I then told him of my cousin's visit with Nelly to the Old Swan, laying emphasis on Frances's refusal to recognize Hamilton, but saying nothing of the fight that followed.

"I am glad to learn the truth, if it is the truth," lisped his Lordship, musingly.

"If you would know the real danger to Frances, you must look higher," I said, cautiously refraining from being too explicit. "There is one whom my cousin scorns, but from whom she is in hourly peril. There is no length to which he would not go, no crime, however dastardly, he would not commit to gain his end. I watch over her constantly, and although my fear may be groundless, still I believe that her only safety is to marry at once and to leave court with her husband."

"But you say she despises him?" he asked.

"Yes, she even hates him. Still she is in great danger; perhaps in danger of her life. We all know that crimes have been committed by this person— crimes so horrible as to be almost past belief. You remember the parson's daughter who jumped from a high wall and killed herself to escape him."

"You are her guardian, baron. Let me be her watchdog," said Tyrconnel, leaning eagerly across the table toward me. "And if I am so fortunate as to win her love by constant devotion, she shall be my wife."

I offered my hand as a silent compact, and we finished our mutton almost without another word.

Two days after my interview with Tyrconnel, George Hamilton's News Letter appeared, containing a vicious attack on the king, which angered his Majesty greatly and seemed to arouse anew his suspicion that Hamilton was not in France, some one having told him on a mere suspicion that George was the editor of the News Letter. His Majesty accused Frances of falsehood in having told him that she had not seen Hamilton and that she believed he was in France, but she becoming indignant, he again apologized.

Frances's account of the king's state of mind alarmed me, and I determined to see George as soon as possible and advise him to leave England at once. I was delayed in going, but on a cold, stormy day at the end of a fortnight I found my opportunity, and took boat for the Old Swan, not minding the snow and sleet, because I was very happy knowing that I should see Betty. I had of late done all in my power to keep away from her, but the longing had grown upon me, and I was glad to have an honest excuse to visit Gracious Street.

I have spoken heretofore of my engagement to marry Mary Hamilton, and my passion for Betty may indicate that my heart was susceptible, if not fickle. But aside from Betty's Hebe-like charms of person and sweetness of disposition, there were other reasons for my falling off respecting Mary. While she had promised to marry me, still there was a coldness, perhaps I should say a calmness, in her manner toward me, and a cautiousness in holding me aloof which seemed to indicate a desire on her part for a better establishment in life than I could give, if perchance a better offered. My suit had not prospered, though it had not failed, since she was to be my wife provided she found no more eligible husband within a reasonable time.

Dangling blunts the edge of ardor; therefore I soon found myself noticing beauty elsewhere and discovered none that could be compared with that of Betty Pickering of the Old Swan. It is true she was, in a sense, a barmaid, and equally true that I had no thought of marrying her. Still it was significant even at that early time that my mind reverted to the fact that Edward Hyde, Lord Chancellor of England and Earl of Clarendon, had married an innkeeper's widow, whose daughter became the mother of two queens.

While this was true, still I respected Betty less than I admired her and far less than she deserved, never entirely forgetting her station in life nor ceasing to recognize the great distance between us.

When I entered the Old Swan, Betty greeted me with a smile amid a nest of dimples, and led me upstairs to her parlor, so that we might talk without being overheard. I sat down on a settle, and Betty took her place beside me. Her hands rested on her lap, giving her an air of contentment as she turned her face toward me and asked:—

"Have you come to see Master Hamilton?"

"Yes," I answered, "and you."

"And me?" she asked, looking up with a curious little smile. "In what way may I serve you?"

"By sitting there and permitting me to look at you," I answered.

"Oh, is that all?" she asked, laughing softly.

"And by smiling once in a while," I suggested.

"Who shall smile? You or I?" she queried, glancing slyly up to me.

"Oh, you, by all means," I returned. "There is no beauty in my smile, while yours—"

"Come, come, Baron Ned," she interrupted, looking up to me pleadingly. "My smiles are honest, and that is all that is needful in my case. So don't try to make me believe they are anything more. Don't make a fool of me by flattery."

"Don't you like flattery, Betty?" I asked.

"Yes, of course I do," she returned, smiling and dimpling exquisitely. "But it is not good for me. You know I might grow to believing it and you."

"But it is true, Betty, and you may believe me," I answered, very earnestly, taking her hand from her lap.

She permitted me to hold her hand for a moment, and said:—

"I am so desirous of keeping my regard for you and of holding your regard for me that I am tempted to tell you I fear it will all change if I find you inclined to doubt that I am an honest girl."

"I do not doubt it, Betty," I answered. "I know you and respect you, and you shall have no good cause to change your regard for me, if you have any."

"Frequently gentlemen are rude to me in the tap-room, and I submit rather than make trouble by resenting it, but you have always been respectful, and—and I have appreciated it, Baron Ned. Father says I need not go to the tap-room hereafter, but may direct the maids in the house, now that I am growing old—near twenty."

"Twenty?" I asked. And she nodded her head proudly.

"Yes."

"I thought you were still a child," I remarked.

"No, no," she returned, looking up to me open-eyed and very serious. "I am a woman."

"Yes, a beautiful child-woman—the most beautiful in all the world," I said, grasping her hand and holding it a moment till its fluttering ceased. "And I am jealous of every other man who comes near you."

I saw that my remark had offended her, so I continued earnestly: "I meant it, Betty; I meant it. I was not jesting."

Betty sighed, looked quickly up to me, half in doubt, half in inquiry, and was about to speak, but closed her lips on her words and leaned forward, her head drooping eloquently. Her gentleness, her sweetness, and her beauty were so tempting that I could not resist their charm. Again I caught her hand, and it trembled in mine as she tried faintly to withdraw it. I tried to check myself but failed, and I put my arm about her waist. Then, after a mighty effort to stay my words, I said pleadingly:—

"Ah, Betty, I love you. Please, please, Betty, believe me, and—and—just one kiss."

"No, no," she cried pleadingly, trying to draw away from me. "It could not be honest between us. You are a nobleman—I, a barmaid. Your friendship is very dear to me. Please let me keep it, Baron Ned, and let me keep my regard for you. Let there be at least one man whom I do not fear. You know there can be nothing honest between us, and if it be possible that one so lowly as I can deserve your respect, let me have it, Baron Ned, let me have it. Let me keep it, for it is the dearest thing in life to me."

There was such deep entreaty in her voice that it touched me to the heart, and I drew away from her immediately, saying:—

"I do know there can be nothing honest between us, Betty, and knowing it, have suffered. What I have said to you is little compared to what I feel and to what I would say. I can't help it that I love you, Betty, but you shall never have cause to fear me. Do you believe me and do you trust me, Betty?"

For answer she held up her lips to me. What she had refused on my request, she gave of her own accord, saying:—

"There, Baron Ned. Now, if you really respect me, you will know that I trust you, for I am not a girl to do this thing wantonly. Perhaps I should not have done it at all, but you must know that I could not help it. If you care for my friendship or are concerned for my happiness, I beg you never tempt me to repeat my folly. There is no other man, but now you must know after what I have done, that there is one—yourself. But there can be nothing but friendship between us, Baron Ned, and oh, that is so much to me! Let me have what happiness I can find in it!"

"But I love you, Betty, and I know that you love me," I answered, unable to restrain my tongue.

She did not speak, so I asked, "Do you not, Betty?"

"No," she answered, shaking her head dolefully. But I knew she did not tell the truth.

Presently she asked. "Do you want to see Master Hamilton?"

I answered that I did, and she said I might go to the printing shop, where she was sure I should find him.

She rose and started toward the door. I called to her, but she did not stop, so I ran after her, saying:—

"Have I offended you, Betty?"

"No," she answered, drooping her head. "But I am very unhappy, and I want to be alone so that I may cry. You know it is much harder to forego the thing one wants but may not take, than it is to do without the thing one wants but cannot take. Yearning for the impossible brings longing, for the possible anguish."

And I remained silent, almost hating myself.

I went to the tap-room with Betty, and the courtyard being vacant for a moment, I ran across and down the steps to see Hamilton.

I had tried to see Frances that morning at Whitehall, but failed, being told that she had gone to visit her father. I had stopped at Sir Richard's house, but Frances was not there, and I half suspected I might find her with Hamilton.

I found Hamilton at his printing-press, and after I had told him of the risk he ran by remaining in London, he said:—

"I have been making an honest living from my News Letter and am sorry to give it up, but I fear trouble will come very soon if I continue to publish it. The king has a score of human bloodhounds seeking me. It is rather odd, isn't it, to hear a man of the house of Hamilton talking about making money by work, but of all the money I have ever touched, that which I have made honestly from the News Letter has been the sweetest. The work has been a delight to me, even aside from the fact that it gives me an opportunity to abuse the king. Lilly tells me that the king asked him to consult the stars concerning my threats against the royal life. The result was favorable to me."

