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The Touchstone of Fortune written by Charles Major

C >> Charles Major >> The Touchstone of Fortune




"Ah, Master Hamilton, I did not know you. We have not seen you at the Old
Swan this many a day, and--and you are very much changed, sir."

"You are not changed, Betty, unless you have grown prettier, if that be
possible," returned George Hamilton.

"Thank you, Master Hamilton," answered Betty, laughing softly, and
bringing her dimples and teeth into fine display. With all her profound
respect for the high rank of her lady guests, Betty's smiles, while
waiting on handsome George, were of a far rarer quality than those given
to rank and station in the small dining room. In Hamilton's case, she
could not suppress the smile nor restrain the soft laugh incident to her
surprise. The warm glow in her eyes and her murmured words of modest
welcome came of their own accord, because she was kind of heart and as
bewitching a bit of humanity as one could possibly want to caress.

At different times I had imagined that Betty was in love with Hamilton,
and had suffered strange twinges of jealousy on account of my fear;
twinges that surprised and angered me, for my heart had no business going
astray after a barmaid. She had always been kind to me, with a shy
fluttering in her manner from which I should have taken comfort had she
not been freer and easier with Hamilton.

Betty's manner with me should have given me a hint of the way her heart
was tending, even at that early time, but Hamilton was so much more
likely to attract a woman than I, and his manner was so much more offhand
and dashing than mine that I thought it impossible for such a girl as
Betty to think twice of me while she might have been thinking of him. But
I was wrong, as will unfold later; wrong, greatly to my trouble and
surprise.

I should be delighted if I could discover the standards whereby women
measure men. Ugly John Prigg is adored by a beautiful wife, from whom no
other man can win a smile. Stupid little Short possesses a tall rare
Venus, and cadaverous Long a bewitching Hebe. Bandy-legged Little Jermyn,
of Whitehall, he of the "pop eyes" and the rickets head, he with neither
manner, presence, brains, rank, nor money, save what he steals and begs,
is beyond doubt the lady-killer of our court, so what are we to do about
it all but wonder and "give it up"?

"While you have changed for the better, if at all," said Hamilton, "I
also have changed for the better, and sadly for the worse, in some
respects. There is a paradox for you, Betty. I'm better and I'm worse. Do
you know what a paradox is"?

"I'm not sure, Master Hamilton. Perhaps Lord Monmouth is one," answered
Betty, laughing, and coming so close to the truth that Hamilton concluded
she knew the word. "He has been coming here of late, and has been trying
to make love to me."

"And succeeding, Betty?" asked George.

"Ah, no. I've stopped waiting on him. He hasn't money enough to buy the
shadow of a smile from me, even though he is the king's son."

"I commend your discretion, Betty," said George. "But if Monmouth and his
friends have been coming here, the Old Swan must be having rare company."

"Yes," returned Betty, with a touch of pride. "A duchess and a princess
are now taking dinner in the small dining room. There! You may hear the
princess laughing now! She is a merry one."

"A princess, say you, Betty?" asked George. "Nonsense! That is Nelly
Gwynn laughing. I should know her laugh in the din of battle."

"Nelly Gwynn?" cried Betty, joyously. There was not in all England a
duchess nor a princess half so great in Betty's opinion as Nelly Gwynn.
She was the queen of all London east of Temple Bar, and dearer to the
City's heart than any one else at court.

George, too, liked Nelly, and when Betty left him to fetch the pot of tea
from the kitchen for the ladies, he determined to go to the private
dining room and see the king's sweetest sweetheart, from whom he knew he
would hear all the news of court, including perhaps a word about Frances.

Taking his hat from the floor, Hamilton entered the small dining room and
hurried toward the princess and the duchess. Frances sat with her back
toward the door, so that she did not see him as he approached, nor did he
see her face. When Nelly saw him she rose hastily, stretched out her
hands in welcome, and exclaimed:--

"Well, well, handsome George, as sure as I'm not a bishop's wife! How are
you, my long-lost love?"

She stepped forward to meet him, gave him both her hands, stood on tiptoe
to be kissed, and when that pleasing operation had been finished, said:--

"Come with me. I want to present you to my hated rival, the king's latest
love. Mistress Jennings, this is my dangerous friend, Master George
Hamilton."

Nelly's words were my cousin's first warning of Hamilton's presence, and
her surprise, nay, her consternation, deprived her, for the moment, of
the power to think. Hamilton bowed low before my cousin and said:--

"I have the great pleasure of knowing Mistress Jennings."

