "She is the most beautiful ornament of our
court, and we must not lose her. I don't mind telling you for your own
ear that I suspect the cause of her sudden resolution and respect it."

He laughed, and after a long pause, continued:--

"I forgot that she was fresh from the country, and that she still
retained part of her prudish ideas, so while walking with her yesterday
on the Serpentine, I offered her a pension, to which she is justly
entitled, adorning our court as she does. But I fear she took my honest
efforts at gallantry too seriously. My dear baron, the girl shall
have her pension without the slightest return on her part save one of her
rare smiles now and then. Say to her, please, that the king sends his
apology and eagerly awaits an opportunity to offer it in person."

"I thank your Majesty," I answered, rising and bowing, "and feel sure
you have done all that is needful to keep my cousin at court. She has
certain prudish standards which I fear are too easily shocked, and is
as self-willed as--well, as a beautiful woman--"

"Ought to be," interrupted the king, laughing and finishing my sentence.

I wanted him to suspect that his gallant speeches would be repeated to
me, hoping that the knowledge might temper them.

After talking a moment longer with him, I asked permission to withdraw,
and at once sought Frances. When I found her in the parlor of the
duchess, I drew her to one side and told her of my interview with the
king.

"You have tamed the lion," I said, "and you may accept the pension
without harm to your sensitive dignity. But please don't make a fool of
yourself again by taking such a matter seriously. Keep your head, keep
your heart, keep your temper, and thrive. Lose either, and have the whole
court laughing at you. I'm sorry Hamilton is so fixed in your heart that
you cannot dislodge him, but this good may grow out of the evil: you may
judge other men dispassionately."

A great sigh was her only answer.

* * * * *

Frances took my advice, along with the king's pension, and soon learned
that as good wine needs no bush, so true virtue needs no defence.

A brief account of Frances's triumphs and adventures at court is
necessary before this history can be brought to the point of Hamilton's
return; that is, to the time when I knew he was in London.

Her first great triumph was over the heart of the king, to whose
lovemaking she learned to listen and to smile; not the smile of assent,
but of amusement.

Soon our august monarch became silly with love of the new beauty, and
with her help often made himself ridiculous. On one occasion, a few
months after Frances's installation as maid of honor, he left a love note
in her muff which she pushed out at one end as she thrust her hand in at
the other. She was careful to do this little trick in such a manner that
those who saw the king place the note in her muff should see it fall out.
It was picked up by an inquisitive soul, reached the hands of the
"lampooners," and appeared in biting verse in the next issue of the _News
Letter_.

When the king complained to Frances of her ill-treatment of his note, she
declared, with a great show of astonishment, that she had not seen it,
which was literally true, since she had only felt it. She said that it
must have fallen to the ground as she took up her muff, and tried to make
it appear that she was greatly disappointed.

"I would not slight so great an honor as a letter from my king," she said
demurely.

"No, no," returned his Majesty, laughing. "Our most devoted subject would
not slight her king's message. I believe you did it intentionally."

"In which case your Majesty will leave no more notes for me in public,"
answered Frances. And the king's choice lay between taking offence and
looking upon the affair as a jest. He was too far gone in love to take
offence, so he chose to laugh.

On another occasion, at the queen's ball, the king asked Frances to walk
out to the garden with him.

"It is dark, your Majesty, and I fear the dark," she replied. "Let us
walk there in the daytime, so that every one may see how graciously my
king honors me."

He could not coax her out, so he said: "Very well, my prudish Miss
Solomon. Have your way and break my heart."

"To do either would please me," she retorted. "I like to have my own way,
and there are few women who would not be delighted to break a handsome
king's heart."

Frances having captured the king, every other man at court was her
admirer. She could have had her choice of a husband from among the
noblest and richest men of the land, but she showed no one especial
favor. If one imagined that she smiled with marked graciousness on him,
he soon learned that others were equally fortunate, and after a time
each accepted his smile from her and took it for granted that his failure
to receive greater favor was because of the king's success. All praised
her discretion, though many believed that she was concealing adroitly
what she would not have the world suspect. With all her circumspection,
it soon became the common talk at court that she was the king's new
favorite, though there was no reason given for the rumor save the belief
that the king was not to be resisted.

* * * * *

The Duchess of York and I knew the truth concerning Frances, but all
Westminster and London talked of the new star at Whitehall who was
outshining Castlemain, Nell Gwynn, Stuart, and the host of other
luminaries who had scintillated with scandal ever since the king's return
to Britain's throne.

One morning, shortly after the king's last-mentioned conversation with
Frances, she met Nell Gwynn in the palace garden, and was surprised when
Nelly addressed her as "Little Solomon."