"It is strange that the king should be duped by a palpable humbug," I remarked, supposing that George would agree with me. But, no! He turned on me almost fiercely:—

"Lilly is not a humbug! Of course he humbugs the king, but everybody does. I have known him to do some wonderful things by the help of his astrological figures, conjunctions, constellations, and calculations."

"Nonsense! All humbug, I tell you!" I asserted, somewhat disgusted.

"No, it is not all nonsense," he insisted. "A poor woman lost a sum of money ten days ago. Lilly set a figure and told her where to find it."

"And of course she found it?" I inquired incredulously.

"Yes, she found it," returned George. "And Lilly would not accept a farthing for his service. Two months ago a child was stolen from its home in Devonshire, and the parents came all the way to London to consult Lilly."

"And of course they found the child?" I asked.

"They did. It was with a band of gypsies who made their headquarters at a place called Gypsy Hill, Lambeth," returned Hamilton, provoked by my scepticism. "He learns some very curious truths from the stars."

"The stars!" I exclaimed contemptuously. "He is a shrewd observer of men and of things about him, and when he guesses right, I venture to say he finds his inspiration much lower than the stars."

"Perhaps he does," returned Hamilton. "Of that I cannot say. But this I know. He can put two and two together and make a larger sum total than I have ever seen come from any other man's calculations. He is learned in every branch of knowledge, and I respect his wonderful conclusions, asking no questions about his methods."

"Very well, I'll not dispute with you if you admit that he receives even a part of his knowledge from substellar sources. But while we are alone I want to ask you, and I want you to tell me the truth: has Frances been here to-day?"

"No! Tell me, for God's sake, tell me quickly! Why do you ask?" he exclaimed, turning to me in alarm. "Of late I have been haunted with the fear that she is in danger of violence from the king. He is capable of committing any crime—has committed many, as we all know! Why do you ask about Frances, Baron Ned?"

"Because she is not at Whitehall nor at her father's house, where the duchess said she was going. She never goes any place else, and it only now occurs to me to be alarmed."

"Only now?" he demanded angrily. "What have you been doing? I supposed you were watching over her. A fine guardian, upon my word! Where is she? Carried off by the king, of course! What else have you expected from our friend at Whitehall? If harm comes to her, I'll kill him!"

He threw off his printer's cap and apron, hastily cleansed his face and hands, put on the gray beard and wig, took his broad hat and long coat from the chest, and started toward the door, bidding me follow.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"To Whitehall," he replied. "You to learn, if you can, where Frances is; I to form my plans what to do in case you do not find her. You must go to the river ahead of me and take a boat. I'll follow in another. We should not be seen together. You stop at Sir Richard's house, and if she is not there, go to Whitehall. Then come to me at the house of Carter, the Quaker. You know where it is—just off King's Street, not far from the Cross."

I followed Hamilton's suggestion. I did not find Frances at Sir Richard's house, so I hastened to Whitehall, where I learned that she had left shortly before noon, saying that she was going to spend the afternoon and night at home. It was near the hour of three o'clock when I had started up the river, from the Old Swan, and a snowstorm was raging which became violent before I reached the palace.

While I was talking to one of the maids in the parlor of the duchess, a page came to me and whispered, "A lady is waiting for you at Holbein's Gate, and wishes you to go to her as soon as possible."

I suspected that the lady was Frances, so I hastened to the gate and found, not my cousin, but Betty. I knew her the moment I saw her, despite the fact that she wore a full vizard and a long cloak. I also knew that nothing less than a matter of great urgency would have induced the girl to call for me at the palace.

The snow, which had been falling all day, was now coming in horizontal sheets, laden with sleet. The wind was blowing half a gale, and the weather was turning bitterly cold, yet Betty had come to seek me, despite weather and modesty. Eager to hear her errand, I led her toward Charing Cross, and when we were away from the gate, asked:—

"What brings you, Bettina? I know it must be a matter of great urgency that has induced you to venture forth in this terrible storm. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing for me, Baron Ned," she answered, taking my arm and huddling close to my side for protection against the storm.

"For whom, then? Tell me quickly," I asked.

"I fear Mistress Jennings is in trouble," she answered. "Soon after you and Master Hamilton left the Old Swan, a girl came to me in my parlor and told me that as she was passing a coach standing in front of Baynard's Castle two hours or more ago, a lady called to her from the coach window and told her to tell me that Mistress Jones was in great trouble; that she had been seized by two men who were carrying her away. She said the lady was bound hand and foot, and that immediately after she had spoken, two gentlemen came from Baynard's Castle, entered the coach, and drove toward Temple Bar. The girl said she followed the coach till she saw it turn into the Strand beyond Temple Bar; then she came to see me."

"Did the girl say at what hour she saw the lady, Mistress Jones?" I asked. "She probably did not catch the name Jennings."

"She said it was two hours or more before she saw me," answered Betty. "That would make it perhaps between one and two o'clock. I ought to have questioned her more closely, but I feared to delay telling you, so I left her in my parlor and came to see you as quickly as possible."

"Brave Betty! Sweet Betty!" I exclaimed, rapturously. "I could find it in my heart to kiss you a thousand times as a reward for your wisdom."

"And I could find it in my heart to be content with other reward," she answered, though her words took a different meaning from the gentle pressure she gave my arm.

"But tell me," asked Betty, "do you know where Mistress Jennings is?"

"She is not to be found," I returned. "Beyond a doubt the lady in the carriage was my cousin. You say it was perhaps one o'clock when the girl saw her?"

"Yes."

"It is after three now, nearly four, and will soon be dark. We must hasten."

We fairly ran to the Quaker's house, where we found Hamilton, who, forgetting his sacred calling, lapsed into the unholy manner of former days and used language which caused Betty to cover her ears with her hands. We did not, however, allow his profanity to delay us, but hastened to the Cross, expecting to take a coach for the Old Swan. But none was to be found, so we went to the river, where we were compelled to take an open boat with a steersman and one oarsman. We made poor headway, having to beat against the wind and the tide, so George and I each took an oar. After a time the man at the steering oar said that he would row if George or I would steer the boat, but neither of us knew the river and therefore could not take his place.

Betty said that she knew the river, having kept a small boat since she was strong enough to lift an oar, so she took the steering oar, and with four sweeps out we sped along at a fine rate. I shall never forget that water ride. We seemed to be pulling uphill every fathom of the way. The black, oily waves, with their teethlike crests of white, rose above our bow at every stroke of the sweeps, and when I looked behind me it seemed that we must surely be engulfed.

The snow, driven by the wind, swirled in angry blasts, and the damp, cold air chilled us to the bone. Our greatest danger would be when we came to land at the Bridge stairs, for the tide was pouring in through the arches of the Bridge and was falling in a great cataract just below the foot of the stairs. One false stroke of Betty's steering oar when we came to land, and our boat would be swamped. But she clung to the oar and brought us safely to the stairs within a fathom of the breakers.

We ran up Gracious Street and found the girl waiting in Betty's parlor. But Betty had told us all there was to be learned, so we gave the girl a few shillings and sent her home.

"What shall we do?" asked Betty, feeling that she had earned a right to couple herself with Hamilton and me by the pronoun "we."

"I'll go to see Lilly," said Hamilton. "He lives in the Strand, not far from Temple Bar."

"Why do you wish to see him?" I asked.

"He will tell us where Frances is and how to find her. Will you go with me?" asked Hamilton.

"Certainly," I responded, though I considered the visit a waste of time.

"May I, too, go?" asked Betty, with the double motive, doubtless, of helping and seeing. Lilly, engaged in his incantations, would be an inspiring sight to her.

"No, no, you may not go with us," answered Hamilton.

Betty's eyes looked up to me entreatingly, so I took up her cause, and suggested:—

"Lilly may want to question her about what the girl said."

"You are right," returned George. "Wrap yourself up well, Betty, and come along. We'll take a coach to Lilly's."

A porter soon brought us a coach, and Betty, having explained to her father where and why she was going, climbed in with George and me, and we were off.



CHAPTER IX

KIDNAPPED

We found Lilly at home, eager to help us. He asked many questions relating to my cousin's life and her friends at court, to all of which I made full answer in so far as I knew, including an account of the king's objectionable attentions. I suspected that the Doctor would make more use of the knowledge he obtained from me than of that to be received from the stars, but I did not care how he reached his conclusions if he could but tell us how and where to find Frances.