Anger came to Frances's help, and she retorted: "You are mistaken, sir.
You have not the pleasure of knowing me, nor have I the humiliation of
knowing you."

She turned again to her dinner. Nelly whistled in surprise, and Hamilton
said: "I beg your pardon." Then turning to Nelly: "I thought I knew the
king's new lady love, but it seems I was mistaken. Adieu, Mistress
Gwynn." And turning hastily, he left the room.

As George was resuming his chair at the table in the tap-room, three
roystering, half-tipsy fellows, wearing the uniform of the King's Guard,
entered, flung themselves into chairs at the long table and called loudly
for brandy. Hamilton did not know any of them, though he knew by their
uniforms and swords that they were in the king's service.

Soon after the guardsmen were seated, Betty came from the kitchen
carrying a pot of hot tea and a bottle of wine for Nelly and Frances. As
she was passing the newcomers, one of them rose, seized her about the
waist, and tried to kiss her. But the girl belonged, flesh and blood,
to the class of women with whom kissing goes strictly by favor, so she
dashed the hot tea in the fellow's face and went her way with the bottle
of wine. Though the tea was hot, it cooled the fellow's ardor, and he sat
down, cursing furiously. Pickering tried to quiet him, saying:--

"A little less noise, please, gentlemen. A duchess and a princess are
dining in the next room."

"A duchess and a princess?" exclaimed one of the men. "We should like to
see the duchess and the princess that would dine here. By God! A duchess
and a princess! Come, gentlemen, let us introduce ourselves."

Accordingly the three of them made a dash for the door of the small
dining room and entered. Immediately a series of screams came from the
princess and the duchess, announcing that the intruders were introducing
themselves. Instantly Hamilton drew his sword and hastened to the rescue.
When he entered the room he saw one of the men embracing Nelly and
another trying to seize Frances. His first attention was given to the man
with Frances. He struck him with the hilt of his sword, stunning him for
the moment, but the fellow soon recovered, and the three ruffians drew
their blades.

Finding himself assailed from all quarters, George made a dash for a
corner of the room, where his back and flank were protected. In telling
me of it afterward, Frances said that she and Nelly were so badly
frightened that they could neither move nor scream. The deafening noise
of the clashing swords, the tramping of the heavy boots on the bare oak
floor, the blasphemous oaths of the drunken ruffians, and the stunning
din of battle almost deprived her of consciousness.

After a time all that she could see was Hamilton's face behind the
curtain of flashing swords, and all that she could hear, even above the
din, was his heavy breathing. He had thrown off his doublet and was
fighting in his shirt sleeves, desperately, and it seemed hopelessly.
Soon the blood began to stream down his face, and the white linen of his
shirt was covered with red blotches.

No man can stand long against odds of three to one, but, for what seemed
a very long time to Frances, Hamilton defended himself gallantly, and
seemed to be giving back as much as he received.

But the fight could not have lasted much longer, and sooner or later,
George would have been cut to pieces, had not little Betty entered the
fray. No weapon had she, not even a teapot, but she ran bravely in, knelt
behind one of the ruffians, and when an opportunity came, seized him by
the foot, bringing him down to the floor with a thud. Quickly another
foot was in Betty's deadly grasp, and another man fell, leaving only one
assailant standing, whom Hamilton soon routed. The two men on the floor
attempted to rise, but Betty clung to their feet, and George's sword
quieted them.

When George was satisfied that the ruffians would not try again to
introduce themselves to the duchess and the princess, he wiped his sword
on Betty's five shilling table linen, remarking:--

"I thank you, Betty dear. You came into the fight just in time to save my
life. Another half minute and I should have needed a coffin." He was
breathing heavily and spoke with great effort.

When George had sheathed his sword, he started to leave the room without
speaking to Frances or Nelly, but before he reached the door, Frances
called out faintly:--

"Master Hamilton! Please wait, Master Hamilton!"

For the moment she forgot the cause of her hatred of him, forgot that he
had been implicated in Roger's murder, as she supposed, forgot everything
in all the broad world save her love for him, and that he had just been
at death's door in her defence.

Hamilton stopped a little short of the door, and Frances ran to him,
calling softly: "Oh, sir, wait! Forgive me! I do know you! A moment since
I did not know you, but now--Oh, I must have made a terrible mistake! I
have judged you wrongfully. I do know you! I do know you!"