"Where did you learn the name?" asked Frances.

"From its author, the king," answered Nell. "Come home with me and I'll
tell you all about it."

They took Nell's barge and went to Westminster water stairs, where they
walked across the park to her house in Pell Mell.

Frances cordially hated Lady Castlemain and the king's other brazen
friends, but, after having met Nelly several times, she had learned to
love the sweet, profane, ignorant girl because, despite her apparently
evil life, there was honesty, kindliness, and truth in Nelly's heart.

When the two young women were seated in Nelly's cozy parlor, she began to
open her heart to Frances.

"Yes, the king told me how he invited you to go to the garden with him
one evening, and how he dubbed you 'Little Solomon' when you refused."

"Ah, did he?" asked Frances, surprised at the king's willingness to speak
of his rebuff.

"Yes," returned Nelly, surprising Frances still further by a soberness of
manner rarely seen in the laughing girl.

After a long pause, Nelly continued: "Do you know, I hate the fat
Castlemain woman. And the bow-legged Stuart hussy! She seems to be proud
of her crooked shanks and exhibits them on every possible occasion. There
is something about extreme ugliness that drives it to exposure, on the
principle, I suppose, that murder will out. And there's ugly Wells! I
hate her, too! Her charm, like that of the Puritan's face, lies wholly in
her damned ugliness. I hate them all, though I do not fear them, but oh,
Mistress Jennings--" Here she leaned forward and grasped Frances's wrist
almost fiercely, "The human heart is a strange thing, at least mine is,
for I love you, but oh, I fear you!"

"No, no," cried Frances, at a loss just what to say.

"Yes," continued Nell, insistently. "Let me tell you! Of late I can
neither eat nor sleep because of the dread that you will rob me of the
king's love. I can do nothing but pray and swear. He does love me more
than he loves all the world, because he knows I am true to him! And his
love is meat and drink and life itself to me! If you could see but one
little part of my love for him, if you could know that I worship him,
God help me! as I should worship only my Maker, if you could understand
that if you were to steal him from me, you would take my life, my very
soul,--if so poor a thing as I can have a soul,--you, who may choose and
pick men at will, would leave his love to me!"

"You need not fear, you need not fear," said Frances, soothingly.

"He is not true to me," continued Nelly, impetuously, "and I know it. But
I do not care. I have his love, and with that I am content. I would not
ask fidelity. I care nothing for the wealth he gives. I accept only a
meagre portion of what he offers, and have refused honors and titles
which would be a burden to me. I want only the man, Charles Stuart."

She began to weep softly, drying her eyes and trying to laugh. "He's not
much of a man, and I know his weaknesses better than any one in all the
world knows them. But he is all to me, and I beg you to leave me this
part of a man, for you only, of all women I know, can take him from me."

"I would not take the king from you, even to be his queen, if that were
possible. I promise that I shall not rob you of his love. It is the last
thing in the world I want. You say you love me. I believe you and give
you like return. Every one loves you, Nelly."

"Ah, I thank you--Frances," answered Nelly, hesitating at the name.

"Let us seal a pact of friendship," said Frances. "We shall need each
other's help in this vile court that takes its quality from its king."

"Yes, truly he is vile," returned Nelly. "But women of my class, born and
bred in the slums of life, do not measure a man by his virtues, but by
their love of him. I know not how it is, nor why, but this I know, we
love because of what we give, and the more we give, the more we love."

"I fear the same is true of all women," answered Frances, with a sigh.
"If a woman could but say to her heart, 'Thou shalt' and 'Thou shalt
not,' there would be fewer unhappy women in this world."

"Oh, do you, too, know that awful truth?" exclaimed Nelly, eagerly
bringing her hands to Frances's shoulders. "Tell me all about it. There
is nothing sweeter than to hear the troubles of a friend. They help to
make our own seem smaller. Tell me."

"I cannot," answered Frances, now as woebegone as Nelly herself. "It is
too terrible even to think upon, yet I think of nothing else. A woman may
love a man to the point of madness and still hate him."

"But it is not the king you love?" cried Nelly, in alarm.

"No, no, Nelly. You have my word. But let us talk of something else,"
answered Frances.

"No, no, let us talk about you," insisted Nelly, whose curiosity was
equalled only by her good nature.

"Not another word," returned Frances. "Don't you want to go to the barge
for a ride on the river?" And Nelly eagerly assented.