Lilly questioned Betty also, and when he had learned all that she knew, he left us seated in the parlor while he went to his observatory to set a figure. In the course of ten minutes he returned and gave us the result of his calculations, as follows:—

"I believe I can tell you where Mistress Jennings is, and how she may be found," he said, speaking and acting as one walking in sleep. "But your failure to tell me the exact hour of her birth lends uncertainty to my calculations. I have all the particulars concerning the nativity of a man whom I shall not name. I have read the stars many times for him and on many subjects. If he is connected with the disappearance of Mistress Jennings, you will find her at a place called Merlin House, six leagues from Westminster and half a league from the Oxford Road."

Here his eyes began to roll and he seemed to be under a spell. He made strange, weird passes in the air for a time, then became rigid, his face upturned and his arms uplifted. Betty was frightened and drew close to my side, grasping my arm.

After perhaps a minute of silence, Lilly began to speak again in low sepulchral tones: "I see a house in the depths of a forest dark and wild. It is surrounded by a high wall. In the east side of the wall is a double door or gate of thick oak, which you will find locked and barred. The house is of brick, save a tower at the southeast corner, which is of stone three stories high. To reach the house, you must travel on the Oxford Road a distance of six leagues and two furlongs, where you will find a broken shrine, erected hundreds of years ago to the Blessed Virgin. The shrine is on the left side of the road as you travel west, one hundred paces back, on the top of a low hill surrounded by a bleak moor. The shrine has gone to decay, but it holds a sacred relic of the Blessed Virgin."

Betty, who was a Catholic, crossed herself and murmured an Ave. Lilly continued:—

"On the apex of the shrine there is a broken cross. The night is dark and you may pass without seeing it, therefore I shall direct you how to find it. A short distance this side of the shrine the road turns sharply to the left, just before crossing a bourne which is six leagues from Westminster. After you have crossed the bourne, bring your horses to a walk, and when you have counted a number equal to the sum of seven times the square of eleven, counting as the clock ticks, halt, and you will find the shrine on a hillock in a bleak moor. You may easily see it, as it will be dark against the snow. Neither rain nor snow touches it, and the storm spares it. It has been abandoned by men hundreds of years, therefore the Blessed Virgin protects it from further decay."

He seemed to be a long time coming to the house, but after another pause, he continued:—

"Half a league beyond the shrine a narrow road branches to the south. Take it, and soon you will be in the midst of a forest, dark and wild. The road will be dim and difficult to follow in its windings, but your horses will keep the way and will take you to a gate in the midst of the forest. Enter by the gate and follow the road winding among the trees till you reach the double door or gate in the wall. The house will be dark save in the third story of the stone tower, where you will see a star beaming in the window. Raphael, my familiar spirit, will hold the star for your guidance. In the room of the star, you will find the person you seek. Delay not!"

He stopped speaking, bent forward, breathed upon a gold plate covered with mystic signs which rested on a table, rose to an upright posture, again became rigid, stretched out his hands with face upturned, and whispered in tones almost inaudible:—

"Come thou, great Raphael, spirit of rescue, and help me this night in a righteous cause. In the name of Jupiter, the father of the gods, Mercury, his son, and Psyche, the spirit of the stars!"

He stood dazed for a moment, as though just awakened, then turning quickly to me, said: "Lose not a moment's time. Hasten at once to the rescue. I am sure my directions will lead you to her whom you seek."

Betty, George, and I gathered our hats and cloaks, and George, turning to me, said:—

"We must find a light coach and four good horses. The road will be heavy with snow, and we must be prepared to travel rapidly."

"Father has four good horses, as strong and swift as any in London," suggested Betty. "He has a light coach, too. Let us return to the Old Swan and prepare to start at once."

"Betty, you are too wise for one of your age and sex," said George. "But without your wisdom, I don't know what we should have done this night. Let us go immediately."

Our coachman put his horses to a gallop, we reached the Old Swan in a short time, and within less than half an hour, a porter informed me that a coach and four were awaiting us in the courtyard. Pickering lent us greatcoats and rugs and all things needful to keep us warm. He did not know the exact reason for our journey, but had learned from Betty that it was undertaken in an affair of great moment, involving my cousin's safety.

George and I each carried a heavy sword and a pistol in addition to two hand guns, primed and charged, which lay in a box on the coach floor. The drivers on the box were each armed with a sword and a pistol. They had been reluctant to leave the kitchen fire to face the storm, but when they had a hint that a fight was possible, and when Pickering offered them a guinea each, they changed their minds, quickly wrapped themselves in greatcoats, and were on the box when we came out. George stopped at the inn door to have a word with Pickering, and while they were talking I climbed to the top of the front wheel of the coach to give instructions to the drivers. I told them to drive at a moderate gait down Candlestick Street and the Strand till they reached Charing Cross; then to turn up towards Saint-Martin's-in-the-Fields and take the crooked road across the Common till they reached the Oxford Road. When on the main highway, they were to travel at full gallop.

"How long is the journey, sir?" asked one of the drivers. "I ask so that I may know how fast to drive the horses."

"Between six and seven leagues," I answered.

"Ah, they can go that distance at a good pace if we on the box don't freeze to death," he returned, buttoning up his greatcoat, bringing the rug tightly about him and drawing on his gloves.

I sprang from the wheel and started to enter the coach just as George left Pickering, but when I put my foot on the step, I saw a small man sitting in the furthest corner of the back seat.

"Come, come, what are you doing here? And who are you?" I asked, stepping into the coach for the purpose of pulling the fellow out.

I was greeted by a soft laugh and this answer: "I am sitting here, and my name is Betty Pickering."

"My God, Betty, you can't go with us," I exclaimed, making ready to help her out of the coach.

But she put her hand over my mouth to silence me and whispered, "The men on the box must not know me."

Betty pushed me backward out of the coach, came out herself and led me to George, who, by that time, was halfway across the courtyard.

"Who are you?" cried George, surprised to see the little man beside me, for Betty was in greatcoat, trousers, and boots.

"I am Betty, and Baron Ned says I shall not go with you."

"No, no, Betty," answered George. "See the snow, the sleet, and the storm. It is freezing and the wind cuts like a knife. It would kill you to go with us."

"Think a moment," she answered, whispering, so that her words might not be overheard by the men on the box. "Mistress Jennings may need the help of a woman, but in any case you shall not have the coach and horses if I don't go."

"Does your father know?" I asked.

"Yes, yes, come on! We are wasting valuable time," answered Betty, starting toward the coach.

George and I were helpless against Betty's will, so we said nothing more, and she climbed into the coach, taking her former place at the left end of the back seat. George followed, taking the middle place next to her, and after giving the word to start, I followed George, taking the right hand corner, thus leaving him between Betty and me, an arrangement that did not at all please me. But my disappointment was short lived, for hardly was I seated till Betty spoke in tones plainly showing that she was pouting:—

"I want Baron Ned to sit by me."

George laughed, he and I changed places, and when I was settled beside Betty, she caught my hand, giving it a saucy little squeeze, and fell back in her corner with a sigh and a low gurgling laugh.

When we had climbed Gracious Street hill, we turned into Candlestick Street and drove along at a brisk pace, George and I watching the houses to note our progress.

After passing Temple Bar, the street being broader and the night very dark, we could not distinguish the houses save when a light gleamed over a front door now and then, and were not sure where we were until we saw the flambeaux over Whitehall Gate scintillating through the falling snow.

Before reaching Charing Cross, one of the drivers lifted the rug which hung across the front of the coach between us and the box and asked:—

"Did you say, sir, to take the road across the Common from Saint-Martin's-in-the-Fields?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Then, sir, have your pistols ready, for it is the worst bloody stretch of road about London for highwaymen, though I doubt if they be out on a night like this."

"You're not afraid?" I asked.

"Devil a bit, sir! I'd rather fight than eat, but I thought maybe your honors would rather eat."

He cracked his whip, and soon we were over the dangerous ground, travelling along on the Oxford Road at a fine gallop. On reaching the open country the wind gave us its full force, there being no doors to our coach, and soon our rugs were covered with snow. But George and I were wrapped to our chins, and Bettina nestled cozily down in her corner untouched by the storm.

After leaving Westminster, we had no means of knowing our rate of progress, for there were no houses near the road, and, if there had been, we should not have known them. The drivers kept the horses in a strong trot, at times a vigorous gallop, and I judged that we were making nearly three leagues an hour. At that rate it would require perhaps two hours to reach the shrine mentioned by Lilly.