Hamilton bowed and smiled grimly through the blood which was trickling
down his face, then standing proudly erect, answered:--

"Mistress Jennings is mistaken. She does not know me, nor have I the
honor of knowing the king's new favorite."

Here Betty cut the conversation short by saying: "I'll fetch a
barber-surgeon, while father takes you to a room."

"You'll do nothing of the sort for me," objected Hamilton. "My wounds are
mere scratches. I'll go to the pump. It is the only surgeon I shall need.
Fetch a barber for the men on the floor there."

George went to the pump in the courtyard, followed by Betty, after whom
came Nelly and Frances. Betty was proceeding to wash George's wounds,
when Nelly offered to take the towel from her hand, but the girl refused
with a touch of anger, saying:--

"Please do not interfere, Mistress Gwynn. You and the duchess stood by
gaping while he was fighting to protect you. He would have been dead by
now if he had waited for help from either of you. I advise you to leave
the Old Swan, but don't forget to pay your bill to the barboy."

"Never mind the bill," said Pickering, who was at the pump handle. "But
please take my daughter's advice and go."

"Go where you may find guinea linen. Persons of your quality make too
much trouble at the Old Swan," interposed Betty, who was not in a good
temper.

At first Nelly was inclined to resent Betty's sharp words, but in a
moment she returned softly:--

"You're right, girl. You have earned the privilege to scold."

"And please forgive us," said Frances, to which Betty did not reply.

"Where are your wounds?" asked Nelly, addressing George. "Off with your
clothes and let us see."

"Not here, Nelly, not here," he answered, bending over the tub in front
of the pump. "My wounds are mere trifles. Only a scratch or two on the
scalp and a pink or two on the arms. Take Betty's advice. Leave at once.
This is no place for your friend. The society of our virtuous monarch
doubtless will be far more congenial."

Nelly hesitated, and George, seeing that Frances was about to speak,
turned upon her, almost angrily:--

"Please go before greater trouble comes. I could not hold out for another
fight. I am almost finished. Let the king fight the battles of his
friends. The ruffian that escaped will return with re-enforcements, and I
am not able to fight them again."

"Oh, but she is not the king's friend, as you suppose, as my idle words
might lead you to believe," returned Nelly, pleadingly.

George rose from the tub over which he was standing and answered: "Show
your gratitude for what I have done by going at once."

Seeing that George was in earnest, Nelly left the courtyard, leading
reluctant Frances by the hand. Hamilton's supposed crime had been
forgotten, and I believe would have been forgiven had he permitted
Frances the opportunity at that time.

When Frances and Nelly reached the street, Frances said, "I must see him
again to tell him that I am not--"

"What I am," interrupted Nelly. "Do not fear to speak plainly. I am
content with myself. But I shall take measures at once to convince George
that you are what you are. I'll set you right with him."

"I'll return and explain for myself," insisted Frances.

"He will refuse to hear you. If you wish, I'll leave you at the barge and
go back to explain to him."

Frances consenting, they went back to the barge, and Nelly, returning to
the tavern, sought Betty. Hamilton was not to be seen, and in reply to
Nelly's inquiries, Betty told her that he had fainted at the pump and had
been taken upstairs to a room.

"His wounds are deeper than he supposed," said Betty, "and the loss of
blood has been very great. We have sent for a surgeon."

"I'll go to see him," said Nelly.

"No," returned Betty, shaking her head emphatically. "Father says that
fever may set in, and that Master Hamilton must not be disturbed. You
cannot see him."

"Have your way, Betty," answered good-natured Nell. "And Betty dear, I
was only teasing you about the table linen."

"I understand. Just a little sport with the barmaid," returned Betty, a
note of sarcasm ringing sharply in her usually soft voice.

"Yes, Betty. I'm sorry. Forgive me. Here are two guineas."

"I don't want them," answered Betty, clasping her hands behind her.

"Again forgive me," said Nelly. "I have been wrong altogether in my
opinion of you. You are a good, beautiful girl, and I'm coming back to
see you very soon."

"Please don't come on my account, Mistress Gwynn," returned Betty.

"No, I shall come on my account," replied Nell, coaxingly. "I'll go now
for fear of making more trouble for you, but I intend to be your friend,
and you shall be mine. When Nelly makes up her mind to have a friend, she
always has her way. Good-by, Betty."

Betty courtesied, and Nelly left the Old Swan, returning at once to
Frances, who was waiting in the barge. On their way back to the palace
neither Frances nor Nelly spoke after Nelly had told what she had heard
at the inn. Usually Nelly was laughing or talking, or both, and when a
woman of her temperament is silent, she is thinking. In this instance her
thinking brought her to two conclusions: first, that Hamilton was the man
Frances loved and hated; and second, that it was his face she had
recognized on the night Roger Wentworth was killed.