When they were seated in the barge, Nelly's waterman asked her where he
should take them, and she proposed going to the Bridge, leaving the barge
at the Bridge stairs, and walking up Gracious Street to the Old Swan
Tavern for dinner. Frances liked the plan and accepted Nelly's invitation
to dinner--and to trouble.

CHAPTER V

THE FIGHT AT THE OLD SWAN

On the way down to the Bridge, inquisitive, irresistible Nelly drew out
of Frances a meagre statement of her case. Although Nelly could not write
her own name, she was excellent at putting two and two together, and on
this occasion quickly reached the conclusion that there was a man whom
Frances had good reason to hate, but loved.

Without suspecting that Roger Wentworth's death bore any relation to
Frances's trouble, Nelly soon began asking questions about the tragedy,
and learned that Frances had recognized one of the highwaymen. When
Frances refused in a marked and emphatic manner to describe the man
she had seen, or to speak of him beyond the first mention, Nelly began
again with her two-and-two problem, and, as the result of her second
calculation, reached the conclusion that the highwayman Frances had
recognized and the man she loved and hated were one and the same person.
However, Nelly had the good taste to keep the result of her calculations
to herself, and dropped the subject which seemed so distasteful to her
companion.

When Frances and Nelly reached the landing at the water stairs just above
the Bridge, they left their barge and walked up Gracious Street (called
by some Grace Church Street, though, in fact, it should be Grass Church
Street) to the Old Swan Tavern on the east side of the street, a little
above Eastcheap.

The Old Swan was a picturesque structure, beautiful in its quaintness,
sweet in its cleanliness, and lovable in its ancient air of hospitality.
Its token, a full-grown swan, was the best piece of sign painting in
London. Its kitchen was justly celebrated. The old inn was kept by Henry
Pickering, a man far above his occupation in manner, education, and
culture. He had lived many years in France, where he had married a woman
of good station, and where his only child, Bettina, whom we called Betty,
was born and lived during her early childhood. Pickering's wife died in
France, and his fortunes failed, so he returned to England, bought the
Old Swan, and soon became rich again.

The Old Swan Tavern must not be confused with the Old Swan wharf and
stairs, which were a short distance below the Bridge.

Neither Frances nor Nelly had ever visited the old tavern before, so,
being unacquainted with the private entrance, Nelly marched bravely into
the tap-room and asked Pickering to show them to a quiet dining room.

Two unescorted ladies of quality taking dinner at even so respectable a
house as the Old Swan was an adventure well calculated to shock the
judicious, but Nelly did not care a straw for appearances, and Frances
hardly knew how questionable the escapade was.

When Pickering had seated his beautiful guests in the small dining room
adjoining the tap-room, he returned to the bar and sent his daughter
Betty to serve them. She was a beautiful girl of eighteen, who had
returned only a few months before from France, where she had spent three
or four winters in a convent, her summers having been spent with her
father.

There was no fairer skin nor sweeter face than Betty Pickering's. The
expression of her great brown eyes, with their arching brows, was so
demure as to give the impression that somewhere back in the shadow of
their long, thick lashes lurked a fund of laughter and harmless mischief
as charming as it was apparently latent. Her form was of the partridge
fashion, though not at all too plump, and her hands, which were white and
soft as any lady's, were small and dimpled at every knuckle. Her little
feet and ankles--but we shall stop at the ankles.

Betty was unusually rich in dimples, having one in each cheek and a half
score or more about her lips and chin whenever she smiled. She was well
aware of the beauty of her dimples and her teeth; therefore, like a
sensible girl that she was, she smiled a great deal, both from feminine
policy and natural inclination. In short, Bettina was a Hebe in youth and
beauty, and soon after I learned to know her, I learned also that she was
an earthly little angel in disposition. It may appear from the enthusiasm
of this description that there was a time in my life when I was in love
with her. I admit it--desperately in love with her.

To have Betty's services at the Old Swan was a favor enjoyed only by her
friends and guests of the highest quality. She was not an ordinary
barmaid, though she had friends whom she delighted to honor. Among these
were Hamilton and myself, we having visited the Old Swan frequently prior
to the time of Hamilton's going to France.

Frances and Nelly had chosen a table in a secluded corner of the private
dining room, and were waiting somewhat impatiently when Betty went in to
serve them.

"Will my ladies eat from table linen--extra, sixpence?" asked Betty,
bending her knee in what might have been called a perpendicular courtesy.
Had she been sure that her customers were of high rank, she would have
saluted them with a low bow, omitting to mention the extra charge for the
linen. But as Frances and Nelly were not escorted by a gentleman, she was
not sure of their station.