We had instructed the men on the box to watch for a sharp bend in the road just before crossing a bourne, and we, too, began to watch soon after leaving Westminster. After what seemed to be a long time, George asked me to make a flare in my tinder box, while he caught a glimpse of the face of his watch. This I did under the rug, and, much to our disgust, we found that we had been less than twenty minutes on the road, so provokingly had time lagged.

After our disappointment we lay back in the coach, determined to ignore time, and thereby perhaps hasten it. In truth, time's lagging was not unpleasant for me, in one respect, at least, for Bettina was by my side. I found delight in keeping her well tucked about with rugs, so that not even a breath of the storm nor a flake of snow could reach her. She wore a great fur hood which buttoned under her chin, almost covering her face and falling in a soft warm curtain to her shoulders and bosom. She was warm, and aside from our great cause of anxiety, I believe, was happy. I wished a hundred times that George were in another coach, though had he been, I well knew that I should have said a great deal to Betty which on the morrow would have been regretted, both for her sake and my own.

Just at a point when time seemed to have halted, the driver lifted the rug hanging behind him, and said:—

"Here is the bend, sir, and yonder is the bourne."

Presently we knew by the breaking of the ice and the splashing of the water that we were crossing the bourne, and when we were over, George called to the driver, directing him to allow the horses to walk until the order came to stop.

George dropped the front curtain, and turning to Betty and me, said:—

"Now, let us count as the clock ticks to the number 847, and when finished, we shall be at the shrine."

"We are more apt to find a bleak moor and a sharp blast of wind," I suggested.

While under the spell of Lilly's incantations, I had almost accepted his absurd vaporings, but cooler thought had brought contempt, and I had begun to look upon our journey as a very wild goose chase indeed.

"We have found the sharp turn in the road and the bourne," said George, "and I see no reason to doubt that we shall find the shrine."

"Lilly may have passed over the road and may know that the shrine is here; but when we find it, what will it prove?" I asked.

"It will prove nothing, though I am willing to stake my life that we find Frances in Merlin House."

"Count!" exclaimed Betty, sharply. In our discussion, George and I had forgotten to count, but Betty had been counting under her breath as the clock ticks, and we took her number and started with it.

We all reached the number 847 almost at the same second, when we stopped the coach, and sure enough, there by the roadside, on a small rocky hillock surrounded by a bleak moor, was the shrine. Even from the road we could see the fragment of a cross projecting above the one piece of wall left standing. One would hardly have taken it to be a shrine unless the fact had been suggested, but with the thought in mind, the fragmentary cross was convincing evidence. Had its sacred quality been suspected during the time of Cromwell, not one stone would have been left upon another, but no one knew that it was the Virgin's shrine, therefore it was not disturbed, but stood there, black on a field of luminous white. We all saw it at the same moment. I was content to view it from the coach, but George went to examine it, and returned, saying:—

"It is a shrine. Part of the cross still remains surmounting a fragment of a wall."

He climbed into the coach and was about to give the word to start again, when Betty spoke up, hesitatingly, pleadingly but emphatically:—

"Please wait a moment. I want to see it."

I followed Betty when she got out of the coach, and, as we approached the shrine, she exclaimed: "Doctor Lilly was right! There is no snow on the shrine. The Virgin protects it. There must be a relic beneath the stones!"

We climbed a little hillock and after standing before the shrine for a moment, Betty said, "Please return to the coach and leave me alone."

"Why, Betty?" I asked. "You may speak plainly to me. I think I know your motive."

"I want to offer a little prayer to the Virgin here at her broken shrine—a prayer for your cousin and for you—and for me."

I knelt with her, and after Betty had finished her simple invocation, we rose, and I, who at another time would have laughed at the prayer, felt the thrill of her whispered words lingering in my heart. I seemed to know that we should rescue Frances, and I also knew that my love for Bettina would bring me nothing but joy, softened and sanctified by sadness, and to her nothing of evil save the pain of a gentle longing.

Betty felt as I did, for when she rose she said, "Now we shall find Mistress Jennings, and, Baron Ned, I shall fear you no more."

"Have you feared me?" I asked, touched to the quick by her artless candor.

"Yes," she answered, sighing. "Though I have feared myself more. You are so far above me in every way that it is no wonder I am bewildered when you say—say—that you—. You know what I mean."

"Yes, Betty," I answered quickly, feeling that she had more to say.

"I was bewildered in my parlor at the Old Swan to-day," she said, hanging her head. "Your opinion of me must have fallen."

"No, no, I understood, Betty, I understood, and I dare not tell you how much my opinion has risen because I would say more than would be good for you or for me," I answered reassuringly.

"But you must remember that a girl has impulses and yearnings at times, and she should not be too harshly blamed if she sometimes fails to beat them down. But now it will all be different. The Blessed Virgin will help us, and our conflict is over."

Betty and I started back to the coach, both feeling the uplift of our answered prayer. Probably we were the only devotees that had knelt before the shrine in hundreds of years, and the Virgin had heard our supplication. It was a proposition I should have laughed at and held to scorn prior to that time.

After leaving the shrine, it was only a few minutes till the coach turned to the left into a narrow road, and we were approaching the end of our rough journey. We continued to travel at a brisk trot and came to the forest, "dark and wild," of which Lilly had spoken. Thus far his "calculations" were correct, and I was beginning to take hope that they would continue so to the end. After half an hour on the winding road through the forest, the drivers halted at the gate of which Lilly had spoken, and in ten minutes more drew rein beside the high brick wall surrounding Merlin House.

Without the least trouble we found the gates or doors in the wall, and truly enough, they were of "thick oak" so strong that we could not feel them vibrate when we tried to shake them, and so firmly locked in the middle that we almost despaired of opening them. The wall was too high to scale, and for a moment it looked as though our journey had been in vain. But Betty's keen wits came to our rescue.

When George and I had examined the gates and had almost despaired of opening them, Betty undertook an inspection of her own, and presently called our attention to a hole, perhaps four inches in diameter, in each gate, which was hidden by round curtains of wood hung within, so completely closing up the holes as to make them invisible save on close examination. She suggested that we pass the trace chain through one hole, draw it out through the other, hitch the horses to the two ends, and pull down the wall if the gates refused to give way.

Her plan was so good that the horses soon opened the gate, though it required a strong pull from all four of them to do it. Betty and I were the first to enter, George following close at our heels. The two drivers, who had taken the horses back to the coach, hitched them to a tree and soon followed us, bringing the long leather reins to be used as climbing ropes if necessary.

Hardly had we entered the gate till we saw a starlike gleam of light in a window of a room in the third story of the tower, as Lilly had predicted. While I was convinced that the light came through a hole in the curtain rather than from a star held by Raphael to guide us, still my scepticism was rapidly turning to awe.

We were speaking of the light when two great dogs came bounding out of the darkness and attacked us. I drew my sword, a sharp, heavy blade, and being much frightened, began to swing it heroically in every direction. Fortunately one of the dogs happened to be in one of the directions, and I split its head. The other dog attacked Betty, but George ran to her rescue and finished the animal before it had time to bark.

Having vanquished the dogs, we hastened to the tower and stopped beneath the window of the star. We had hoped to attract Frances's attention by casting pebbles against the window-pane, but we had counted without our ammunition. We could find no pebbles, the snow being at least a foot deep.

A thick vine, probably an ivy, covered the front of the tower, and George attempted to make the escalade by climbing. He would have denuded the wall had he continued his efforts, for the vine broke, not being strong enough to bear his weight.

"Let me try it," whispered Betty, taking off her greatcoat, hood, gloves, and boots and tossing them to the ground.

I objected to her risking her pretty neck and limbs, but she insisted that she could make the ascent easily, and George agreeing with her, I reluctantly consented.

Brave little Betty at once began the ascent, I standing under her to break the fall if she should take one. When she had climbed five or six feet from the ground, the vine broke and she fell, landing gracefully on her feet. Instantly she was at it again, for Betty had a will of her own greatly disproportioned to her size. Again the vine broke, and when I picked her up I found that she had lost her breath by the fall, but she laughed as soon as her breath returned, and was in no way discouraged.

In a moment she tried again, despite my protest, saying she would go more slowly and use greater care in choosing the larger vines. This time she was determined to succeed, so she again tied the leather reins about her arm, grasped the vine, and within two minutes was standing on the upper coping of the second-story window, her waist on a level with the sill of the window of the star.

The wind howling through the trees and around the corner of the tower made so great a din that at first we did not hear what Betty said to attract Frances's attention, but presently, the storm lulling for a moment, we listened intently and heard her say:—

"It is Betty Pickering."