The dangerous element in these calculations was that they were sure to
reach the king's ear as soon as Nelly found an opportunity to impart
them. It were treason to withhold from his Majesty such a tearing bit of
scandal. She had no reason to suspect that the telling of what had
happened and of what she had deduced would bring trouble to Frances and
George. She simply knew that the king would be vastly pleased with the
story, and her only purpose in life was to give him pleasure. How well
she pleased him in this instance and the result of her innocent effort to
make him happy will soon appear.

The day after the adventure of Frances and Nelly at the Old Swan, I had
business with Backwell, the goldsmith, and when I had disposed of my
matters, I walked over to the Old Swan near by to eat a grilled lobster,
a dish for which the inn was famous. I knew nothing of the trouble that
had occurred the day before, not having seen my cousin, nor did I know
that Hamilton was in London, not having seen nor heard from him since
Frances's arrival at court.

By far my greatest motive in going to the Old Swan was to see Betty,
whose beauty and sweetness had begun to haunt me about that time.

If Mary Hamilton had shown me the least evidence of warmth, my admiration
for Bettina, perhaps, would have remained merely admiration. But in view
of Mary's admirable self-control, I found myself falling into a method
of thought morally then prevalent with all modish men. I confess with
shame that I hoped to have Mary for my wife and Bettina to love me and to
be loved. I did not know Betty then, and have regretted all my life that
once I looked upon her as--well, as a barmaid. While I thoroughly
realized that she was an unusual girl in many respects, still I held to a
theory then prevalent that barmaids were created to be kissed.

When I reached the Old Swan, I chose a table in a remote corner of the
tap-room, ordered a lobster from one of the maids, and, while waiting for
it, drank a cup of wormwood wine.

The place seemed dingy and drear with its great ceiling beams of
time-darkened oak, its long, narrow windows of small square panes, its
black fireplace, lifeless without the flames, and its dark, grim mahogany
bar stretching halfway across the south side of the room. The white
floor, well sanded and polished, seemed only to accentuate the general
gloom, and the great clock, ticking solemnly behind the bar, seemed to be
marking time for a funeral dirge. But suddenly all changed to brightness
when Betty entered. Pickering was talking to me, standing between me and
the girl, so that she did not see me when she first came into the room.
She stepped behind the bar for some purpose and called to her father, who
started to go to her, but before he reached her she looked up and saw me.
In a moment she was by my side, smiling and dimpling in a manner fit to
set the heart of an anchorite a-thumping.

"I came for a lobster, Betty," I said, taking her hand, "and to see you.
I was afraid you might forget me."

"The Old Swan is likely to forget you, Baron Ned," she answered,
withdrawing her hand, "if you don't come to see us oftener."

"Ah, Betty, you're a mercenary bit of flesh and blood. Always looking out
for customers," I returned, shaking my head.

"Yes," she replied, laughing softly. "And--and very sorry when certain
customers come so seldom."

Had she spoken glibly, her words would have meant nothing, but there was
a hesitancy, a pretty fluttering in her manner which pleased me, so I was
emboldened to say:--

"I hope I am one of the 'certain customers,' Betty."

Again she laughed softly, as she answered, "Yes, Baron Ned, _the_ certain
one."

"Do you mean, Betty, that I am the 'certain one' for the Old Swan or for
Betty?" I asked.

She was standing near me, and I again caught her hand, but it was not a
part of Betty's programme to be questioned too closely, so she withdrew
her hand, saying, "I must go."

On former occasions I had put forth what I considered adroit efforts to
steal small favors from the girl, for, as already intimated, I considered
her merely a barmaid; but I had failed, and the conviction was dawning on
my mind that either she was not an ordinary barmaid or that I was the
wrong man. The first assumption would make me all the more eager, but the
second would deter any self-respecting man from further pursuit. My fears
inclined me to accept the second, and resulted in a dim sort of jealousy
of the right man, who, I suspected, was Hamilton.

When Betty started to leave me, I caught her skirt to detain her, and
said: "When George Hamilton used to come here, I was jealous of him, and
feared that he might be the 'certain customer.' But I am glad that he has
left England."