"Will we eat from table linen?" demanded Nelly, in apparent indignation.
"Now, damn the girl! Just hear her! From what else, in God's name, hussy,
should we eat? From a trough? And mind you, if there is a spot on it as
large as my smallest finger nail, I'll tear it to shreds!" She winked to
Frances, perhaps to show Betty that she was only chaffing, for in all the
world there was no kinder heart than Nelly Gwynn's.

Betty at once concluded that her guests were great ladies, perhaps from
Whitehall itself, for surely none save ladies of the highest or lowest
rank would use the language that came so trippingly on Nelly's tongue. So
Betty made a deep courtesy, smiled, and answered:--

"Yes, my ladies, it shall be as spotless as a maid of honor's character.
It cost five shillings the ell."

"Is that the best you can do?" demanded Nelly, laughing despite herself
at Betty's reference to the maids of honor. "Never in all my life have
I eaten from anything cheaper than guinea linen, and I know I shall
choke--choke, I tell you! Odds fish! this is terrible!" Then turning
to Frances: "But it serves us right, duchess, for leaving the palace."

"Yes, your Highness," returned Frances. "But you insisted on coming to
the place."

Betty was almost taken off her feet! A princess and a duchess! So her
third courtesy was nearly to the floor, as she asked:--

"What will your Highness and your Grace have to eat?"

"A barrel of oysters, a lobster broiled--make it two lobsters--a dish of
raw turnips, with oil, vinegar, and pepper, a bottle of canary, a bit of
cheese, and a pot of tea. But Lord! I suppose you never heard of tea!
It's a new drink, child, recently brought from China."

"Yes, your Highness," answered Betty, very proud that the Old Swan could
furnish so new a beverage. "We have some excellent tea of my father's own
importation."

"Then fetch it, and in God's name, be quick about it! Doubtless you could
be quick enough in running after a man!" said Nelly.

"In running away from him if I wanted to catch him," answered Betty,
casting down her eyes demurely, as she courtesied and left to give the
order in the kitchen.

Nelly's love of fun brought trouble before the dinner was over.

When Betty left her guests, she went to her father in the tap-room and
told him that a princess and a duchess had honored his house, whereupon
Pickering began to swell with pride. As friends dropped in from time to
time, he informed them that a princess and a duchess were waiting for
their dinner in the small dining room, and followed up the extraordinary
announcement in each case by asking proudly:--

"Show me another tavern this side of Westminster that entertains guests
of like rank. If they were to drop into the Dog's Head, old Robbins would
_drop_ dead. And on what would he serve them? I would wager a jacobus to
a farthing that he hasn't a tablecloth of real linen in his house, and as
for forks, why, he never heard of them. Your fingers and a knife at the
Dog's Head! The Old Swan serves its guests of high rank with five
shilling linen and silver forks. Silver, mind you, hammered from
unalloyed coin by Backwell himself. If any of you happen to be at the
Dog's Head, drop a hint that you saw a princess and a duchess in the
Old Swan's small dining room."

If a guest doubted Pickering's statement concerning the quality of his
guests, he led them to the door of the small dining room, where the
sceptic was relieved of his doubts, for Frances and Nelly looked their
assumed parts convincingly.

Soon after Nelly's dinner had been served, a handsome gentleman entered
the tap-room, sat down at a table, and tapped with his sword-hilt for
service. His doublet and trunks of rich velvet, his broad beaver hat with
its long flowing plume, and his silken hose, had all been elegant in
their good days, but now they were stained, shabby, and almost threadbare
in spots. His shoe buckles showed vacant jewel holders, and his sword
hilt was without a precious stone, all giving evidence that their owner
had been dealing with pawnbrokers. He was shabby from head to feet,
though he bore himself with the convincing manner of a gentleman.

Pickering sent the barboy to wait on the newcomer, but the boy returned
immediately and whispered:--

"Ye made a mistake in sending me, master. Better send one of the maids or
Mistress Betty. The gentleman is more than he seems to be."

"What did he say?" asked Pickering.

"'Ee didn't say nothing," answered the boy. "'Ee looked at me."

At that moment Betty came in, and Pickering nodding toward the stranger,
she went to serve him. When she stopped by his table, she made a
perpendicular courtesy, and asked:--

"How may I serve you, sir?"

"You may bring me a bit of cheese, Betty, and a mug of your father's
famous beer," said the gentleman, giving his order modestly.

"Very well, sir," returned Betty, making another stiff courtesy to "a bit
of cheese and a mug of beer." But while her knee was bent, she caught a
glimpse of the man's face beneath the drooping brim of his hat, and the
stiff courtesy instantly changed to a bow as she exclaimed softly:--

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