We supposed she spoke in response to an inquiry from within, and we were right, for almost instantly the curtains parted, the window opened, and we saw Frances standing in the light of Raphael's star—a candle.

Up to that time I had been incredulous of Lilly's wisdom, and while I had hoped to find my cousin, I had little faith in the result. But now conviction came with a shock and, notwithstanding my joy at seeing Frances, I found myself forgetting where I was in wondering whether Lilly were a god, a devil, or merely a shrewd charlatan who had obtained his wonderfully accurate knowledge from something that had happened in the past wherein the king was concerned, or from some one who knew where Frances had been taken.

I was awakened from my revery by hearing George call in a low voice to Frances, telling her to fasten the ends of the leathers to a bedpost or a heavy piece of furniture, and asking her if she could come down hand under hand. She answered that she could and took the end of the reins from Betty. After a minute or two spent by Frances back in the room, she reappeared, tossed her cloak down to us, climbed out the window, and stood for a moment beside Betty on the lower window cap. I heard Betty encouraging her, and presently Frances began her descent, reaching the ground safely. George would have been demonstrative, but I interrupted him, saying:—

"Be ready to help me catch Betty in case she falls!"

Betty started down, but George called to her, telling her to climb into the room, loosen the reins, and throw them out.

"But how shall I go down?" asked Betty, whose nerve was deserting her.

"You must come down as you climbed up—by the vines," returned George.

Betty climbed in at the window, and presently the leathers fell at our feet. In a moment she reappeared, put one foot out the window, hesitated, and called to me:—

"I'm afraid, Baron Ned. It seems so far, looking down."

George started toward the coach with Frances, leaving me and one of the drivers to care for the girl who had saved our expedition from failure.

I could help Betty only by encouraging her, so I spoke softly: "Be brave, Betty. Go slowly. Don't lose your head."

"It is not my head I fear to lose; it is my footing," she answered, sitting on the window-sill, one foot hanging outside.

"But you must come, Betty," I said encouragingly. "Now say a little prayer to the Virgin, and you'll be all right."

I saw her bow her head and cross herself, and the prayer giving her strength, she climbed to the lower window coping and began her descent on the vine. When halfway down she fell, and though I caught her, partly breaking her fall, I knew that she was hurt. I helped her to her feet, and she said breathlessly:—

"I'm all right. I'm not hurt."

But when we started toward the coach, she clung to me, limping, and began to cry from pain. When I saw that she was hurt, I caught her up in my arms and carried her to the coach, followed by the driver, bearing the reins and Betty's hood, cloak, gloves, and boots. Frances was already inside the coach, and George was about to follow her, when I came up with poor helpless Betty, and somewhat angrily ordered him to stand aside while I made her comfortable. Frances began to soothe Betty, whose tears flowed afresh under the sympathy. By the time George and I were in the coach, the drivers were on the box, but before we started one of them lifted the curtain and said:—

"I hear them moving in the house."

"Make the more haste," I answered.

"Shan't we stay for a fight, sir?" asked the driver, evidently disappointed.

"We'll have it later on," said George, and the next moment the coach was turned and we were on our homeward road.

When we reached the Oxford Road, the horses started at a smart gallop, and we began to hope that we had not been discovered by the inmates of Merlin House. But soon we heard horses galloping behind us. After a consultation, George and I concluded to stop the coach. Frances and Betty were much alarmed, and begged us to try to escape by whipping the horses. But I knew that our pursuers, being on horseback, would soon overtake us, and I was convinced that nothing could be gained by attempting flight. I have seen a small dog stop a larger one by waiting for it.

So we waited, and when our pursuers, a half score of men on horseback, came up to us, we met them with a fusillade of powder and shot, which persuaded them to allow us to go our way and evidently made them content to go theirs, for we saw nothing more of them.

On the way to London, Frances told us briefly the story of the day. She had started to her father's house and had left the river at Baynard's Castle stairs. It was near one o'clock when she left her boat, and the snow, which had been falling for an hour or more, covered the ground. When she reached the head of the narrow street leading to Upper Thames Street from the river stairs, she found a coach waiting for her. The driver touched his hat and asked if she was Mistress Jennings. When she answered that she was, he said I had sent him to watch for her and to take her to Sir Richard's house, the snow being deep and the storm violent. My name and Sir Richard's fell so glibly from the fellow's tongue that she, suspecting nothing, entered the coach. Within three or four minutes the coach stopped, but she thought nothing of it, supposing the way was blocked.

While waiting, two men wrapped to their eyes in greatcoats came up, one on either side of the coach, entered, threw a cloak over her head, and bound her hand and foot. Immediately the coach started, but presently it stopped again, and Frances had an opportunity to speak to the girl who had come to see Betty. Fortunately a buttonhole in the cloak which the men had thrown over Frances's head happened to fall over one of her eyes, and thus enabled her to see the girl.

* * * * *

When our pursuers turned back, we reduced our speed, so that the journey might be easier for Betty, who had moaned at every jolt, and when the coach went smoother she fell asleep.

After we had all been silent for a long time, Frances said:—

"I have been thinking it all over, cousin Ned, and if Master Hamilton, that is, George, wishes it, I will go with him, regardless of consequences. I am tired of the fight."

"What?" I cried, startled almost to anger.

"Do not run me through, Ned," cried Hamilton. "This is the first intimation I have had of her purpose, and to save myself from slaughter at your hands, I hasten to say that I will not accept her sacrifice. It were kinder in me to kill her than to marry her."

We all laughed to cover our embarrassment, and George said ruefully: "The king, I fear, will settle the question without consulting us. De Grammont tells me that his Majesty believes I am in London and that he is eager to give a public entertainment on Tyburn Hill, wherein I shall be the principal actor. Now our beloved monarch's hatred will be redoubled, for he will suspect that I helped in the rescue to-night."

"Do you suspect him of being privy to the outrage tonight?" asked Frances.

"I know it. There is no villainy he would not do, provided it required no bravery," said George.

"But we must not let the king know that we suspect him," I suggested. "He may be innocent of the crime. I shall know the truth before to-morrow night."

"Did you see him at Merlin House?" asked George, turning to Frances.

"No," she answered. "It seems that the drivers of the coach lost their way. The horses were poor beasts, and, owing to many halts on the road, our progress was slow. When I first entered the house, an old woman led me to the room in which you found me. The ropes on my wrists and ankles had been removed soon after I left London, but I was not allowed to remove the cloak until after the old woman had closed the door on me. Then I sat down so stunned that I could hardly think. But it seemed only a few minutes till I heard dear, brave Betty at the window. You must have come rapidly."

When we told Frances our side of the story, how Betty had come to Whitehall to see me and had been the real leader throughout it all, Frances leaned forward and kissed the girl, saying:—

"God bless her, and you, too, Baron Ned. She is worthy of you, and you have my consent."

In further discussing Frances's journey, she said that the men who were with her in the coach were masked and that she did not know them, but she was sure neither was the king. They did not speak, save to tell the driver to travel slowly to avoid reaching the house too far ahead of the "other coach."

The other coach, which Frances said she heard enter the gate, arrived not more than ten minutes before we reached Merlin House, and it is probable that we were undisturbed in our rescue because of the fact that supper was in progress.

It was nearly three o'clock by George's watch when we reached the dark clump of houses standing west of Covent Garden, and within less than half an hour we were in the cozy courtyard of the Old Swan.

Pickering was waiting for us, having kept vigil alone since midnight. When he saw me carrying Betty from the coach, he ran to us with a cry and snatched her from my arms. We followed him into the house where we found him weeping over the girl, and kissing her hands as she lay on a bench near the fire.

"What have you been doing? Have you killed my little girl?" he asked sorrowfully.

"I hope not, Pickering," I answered. "She had a fall of not more than eight or ten feet, and although I fear she is hurt, I am sure the injury is not serious, as I caught her and broke the fall."

"Let us take her to bed," suggested Frances.

George went to fetch Doctor Price, the surgeon, and I carried Betty upstairs. I laid her on the bed, and after I had talked a few minutes with Pickering, explaining to him the events of the night, and telling him of Betty's glorious part in our success, I went downstairs to wait in the tap-room for George and the surgeon.

Presently they came, and George and I followed the surgeon to Betty's door, where we waited in the hallway outside to hear his report. Presently Frances came out to tell us that Betty's injuries were no greater than a few sprains and bruises, and that the surgeon said she would be well in a few days.

I could have shouted for joy on hearing the news, but restrained myself, and suggested to Frances that she go at once to her father's house and that I go to Whitehall to be there before its awakening.