The girl blushed as she answered, "No, no, Baron Ned, there is no other
'certain customer.'" But she checked herself, evidently having said more
than she intended, and continued hurriedly: "But Master Hamilton has not
left England. He is now in the Old Swan. He asked me to say nothing of
his presence in London, but I know he would want me to tell you."

"Yes, yes, of course he would, Betty. Where is he?" I asked.

"Upstairs in bed," she answered.

"Is he sick?" I asked, rising.

"No and yes," she replied. "He is suffering from his wounds, and the
surgeon says the fever is mounting rapidly to his head."

"His wounds?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, lots of them," she answered. "But I hope none of them are serious,
save for the loss of blood."

"Wounds? Blood? Tell me, Betty, tell me! Has he been in trouble?" I
asked, deeply concerned.

"You see it was this way, Baron Ned," she began, leaning back against the
table and smoothing out her apron. "Yesterday while Mistress Gwynn and
another lady, a duchess, were eating their dinner in the small dining
room, three drunken ruffians came in and tried to kiss them. Master
Hamilton, who was here at this very table, heard the disturbance, so he
drew his sword, ran to the rescue, and he and I beat the fellows out. He
fought beautifully, but one man can't stand long against three, so I
upset two of the ruffians by tripping them--pulled their feet from under
them, you know--and Master Hamilton's sword did the rest. One of them ran
away, and the other two were carried to the hospital on stretchers. One
of the ruffians had tried to kiss me a few minutes before, and I had
almost drowned him with a pot of tea. If he ever returns, I'll see that
the tea is boiling."

"It seems that every one is wanting to kiss you, Betty," I remarked.

"Not every one, but too many," she rejoined.

"And you don't want to be kissed, Betty?" I asked.

"Well, not by the wrong man," she answered, laughing softly and tossing
her head emphatically.

"I wish I were the right man," I suggested.

"There is no right man--yet," she returned, laughing and dimpling till I
almost wished there was not a dimpling stubborn girl in all the world.

"Betty, you're a bloodthirsty little wretch," I said, shaking my head
sorrowfully. "You scald one man and help Hamilton to kill two."

"Oh, they will not die," she answered seriously. "I was haunted by the
fear that they might, so I got up in the middle of the night, took father
and one of the boys with a link, and went to the hospital, where I
learned that they will recover."

"Show me to Hamilton's room, Betty, and bring two lobsters there instead
of one. He and I will have dinner together," I said, turning to go with
her.

"He doesn't seem to want to eat, though I doubt if his lack of appetite
is owing wholly to his wounds," she replied, as we were leaving the
tap-room.

"How long has he been here?" I asked.

"Since yesterday noon," she answered. "He came just in time to find
trouble. An hour ago I took a bowl of broth to him and a plate of
sparrow-grass, but he said dolefully that the food would stick in his
throat. I told him he was not wounded in the throat. Then he said it was
in his heart, and that such a wound kills the appetite. I believe he's in
love, Baron Ned," she concluded, leaning toward me and whispering
earnestly.

"With you, Betty?" I asked.

"No, no, with some one else."

"Would it make you unhappy?" I asked.

"To be in love?" she asked, arching her eyebrows.

"No. For him to be in love," I said.

"If he is unhappily so, I should be sorry," she answered.

"And you would not be jealous?" I asked.

"Ah, Baron Ned!" she returned, protestingly.




CHAPTER VI

SWEET BETTY PICKERING


When we knocked at Hamilton's door, he answered, "Come," and I entered,
Betty closing the door behind me, leaving George and me together. He
was lying on the bed, his head and arms bandaged, and a feverish gleam
shining in his eyes. I went toward him, offering my hand. He rose and sat
on the edge of the bed, but did not accept my greeting. I was about to
speak when he lifted his hand to interrupt me, saying coldly:--

"Well, Clyde, what do you want?"

"I want to see you and help you, if I can," I answered, in surprise.

"Now that you have seen me, you may go," he returned.

I did not know the cause of his ill feeling, though I knew that something
had happened to turn him against me, so I stood my ground and answered:--

"I shall go if you insist, but before I go, please tell me in what manner
I have offended you. Neither you nor I have so many friends that we can
afford to lose one without an effort to save him. The world is full of
men and women, but a friend is a gift of God. I thought you had forgiven
me what I said at Sundridge. Your time to take offence was then, not
now."

"I hold no ill will for what you said then in my hearing. It is what you
have done in so cowardly a manner since I last saw you, and at a time
when I was not present to hear or to resent it."

"But what have I done?" I asked.

"You should know. I don't," he answered, sullenly.