If I learned that the king had been absent during the night, I should know with reasonable certainty that he had been privy to the outrage perpetrated on Frances. If he has been at the palace all night, he might be innocent of the crime.

"In neither case will I return to Whitehall," declared Frances, indignantly, when I spoke of the possibility of the king's innocence.

"But you must," I replied insistently. "We must say nothing of your terrible experience. Publicity of this sort ruins a woman's fair name, but the result in this case would be far more disastrous. Fear will drive the king to further acts of villainy to protect himself if he learns that we suspect him, and your life and mine, as well as George's, may be in peril. I shall go to my bedroom in the Wardrobe, and no one shall know that I have not been there all night."

Frances seemed stubborn, but knowing her danger, I continued: "Let us have a conference with your father and your sister. I deem it best that we let it be known abroad that you were at your father's house all night. Since the king did not see you at Merlin House, he may come to suspect that his agents kidnapped the wrong person. Later on you may leave court with honor; now you would leave in disgrace. Right or wrong, the king can do no wrong, and even were it known that he had kidnapped you, every one would laugh at you as the victim of a royal prank. Many would say that you were willing to be kidnapped, and the court hussies would rejoice at your downfall."

Frances and George saw the force of my argument, and we agreed to act accordingly, George, of course, having little to do in the premises save to remain hidden.

In a few minutes Pickering brought us a coach, and Frances and I drove to Temple Bar, where I dismissed the coach and walked with my cousin to her father's house.

I went in with Frances, and we aroused Sir Richard to tell him of his daughter's experience, and of the plan of action agreed upon, though we did not mention the king's name, leading Sir Richard to believe that we did not know the guilty persons.

Sir Richard and Sarah readily agreed that secrecy was our only means of saving Frances from ruinous publicity. Sarah especially grasped the point and cleared the situation of all cloud by suggesting:—

"My sister has been here ever since yesterday noon, as my father, John Churchill, and I will testify."

That was a very long speech for Sarah, but it was a helpful one. I, too, might add my testimony and thus furnish enough evidence to convince any reasonable person that Frances had not been kidnapped, but had remained safe and well in her father's house through all this terrible night.

Just as soon as our plans were completed, I left my uncle's house and took another coach for Charing Cross, dismissed the coach, ran down to Whitehall, and climbed over the balcony to my closet, glad to find myself once more at home. I did not permit myself to sleep, but rose at the usual hours and was at my post ready for duty when the others arrived.

I soon learned that the king had been away from the palace all night, having left in a coach near the hour of five the preceding afternoon, so that he must have been not far ahead of George, Betty, and me on the way to Merlin House. When I learned that he was away, and that I would not be needed that morning at the Wardrobe, I went to seek Frances.

Before ten o'clock, the hour at which the maids assembled to greet the duchess in her closet, Frances was on hand, looking pale, and explaining that she had been ill at her father's house over night.

Near the hour of four that afternoon, while I was looking out the window, I saw a coach approach from the direction of Charing Cross, and seemed to know that the king was in it. I hastened to Frances and told her to station herself where the king could see her before he went to his closet, and perhaps speak to her. I stood near by, and when the king entered I noticed him start on seeing Frances. When he came up to us, she smiled and made so deep a courtesy that one would have thought she was overjoyed to see him.

The king stopped before us for a moment, saying, "We have had a terrible storm, baron."

"Indeed we have, your Majesty," I answered, bowing, "though I have not so much as thrust my head out-of-doors save to go down to Sir Richard's yesterday evening to fetch Mistress Jennings home."

"Did she come—I mean, would she face the storm?" asked the king.

"No, no," answered Frances, laughing. "Why face the storm to return to Whitehall when the king was away? I remained with my father, and was so ill that a physician was called at seven o'clock."

"I hope you are well again," said the king.

"Not entirely. But now I shall be," she answered, laughing.

"You mean now that I am at home?" asked the king, shaking his head doubtfully.

"Yes, your Majesty."

"If your heart were as kind as your tongue, I should be a much happier man than I am."

His Majesty sighed as he turned away, and the expression on his face was as an open book to me, knowing as I did that he had just failed in perpetrating an act of villainy which would have hanged any other man in England.

One of the king's greatest misfortunes was his mouth. He could never keep it closed. A secret seemed to disagree with him, physically and mentally; therefore he relieved himself of it as soon as possible by telling any one that would listen. Knowing this royal weakness, I was not at all surprised to learn, two or three days after our adventure, that it was being talked about by the court.

One evening at the queen's ball, my Lady Castlemain, a very cat of a woman, came up to a group consisting of the king, the duchess, Frances, myself, and three or four others who were standing near the king's chair. Elbowing her way to the king, near whom Frances was standing, Lady Castlemain said:—

"Ah, la Belle Jennings, tell us of your adventure Sunday night!"

"Of what adventure, la Belle Castlemain?" asked Frances, smiling sweetly.

"Why, when you were kidnapped and carried to a country house for the night," returned Castlemain, with a vindictive gleam in her eyes and an angry toss of her head.

"I kidnapped Sunday night?" asked Frances, in well-feigned surprise. "No such romantic adventure has befallen me."

"Yes, kidnapped Sunday night," returned Castlemain, showing her teeth. "Of course you were kidnapped! I'm sure nothing would induce so modest a lady as the fair Jennings to go of her own free will. She would insist on being taken by force. Ha! ha! Force!"

She laughed as though speaking in jest, but her real intent was plain to every one that heard her. Frances, too, laughed so merrily that one might have supposed she considered it all a joke, and her acting was far better than Castlemain's.

"But one must keep up an appearance of virtue and must insist on being kidnapped," said Frances, banteringly. "It not only enhances one's value, but excuses one's fault. All these little subterfuges are necessary until one reaches a point where one is both brazen and cheap."

Castlemain's life of shame at court had long ceased to be even a matter of gossip, but at this time she was notoriously involved with one Jacob Hall, a common rope dancer. Therefore my cousin's thrust went home.

"So you admit having been kidnapped?" asked Castlemain, with little effort to conceal her vindictiveness.

"Sunday, say you?" asked Frances.

"Yes, Sunday noon, in the public streets, and Sunday night in a country house," returned Castlemain.

"Let me see," said Frances, pausing for a moment to recall what she had been doing at the time of the supposed kidnapping. Then turning to the Duchess of York, who stood beside her, and who, she felt sure, would catch the hint and help her out, she asked, "Were we not playing at cards in your Grace's parlor Sunday afternoon?"

"Sunday afternoon?" repeated the duchess, quite willing to thwart Castlemain's design. "Yes, my dear, Sunday afternoon. Yes, we began just after dinner, and it was almost dark when we stopped. Don't you remember I said, after we had lighted the candles, that I wished my husband could afford to give me wax in place of tallow?"

We all laughed except the king, who became very much interested, and of course, excepting Castlemain, who was rapidly losing her head in anger.

After the duchess had spoken, the king asked, with as careless an air as he could assume:—

"At what hour, sister, did Mistress Jennings leave your parlor?"

"I think it was about four o'clock," replied her Grace. "She asked permission to spend the night with her father, and Baron Clyde called about four o'clock to escort her. Was not that the hour, baron?"

"Yes, your Grace," I answered, bowing. "I accompanied my cousin to her father's house, returned later to fetch her back to the palace, but she did not care to face the storm, so I remained till ten o'clock, returned to Whitehall, and slept till morning. Here is another witness," I continued, laughing, as I turned to John Churchill, who was standing near the king. "Step forward, Churchill, and testify. I left him making his suit to one of the most interesting ladies in London."

The king turned with an inquiring look, and Churchill answered: "Yes, your Majesty, it is all true. I was making my suit until near the hour of eleven, when Mistress Jennings, who was ill, told me it was time to go home. If she was kidnapped Sunday night, it was before five o'clock or after eleven."

I flattered myself that we had all done a neat bit of convincing lying in a good cause.

"Odds fish!" mumbled the king, pulling his chin beard, evidently puzzled.

"Odds fish!" exclaimed Frances, mimicking the king's tone of voice and twisting an imaginary beard. "Some one has been hoaxing Jacob Hall's friend."

It was a bold speech, but Frances carried it off splendidly by turning to the king and speaking in mock seriousness:—

"Your Majesty should put a check on Rochester and the wags. It is a shame to permit them to work upon the credulity of one who is growing weak in mind by reason of age."

The country girl had vanquished the terror of the court, and all who had witnessed the battle rejoiced; that is, all save the king and Castlemain. She glared at Frances, and her face, usually beautiful despite the lack of youth, became hideous with rage. She was making ready for another attack of words, if not of finger nails, when the duchess interposed, saying:—

"Evidently some one has been hoaxing you, Lady Castlemain. Mistress Jennings was not kidnapped Sunday nor any other day. She has been with me constantly of late, excepting Sunday after four o'clock, and she has accounted for herself from that time till her return to my closet."

Castlemain was whipped out, so she turned the whole matter off with a forced laugh, saying:—

"It was that fool Rochester who set the rumor afloat."

After standing through an awkward minute or two, Castlemain bowed stiffly to the king and the duchess, turned away from our group, and soon left the ballroom.

When Castlemain was gone, we all laughed save the king. Presently he left us, and I saw him beckon Wentworth and Berkeley to his side. I followed him as though going to the other side of the gallery, but walked slowly when I approached him and the two worthy villains. I was rewarded by hearing his Majesty say:—

"Odds fish! But you made a mess of it! You got the wrong woman! Who in the devil's name did you pick up?"

I could not stop to hear the rest of this interesting conversation, but two days later I heard from Rochester, who had it from Wentworth, that the following occurred:—

"We thought we had her," answered Berkeley, nodding towards Frances, "but the woman wore a full vizard and was wrapped in furs to her ears, so that we did not see her face."

"Do you suppose we could have made a mistake?" asked Wentworth.

"You surely did," answered the king. "She has established an alibi. At what hour did you leave Baynard's Castle?"

"Near one o'clock," returned Berkeley.

"One o'clock! She was playing cards with the duchess till four," exclaimed the king, impatiently. "You picked up the wrong woman. But I'm glad you did. I suppose the lampooners will get hold of the story and will set every one laughing at me. Kidnapped the wrong woman and lost her! Odds fish! But you're a pair of wise ones. I see I shall have to find me a new Lord High Kidnapper."

The king was right concerning the lampooners, for soon they had the story, and he became the laughing-stock of London, though Frances's name was not mentioned.

It is a significant index to the morals of our time that the king's attempt to kidnap a woman in the streets of London should have aroused laughter rather than indignation.

As it was, the kidnapping episode brought no harm to my cousin, but she did not want it to happen again, and so was careful to take a trusted escort with her when she went abroad thereafter.



CHAPTER X

AT THE MAID'S GARTER

Betty was confined to her room during the greater part of the next month, and Frances visited her frequently. Notwithstanding my vows not to see Betty, I was compelled to go with Frances as her body-guard. I even went so far in my feeble effort to keep my resolution as to suggest Churchill as a body-guard, but Frances objected, and the quality of my good intent was not enduring. So I went with my cousin, and the joy in Betty's eyes whenever we entered her room was not the sort that would come because she was glad to see Frances.

* * * * *

During the first week of Bettina's illness she was too sick to talk, therefore we did not remain long with her. But as she grew better our visits lengthened, and my poor resolutions grew weaker day by day because my love for the girl was growing stronger and stronger hour by hour.

On one occasion while Frances's back was turned, Betty impulsively snatched up my hand and kissed it, dropping it instantly, blushing intensely and covering her tracks by humming the refrain of a French lullaby. I longed to return the caress, but did not, and took great credit to myself because of my self-denial. Betty understood my sacrifice and appreciated it, feeling sure that she need not thereafter restrain herself for the purpose of restraining me.

During those times I was making an honest effort to do the right by this beautiful child-woman and to save my own honor unsullied from the sin of making her unhappy for life through winning her love beyond her power to recall; and my effort toward the right, like all such efforts, achieved at least a part of the good for which I strove.

One day after our visit to Betty's room, Frances asked me to take her to see George. I suspected that she had seen him frequently, but was not sure. I objected, but changed my mind when she said:—

"Very well. I prefer going alone."

I shall not try to describe the scene between them. We found George alone, and she sprang to him as the iron springs to the magnet.

I knew then, if never before, that there could be no happiness in this world for her away from him. Whether she would find it with him was impossible for me to know, but I saw that she was in the grip of a mighty passion, and I could only hope that a way would open to save her.

Hamilton's fortunes would need to mend a great deal before he could or would ask her to be his wife, for now he was at the bottom of the ladder. He lost no opportunity to impress this disagreeable truth upon her, but his honest efforts to hold himself aloof only increased her respect and love for him. It not only convinced her that notwithstanding his past life, he was a man of honor capable of resisting himself and of protecting her, but it gave him the quality so irresistible to a woman—unattainability.

Taking it all in all, my poor beautiful cousin was falling day by day deeper into an abyss of love from which she could in no way extricate herself. In short, level-headed Frances had got far out of plumb, and, though she struggled desperately, she could not right herself, nor could any one help her. I fully realized that the small amount of self-restraint and passivity she still retained would give way to disastrous activity when the time should come for her to part with George and lose him forever. But I could see no way to save her unless I could induce George to leave England at once, for good and all.

At times the fates seem to fly to a man's help, and in this instance they came to me most graciously that same day in Whitehall, in the person of my friend the Count de Grammont.

Soon after leaving Frances in the maids' apartments, I met that most interesting gentleman roue, his Grace de Grammont, coming from the king's closet. As already stated, he had been banished from the French court by Louis XIV because of a too great friendliness for one of the king's sweethearts, and was living in exile in London till Louis should forgive his interference. The French king really liked De Grammont and trusted him when his Majesty's lady-loves were not concerned, so the count had been sent to England in honorable exile, and was employed in certain cases as a spy and in others as a means of secret communication between the French king and persons connected with the court of Charles II.

When De Grammont saw me, he came forward, holding out both hands in his effusive French manner, apparently overjoyed at finding a long-lost brother.

"Come with me, my dear baron," he cried, bending so close to me that I feared he was going to kiss me. "Come with me! You are the very man of all the world I want, I need, I must have!"

"You have me, my dear count," said I, "but I cannot go with you. I am engaged elsewhere."

"No, no, let me whisper!" He brought his lips close to my ear and continued almost inaudibly: "You may please me. You may help a friend. You may oblige—a king."

The last, of course, was the ne plus ultra of inducement according to the count's way of thinking, and he supposed the mere suggestion would vanquish me. Still I pleaded my engagement. He insisted, however, repeating in my ear:—

"Oblige a king! A real king! Not a flimsy fool of bourgeois, who makes of himself the laughing-stock of his people, but a real king. I cannot name him now, but you must know."

We were in a narrow passage leading to the Stone Gallery in Whitehall. He looked about him a moment, then taking me by the arm, led me to the Stone Gallery and thence to the garden. I wanted to stop, but he kept his grasp on my arm, repeating now and then the word "Come" in whispers, till we reached a lonely spot in St. James Park. There he halted, and though there was not a living creature in sight, he brought his lips to my ear and breathed the name, "'Sieur George Hamilton."

I tried not to show that I was startled, but the quickwitted, sharp-eyed Frenchman read me as though I were an open book, and grasping my hand, cried out:—

"Ah, I knew you could tell me. It is to rejoice! I knew it!"

"Tell you what, count?" I asked.

"Tell me where your friend and mine is, or if you will not tell me, take to him a letter. I have been trying to find him this fortnight."

"I cannot tell you where he is, my dear count—"

"Of course not! I do not ask," he interrupted.

"—But I may be able to forward your letter to him. I heard only the other day that he was in France."

"Of course, of course, he is in France! Not in England at all! Good, good! I see you are to be trusted. But I must have your word of honor that the letter will be delivered."

"I shall send it by none but a trusted messenger," I answered, "and shall return it to you unopened unless I am convinced beyond a doubt that it will reach our friend."

"Good, good! Come to my hotel. I will trust you."

We went to De Grammont's house, and after taking great precautions against discovery, he gave me a small wooden box wound with yards of tape and sealed with quantities of wax. I put the box in my pocket, saying:—

"I accept the trust on my honor, dear count, and though the package bears no name nor address, I shall deliver it to the person for whom it is intended."

De Grammont said he knew nothing of the contents of the box except that it contained a message for a friend, and I believed him.

When I left his house he came to the door with me, murmuring: "My gratitude! My gratitude! Also the gratitude of my king, which I hope may prove of far greater value to your friend than my poor offering of words."

I lost no time in seeking George, except to make sure that I was not followed. I trusted De Grammont and felt sure that the box he had given me contained a personal communication from no less a person than Louis XIV of France, but I wanted to take no risk of betraying Hamilton by leading De Grammont or any one else to his hiding-place.

Since Frances's providential escape, the king had suspected the right persons of her rescue. At least he suspected Hamilton, and was seeking him more diligently than ever before. His Majesty had not shown me any mark of disfavor, but I feared he suspected me, and was sure he was not convinced that Frances's alibi had been proved by unsuborned testimony. If he was sure that she was the one who had been kidnapped, his suspicious nature would connect George with the rescue, and would lead him to conclude that Hamilton must be in England.

A maid of Lady Castlemain's told Rochester, who in turn told me, that the king had again set his men to work searching for Hamilton. That being the case, George was in danger, and should he be found by the king's secret agents, who, I understood, were prowling all over England in the hope of obtaining a reward, his life would not be worth a week's purchase.

George knew the risk he ran by remaining in England, but it was a part of his reckless courage to take delight in it. Later on this recklessness of disposition induced him to take a far greater risk. But of that in its turn.

* * * * *

After supper, I found Hamilton in his bedroom, which was connected by a hidden stairway with the room of the sinking floor. He wore his Quaker's disguise, and on the table beside him were the Bible and a few theological works dear to the hearts of his sect. I gave him the box, telling him its history. The letter was brief and was written in cipher.

George translated it thus:—

"MASTER GEORGE HAMILTON:

"Monsieur le Grand wishes you to pay him a visit immediately.

"DE CATANET."

"You probably know Monsieur le Grand?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered, "and I shall visit him without delay."

"In Paris?" I asked, not quite sure that Monsieur le Grand was King Louis of France, and not desiring to know certainly.

"In Paris," he answered, giving me to understand by his manner that he must tell me nothing more definite of Le Grand's identity.

"Don't tell me what you know of the business this letter refers to, but tell me whether you know," I said, hoping that George might at least tell me it meant good fortune for him.

"I cannot even conjecture the business upon which I am wanted," he said, "but I hope that it may give me an opportunity to be of service to the writer."

Thus I was relieved of the disagreeable task of trying to induce George to leave England, and was very thankful to escape it.

After a long silence, during which he read the one-line letter many times, he asked:—

"Are you willing to bring Frances to me early to-morrow morning, if she will come?"

"Doubtless I can," I answered. "Her willingness to come has been shown all too plainly of late; but ought I bring her?"

"Yes. It will be the last time I shall ever see her unless good fortune lies in this letter, and for that I hardly dare hope. You know that when a man's luck has been against him for a long time, it kills the very roots of hope and brings him almost to doubt certainty. Soon after I have seen my friend, Le Grand, I shall write to you in cipher, of which I shall leave you the key. If I see a prospect of fortune worthy of Frances, I shall ask her to wait a time for me, but if my ill fortune pursues me, I shall never again be heard from by any one in England. Are you satisfied with the conditions?"

I gave him my hand for answer, and told him I would bring Frances to him early the following morning.

I hastened back to Whitehall, and coming upon Frances unengaged, asked her to go to her parlor with me. When she had closed the door, she turned to me, asking:—

"What is it, Baron Ned? Tell me quickly. I know there is something wrong with George."

"Will you go with me early to-morrow morning to see Betty—very early?" I asked.

Her eyes opened in wonder, and she answered, somewhat amused: "You have been acting as my guardian for a long time, cousin Ned, and now I think I owe it to you to return the favor. You should not see so much of Betty. I know you mean no wrong to her, but you will cause her great suffering if you continue to see her, for you must know that already the girl is almost mad with love of you. Yet you cannot marry her."

"Nor can you marry some one else," I retorted, almost angrily, for a man dislikes to be prodded by a painful truth.

"Ah, well, I suppose we are a pair of fools," she said.

"You're right, Frances," I answered philosophically, "and the only consolation we can find lies in the fact that we know it."

"Most fools lack that flattering unction," returned Frances, musingly.

"Perhaps you will take more interest in this matter when I tell you that it is not Betty I propose to see," I answered. "I am deliberately offering to take you to see some one else who is about to leave England."

She stood on tiptoe and kissed my lips for answer, then sank into a chair, covering her face with her hands to hide the sudden tears.

I went to the window and waited till she was calm. I longed to comfort her by telling of the faint prospect of good fortune that lay in Le Grand's letter, but I hesitated raising a hope which might never be realized.

At the end of five minutes I went to her and said: "Let me ask the duchess to excuse you for to-night, and in the morning I'll meet you on Bowling Green stairs, at, say, seven o'clock."

"I'll be there," she answered, smiling through her tears.

The next morning we took boat, and the tide running out, made good speed to the Bridge, hastened to the Old Swan, and found George in his printing shop awaiting us. I remained in the old tapestried room, leaving Frances and George to say their farewells. In the course of a few minutes he called me in. He had donned his Quaker disguise, and on the floor near him was a small bundle of linen. Frances was weeping, and George's voice was choked with emotion.

"Well, at last, Baron Ned, you are to be rid of me," he said, glancing toward the bundle at his feet.

"What are your plans of escape?" I asked.

"I shall work my way down to Sheerness, where I hope to find a boat for The Hague or the French coast. Lilly, who seems to know everything, past, present and future, came last night to tell me that the king has fifty men seeking me in various parts of England, especially the seaports, and has offered a reward of two hundred pounds for me, dead or alive, preferably dead, I suppose. If I go direct to Sheerness and try to take a boat, I am sure to be examined, and I'm not prepared for the ordeal. So I intend to preach my way down the river and induce the king's officers to send me abroad by force."

"How are you off for money, George?" I asked.

"I borrowed ten guineas from Lilly," he answered.

"I thought you might be in need of money, so I brought fifty guineas from the strong box under my bed," I said, offering him the little bag of gold.

He hesitated, saying: "If I take the money, you may never again see a farthing of it."

"In that case, I'll take my pay in abusing you," I replied.

"Do you believe he would, Frances?" asked George, turning to my cousin. Then continuing thoughtfully:

"It is strange that I should have found such a friend at the bottom of a quarrel, all because I allowed him to abuse me. Truly forbearance is a profitable virtue. The 'other cheek' is the better of the two."

Upon my insistence, he accepted the gold and gave me the ten guineas he had borrowed from Lilly, asking me to return them.

Frances was making an entire failure of her effort to hold herself in check, and George was having difficulty in restraining himself, so, to bring the interview to an end, he gave me his hand, saying:—

"Thank you, Ned, and good-by. I wish I could hope ever to see you again, but if Le Grand fails me, I shall go to the new world and lose myself in the Canadian woods."

"No, no!" cried Frances, imploringly.

"I hope not," began George, but he could not finish, so he took Frances in his arms for a moment, and when he released her, thrust us both out the door, saying: "Please leave me at once. If you do not, I fear I shall never let her go. Take care of her, Ned. Good-by!"

The door closed on us, and when Frances had put on her vizard, she followed me upstairs to see Betty.

I was not admitted to Betty's room, so I went back to the printing shop for a moment, and George gave me the key to the cipher, in which we were to write to each other. His letters were to be sent under cover to Lilly, and mine were to go to an address in Paris which George would send to me.

Long afterwards George told me of his adventures in making his escape, but I shall give them now in the order of their happening rather than in the order of time in which I learned them.

Leaving the Old Swan within ten minutes after I had said good-by to him, George crossed London Bridge, attired in his Quaker disguise, and made his way to Deptford, where he preached in the streets. From Deptford he followed the river by easy stages to Sheerness, where he lodged nearly a week, awaiting a boat that would answer his purpose. Had he attempted to board a vessel, he would have been seized and examined; therefore his plan was to grow violent in his preaching, and, if possible, provoke the authorities to place him on board one of the outgoing crafts; that being a favorite method of the king's men in getting rid of the too blatant fanatics in Sheerness.

The Dutch sea captains were fanatics almost to a man, and the exiled exhorters found them always willing to help their persecuted brethren of the faith.

And so it happened with George in Sheerness. He was on the dock exhorting vehemently against the evils of the time, laying great stress on the wickedness of the king and denouncing the vileness of the court. Two of the king's officers tried to silence him, but failing, ordered him to leave England by a certain Dutch boat then waiting in the harbor with its pennant up. He protested and struggled, but at last was forced aboard, raving against those godless Balaamites, the clergy of the Established Church, who, with the devil, he declared, were behind his persecution.

So well did George play his part that a collection was taken up among the passengers of the Dutch boat to help the good man so vilely put upon. There was a sweet bit of irony in the fact, learned afterwards, that the officers who forced George aboard the Dutch ship were at Sheerness for the purpose of winning the two hundred pounds reward offered for his capture.

The goodness of God occasionally takes a whimsical form.

A month later I received a letter from George, written in cipher, which I here give translated:—

"DEAR FRIEND:

"I reached Paris three weeks ago and was received by Monsieur Le G. most graciously. Although I cannot give definite news, I hope for great improvement in my fortune soon, and perhaps may write you more fully thereof before the week is spent.